Otto knelt close to the ground, bracing himself, mouth open to keep his ears from hurting. The moments stretched on, as he counted up to twenty heartbeats.
"Is he dead?" called one of his gunners.
"I think—" someone began to reply, but the rest of his comment was forestalled by a searing flash. A second later the sound reached Otto, a door the size of a mountainside slamming shut beside his head. The ground shook. A couple of seconds later still, the gravel and fragments rained down around the smoke-filled hole. "What was that?" Otto shouted, barely able to hear himself. It wasn't like any powder explosion he'd ever heard, and he'd heard enough in his time. What's the Pervert got his hands on now? he added silently, straightening up.
The hell-light had gone out, along with the front of the gatehouse. The wagon hadn't been small—there could have been half a ton, or even a ton, of explosives in it; whatever kind of explosives the king's alchemists had cooked up, using lore stolen from the witches.
Otto cleared his dry throat, spat experimentally. "Break them down, get ready to move out," he shouted at Shutz. "The cavalry will be through here next."
Shutz looked baffled, then pointed to his ears. Otto nodded. "Scheisse." He gestured at the now-silent machine guns, miming packing them and moving forward. Shutz nodded, then opened his mouth and began shouting orders. Or at least he appeared to be telling troopers what to do: Otto found to his bemusement that he couldn't hear them.
The ground was still shaking. Peering back up the road, it wasn't hard for Otto to see why. Two more wagons were plodding grimly towards the pile of dust and smoke that had been the gatehouse—and behind them, what looked like a battalion of royal dragoons. In the predawn twilight they rode at no more than a slow walking pace. Otto shook his head; the ringing in his ears went on, but he was beginning to hear other sounds now. He raised his glasses, fumbled with the power button, and peered at the wagon. This one carried soldiers in helmets and half-armor, and a complicated mess of stuff, not the barrels of explosives he'd half-expected to see. "Interesting," he murmured, looking round for a messenger. "You!"
"My lord!" The man shouted.
"Tell Anders to get his guns ready to move. We're to cover this force." He pointed at the approaching dragoons. "They're going to break in. Go!" How they were going to break into the castle he had no idea, but Egon cleared expected them to do so, and Otto had more than a slight suspicion that the new explosives in the oxcart weren't Egon's only surprise.
Strung out on caffeine and fatigue, Judith Herz suppressed a yawn as she watched the technicians with the handcart maneuver the device into position on the scaffold. There was a big cross spray-painted in the middle of the top level, and they were taking pains to move it so that it was centered perfectly. The size of a beer keg, with a briefcase-sized detonation controller strapped to it with duct tape, the FADM didn't look particularly menacing. She glanced over at Rich Hall, who was sitting patiently in a director's chair, the Pelikan case containing ARMBAND between his feet. Cruz was about, somewhere, of course: They were taking pains to keep it within arm's reach at all times. Good, Judith thought tiredly. Everything's ready, except for the PAL codes. And head office, of course, but they'd be on-site shortly. The sooner they could get everything hooked up, the sooner they could all go and get some well-earned sleep.
A flicker of motion near the entrance to the tent caught her eye and she looked round. The new arrivals seemed tired: the colonel, talking animatedly to the man-in-black from the West Wing, a couple of aides following in their wake. Oh great, she thought: rubberneckers. "Wait here," she hold the technicians, then walked down the ramp to meet the newcomers.
"Colonel." She smiled. "And, uh, Dr. James."
Smith glanced sidelong at him. "He's our vertical liaison. With WARBUCKS."
"Dead straight." Dr. James looked tired, too: The bags under his eyes suggested the lights had been burning late in the Naval Observatory grounds. "Let's take a look at the package."
"We haven't attached ARMBAND yet," Judith began to say as Dr. James marched straight towards the scaffold.
"Then do it, right now. We need to get this thing done." What's the sudden hurry? she wondered. "Yes. Sir." She waved at Rich, who sat up sharply and mimed a query until she beckoned. "What's up?"
"Change of situation." James was terse. "I have the PAL codes." He tapped his breast pocket. "Colonel?"
