by James Axler
"Shit!" he cursed loudly as a sudden explosion of sound in the otherwise quiet room caused some of the maids to start in their task around the table.
"Is there a problem, master?" one of them asked in honeyed tones.
Baron Silas Hunter had stopped pacing the room and was looking out of the iron-clad window at the people of Salvation going about their business. All of this, built with his own hands and with good faith, now in danger. Yeah, there was a problem.
But instead, he merely answered, "No, go about your business," in a curt and dismissive tone.
And he would go about his.
IT TOOK the companions all day to prepare themselves. Although they knew that this would in all probability be the culminative day of their time at Salvation, they also knew that they couldn't show this to anyone else in the sec camp. So after they had rested and eaten, they retired to their tent to prepare and clean their blasters for the night ahead, also taking the opportunity to work out and exercise, priming themselves for what was to come.
In the late afternoon, Ryan made his first move.
"Okay people, time to get this clear," he said simply, adding, "J.B., keep a lookout for anyone who could come near enough to hear."
"Think they may be on to something, lover?" Krysty asked.
"No," the one-eyed man grunted, "but I don't want to risk anything being overheard by accident and getting back to McVie and Myall. I'm sure they're not in on anything the baron has up his sleeve, but I don't want them blundering in on anyone's side, no matter how well meaning they may be."
Doc nodded. "It will be hard enough to effect this action as it is, without any outside influence."
Mildred shook her head and laughed. "Always use too many words, Doc."
Doc smiled. "My dear good woman, a usage of arcane language could, in itself, be an effective cover. After all, if no one can grasp your meaning…"
"Yeah, well, it helps if we can, at least." Dean laughed.
"Okay," Ryan said good naturedly, "let's cut the stupe stuff and get serious, though I guess us all being in a good mood is going to help."
"Not hurt," Jak commented.
"Right," Ryan began briskly. "I guess we all know the basic plan. There are five points on the patrol roster for tonight that will be left clear at the optimum time for attack. So what we do is quite simple. We reverse the roster and leave the other seven points uncovered, concentrating our efforts on those points that the baron and his mercies will think are vulnerable."
"Not much room hide," Jak commented. "How we keep in cover as bastards approach?"
"Yeah, I've been a little worried about that one," Ryan said. "There are some areas where we can take cover, but the horses could prove a problem. Some of the hideouts are only big enough for people."
"If we make good time, we could tether the horses at the points where we're supposed to be, and make it the rest of the way on foot," J.B. put in from his post by the tent's opening. "That way they can see our mounts if they try to check us out, mebbe figure whoever they're checking is taking a leak at that moment."
"Yeah, good idea." Ryan nodded. "That gives us some cover and mebbe buys a little more surprise."
"Sounds good," Krysty agreed. "So how do we divide up? Seven into five just doesn't go at all."
"We'll do a couple of pairs, and then the rest individually. I know the handsets are a risk to use because we might get overheard, and because the refinery works cause interference, but at least they'll give us some semblance of contact."
"Okay," Mildred said. "But who gets what?"
"Dean and Doc, you two pair up and take the double refinery building. That needs a pair to cover both, and it'll give you a chance to cover each other's back."
The younger Cawdor and Doc both agreed. In many ways, as the youngest and the least fit of the group, they would be able to compensate for each other's weak points.
Ryan continued. "Jak, you take the pipeline point C on the map. It's the most open spot, and I figure you'll be the best suited to finding a hiding place."
The albino hunter didn't speak, merely nodding briefly. His hunting prowess was such that he would be able to find the tiniest recess, the merest hint of darker shadow, and merge silently with it and remain still almost indefinitely. In such an open position, this was an invaluable gift.
Ryan turned to Mildred. "The far side of the storage tank, at point K. There's a lot of desert for them to come in from, so it could any angle. Keep triple sharp on it."
"You know it," Mildred said.
