McCracken had to lean clear across the bed to reach the drums, and the Wakinyan chose that moment to open fire from their vans, now closing in from a hundred and fifty yards back at most. He ducked lower and grasped the first of the heavy drums as bullets bounced off steel, ricocheting around him. He sent the drum rolling down the vacant truck bed and heard a splat! as it shattered on impact with the road. The second was already in motion, with the third and fourth fast behind. By then he could see the foam spreading in wide splotchy waves across the highway, the first van’s tires just reaching it.
From there Blaine could barely believe his eyes. As he slid the final two drums off to further widen the pool, the lead van spun wildly out of control. It was slammed into by a tractor trailer whose driver had made the unfortunate mistake of applying his brakes, sending his vehicle jackknifing across the road. The lead van bounced off the truck and careened from left to right, narrowly missing the trailing one, which had ended up doing a full-circle turn to avoid it.
Behind the vans, a massive pileup resulted as dozens and dozens of cars crashed into one another as soon as their tires met the white ooze covering the highway like a blanket now. By the time Blaine had rejoined Johnny in the cab once again, the Wakinyan were gone from sight in the chaos taking place behind the engine truck. They would regroup, yes, but not before McCracken and Wareagle took full advantage of the final cushion.
“Here we are, Indian,” McCracken said ten minutes later.
Wareagle’s eyes were on the mirror. “I can see them behind us, Blainey. A half mile back, but coming.”
“Right on schedule,” Blaine said as the road sign he had been waiting for appeared on the right of route 64:
EXIT 56
COLONIAL WILLIAMSBURG HISTORIC AREA
Chapter 32
“Everything’s set,” Sal Belamo reported as Wareagle and then McCracken jumped down from the fire engine. They had stopped at the intersection of Jamestown and Richmond roads. Even at the edge of the expertly reconstructed eighteenth-century town, their truck seemed utterly out of place.
“Bout time you get some historical culture, Sal,” Blaine commented, gazing down Williamsburg’s main artery, Duke of Gloucester Street.
“Guess we didn’t need Maxie to draw your Frankensteins here, and ain’t they in for a surprise now.” Belamo gazed around him. “You know, I kinda miss the people in their outfits.”
“I’m sure they don’t mind getting the day off.”
“Yeah, well, the evac order didn’t give them much choice. It looked so real, I almost believed the story myself.”
Johnny Wareagle’s shoulders tensed. “They’re coming, Blainey.”
“Then I guess we’d better get ready.”
The single van squeezed to a halt next to the fire engine. The disciples of the Omicron legion showed no expression whatsoever as they emerged. They had packed into this van following the loss of the second one back on Route 64. Their number was complete, but several were injured. Of the injuries, a pair of separated shoulders appeared the worst, along with one disciple’s limp, and several nasty lacerations. They were not immune to pain, but they were quite adept at controlling it, and even making it work for them. They definitely wanted to do that now.
The disciples stopped to check the weapons they had brought with them from the van. There were mostly machine guns, high caliber and otherwise. Three of these were M203s, M16s with grenade launchers attached to their undersides. There were two shotguns, as well, and grenades were affixed to the belts of three of the legion. Three more carried pistols and if everything fell short, they would use their hands.
Abraham hefted one of the M203s and advanced ahead of the others.
“It’s a trap,” he said, as much to himself as the others.
“What is this place?” one of them asked.
“Reproduction of a colonial town,” Abraham answered. “Complete with authentic props and workmen.”
“There’s no one here,” another member of the legion said.
“Because that’s the way McCracken wanted it. He drew us here. It was his plan all along.”
“Do we go in?” a third asked matter-of-factly.
Abraham flipped off his weapon’s safety and nodded.
There were twelve of them in all; they split into three pairs and two groups of three. They fanned out toward grids of Williamsburg assigned by Abraham. Their mission was search and destroy. If McCracken wanted to make his stand in a confined environment with plenty of areas for concealment and cover, then so be it. It was not their turf yet, but it would be soon.
The scene seemed placid, even to them. Late fall was in the air; the trees lining the Williamsburg streets shifted in their near nakedness, the remaining leaves brown and dry. The main streets were formed of hard-packed gravel. The unpaved walkways lined the streets in landscaped symmetry in front of the rows of colonial buildings. The numerous benches were unsat on. A few horseless carriages stood abandoned down Duke of Gloucester Street. The brick and brown wood of the buildings drank in the sun and gave some of it back. The air smelled of chestnuts and crackling leaves.
Abraham started warily down Duke of Gloucester Street, flanked by John and the wounded Judas. He felt certain McCracken had made a strategic error in choosing this site to make his final stand. No matter how large it was, Williamsburg was still contained. Sooner or later, this would allow the disciples to flush McCracken and the Indian out. It was only a matter of time.
As he came up even with the red brick courthouse on the left-hand side of the street, Abraham reached into his pocket and came out with a motion detector that was a smaller version of the one the Green Berets had brought with them to the jungle. He switched it on and watched the sweep the arrow made through a grid directly before him. He could approximate the positions of the other disciples and thus identify any signals that might come as a result of their motion.
The red line swept the screen, disappeared into the machine’s side, and then swept again.
Abraham knew McCracken’s strategy would be to take them out slowly. It was the best ploy to use and was one he had always excelled in. If he and the Indian were lurking about, preparing their first lunge, the motion detector would betray their strategy and position.
Abraham turned to the right and eyed a section of Williamsburg’s Market Square, which contained a clutter of buildings surrounded by rolling green lawns and well-tended gardens. The motion detector caught a splotch in the lower left of the screen. Abraham quickly superimposed the grid over the area before them and felt his eyes lock on the magazine, an octagonal building used in colonial times to store arms and gunpowder. A high brick wall had been erected around the building to protect the townspeople against a possible explosion. Something was moving inside that wall.
Maybe this is going to be easier than I thought….
“This way,” Abraham said.
The disciples on either side of him, actually, did not need to be told a thing. Perhaps they had seen the indication on the motion detector. Perhaps the slight change in Abraham’s footsteps and the tightening of the rifle in his hands was enough. Either way they had already leveled their weapons when Abraham spoke, and now they cut across the grassy square with him toward the magazine.
The next sweep the arrow made through the grid showed no movement at all in the vicinity. McCracken, or the Indian, was still again, but it was too late. The damage had been done. Abraham was onto him.
Thirty yards from the magazine, he signaled John and Judas to spread out. He figured surprise was on his side, but didn’t want to take any chances. Up ahead, he could see the gate leading through the magazine wall was open. It was not like McCracken or the Indian to commit such an error.