"Also we do have to be concerned about security. The cover story being used with the civilian authorities is that we've had some armed military prisoners escape from Fort Campbell and we are tracking them down."
Riley wondered how that cover story was flying. The DIA was obviously scrambling to keep the lid on, even though the temperature on the pot had been rising for the last two days.
Colonel Hossey asked the question that had just occurred to Riley. "How can we be sure we get all of the Synbats if we miss them tomorrow night and the pods do initiate?"
Doctor Merrit stood. The tent full of army men turned and listened as the diminutive doctor spoke, her voice cracking from the strain of the past few days. "There's a maximum of twenty-eight Synbats possibly being born Thursday morning. Although not that many will actually survive, I can't give you an exact number. If we could find the location where the backpacks initiate, then we should be able to find the remains of those that don't survive, and that would give us an accurate number. The most dangerous possibility is if we cannot account for a mating pair."
General Trollers held up his palm to forestall any more ominous words. "We'll find them before the pods initiate." He stood up, signaling that the briefing was over. "Let's get to work."
Louis was bothered by the helicopters flying overhead. How could he pretend to be living in 1863 with a constant reminder of the modern age intruding on his senses. The 7th Cavalry was deployed in a line along the north flank of the Union lines in preparation for the battle tomorrow.
Louis was throwing sticks in the fire he'd built, waiting for the coffee in the pot to boil. His brother, Jeremiah, was still acting spooked. Damn kid spent too much time in the woods back home, and he listened to that preacher way too often.
Between those strange things in the trees earlier in the day, the helicopters, and the lousy weather, Louis was beginning to lose his enthusiasm for this reenactment. He longed for the warmth of his home and wife back in Illinois.
High overhead a large buzzard had been circling Fords Bay for ten minutes. Finally it swooped down, wings spread wide against the tricky air currents that played along the cliff face. Talons splayed, the bird passed through some branches and landed on a large pile of rotting flesh. Pay dirt. The buzzard's pea-sized brain registered elation. Its beak plunged into the carrion. The bird was working on a second swallow when its senses were alerted to a threat. Expanding its wings, it lifted in one swift sweep.
Too late. One of its legs was grasped from below. For a moment there was a curious balance between the wildly beating wings and the weight from below. The grasp tightened. The buzzard made one last surge to break free, squawking loudly.
On the water Powers had been watching the bird circling in the waning daylight. He heard the desperate squawk echo across the water and waited for the buzzard to reappear in the sky. After five minutes and no sign of the bird, he pulled out his map.
The northern shoreline of Fords Bay showed tight contour lines representing a cliff. They'd been briefed that the creatures they were hunting could climb trees, so it made sense that they could climb rock. It looked like there were only two ways to get into the small sliver of shoreline at the base of the cliff: climbing down from the top or coming in from the water.
Powers waved his hand above his head at the other two boats, signaling for them to stay in place and cover his area. He turned to the other men in the boat. "We're going into that bay over there. I want you to keep your eyes open. I saw a buzzard go down there not too long ago and I want to check it out. Let's go."
In a minute they reached the entrance to the bay. Powers pushed a low overhanging branch out of the way as they passed through. After the tight entrance, the bay opened up to about a hundred meters wide. It looked like a long green cathedral as the setting sun angled through the high trees on either side. The ground on the north gained in altitude, rising to become cliffs. On the south side was a relatively level tree-covered bank.
The navigator — Cartwright — had the engine idled down low, the boat moving along slowly. After a couple hundred meters, Powers signaled a temporary halt. "Do you smell that?"
Cartwright nodded. "Something died in there."
"Move in along the shore. I'll watch for depth and obstacles."
Cartwright edged the boat closer. The Zodiac drew only a few inches of water, but the propeller went almost a foot deeper. Powers kept switching his gaze from the shoreline to the water directly in front of the boat. Trees were crowded in the thin spit of land between the cliff and the water, with thick undergrowth choking the space between the trunks.
Finally the smell was so strong that Powers signaled Cartwright to halt, and they took cravats from their first-aid kits to use as makeshift face masks. Powers had smelled death before; whatever was rotting up ahead was no squirrel. It was big.
They moved in closer. An uneasy knot formed in Powers's gut. He flicked the selector lever on his M16 to semiautomatic.
"Hold it!" His voice was muffled by the green cloth wrapped around his nose and mouth. Cartwright killed the engine and joined him in the front of the boat. The other two men had their weapons at the ready, covering the flanks.
Ten feet away on the shore, they could make out piles of white bones in the undergrowth.
"I'm going ashore. Cover me."
Powers slid over the side of the boat into the surprisingly chilly water. The dark surface lapped around his waist until he got close to shore. Pushing aside branches, he began to take in the scope of what he'd just found.
"Bring in the boat," Powers yelled. He scanned the trees and the cliff face for any movement, the muzzle of his weapon following his eyes. As far as he could tell, the bones were from animals, but he didn't want to make a personal contribution to the ghastly pile.
After the Zodiac was beached and tied off on a tree, Powers deployed the three men in a skirmish line facing the cliff. He didn't need to give them any warnings. The signs of death were present everywhere.
"Take a look around. Make sure you keep checking out the trees."
Less than five seconds later, Cartwright's voice broke the silence. "Over here, Sergeant Major!"
Powers pushed through to where the man was standing. Large bones were covered with tattered flesh and mingled with rotting internal organs. Powers could recognize the three skulls: horses.
Powers looked up the cliff face. They'd fallen off the edge of the cliff and landed here. He didn't think horses were stupid enough to do that on their own — not three, one after another. Something had run them off the cliff. And then that something had dined on the carcasses.
His thoughts were interrupted by another man's yell. "Sergeant Major!"
Powers made his way to where the other two men were standing. One was in the process of losing his dinner; upon arriving Powers could understand why.
The body was battered, and most of the flesh on both legs was gone, but the two clear blue eyes stared up at the gathering darkness with a peaceful look about them.
They'd found Emma Plunket.
Chapter 16
Powers had the four men in a tight perimeter, back to back. The low ground of Fords Bay was growing darker as the sun went down, and soon the night would surround them. They had two sets of night vision goggles, but Powers didn't feel safe here, goggles or not. Besides their M16s, they also had an M21 sniper rifle with a laser night scope. Cartwright stirred next to Powers, his eyes riveted on the cliff face.
"What's the matter?" Powers asked in a low voice.