Ryan turned to J.B., who moved into the tent slightly so that Ryan wouldn't have to raise his voice. "As for you, J.B., you've got one of the shortest straws. I need you to cover the point that takes in the tip of the old blacktop. I guess that's the way they'll probably come, so you'll need to stay alert and mebbe let some past before picking up your target."
The Armorer scratched his head under the battered fedora. It was a difficult task, as he would need the patience and judgment to let some of the mercies through before taking action. But the Armorer was a man with a finely honed sense of combat, and could be relied on to kick into action at the right moment.
"Guess I can handle that," he drawled. "So that leaves…?"
"Leaves the wellhead itself," Ryan said grimly. "I figure that's the big target, because if that goes, then the whole thing is fucked over. And I guess because of that, Baron Silas will want to handle it himself. So that's where I want to face him down. And I'll take you with me," he added to Krysty, "as I'm figuring mebbe more firepower from the mercies there, and I'll need a backup."
The woman nodded slowly. "You can count on me, lover."
"Okay." Ryan looked at his wrist chron. "It's about two hours till the sun starts to set. Let's get some rest."
0
THE BANQUET in the baronial hall was in full swing. It was only John the Gaunt from Haigh who didn't seem to be succumbing to the flow of strong liquor and the lines of jolt, although the dour and severe baron was showing a glimmering of interest in the redheaded serving girls. Baron Silas whispered to one of his sec men, and it wasn't long before the Haigh baron found himself the center of attention from a couple of Salvation's finest gaudies, skilled in the art of seducing men.
The evening wore on rapidly, but not rapidly enough for Silas, who found it harder and harder to keep a slick smile on his face while the rest of the barons got more and more removed from reality.
"Boy, I'll say one thing for you," Baron Silveen slurred at one point, "you can sure throw a party and a half."
Baron Silas Hunter found it hard to smile in reply, just wanting them to pass out as quickly as possible. He had started the revelry as soon as the first baron had arrived, and had so managed to so far deflect away from himself any awkward questions. But unless they hit the tables in unconsciousness soon, he wouldn't be able to carry out his plan.
More jolt, more alcohol, more girls…
Eventually, he found that he was the only baron or sec man in the room able to focus.
Now was the time to slip away. By the time his task had been carried out, they'd all be comatose. And he'd be in the clear.
He hoped.
Chapter Nineteen
Myall watched the companions leave the sec camp as the sun began to sink and another night descended on the compound. McVie joined his chief at the doorway to the mess hall, where Myall had been completing new duty rosters and worrying about the meeting of barons that was taking place back in Salvation.
"You reckon they've got any chance of stopping this, Chief?" the stocky second in command asked.
Myall shrugged. "I dunno. I would have said so at one point, but after last night? I don't know if any of us have got a chance of stopping it, especially if we can't work out who the hell it is and how they get out of the camp at night."
"Mebbe they don't," mused McVie. "You know, J.B. has this idea—"
"Yeah, I know," Myall cut him short. "Trouble is, that just gives us a whole new
set of problems rather than solving the old ones."
McVie laughed bitterly. "And how many more problems do we need, right?"
"Exactly," Myall answered as he turned back toward his poky office. "Anyway, I've got to get these rosters done. We'll need to look really on the ball when Baron Silas brings the other boys over tomorrow for a look around. Got to look on the ball—"
"Even if we ain't," McVie finished for him.
THE COMPANIONS RODE in silence away from the sec camp and across the desert to the work site. It was far enough, in the gloom, for them to change their positions without anyone being able to spy on them from either camp and give the game away, particularly as they shunned the use of lamps to light their way, unlike the regular sec patrols.
Before they parted to take their mounts to the expected positions, then change to the new points on foot, Ryan stopped and turned to his people.
"This is the big one," he said simply. "If we're right, then we nail it down tonight. We need to get Silas, and the best way is to get one of these cold-heart mercies alive and get him to tell his story to the other barons. Otherwise, they'll figure we're in it with him and Silas, and chill us all without a second thought."
