by Alma Boykin
8) “On the Edge” - Despite being close to Vienna, the Vienna Woods contain a number of odd, wild crannies and locations. They form the eastern end of the Alps, where the ranges stop and the Pannonian Basin geologic province begins. The Bohemian Massif to the north stops at the Danube. Both the Wienerwald and Archduke Rudolph will return in A Carpathian Campaign and Clawing for the Crowns.
Excerpt from: The Cat at Bay (October 2015)
Chapter 1: Home from the Hills (August 2004)
Major Rahoul Khan winced as bright light flashed across his eyes, blinding him, then leaving him seeing spots as the beam swept around and down. He heard metal slide on metal, and a voice muttering curses in a language he’d not heard for three years.
“If you are telling off Lucius, Prince of Darkness, or Corporal La Grange, ma’am, I agree. Can we shift it without starting it?”
“Yes, Sergeant St. John. Lower the bonnet and I’ll disengage the brake. We’ll need someone to push as I steer.”
Rahoul hitched his bag over his shoulder and wound between the troop transports, scout vehicles, and other military equipment to reach the spot of light. A hunter green antique sports coup hid between the larger vehicles. Two women glared at the little car. “Need a hand?”
“Yes, we— Yes, sir, we do, sir.” Sergeant St. John, or so Rahoul guessed, blinked and stepped back out of the spill of light.
“Two hands and a strong back would be even better,” the other woman said. He heard a hand brake disengaging, a faint creaking sound, and another curse word. “Right, Sergeant, which way, left or right?”
“Right, ma’am, towards the door. If we can get it up to where the Havoc was parked, we can—“
A tearing crash, followed by alarms and shouts shattered the quiet. Rahoul dove for cover, St. John joining him as he tried to become one with the concrete floor of the motorpool building. Red lights flashed on and a smoke alarm blatted off to the left, farther into the complex of buildings.
“Oh bugger it all. The universe hates me. St. John, let’s just leave this for the moment, shall we?” The speaker sounded unnaturally calm, almost bored, and Rahoul ventured to raise his head. He saw two feet in black leather boots, a walking stick, the tip of a furry black tail, and the hem of a split skirt. “I think we’re about to get summonsed.”
“Cat One, report to the firing range. Repeat, Cat One, report to the firing range,” came from a tannoy overhead.
“Go on, ma’am. I’ll secure everything,” St. John said.
“Thank you.” Rahoul heard a familiar step-tap-step as Commander Rachel Na Gael limped off to deal with whatever emergency had just struck the 58th Regiment of Foot.
St. John got to her knees, peered around, then stood up. Rahoul followed her as she reset the Marlowe’s brakes. “I see that hasn’t changed.” He pointed to the faded name stenciled on the floor.
“No sir. It’s still his car, on loan to us.” She unhooked the light from the jerry-rigged pole and began rolling up the cord. “Can I help you, sir?”
Rahoul smiled, shaking his head. “No thank you, Sergeant. Is the outside door unlocked? I don’t believe this is a good time to cut past the firing range to get to the main building.”
“No, sir, and no. I’ll pass you through, if I could see your ID?” He gave it to her. “Thank you, sir. Welcome back.”
“Thank you.” I think. I’m not certain if this is a good or bad omen. What blew up?
Rahoul cut through the garden, savoring the smell of green things, and St. John let him into the back door. “Officer of the day’s office is two doors right of the general’s, sir.”
“Thank you. I’ll go from here.”
“Very good, sir.” She returned to the motorpool and he went to check in.
“ … is there already? Good. No, not until Tuesday, and Col. Wood left this morning, family emergency.” The black officer glanced at the door, saw Rahoul, and stood. “Standby.” He covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Can I help you sir?”
“Major Rahoul Khan checking in.” As soon as he said it, the captain’s eyes lit up. Rahoul’s heart sank.
Ngobo uncovered the phone. “Yes, Major Khan just arrived. Ask the RSM.” He held out his hand and Rahoul passed over his paperwork. “Yes, I’ll tell him. Nogbo out.” He hung up the phone. “RSM Chan sends his respects, sir, and asks if you had a moment to come down to the firing range.”
“Why?” I think I know and this is not a good sign.
“Because you are the highest ranking person here at present, not counting Commander Na Gael, sir. He wants a witness, not an official presence.”
So much for it being quieter than Kandahar. Rahoul set his bags down, brushed off the front of his tunic, and squared his shoulders. “Very well. Will I need protective gear?”
“No, sir, the fire’s out. I’ll take care of these. I’m the adjutant.” He patted the folder of documents, pay transfer forms, and other minutia of military transfers.
The fire’s out. Lovely. Something blew up in or near the firing range and there was a fire. What ne— No, please don’t answer that, Lord.
About the Author
Alma T. C. Boykin lives in the High Plains. She travels frequently to Central Europe, from whence came the inspiration for these stories and several of her novels. When not penning fiction, she writes US history, teaches, and tries to keep the fur in her house to a minimum despite being owned by the near-obligatory writer’s cat.
Series include: A Cat Among Dragons
The Colplatschki Chronicles
The Powers (alternate WWI and Interwar history set in the Cat universe)
Keep up with Alma’s work through her blog: Cat Rotator’s Quarterly http://www.almatcboykin.wordpress.com
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