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 days ago, the bulk of the Clan’s mobile security force had concentrated in a field near Concord, arriving in buses disguised as costumed medievalists. 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 underplanned 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.”