There was a moment's silence while they considered that, then J.B. looked at the position of the rising crescent moon and muttered, "Better get to it, before we miss them."
THE SIMPLEST PART of the plan was to tether their mounts in the positions they were supposed to have taken and then make their way to their revised places. In the darkness that rapidly fell when the sun set, there was plenty of shadow for them to move silently. That wasn't their problem. For each, it would be a matter of finding a hiding place where they could observe what was going on and also keep out of sight until the moment of optimum surprise.
For Doc and Dean, there was also the matter of teaming up and making sure that they knew where the other was. If there was trouble, they didn't want to chill or endanger each other by accident. So it was that both the young Cawdor and the prematurely aged Doc Tanner found themselves approaching the refinery buildings from different angles, keeping a sharp lookout for each other.
Dean saw a shadow moving across between the two smaller buildings, keeping to the line of the covered walkway. He cut across from his position until he intersected the other figure's path… except that the other figure had vanished. Dean's finger tightened instinctively on the delicate trigger of the Browning Hi-Power as he scanned the darkness, straining for the slightest sound.
"By the Three Kennedys, you will have to do better than that," whispered a voice from the shadows.
Even though he knew it was Doc, Dean still dropped to one side, rolling as he hit the ground and coming up in a combat stance, only just stopping himself from firing.
"Hot pipe, Doc! Don't do that!"
Doc emerged from the shadows, LeMat in one hand and swordstick in the other. He was shaking his mane of white hair from side to side as he entered the dim light. "I could have taken you out right there and then. Please be careful when the enemy arrives, as I would not like to have to explain to your father how you were chilled."
"Fair point, Doc," Dean replied, cursing himself for being caught. But, like a true Cawdor, he would learn from the experience. "So how are we going to take this?"
"I would suggest we cover a section each, and perhaps have some kind of signal to warn each other of our own approach during a tactical situation—to avoid any more confusion," he added wryly.
Dean ignored that, and replied, "I'll take these two buildings. You take the larger as it's less ground all around. And we'll just yell. In combat who the hell is going to hear a birdcall?"
"As you wish," Doc replied. He made to speak again, but his attention was snatched away by the sound of wags approaching.
"Let's do it—and now," Dean snapped, moving back into the shadows. Doc nodded his agreement, and with a surprising turn of speed for one seemingly so old, he, too, vanished into the darkness.
Although there were other wags audible in the distance, only one sped into the gap between the two refinery blocks, skidding to a halt. It had three occupants: a driver and two others, who jumped out as soon as the wag halted. On either side of the gap, Dean and Doc couldn't believe their luck as they were able to completely cover the wag and its occupants.
Mindful of Ryan's words, Doc chose to speak from the shadows.
"If you will kindly put down your weapons, we will desist from chilling you."
There was only a fraction of a second of stunned silence, although it seemed to be much longer, before the angry explosion of sound that was an Uzi on rapid fire. The driver rose from his seat to level the fire in Doc's direction.
It was short lived, as Dean took him out with a single shot from the Browning that took away a chunk of the back of his skull and pulped his brain tissue.
"Fuck it, there's more than one," yelled one of the saboteurs to his companion. The two men, having already left the wag, had flung themselves into cover—or what they assumed was cover—against the side of the wag farthest from the direction of Doc's voice. Which made them perfect targets for Dean.
The man who hadn't spoken swung himself around in the dirt and rose to run for cover, expecting covering fire from his companion. When it failed to emerge, he swung his own blaster around and loosed a couple of rounds in Dean's direction.
Doc aimed from the shadows and fired the shot charge from the LeMat, the roar of the blaster being echoed only by the agonized yell of the saboteur as the shot ripped into his body, shredding his internal organs and splintering bone. But the yell itself was lost in the louder sound of an explosion. The saboteur had to have been carrying plas-ex on his body, ready to plant it within the confines of the refinery buildings. The shot from Doc's LeMat had hit the explosive and detonated it, causing the body of the saboteur to disintegrate in a ball of flame that lit the entire area between the buildings.
