by Rick Boyer
"What is that? Plastique?" I asked.
"Same family. A li'l different and better. It was developed in Yugoslavia a coupla years ago."
"What would happen if that thing went off?" I asked. Funny, but I couldn't help being a little curious.
"Ha! Blow us all to jelly. Nothing left."
"Well, uh, isn't it a little dangerous? What if a spark hits it?"
"Nothing. You can light this with a match and it'll burn, just like Sterno."
"Then how does it work?"
"Detonator. Either electric or heat-sensitive. Like this." He fished into the pack again and drew out a red cap that fit over the end. Then he put it back. "May not even use this thing. Or these . . ."
He brought out those little pocket-sized brass grenades, made in Holland, and gave Kaunitz and Summers two apiece. Desmond felt left out, so Kaunitz gave him one of his. Summers offered me one, but I declined. I was starting to feel a little queasy. I rubbed my stomach and tried to sleep. Finally, I fell into a doze.
I woke up at twilight. Desmond was asleep next to me, giving off a soft snore. The sun was behind the far mountain now, and Summers and Roantis were glassing the rock wall across the valley. I yawned and stretched. The aches were worse; I had stiffened up in my sleep. Still, I felt rested. I scooted up to the other two and had a look through my glasses. I saw two bright yellow specks near the white rock. Campfires. Royce's men were apparently not bothering to stay out of sight.
"Where's Freddie?" I asked.
"Down at the river looking for a place to cross. How are you?"
"I've been better. Why are they showing lights?"
"Because they don't think we're here. They probably think I'm still in Boston. Thanks to Freddie's snagging that kid, we're way ahead of them."
"I'm glad you're so optimistic, Liatis. How do you know they're not just being bait? Acting unprepared so we'll walk right into a trap?"
"Nah."
He answered a lot of questions with that monosyllable. It was simple, definitive, and probably dumb. I let out a slow sigh and felt my stomach churn. My mouth and throat had a sour taste. I had enough acid in there for a truck battery. I wished I were home pulling teeth. Boy, did I wish it. Roantis stifled a yawn. Typical. The sonofabitch was bored. Kaunitz came creeping back up the hillside, breathing heavily. His pants and the bottom half of his shirt were soaked. He stripped off his wet clothes and put on dry bush pants, hanging the wet pair in a tree to dry. Then he and Roantis went back to the maps. If Kaunitz felt the cold, he sure didn't show it. I was chilly. I wasn't made for this stuff. If I learned nothing else on this fool's errand, I would learn that. And then I thought of it: Freddie's leg injury. I should have looked at his leg when he changed clothes, but it had slipped my mind.
"I'd be willing to bet they've got the trestle bridge wired," Kaunitz said. "If we use it, they could blow it when half of us have crossed it, cutting us in two and maybe killing a couple of us. Crossing the creek is the only way to go, but it's a long hike."
"Okay, you Ducks, get some sleep," said Roantis. "We'll get moving just after two. That'll give us a couple hours of moonlight for the hike and climb before it dips behind the mountain wall."
My aching body didn't want to hear that. For that matter, neither did my tormented mind. I glassed the cliffside across the valley again. The sides of that hill looked awfully steep, and the ridge on top was dotted with towering hunks of rock. It looked like a huge, dark castle. And just as forbidding.
24
THE MOON was silver white. Smoke-colored puffs of cloud drifted in front of it. The mountainside across the valley was all dark. The river washed far below us in little beads of white reflection. You could hear it now, a faint rushing sound that on an ordinary night could sing you to sleep. You couldn't hear it in the daytime. Why was that? The air too damp and hot? Too many other noises? Why?
I crept out of the bedroll and stretched. I hurt. But soon I knew the fear would take over and the adrenaline would hide the pain. Hell, I'd rather have the pain. I crept away from the others, found a spot where nobody could hear or see me, and threw up. I felt much better after that. It had been building all afternoon and night. And now, like a nervous runner entering the blocks on the cinder track, I was ready to run the race.
The others were stirring when I got back. The air was dark i blue, and there was an electric current passing all around us. You could feel it, see it in everyone's face. The Ducks' eyes were bright. Oh, they were glad; they liked this stuff. They were happy as pigs in poop.
