A chopper, matt black in color, suddenly dipped into their flight path ahead, weapons blasting. This time the strafe of bullets shattered the windshield and riddled the outer cockpit, making the pilot execute another emergency dive.
“Going down!” He screamed the words. “Brace for impact!”
The chopper dived hard and its occupants shouted, grunted, complained or set their faces to stoic; whichever method they used to gather their courage. Even Dahl put two hands to the straps, but the grin remained genuine. Screw Six Flags, this was his kind of ride. Three choppers dived after them, deadly birds of prey lunging through the skies, never once letting up their raking lines of fire. The pilot hauled up as the salt flats dramatically enlarged, the nose of the chopper and the stomachs of its occupants lifting a little, but the first impact was still a heavy one, its force shattering overstressed steel. The landing skids tore away. The nose cone crumpled. The chopper bounced and rose, leaving a deep cleft in the earth and a wide spray of white salt in its wake. Drake’s head struck a metal strut and he cursed. Alicia mumbled something about the impact being unable to do much harm. The chopper bounced again, rending the tail boom and part of its rotor from the rest of the body. It began to slew, the front digging in, but thankfully by then its lessening speed meant it didn’t start to roll over. It came to a shuddering halt, obscured by rising clouds of dust, salt and churned-up earth.
Smyth was first to react. “Don’t know ‘bout you guys, but I ain’t goin’ out as no sittin’ duck.”
He kicked open the side door and swung himself out. Drake pounced next, eyes already scanning the surroundings as he jumped to the ground. Kovalenko’s birds blasted overhead, full to the brim with mercs and commandoes and whatever other killers-for-hire his men had managed to purchase since Christmas. He ran forward, giving the rest room to escape and tracking the birds as they changed direction.
“Get ready,” Smyth said, taking aim.
But the birds suddenly lost momentum, started to hover, then began to lose altitude. They were landing.
Smyth stared, letting his rifle hang loose. “Thought they’d at least have tried to take a few of us out.” He looked at Drake. “Isn’t that Kovalenko’s way? Sacrifice the many to slaughter the few?”
“He’s all about the spectacle,” Drake said. “But I have to agree—”
“It’s not about that,” Dahl said as the rest of the team came up behind them. “Whilst we were playing Wall of Death in the back, our pilot here had full view of the rest of the valley. Tell ‘em, Lewis.”
The pilot nodded. “Coming along the road. Cars. Many armored vehicles. A truck or two. Heading along here.” He pointed to the thin snake of road cutting through the flats. “Maybe five, six miles out.”
“He has an army,” Drake said. “Close to the prison. I guess that makes sense. There’s any number of ghost towns and abandoned businesses out here, not to mention old ranches, Indian villages, gold and silver mines. Christ, you could easily hide a small militia outside the National Park.”
“Been doing your homework?” Alicia leaned in.
“Always do. Kovalenko’s men could have gathered the bulk of his weapons and intel systems there. I wonder if he controlled the drone from around here?”
Everyone turned to Karin. The girl with the genius level IQ shrugged. “How the hell should I know? I’m no weapons expert. I guess it’s possible. Depends on the operating system.”
“Look,” Smyth growled. “Can we concentrate on what we can actually see for a minute? You think that’s possible? We got three choppers full o’ mercs comin’ in and a mobile army as backup. What’s the plan? This area ain’t called a salt flat for fuckin nothin’, you know.”
Drake cast his eyes across the dusty white hexagonal salt crusts, dotted here and there with brush, and in the distance some gentle curves of desert sand leading to craggy, contoured and severe looking mountains. They could call in the cavalry at any time, but it would be all for nothing if Kovalenko wasn’t around.
“What’s that?”
Drake followed the line of Karin’s finger along the blacktop, now spotting an irregular line of green trees at the top of a small rise and, beyond them, what looked like white walls and red roofs. “What is that?”
Lewis, the pilot, broke out a map of the area. “Yeah, it’s Garner’s Castle. I thought as much. Built in 1922 as a holiday home for the rich, now it stands as a tourist attraction, though closed throughout the winter season. Sometimes called the mansion, fortress or castle of the valley, it actually does resemble a castle, though I have no idea as to its functionality.”
Alicia shoved him. “You go to college?”
“Leave him alone.” Dahl pushed her out of the way. “It’s a good hike. If we want to make it in time we should get going.”
Drake surveyed the rest of their surroundings whilst Komodo and Kinimaka did the same. The arid plains were almost featureless and in keeping with the name of the region. Nearby Badwater Basin had the lowest elevation of any point in the northern USA; it was below sea level, whereas only eighty four miles to the northwest, Mount Whitney, the highest point, raised its jagged head. Other place names like Dante’s View, Hell’s Gate, Furnace Creek and the Devil’s Golf Course confirmed the adverse nature of the area.
“Let’s go. And don’t forget, we need to look as though we’ve been ambushed.”
Dahl sniffed at that. “I think we were.”
With constant glances back to the newly grounded choppers and along the blacktop road, the team ran hard for Garner’s Castle, the last outpost in their terrible battle with the Blood King.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
Drake slowed only when they had passed the scrappy line of thin trees and were approaching the sprawling mansion, house or castle; or whatever the hell it was supposed to be. He could see now why it had been given the idiosyncratic title of castle. The entrance was a faux portcullis, the gate itself simply made of redwood. Small towers stood to both sides with the bulk of the structure stretching back from each tower with an inner courtyard in the middle. Red-tiled roofs covered the clutter of buildings, of which there were at least a dozen, each one seemingly attached as an afterthought to the last. The walls surrounding the whole place were built of solid stone and crenellated in the manner of a castle. Happily, they were also high enough to defend. Every door opening was a high archway, and every window was protected by a wooden shutter. Drake could see, rising from the back of the compound, what looked to be a tall castle keep, flag pole fluttering on top. Several black weather vanes topped the other roofs.
“So let’s get t’ fettlin’ and feightin’,” Drake said in his best Yorkshire accent. “It’s too bloody mafting to hang around out ‘ere anyway.”
Dahl and Smyth shook their heads together. “Would you like to translate that to English?”
“I can see I’m gonna have to start giving out lessons,” Drake said as they walked towards the entrance. “Skoil is school. Ginnel is an alleyway. Thine is yours. Make sense?”
Dahl couldn’t hide a grin. “Do you ever?”
“So let’s stop callin’.” Drake smirked back. “And make ready. ‘Cause the enemy’s right behind us.”
Smyth facilitated their entry. The interior of the castle, past the sturdy gate, was indeed a long courtyard, sided by two rows of guest rooms. The front part of the courtyard also held the main reception and restaurant, the rear the manager’s offices and storage units along with the castle keep. Drake motioned quickly.
“Spread out. We need intel on this place and fast. Places to hole up, places to defend. Where to get onto the roof. We need an escape route. A plan B. Nope, wait, I’ll sort that out. Can they flank us? How long can we hold out?”