“Like that?” O’Grady gestured through the window. Herz tracked his finger, and stifled a curse. On the screen beside her, an eighth red dot had lit up in her cell.
“It’s possible.” She squinted at the coach. Men were coming out of the big top to open the gate, admitting it.
The laptop beeped. A ninth red dot on the map—and another coach of HISTORY FAIRE folks was slowing down to turn into the field.
“Just what do they do at a history faire anyway?” asked Pike. “Hey, will you look at that armor!”
“Count them, please,” Judith muttered, pulling out her own phone. She speed-dialed a number. “Larry? I’ve got two coachloads that showed up around the same time as two more positives. Can you give me a background search on—” she squinted through her compact binoculars, reading off the number plates “—and forward it to Eric? He’s going to want to know how many to bring to the party.”
“What’s that they’re carrying?” Pike grunted.
Judith blinked, then focused on a group of men in armor, lugging heavy kit bags in through the door of the marquee. “This doesn’t add up—” she began. Then one of the armored figures lifted the awning higher, to help his mates: and she got a glimpse at what was going on inside.
“Officers, we’re not dressed for this party and I think we should get out of here right now.”
“But they—” began Pike.
“Listen to the agent.” O’Grady grimaced and started the engine. “Okay, where do you want me to go, ma’am?”
“Let’s just get out of the line of sight. Keep moving, within a couple of blocks. I’m going to phone for backup.”
“Is it a terror cell? Here?”
She met his worried eyes in the mirror. “Not as such,” she said grimly, “but it’s nothing your department can handle. Once you drop me off you’re going to be throwing up a cordon around the area: my people will take it from here.” She hit a different speed-dial button. “Colonel? Herz. You were right about what’s going on here. I’m pulling out now, and you’re good to go in thirty…”
Rudi squinted into the sunlight and swore as he tried to gauge the wind speed. The walls of Castle Hjorth loomed before him like granite thunderclouds—except they’re far too close to the ground, aren’t they? He shook his head, fatigue adding its leaden burden to his neck muscles, and glanced at the air speed indicator once more. Thirty-two miles per hour, just above stall speed, too high… the nasty buzzing, flapping noise from the left wing was quieter, though, the ripstop nylon holding. He leaned into the control bar, banking to lose height. Small figures scurried around the courtyard below him as he spotted the crude wind sock he’d improvised over by the pump house. Okay, let’s get this over with.
The ultralight bounced hard on the cobblestones, rattling him painfully from spine to teeth, and he killed the engine. For a frightening few seconds he wondered if he’d misjudged the rollout, taking it too near the carriages drawn up outside the stables—but the crude brakes bit home in time, stopping him with several meters to spare. “Phew,” he croaked. His lips weren’t working properly and his shoulders felt as stiff as planks: he cleared his throat and spat experimentally, aiming for a pile of droppings.
Rudi had originally intended to go and find Riordan and make his report as soon as he landed, but as he took his hands off the control bar he felt a wave of fatigue settle over his shoulders like a leaden blanket. Flying the ultralight was a very physical experience—no autopilots here!—and he’d been up for just over three hours, holding the thing on course in the sky with his upper arms. His hands ached, his face felt as if it was frozen solid, and his shoulders were stiff—though not as stiff as they’d have been without his exercise routine. He unstrapped himself slowly, like an eighty-year-old getting out of a car, took off his helmet, and was just starting on his post-flight checklist when he heard a shout from behind. “Rudi!”
He looked round. It was, of course, Eorl Riordan, in company with a couple of guards. He didn’t look happy. “Sir.” He stood up as straight as he could.
“Why didn’t you report in?” demanded the eorl.
Rudi pointed mutely at the remains of the radio taped to the side of the trike. “I came as fast as I could. Let me make this safe, and I’ll report.”
“Talk while you work,” said Riordan, a trifle less aggressively. “What happened?”
Rudi unplugged the magneto—no point risking some poor fool chopping their arm off by playing with the prop—and began to check the engine for signs of damage. “They shot at me from the battlements and the gate-house,” he said, kneeling down to inspect the mounting brackets. “Took out the radio, put some holes in the wing. I was two thousand feet up—they’ve got their hands on modern weapons from somewhere.” He shook his head. Shit. “If anyone’s going in—”
“Too late.”
Rudi looked up. Riordan’s face was white. “Joachim, signal to the duke: defenders at the Hjalmar Palace have guns. No, wait.” Riordan stared at Rudi. “Could you identify them?”
“I’m not sure.” Rudi stood up laboriously. “Wait up.” He walked round the wing—tipped forward so that the central spar lay on the ground—and found the holes he was looking for. “Shit. Looks like something relatively large. They were automatic, sir, machine guns most likely. Didn’t we get rid of the last of the M60s a long time ago?”
Riordan leaned over him to inspect the bullet holes. “Yes.” He turned to the messenger: “Joachim, signal the duke, defenders at the Hjalmar Palace have at least one—”
“Two, sir.”
“Two heavy machine guns. Go now!”
Joachim trotted away at the double, heading for the keep. A couple more guards were approaching, accompanying one of Riordan’s officers. For his part, the eorl was inspecting the damage to the ultralight. “You did well,” he said quietly. “Next time, though, don’t get so close.”
Rudi swallowed. He counted four holes in the port wing, and the wrecked radio. He walked round the aircraft and began to go over the trike’s body. There was a hole in the fiberglass shroud, only inches away from where his left leg had been. “That’s good advice, sir. If I’d known what they had I’d have given them a wider berth.” It was hard to focus on anything other than the damage to his aircraft. “What’s happening?”
“Helmut and his men went in half an hour ago.” Riordan took a deep breath. “When will you be ready to fly again?”
Whoa! Rudi straightened up again and stretched, experimentally. Something in his neck popped. “I need to check my bird thoroughly, and I need to patch the holes, but that’ll take a day to do properly. If it’s an emergency and if there’s no other damage I can fly again within the hour, but—” he glanced at the sky “—there’re only about three more flying hours in the day, sir. And I’ve only got enough fuel here for one more flight, anyway. It’s not hard to get on the other side, but I wasn’t exactly building a large stockpile. To be honest, it would help if we had another pilot and airframe available.” He shrugged.
Riordan leaned close. “If we survive the next week, I think that’ll be high on his grace’s plans for us,” he admitted. “But right now, the problem we face is knowing what’s going on. You didn’t see any sign of the pretender’s army, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t out there. Get your work done, get some food, then stand by to go out again before evening—even if it’s only for an hour, we need to know whether there’s an army marching down our throat here or whether the Hjalmar Palace is the focus of his attack.”