‘Information: the chances of a direct artillery hit are relatively low, Maddy. Equipment failure is far more likely to occur as a result of the cumulative impact vibrations.’
‘Well, there you go! We need to do something … soon!’
Becks had nothing to offer. Another thud sent the monitors blinking out. A moment later they all flickered back on.
‘Oh, this is totally not good, Becks. We’ve got to do something!’
She looked around her desk for inspiration.
Come on … come on. What? What do I do?
They should send a message to Bob and the others. Let them know they needed to speed things up, open the window much sooner than arranged. At this rate, in two days’ time, there wasn’t going to be an archway left — nor trenches, nor troops. Just a pockmarked wasteland of brand-new craters.
‘Computer-Bob!’
The dialogue box appeared in front of her.
> Yes, Maddy?
‘New message for Bob …’
> Proceed.
‘Archway under attack … need to open window at stated coordinates much sooner.’ She bit her lip.
How much more of this can the equipment take? Another few minutes, hours?
But then that question was balanced by another equally important one: how far away were Liam and the others from the extraction point? There was simply no knowing. It’s quite possible they were very close … after all, she’d picked a place roughly two-thirds of the way up from Quantico to New York, and a dozen miles westwards off the main highways. Somewhere quiet. They might have been very close when they got the message … they just might. And that message was sent about eighteen hours ago.
They could be waiting right there, twiddling their thumbs, waiting impatiently for the window to open. On the other hand, they might be fifty, or a hundred miles away, struggling desperately to make it there in time.
‘Window to open in ten minutes’ time!’ said Maddy. ‘End of message.’
> Affirmative. Compiling message packet.
‘Maddy,’ called out Becks. ‘If we open a window in ten minutes’ time, then it will take approximately another twelve hours to recharge the machine for a second attempt.’
Maddy winced and cursed. She knew that anyway. Becks was right. They couldn’t afford to panic and blow their accumulated charge. She glanced across at the rack and could see all twelve green LEDs lit up. A full charge and that had taken them the whole night and most of today with that poor old tank rattling away.
‘Computer-Bob … cancel that. New message!’
> Message cancelled. I am ready for your new message, Maddy.
‘All right … OK, the message is this: archway is under attack. Proceed to coordinates as fast as you freakin’ well can! Will watch for you with pinhole probe. Will open as soon as we see you. End of message.’
> Affirmative. Compiling message packet.
She turned to Becks. ‘We’ll open a pinhole window now and grab an image … and if they’re not there, we’ll do it again in another … say … half an hour’s time. And again … and again …’
‘This will drain the power.’
‘So sue me!’ she snapped. Then grimaced guiltily; Becks was only doing her job. ‘This way, we’ll at least get in a few free looks, right? Before we’ve used up enough of the charge that we can’t open a proper window?’
‘Correct.’
‘Then that’s what we’re gonna do. Until we absolutely need to conserve what’s left.’
Computer-Bob had been listening.
> Maddy, shall I send this message? Please confirm.
‘Yes! Confirm sending the message. Do it!’
CHAPTER 76. 2001, New York
Devereau looked at the men huddled in the bottom of the borderline. An artillery bombardment like this on a defensive position was more successful at draining morale than it was at whittling down the enemy’s numbers. The shells were mostly pitting the sloping wasteland with new craters. One or two shells had got lucky and caved in a section of the trench — nothing that couldn’t be hastily dug out and repaired before a landing arrived.
No … it was the way it sapped the fighting spirit of the men that the bombardment’s damage was done. Left them feeling helpless, impotent, as the enemy pounded them from afar.
Down the trench he could see Sergeant Freeman bellowing encouragement to the men around him, a mixture of men from his own regiment and Wainwright’s Virginians. Devereau grinned; it was NCOs like Freeman that were the backbone of a regiment. Grim-faced veterans with a lifetime of scars and battlefield voices that carried over even the percussive thump of artillery shells landing. Men followed their generals and colonels, but it was their sergeants and corporals they turned to for a reassuring nod in the heat of battle.
He was about to glance over to the horseshoe to check whether the tank was still running when he suddenly found himself lying on his back at the bottom of the trench, watching a small avalanche of dark soil rain down on him. Instinctively he covered his face and closed his mouth as dirt began to cover him. Devereau tried to flail to get himself up, but his arms and legs felt leaden.
And it was all of a sudden so silent. The only noise was his heart thudding rhythmically. The rumble of the artillery bombardment sounded like it was going on a thousand miles away. A summer thunderstorm in another county.
He felt hands on him, digging him out of the dirt, pulling him up out of his temporary shallow grave. A face right above him — one of Wainwright’s Confederates — all beard and dirt-smeared skin beneath the brim of his helmet. The man was shouting something, but Devereau couldn’t hear what he was saying. All he could hear was his pumping heart and that distant rumble.
‘I am all right!’ he shouted back at the man. Not that he could hear himself. Not sure if he’d shouted it or whispered it. The man helped him on to his feet, and Devereau quickly patted himself down to make sure he hadn’t been nicked by shrapnel.
The arterial thumping in his ears had become a shrill ringing that he imagined would drive him very quickly insane if it was a permanent condition. He picked his forage cap out of the dark soil between his boots and put it back on. Straightening the peak, he saw a dozen faces down the trench looking warily at him.
They’re watching you … Show them some bravado.
He pulled his sabre — more a ceremonial addition than a practical one — from its scabbard and held the blade close to his face, using the polished surface as a mirror as he adjusted his cap and straightened his collar. He gave himself an approving nod before tucking the sabre back, knowing there’d be a ripple of grins among the men either side.
The ringing in his ears was beginning to diminish and this time he could just about hear the Confederate soldier’s voice.
‘… ir, the … arrage … opped!’
‘What?’ He cupped his ear.
The man nodded over the lip of the trench. ‘Stopped, sir! Barrage has stopped!’
Devereau took a step up on to an ammo box to give him a good clear view ahead.
Stopped … yes, they have! He could feel the sporadic vibrations of impact and shockwave had ceased. And now the cratered slope in front of them was bathed in a swirling mist of white smoke.
‘Smoke,’ he whispered. The last volley of artillery fire had been establishing a smokescreen. He turned to the Confederate beside him. ‘They’re coming!’