"I want to take plenty of rope," said Roantis in a low voice. "Also sonic galler tape. And Mike, be sure to take your wire cutters."
Then we crept down off our mountain, heading for the valley six hundred feet below. Thanks to Kaunitz having scouted the way, we made it in under an hour. But it was tough going, and one slip in the dark meant falling down a long, steep grade that was studded with rocks. We went light. Roantis carried a small assault pack, and Summers had a big coil of rope slung over his shoulder. Otherwise, all we carried were weapons and flashlights.
We reached the river, and after twenty more minutes of hiking along the gravelly bank, we were at the fording place. The water, largely snowmelt, was ice cold. We could not wade through it with our pants on; we would be chilled to the bone afterward and stiffen up. So we crossed it by stripping from the waist down, tying our pants and boots over our shoulders and holding the rifles high over our heads, not making a sound. Kaunitz was leading the way, and I strained to see any mark on his bum leg, any sign of a healed gunshot wound. But it was too dark out, and then we were waist deep in the icy water. I was freezing, but feeling better and better. Nothing like actually doing something to take the edge off fear. It's the waiting that's a killer. We came up the other side on another gravelly bank. Kaunitz was out of the water first, and I noticed some discoloration on his right calf. A gunshot wound? Couldn't tell, but it didn't look like it. We dressed again and walked briskly along the far bank to get warm. Then Kaunitz showed us a niche below the overhanging rock where we could remain invisible. We crawled underneath and hunkered down over the flashlight while Roantis spread out the rough map he'd drawn of the immediate area. He had put it together from the kid's interrogation, Freddie's reconnaissance, and watching the mountain for hours on end. But at best it was an educated guess. We all knew there could be big surprises ahead.
"First, Doc and Tommy," Roantis said. "You guys will be in observatory positions. You shoot only to signal an alarm. Four quick shots in the air, like we said. Tommy, you'll be here once we get up to the ridge." He tapped the map and Desmond nodded. "Doc, if it's okay with you, we're putting you here, right below Tommy. It's more in the middle of things, so stay low and out of sight. Mike, you'll come with Freddie and me along this ridge trail we've been watching. There shouldn't be anyone around this time of night. As soon as we find her, I'll get her out. When she's safe, I'm going back with anyone who wants to come with me. I'm going to get what's mine. Then we'll split. Finally, if there's big trouble, everybody get out fast. Look out for number one and meet here."
Then, before we moved out, Roantis surprised us by slipping off his bush pants and shirt. From his pack, he took out a dark bundle. He put on a close-fitting suit of black with faint purple swirls and a pair of strange-looking slipper socks that had a gap in the sole between the big toe and the foot. He strapped a black dagger to his right cal£ and exchanged his floppy hat for a dark wool watch cap that could be pulled down into a hood. He left his bush clothes in a heap under the rock. The only things he carried were the shotgun and the assault bag with spare ammo and the fireworks. Both he could ditch instantly, leaving him
unencumbered, agile, and invisible.
We crawled out from under and walked along the riverwash for a quarter of a mile. The rushing water sang a song to me, but it didn't help. Up ahead loomed the trestle bridge. It looked very high up, and that was how far we had to climb in the dark. I tried not to look at it.
>
"I'm looking for a big spruce that's leaning out from the cliff." whispered Roantis. "I spotted a nice crevice underneath it from the hill. That's where we'll go up."
When we found the spruce, I could see a dark, tall depression in the cliff face right beneath it. Here Roantis did another strange thing: he dropped all his gear, took the nylon climber's rope, slung it over his neck and shoulder like a bulky Sam Browne belt, and backed up to the cliff face. He stood there, back against the rock, and did some strange mumbo jumbo with his hands and fingers. It looked in the darkness as if he had twisted his fingers into painful configurations and was contemplating them. Next, he extended his arms out in a grotesque ballet stance. It looked as if he were performing tai chi. Then he snapped his toes together, heels splayed outward, knock-kneed.
"What the —" I said.
