Watchman looked at the sky. It wasn’t moving fast; he might have half the night before it hit. The fugitives were hauling maybe two hundred and fifty pounds of loot, plus whatever they’d decided to salvage from the plane. They were traveling heavy and there was a chance to catch up before the weather socked down.
Buck Stevens said, “Maybe the man makes sense, Sam.”
“I don’t say your idea won’t work,” Watchman said. “I’m just saying there’s a chance it won’t work. I want to plug that hole. If they know how to handle themselves in this kind of weather they might just find ways to get clean out of the country while your whole army’s bogged down and blinded by weather.”
“That’s far-fetched.”
“I haven’t got time to stand here arguing all night. Look: are you giving me advice or are you telling me flat out not to try this?”
That put it out in the open. Raw meat on the floor. Vickers had to make the choice now. If he made it a direct order and Watchman went ahead and disobeyed it, and if Watchman then caught up to the fugitives and nailed them, it would make Vickers look a prime fool. On the other hand if he left it at “disregarding my advice” and Watchman didn’t produce any results, Vickers could always write up an “uncooperative officer” memo that could get Watchman in plenty of trouble. Technically Vickers didn’t have authority to give orders to a state police officer but they both knew that was beside the point.
It really wasn’t a choice at all. In the end Vickers had to leave himself the opening. “All right. I’m advising you not to do it but I’m not telling you what to do. It’s your own funeral. If I need you later on and you’re not here, it’s going to sit heavy on you.”
“Understood.”
“What about you, rookie?”
Watchman snapped, “We don’t play that game here. He’s under my orders.”
“I’d like to hear what Officer Stevens thinks,” Vickers said. Stubborn about it because if Stevens went on the record as disapproving Watchman’s action it would add ammunition to Vickers’ arsenal later.
Buck Stevens’ eyes went from Vickers to Watchman and back to Vickers. Suddenly he was at the point of an unpleasant triangle. Then his head lifted: “I don’t mean anything personal. I know Sam Watchman and I don’t know you, Mr. Vickers. If Sam says it’s the right thing to do then I believe him.”
“Your faith and loyalty are very touching. I hope they’re not misplaced.” Vickers’ mouth was like a surgeon’s wound. “I wish you both luck.” He said that expressionlessly and Watchman was reminded of old British war movies in which the Air Vice Marshal said something like that to his pilots just before he sent them up to be shot down by the Luftwaffe. The thought made him grin; he hunted for the snooperlight switch and turned to walk away.
The infrared projector wouldn’t throw any light that the fugitives would be able to see but it would light up the ground like a floodlamp when you looked through the lens of the snooperscope: plenty of light to pick up indentations in the hardpan clay-light to follow tracks by.
Stevens was adjusting the walkie-talkie around his shoulders by its strap. When that was done he came away from the jeep. Ten feet from it Watchman turned to look back and said to Vickers, “We’ll keep in touch. Listen, I’m not saying we’ll get to them first, I’m just saying we’ve got to cover this bet.”
“I gather you know how to build a shelter if you have to. It’s my opinion you’ll end up sitting out the storm in one.” Then Vickers turned his back deliberately and reached for his walkie-talkie and Watchman smiled slightly, touched Buck Stevens’ arm and walked out into the dark desert.
And Stevens said, “Git’im up, Scout.”
CHAPTER 4
1
Walker’s legs felt rickety. He slipped the deadweight of the duffel bag off his shoulder and let it drop to the ground. It made a muffled sound and Baraclough snapped at him. “Take it easy with that. We break a hole in one of those bags and you know how long it’ll take to chase down every last ten dollar bill in this wind.”
The Major said, “Five minutes, no more.”
Hanratty was sitting on his fat butt. “You think they’re following us already?”
“Not following. Chasing.” The Major was on his feet, turning a slow circle on his heels, trying to burn away the darkness with the heat of his stare. He kept moving his head quickly, like an alert animal. He’s made out of poured concrete, Walker thought, partly in awe and partly in resentment. Major Hargit had the endurance of a truck horse: he didn’t look tired at all.
Hanratty said, “Christ, my feet’s killing me.” Hanratty needed a thorough laundering: the creases of his neck looked begrimed, his clothes were rumpled like a beggar’s, the lobes of his ears gleamed dully with a grease of old sweat.
By a trick of meteorological caprice the storm hadn’t hit them yet. Either it had stopped in its tracks or it had changed direction radically. A few clouds had drifted over east but there were enough stars shining through from that half of the sky to throw a faint illumination across the pale ground. Walker could make out the heavier silhouettes of the mountain sawteeth, the silyer crest of a hill directly ahead of them, the faint glitter of the Major’s eyes when they came around and touched him and went on, sweeping vigilantly.
It was cold; it was still. Gusts came up now and then but the silence in the intervals was leaden. The chill seemed to irritate Walker’s sore tooth and he kept sucking on it with his tongue to warm it.
“We should only have about two miles to go,” the Major said. “Let’s get going.”
“Jesus Fucking H. Christ,” Hanratty complained.
“You’re wasting wind,” the Major said mildly.
Eddie Burt got up and shouldered his sack and prodded Hanratty with his toe. “Get your ass moving before I put a boot up it.”
“Shit, I just sat down. Give me a chance to get my breath.”
Baraclough walked over to him and peeled his lips back from his teeth. “Hanratty, you drag ass just one more time and I’ll feed you to the birds. Now get on your feet.” Baraclough said it in a sibilant whisper; turned on his heel and went back to pick up his duffel burden. When Baraclough straightened and looked at Hanratty the man was on his feet. Hanratty turned to the Major and grabbed the Major’s sleeve and began to say something in his whining voice; the Major said, very soft, “You want that arm broken?” And Hanratty dropped his hand. The Major had spoken without heat but he had a driving, elemental thrust of hard personality and competent brutality and you knew he could have broken that arm without half trying.
Walker was sweating lightly in the cool air. He stayed out of it, to one side, not wanting anyone’s attention: he didn’t trust any of them. Least of all the Major. Because the Major no longer had any real need for him except as a beast of burden to help carry the money. There was no plane for him to fly and that was all he’d been recruited to do. Fortunately the rest of them were still too angry with Hanratty to think about Keith Walker but when they got around to it he wouldn’t be surprised if they started thinking about his expendability.
It wasn’t greed Walker sensed in the leader. Hargit wouldn’t murder him for his share of the loot. Hargit wasn’t that kind of doublecrosser. It was just that three could move faster than five, especially when the three were all ex-Green Berets accustomed to long fast treks through wilderness country in all kinds of lights and weathers. Walker didn’t fit into the group.
The only thing he saw in his own favor was that he was a lot less expendable than Hanratty: Hanratty was past fifty, he was out of condition, he was a whiner, and he had made irrevocable trouble for all of them by shooting that God-damned guard.