"Dr. James is here as an official observer for the White House," Smith reassured her. "Also, we have Donald Reckitt from NNSA, Mary Kay Kare from, from the people who made ARMBAND, Richard Tracy from the Office of Special Plans—"
The introductions went on until the scaffolding began to creak under their weight. Finally they worked their way down through the layers of observers and their credentials to the technical staff. "And Dr. Rand, who will confirm that the munition is release ready, check the connections to the detonation controller, and hand over to Major Alvarez and Captain Hu for deployment."
"Certainly. If you folks wouldn't mind giving me some elbow room? . ." Rand, fiftyish and somewhat bohemian in appearance, looked as irritated by the institutional rubbernecking as Herz felt. As FTO's tame expert on these gadgets—indeed, as one of the nation's leading experts—he'd studied under Teddy Taylor, although the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty meant that his expertise was somewhat abstract—he understood the FADMs as well as anyone else. And he ran through his checklist surprisingly rapidly. "All looking good," he announced, finally. "Considering where it's been."
"That's enough about that." Dr. James spoke sharply: "Not everyone here is briefed."
"Oh? Really." Rand smiled lopsidedly as he straightened up. "Well that makes it alright then." He patted the bomb, almost affectionately. "For what it's worth, this one's ready to go. Excuse me, ladies, gentlemen . . ."
As Rand left the platform, the colonel glanced at Herz. "If you want to call the items? . . ."
"Uh, yes, sir . . ." She stared at her clipboard and blinked a few times, wishing the tension between her brows would go away. Focusing was hard. "PAL Codes. I need to contact WAR-the designated release authority," she corrected. She looked at Dr. James.
He nodded. "This is what you want," he said, handing her a manilla envelope from his jacket pocket.
Judith slit it open with a fingernail. There was a single sheet of paper, on White House stationery, with a brief note, a pair of eight-digit numbers, and a famous signature. "Well." She breathed out. "This looks to be in order, so"—she clipped it behind her checklist—"we move on to ARMBAND. Rich, this is your curtain call. Major? We're ready to attach ARMBAND."
Alvarez waved Rich Hall through to the front of the platform. "Okay, here it is," he said. He cleared his throat. "I've only done this a couple of times before."
He opened the shockproof case and pulled out four black rubber feet. "Shoes." Rocking the bomb carefully side to side, he wedged the feet underneath it. "The payload needs to be electrostatically isolated from ground, or this won't work." Next, he picked up a drab plastic box, its upper face broken only by a winking red LED, a button, and a key slot. "Okay, now for the duct tape." With that, he pulled out a reel of duct tape and a box cutter, and taped the box to the top of the bomb. Finally, he held up a key: "arming key." He inserted it in the slot and gave it a half turn, and addressed Alvarez: "ARMBAND is not yet armed. To activate it, it's necessary to give the key another half turn, then push the button. Five seconds later, it does its stuff. You do not want to be touching it when that happens." He picked up his case and stepped back. "You have control now."
"I have control," Alvarez echoed. He nodded at Wall: "You'd better leave the platform now, sir."
Is that all? Judith blinked again, feeling obscurely cheated. It was like black magic—a device that could transport a payload into another universe?—and yet it seemed so mundane.
"Agent Herz?" Colonel Smith prodded her.
"Oh? I'm sorry." She nodded. "Major Alvarez?" she called.
"Ma'am." Alvarez and Hu
were out of uniform—nobody wanted inconvenient questions about what army officers were doing in a field outside Concord—but nobody would mistake them for civilians, not with that crew cut and attitude. "I have the checklist."
He knelt down beside the package and unclipped a panel on the detonation controller strapped to the side of the bomb. Pulling open a laminated ring-bound checklist, he began to flip through pages, periodically double-checking a switch position. "Check, please," he told Hu.
"Check."
"I need the PAL code now."
"Here are your numbers." Herz read out the eight-digit sequence from the letter. The audience fell silent, like witnesses at an execution. As, in a manner of speaking, they were: Alvarez and Hu the hangmen, adjusting the noose; Herz the prison governor, handing over the death warrant; and parties unknown standing on the trapdoor . . . well, at least they won't feel a thing, she told herself. More than you can say for their victims, over the years. "Remember, we want a sixty-second delay. If the package doesn't disappear in front of your eyes within ten seconds, then turn the key to safe ARMBAND and enter the abort code. Are you ready?"