"Shhhh, " said Kaunitz. "You watch him. This is Ninjitsu's Seventh Step, and it's extremely difficult. It's called chiang pi kung, or wall climbing. It takes years to master. Roantis is the best I've ever seen."
Well, I thought it was horseshit. But, lo and behold, before our very eyes Roantis began to ascend that vertical cliff face. Without the rope fastened, without pitons, crampons, or any of that other stuff. It was levitation. It was a miracle like the loaves and fishes. It gave me the creeps.
He climbed backward, his back pressed tight to the wall of rock, his weight directly over his heels. He used only his fingertips and the backs of his heels for purchase. It must have required awesome finger and hand strength. But through it all there was no panting or puffing, no evidence of exertion. He made absolutely no noise. Liatis Roantis was languidly statue-dancing his way up, defying gravity. He had conquered that cliff wall before he'd even started, conquered it in his mind. It did not exist. It was level greensward in an English country garden. And viewed from any distance, what was most spectacular—due to his strange clothing, slow movements, and grotesque positions—was his invisibility.
This first part of the cliff face was about twenty-five feet high and absolutely vertical. Roantis, with all his smoothness and grace, made it to the top in less than five minutes. Once up there, he tied the rope to the spruce and lowered it so we could follow.
Getting up there was a big chore, and I was tuckered at the top. Summers and Desmond had the most trouble because, despite their great strength, they were just plain big and heavy. So was Kaunitz, but he had awesome upper-body strength from wrestling steers day after day. After we collected ourselves up there at the first level, it was obvious to all that Royce knew what he was doing; the place was a natural castle, with the spur and its trestle the drawbridge over the moat. And we'd only gone a fraction of the way; the rest of the mountain still loomed over us. All the days of my life, I will never forget that climb. It was terrifying and exalting. The darkness made it very tough, but I was thankful for it too, because I couldn't see how high we were. Roantis climbed ahead, feeling for the easiest route and making fast the rope when necessary. We stopped in tiny level spots when we could, and caught our breath. The river sang its rushing song below us. The mountain breeze washed over us. I felt a strange and tremendous gladness and camaraderie going up that cliff in the nighttime wilderness. Although I knew I was not cut out for this kind of adventure, I then knew, and would forever know, why some men like to do it.
We made it up the mountain to just below the bare patch of rock by four forty-seven. The climb had taken almost two hours. I was exhausted and knew the others had to feel it too. After ten minutes' rest, we began to work our way slowly upward to the rock lip above our heads. Summers went over it first. Then I saw the light of his watch wink once, the signal for danger. We all froze and waited. After several minutes, I heard what sounded like an earthy thump. Summers came to the lip and asked for rope. Soon afterward we saw his watch wink twice at us from over the lip, and we followed him up. We found ourselves on a flat, narrow ridge, and we walked along it until we saw Summers kneeling over a man stretched out on the ground, his arms tied.
"Daisy's in front, in the old mine," he said in a barely audible whisper. "She all right, this dude says." He pointed at the prostrate man. "He goin' off watch at five-thirty—that's about a half a hour."
We left the sentry well trussed in the bush, with two layers of gaffer tape over his mouth. We started along the ridge, one man moving at a time. The last man in line would work his way up to the front, passing all the others and tapping each man lightly on the shoulder as he went up the line. The rest remained frozen, heads searching in all directions for sound and motion. When he was in place ahead of the first man, we'd pass a signal down the line; then the new last man would turn and move up, leaving the man directly ahead of him to turn around and watch our rear—and so on, over and over. Then Roantis motioned for Tommy to peel off and go to ground on the rock summit just above us. He settled down there like a mother hen, his rifle across his lap and binoculars up. Those big lenses would gather weak light and enable him to keep an eye on most of us. He winked his watch three times as we left him, saying everything was okay. Farther along, it was my turn. I went to earth just off the rocky ridge, in a patch of brush between two boulders. I sat down, holding the rifle upright between my knees, and flashed the others good-bye. Good-bye and good luck. I sat looking into the dark all around me. Half an hour. Could they sneak in, find her, and get her out in that time? Yeah. Roantis was good. We'd pull it off without any violence. We'd get Daisy out and go back to Asheville. I still had doubts about Fred Kaunitz, but I hoped that if he were going to pull anything, he would have done it by this time. I sat watching the dark, keeping my ears alert.
