“Move out when you’re both ready,” Helmut called.
Martyn turned, lumbering, and switched on the tactical light clamped under the barrel of the MP5 he wore in a chest sling. Then he knelt down. Jorg climbed onto his back. The platform creaked and its motor revved slightly as he stood up, raising his left wrist to eye level before him. Silently and without any fuss, they disappeared from sight: a perfect circus trick.
Helmut nodded to the platform’s operator. “Take it down three inches.” The platform whirred quietly as it lowered. It wouldn’t do for the returning world-walker to be blocked by the lift. He checked his watch. Thirty seconds. The drill was simple. Jorg would drop off Martyn’s back, Martyn would swing round, and if there was any company he’d take them out while Jorg came right back over. If not, they’d inspect the room, plant the charges in the pre-drilled holes, set the timer to blow in half an hour, and then Jorg would carry Martyn back. After which, the next group through wouldn’t need the masks—they wouldn’t be entering a room that had been filled with carbon dioxide and sealed off behind a gas-tight membrane for fifty years.
Elapsed time, two minutes. Helmut shook his head, dizzy with tension. If they’ve found the treason room and booby-trapped it…He’d known Jorg as a kid. This wasn’t something he wanted to have to explain to his mother.
“It’s going to work,” a voice at his shoulder said quietly.
Helmut managed not to jump. “I hope so, sir.”
“It had better, because this is the real treason room, not the decoy.” Angbard cast him a brief feral grin. “Unless my adversary is a mind reader…”
The thud of boots landing on metal dragged Helmut’s head round. “Yo!” Jorg waved from the platform, which swayed alarmingly. He pulled his oxygen mask up: “It’s clean!” Behind him, Martyn staggered slightly, fumbling with the lift controls. The platform began to descend, and Helmut drew in a breath of relief.
“Stand down,” he told the guards who still stood with M16s aimed at the platform.
“Aw, can’t I shoot him?” asked Irma. “Just a little?”
“You’re going in next,” Helmut said, deadpan. Now he was tense for an entirely different reason: anticipation, not fear. On the other side of the tent, Poul’s couriers were already wheeling the siege tower forward. The aluminum scaffold on wheels didn’t look very traditional, but with its broad staircase and the electric winch for hauling up supply packs it served the same purpose—a quick way into an enemy-held fortress. He looked up at Martyn. “Time check!”
“Catch.”
Martyn tossed underarm and Helmut grabbed the grip-coated stopwatch out of the air. He stared at the countdown. “Listen up! Eighteen minutes and thirty seconds on my mark…Mark! First lance, Erik, lead off at plus ten seconds. I want an eyeball report no later than T plus thirty. Second lance, Frankl, you’re in after the eyeball clears the deck. Third lance, you idle layabouts, we’re going in thirty seconds after that. Line up, line up! Take your tickets for the fairground ride!” He headed off around the tent, checking that everyone knew their assigned role and nothing was out of place.
Minutes passed. The siege tower was finally set up on the carefully surveyed spot below the treason room. The couriers were still hammering stabilizer stakes into the ground around it as Erik led his lance up the ramp to the jump platform. The medical team was moving into position, maneuvering stretchers into position next to the winch: an ambulance sat next to one of the side doors to the tent, ready to go. Helmut checked the stopwatch.
“Sir Lieutenant.” He glanced round, as Angbard nodded at him. The old man had a disturbing way of moving silently and unobtrusively. He straightened as the duke continued: “I don’t intend to jog your elbow. You have complete discretion here. However, if there is an opportunity to take the commanding officer of the attacking force, or one of his lieutenants, alive, without additional risk to yourself or your men, then I would be most interested in asking him certain questions.”
“Really?” He felt himself grinning in spite of himself. It wasn’t an expression of amusement. “I can imagine, your grace.” He glanced at the scaffolding. In a few minutes, it was quite possible that some or most of his platoon would be dead or injured. And right that moment, the idea of dragging the man who’d inflicted this shocking insult upon the Clan’s honor up before his liege was a great temptation to Helmut. “I shall do everything in my power to oblige you, my lord. I can’t promise it—not without knowing what is happening within the castle—but I’d like to make the bastards pay for everything they’ve done to us.”
“Good.” Angbard took a step back, and then, to Helmut’s surprise, raised his fist in salute: “Lead your men to victory, knight-lieutenant! Gods speed your sword!”
Helmut returned the salute, then checked the time. Minus one minute. He raised a hand and waved at Erik, pointing to the stopwatch. “One minute!”
On the other side of the wall between the worlds, the timer would be counting down towards zero. Martyn and Jorg had packed the pre-drilled holes with blocks of C4 strung together on detcord, plugged in the timer, and synchronized it with the stopwatch in Helmut’s hand. In a few seconds time, the thin false wall would be blasted into splinters of stone, throwing a deadly rain of shrapnel across the guardroom. It was intended to kill anyone inside, clearing a path for the assault lance waiting on the siege tower above. Any second—
Helmut raised his hand. “Time!”
Twelve pairs of boots shuffled forward above his head. The rattle of M16s and M249s being cocked, like a junk-yard spirit clearing his throat: Erik’s lance flipping out the knotwork panels beside their sights, squinting along their barrels and shuffling forward.
“Plus five!” called Helmut. “Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!”
The platform juddered on its base as the soldiers flickered out of sight. Helmut took a deep breath and turned towards the map table where the duke was conferring with his officers. Raised voices, alarm. Helmut glanced at the sergeant standing with his men beside the ramp. “Frankl, you know the plan. When the eyeball reports, go if it’s clear. I’m—” the duke’s raised voice made up his mind “—checking something.”
“Is this confirmed?” Angbard demanded: the signals officer hunched defensively before him. “Is it?”
“Sir, all I have is Eorl-Major Riordan’s confirmed report on Lieutenant Menger’s overflight. If you want I can put you through to Castle Hjorth, but he’s already redeploying—”
“Never mind.” Angbard cut him dead as he turned to face Helmut. “They’ve got M60s,” he said conversationally, although his cheeks showed two spots of color. “Your men need to know.”
“M60s?” Helmut blanked for a moment. “Shit! The gatehouse!”
“More than that,” the duke added. “It sounds like they captured a stockpile from one of the strategic villages. Eorl Riordan is redeploying his company. They should be arriving here within the next three hours.”
“Right, right.” Helmut nodded. “Well, that puts a different picture on things.” He glanced at Angbard, anticipating the duke’s dismissal. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, my men need me?”
He turned and trotted back towards the siege tower. Overhead, on the platform, the first lance’s messenger was shouting excitedly, something about the room being clear. “Listen up!” he called. “Change of plan. We’re going in now. Housecleaning only, new plan is to secure the upper floors, strictly indoors. Anyone who goes outdoors gets their ass shot off: the bad guys have got their hands on a couple of M60s, and until we pinpoint them we’re not going to be able to break out. Lance three, follow me in. Lance two, follow after.”