"We're ready," Alvarez called.
"Ready!" Hu echoed.
Alvarez carefully closed the cover on the detonation controller, but—Herz noted—neglected to latch it shut. That wasn't in the checklist, at a guess.
The silence was oppressive. Finally, Dr. James cleared his throat. "Major Alvarez, with the authority vested in me by the executive order you have received, I order you to proceed."
Three day's ago, the bulk of the Clan's mobile security force had concentrated in a field near Concord, arriving in buses disguised as costumed mediaevalists. Now, in the predawn light, they'd made it three miles down the road—riding in the backs of steam-powered livestock trucks, disguised as filthy, fight-worn anachronists. Their leader, the duke, and his paramedic and bodyguards, led by the lady Olga, had split off ten minutes ago, heading for an uncertain rendezvous and a waiting ambulance. That left Carl, captain of Security, with a reduced command and a monstrous headache; but at least it was better than being bottled up in that stone death trap.
"You're sure this is the spot." He fixed Morgan with a well-practiced stare.
"Yuh-ess." Morgan yawned hugely. "My apologies, sir Captain. We are two miles southwest of the gates of the Hjalmar Palace, fifty yards north of the milestone, and the cross yonder"—he gestured—"marks the center of the road." The road was little more than a dirt track, but had the singular advantage of being a known quantity. "Last night the pretender's forces were encamped a mile down the road from the gatehouse, dispersed in tents through the woods to either side. Watchers on the hill slope, of course. I cannot be sure—we have no recent intelligence—but I don't believe the camp extended more than two miles down the road to Wergatsfurt. So we should be a few hundred yards beyond their rear perimeter, as of last night."
"Right." Carl turned to Helmut. "Are the men ready?"
"As ready as we can be." Helmut's normally taciturn demeanor was positively stony. Which wasn't good.
"How much ammunition did we end up leaving behind?"
"For the Dragons? Most of it. Stefan's got just eight rounds. The SAWs are better—we divided up the belts. I'd say, three thousand rounds per gun. And of course the light arms, we're fully equipped from the castle's armory. But food and water—it's not good."
"Well, we'll just have to do the job before that becomes an issue." Carl paused in thought. "Have the men dose up with prophylactics before we cross over. We need a marker for the crossover point on the other side"—he pointed at the rough wooden crucifix that marked Morgan's survey point—"and make sure everyone knows that if we move to retreat, that's the rendezvous point. Have Olaf's section position their M47 fifty yards forward of that marker, with one of the SAWs for covering fire"—Carl paced towards the perimeter of the fenced-in field to which the Lee's trucks had brought them—"and get Erik's people to cross over here. Hmm. If there's any sign of the Pervert's bodyguard, Little Dimmir's lance can concentrate on nailing them with support from Erik's people, and Arthur's SAW section if they're dug in there." He continued laying out the deployment as Helmut and two sergeants followed him around the perimeter, making notes. It was all ad hoc, dangerously under-planned and hasty, but if there was one thing they didn't have, it was time for a careful setup. Finally, he finished: "That's it. Brief your men and get them into position. We go in, hmm, zero-six-hundred, that's just under half an hour. Get moving!"
Otto's itchy sense of unease grew stronger with every step he took towards the moat. Ahead of him, the roar of the royal cannon provided a drumbeat punctuation to the sounds of advance: men shouting, chanting the king's name; boots tramping out the rhythm of the march in time to the beat of their drummers; horses clattering on the cobbled roadbed, neighing, jingling of kit; and periodically a spastic belch of machine-gun fire arcing overhead, crackling and whining off the stony roofline of the walls.
They're not shooting back, he realized, a hundred yards past the gatehouse, as he paused in a dip in the ground. Sometime in the past couple of hours the witches had cleared out. Which means—
"Forward for the Gruinmarkt!" The voice behind the cry was half-hoarse, but instantly recognizable as the royal life guards took up the call. "The witches have fled before us!" The life guards flooded forward like a pack of hounds following an injured deer.