It happened before I knew it. A man walked past me down the ridge, going in the direction we'd come from. I saw only his shadowy outline. Was it one of us? No. He wore no hat and carried no weapon.
Wait a minute, Adams. This guy's walking down the ridge from the direction that the Ducks are headed. How come they didn't meet on the trail? Good question. Then my ears picked up an unmistakable nighttime sound that every wilderness camper knows: the brassy, patting stream in the brush that means somebody's taking a leak. No doubt that's why the midnight walker was up and around. Wait and see if he returns. Sure enough, within seconds he was back on the trail and passed inches from me in the predawn darkness, headed back to . . . where?
My mind returned to our crude plan. I was posted as a lookout. I was supposed to give warning. Should I let off four shots? In short order, things were coming unraveled. What the hell to do? The best answer was not to shoot but to follow him. We were just too close now to abort the plan. Also, the guy wasn't armed. Best to follow him and perhaps even get the drop on him.
I swam out of the brush and headed down the rocky ledge in a low crouch. When I caught up with him, I decided, I'd smack him on the noggin with the pistol barrel and go ahead to tell the others what had happened. It was by no means perfect, but it was all I had.
Except the guy had disappeared. I moved faster, making as much noise as I dared, but I still couldn't see him. Then brush parted lightly to my left, and I froze in a full crouch. The brush continued to snap and hiss softly, but the sound grew fainter and fainter. The man had left the trail and was moving away from it through the growth. But where was he going? I had to find out, so I followed the noise.
I kept a safe distance behind, which meant I couldn't keep close track of him. After a couple of minutes, I found myself staring up at the pale rocky face that rose vertically only a few feet in front of me. A cliff wall. Now where was he? He didn't disappear into thin air, like Judge Crater. Where was—
Then I felt it: a cool draft of damp air that smelled like old cellars and new sidewalks. It was blowing all over my face. Coming right out of the mountain.
25
HELL, it was better to be in the tunnel than silhouetted in the opening. I ducked inside. The passageway was very narrow and twisting, which meant it had been a natural seep. The floor was irregular and sloped, which made normal walking impossible. I
crept along, feeling the way with my hands on the narrow walls. Sometimes the passage closed up tight and got scary. I can't stand closed, dark places at all. But I kept at it, knowing that the other guy had done likewise and that he sure hadn't come from just a broom closet in the rock- there had to be some sort of room in there.
But three or four times I had to light back panic. It would be scary enough in the daytime on a friendly spelunking expedition. But in the dead of night, in the house of the enemy, it was a bit too much. Having finally stopped again to catch my breath—the fast breathing of fear, not exertion—I decided to creep forward another twenty feet. If the passage didn't open up, screw it. I mean, there are limits to my foolishness. I think. I still had not turned on my flashlight for fear it would be seen. But I knew my nerves wouldn't allow my going much farther without a light. Two more bends in the passage was all I was giving it. One bend. The passage was still dark and damp and so tight it kissed my stomach and back. Not the kind of kiss I like. The kind of kiss I like is with Mary in the sack. Or Janice DeGroot in the phone closet. Good. Think about Janice in the phone closet, not the cave. Dammit. That's what started this whole mess: Janice DeGroot in the goddamn phone closet. Oh well, live and learn. Of course, my problem is that I do the former, but the latter does not follow. One thing I was not going to do was belly-crawl through a low passage. If it couldn't be walked, the hell with it. If I got stuck on my tummy in a cave passage in the dark . . . Well, I'd be a screaming meemy in two seconds. And then I would spend the remainder of my life in a rubber room, drooling and singing Gregorian chants. just to hell with it.
Why are you talking to yourself in your mind again, Adams?—I asked myself Because I'm scared, that's why.
And also, I thought, if this passage does lead somewhere—and I was beginning to doubt it—why didn't the kid, Darryl Royce, tell us about it? Simple: he was smarter than he looked and didn't want to give us any extra help. That's why.