"Oh shit!" Dean yelled, throwing himself flat to escape the rain of debris that ensued as the force of the blast detonated plas-ex that was on the saboteur still taking cover by the wag, taking him out in a blaze of flame and causing the wag to explode as its fuel tank overheated and combusted. The triple explosions were so close that they sounded as one, deafening Dean and Doc as they took cover in their respective points and hoped that no stray piece of debris should, by chance, chill them.
It seemed like forever before the world returned to some semblance of normal, but it had to only have been a few moments. The light settled to a level set by the burning wag, and the only sound was the crackling of flames.
Dean and Doc, now both safe from any debris and certainly safe from any threat from the now chilled saboteurs, emerged from their respective covers and met in the middle, standing together to watch the fire begin to die as the fuel was used.
"So much for taking prisoners," Dean murmured.
JAK HAD ARRIVED at his position with little trouble. Moving silently and swiftly was a matter of instinct and nature for the born hunter, and so it presented him with no problem to find his way along the pipeline with little chance of any approaching agency spotting him.
The pipelines running from the refinery to the storage tanks were straight, with little or no cover provided, particularly at the vulnerable point that Jak was to guard. It was a series of valves and small pipe fittings that joined the two sections, and the shape of the construction meant that the whole piece jutted out into the desert, presenting a plain target with no recesses in which to take any kind of cover.
Within the maze of pipes at this point, there was a small gap that would provide scant opportunity for anyone to take cover. But Jak was small, lithe and supple, and used to keeping still for long periods of time. He forced himself into a tiny gap and settled down to wait, easing his cramped muscles with exercises taught to him by his hunter father that prevented him from either becoming stiff or from having to move out into the open to stretch. He slowed his breathing, making each breath deeper b
ut spaced further and further apart. And he settled to watch and listen, his red eyes sharp in the darkness, his ears alert for the slightest sound out of the ordinary.
So it was that, as before, he was the first to hear the wags. He was aware of the handset sitting heavy on his hip, but he was unwilling to use it. Ryan had wanted them to maintain as much of a radio silence as possible, in case of eavesdropping. The others would hear the wags soon enough in the quiet of the desert night. The only thing that concerned Jak was being ready for the wag that would come his way— for he had no doubts that Ryan and J.B. were correct, and that the five vulnerable points would be those that were hit.
So Jak stayed, patient and silent, keeping his senses alert. He could hear the wags roll from the blacktop and separate, the notes of their engines changing pitch with their directions, and forming a strange harmony on the dark desert air.
One of them was headed toward him. He increased his rate of breathing, keeping it deep to oxygenate his blood. He exercised his supple muscles, easing all signs of strain and cramp from them. He had to be ready for them when they arrived, which would be only a matter of seconds.
The wag rolled across the dark earth, silhouetted against the lighter sky. Jak could see from his position that there were only two occupants in the wag. They wouldn't be able to see him, as they were showing no lights in an attempt to disguise their position from where they thought a patrol might be. In the quiet, it was impossible for a person to truly disguise his or her position in a wag, but at least with no lights it would take longer to locate…unless it was already known where it was headed.
Jak smiled as he readied for attack, a humorless smile, his lips drawing back over vulpine teeth. His Colt Python was still tucked in his camou pants. Speed was essential in getting out of concealment and into space to move freely. If he needed an immediate weapon, he always had a leaf-bladed knife ready to palm.
The wag rolled to a halt, and the albino heard a muttered exchange between the two occupants as the engine cut out. One, called Murphy, was the driver. Greenberg was the name of the other mercie, and they exchanged a few comments about getting the job done before the sec had a chance to get over to them, and get the hell out. "We were lucky the other night," he heard Greenberg say, adding, "Those bastards are too good. Let's hope the big score really works."