"Well, fuck it," Otto grunted. "Jorg!"
"Sir."
"Tell Heidlor to set his guns up here and range in on the keep's door. Indirect fire."
"Sir!" Jorg paused. "But aren't we—"
"Do it!"
Otto raised his glasses and studied the near horizon, shockingly close. In the predawn gloom the castle was a brooding presence up ahead, its upper ramparts topping the huge dry moat beyond the rise. They've had two days to prepare for this, and they like blowing things up. What would I do in their shoes? "Jorg!"
Jorg, panting, hurried back towards him. "Sir?"
"Tell Heidlor to range in on the keep's door and to keep a watch out behind us, ranged in on the road past the gatehouse."
"The gatehouse, sir? But we came that way—"
"Exactly." Otto bared his teeth at the man; Jorg ducked his head hastily and ran back towards the gunners and their overloaded mules.
Otto settled down, kneeling, to watch the lines of advance. The lack of fire from the castle worried him, but he had scarcely raised his glasses again when a loud and hearty hail demanded his attention. "Ahem, my lord Neuhalle!" The interruption leaned over the pommel of his horse to look down at Otto. It was Geraunt, Earl Marlburg, one of the king's younger and more enthusiastic vassals.
"Yes, Sir Geraunt?" Otto stared up at him, annoyed.
"His majesty sends word!" Geraunt was obviously excited. He drew a message tube out of his sleeve and extended it towards Otto. "A change to your disposition. You are to turn around and withdraw to the gatehouse, there to cover the approaches to the castle, he says."
"Right." Otto took the tube. A wave of palpable relief washed through him. Not that he was a coward—certainly the past month of campaigning had given the lie to that—but the idea of advancing into a booby-trapped castle did not fill him with joy. If the king wanted him to stake out the approaches to the castle, against the stab in the back with a witch's knife that Otto himself half-expected, then that was a reassuringly known quantity. More importantly it suggested that his majesty was, if not exactly sane, then no crazier than any other fox. "Can you tell me what his majesty intends?"
Sir Geraunt hunkered down, putting his horse between Otto and the keep. Otto looked up at him: "His majesty is most exercised; he says the witches have fled before him, and probably laid mines to bring down the keep, so he intends to secure the inner walls, then bring in sappers to find the—"
The world flashed white, twice, in a tenth of the beat of a heart. Everything was white as the face of the noonday sun, except for the knife-edge shadow of Sir Geraunt
, freakishly cast across Otto's upper body and head.
Otto blinked as a wave of heat washed across his skin. A giant the size of a mountain had opened the door of a kiln full of molten iron big enough to forge the hammer of the gods, and the glare surged overhead, stifling and oppressive. The sensation of heat faded over the duration of two heartbeats and he opened his eyes, but everything was blotchy and purple-white with afterimages. Was that an explosion? he thought numbly, as reflex or shock made him collapse back into the ground cover. What was left of Sir Geraunt's mount, with what was left of Sir Geraunt still astride it, began to fall sideways into his depression. Neither of them lived, which was perhaps a mercy, because while Sir Geraunt and his horse were intact and unblemished on the side that fell towards Otto, their opposite side—that had faced the castle—was scorched to charcoal around a delicate intaglio of bone.
The castle was no longer there. Where the keep had crouched within its courtyard, shielded by the outer walls and their rammed-earth revetments, a skull-shape of dust and fire was rising, its cap looming over the ramparts like a curious salamander crawling from its volcanic home to survey its surroundings.
As Otto fell, a blast of fiery wind pulsed across the burning grass that covered the approaches to the castle, casting aloft the calcined bodies of the men and animals who had been caught in the open at the moment of the heat flash. Burning sticks and a shotgun blast of fractured gravel caromed off the ground. A scant second later the shock front reversed, sucking back towards the roiling bubble of flames as it rose from the center of the fortification on a stem of dirt and debris.
The Revolution Business: Book Five of the Merchant Princes Page 13
