Tom made a warbling sound between his lips, one that carried well in the night without sounding too much like a signal. Then he unhooked the big canteen from his saddlebow, which woke desperate interest and an inarticulate grunt of need. He put his hand behind the bound man’s head and raised it so that he could drink without choking, giving the water in sips—after the first gulp the man cooperated, as if he knew that he could not afford to take too much.
“You speak English?” he asked the man.
The Indian shook his head—using the gesture in the manner of Western civilization, Tom noted, and evidently recognizing the name of the language at least.
Adrienne dismounted and went to one knee not far away; she pushed back her goggles and hat, and briefly switched on a flashlight with a cloth across the glass, illuminating her face. The Indian looked at her, said something in a harsh sibilant language, and seemed to relax a little.
Bravo, Adri, Tom thought. A woman makes it look less like a war party to him… hmmm, unless torturing captives is women’s work where he comes from. Guess not.
She said something in another language, and the man answered it in the same, but shook his head.
“He recognizes nahuatl but it isn’t his language,” she said thoughtfully. “A lot of our nahua are from other language groups, of course; we just use that term because the majority are nahuatl speakers. He could be a Zapotec—” The man nodded frantically. “Aha. There’s a potentate down that way we’ve dealt with a bit, named Seven Flower.”
“Russki?” the man said. “Govoroyu russki?”
That was an extremely ungrammatical way of asking if Tom spoke Russian. He did… sort of.
“Da,” he said, in that tongue. “A little. Speak slowly.” In English, to Adrienne Rolfe: “I speak a little Russian, badly, and so does he, even worse. Be prepared for communications problems.”
He continued the conversation, then noted out of the corner of his eye Kolo drawing his knife and nearly going for the bound man, until Simmons put an arm in front of him and spoke sharply.
“What’s that about?” Tom said.
“When we were ambushed in the Lake Tulare marshes, part of the opposition looked just like Mr. Bondage here,” Adrienne said thoughtfully. “Quite different from the swamp hostiles, and they had O’Brien rifles. Well maintained, and they knew how to use them. I’d guess they were deserters from right here; the working conditions don’t appear to be too good.”
“That fits,” Tom said. “So does the way he looks.”
He grinned lopsidedly when she raised her brows. “Officers and NCOs beating up and abusing recruits is an old tradition in the Russian armed forces; ditto senior enlisted men picking on younger, stealing their pay and rations. It’s really old, goes back to czarist times. They still have a scandal every once and a while, new guys getting killed or having all their food stolen until they collapse, that sort of thing. And if the Batyushkovs are old-fashioned, chances are the military types they recruited for this would be, too.”
“Sounds counterproductive,” Adrienne said; meanwhile she got the first-aid kit from the pack horse that carried it.
“Oh, it is,” Tom said. “But who abandons a tradition just because it’s stupid? Also, a lot of Russians have a really intense dislike of what they call ‘black-asses,’ by which they mean anyone brown with slanted eyes; that goes right back to the Mongol Khans. Get a bunch of unreconstructed Red Army men—I’d guess they used veterans of Afghanistan and Chechnya—and give ’em unlimited disciplinary authority and no overview, and this sort of thing is about what I’d expect.”
He turned back to the prisoner and spoke in halting Russian, with many pauses to clear up misunderstandings or search for a word.
While he did, the others were studying the prisoner. “Looks like he’s seen some action,” Tully commented, and Adrienne nodded.
“Lots of scars,” Adrienne said. She and Sandra cut the man’s feet free and began bandaging and patching from there up. “Old ones.”
“Cutting weapons,” Simmons said, pointing to the faded dusty-white and purple marks on the brown skin. “I’ve seen wounds like that, made with an obsidian-edged battle rake. And that one could be a bullet wound—musket ball. A couple of them look like they were infected before they healed.”
“Yah, you betcha,” Tom said, when the man allowed his head to loll back, too exhausted to speak further. The big man looked up at the others and gave them the gist:
“He’s a soldier of some sort back in his home country. His boss is a subordinate of this Seven Flower, and he and a lot of others have been training here for nearly a year.” He looked from face to face. “Standard training to start with, and then working over and over again on assaulting a mockup of a big building.”
He translated the man’s description. Adrienne and Simmons cursed.
“The Gate complex,” they said almost in chorus.
Tom smiled wryly, and began cutting the man’s hands free with swift jerks of his belt knife.
“And incidentally, he’s real disillusioned, and willing to cooperate.”
Tully nodded. “You know, there are times when being a son of a bitch is its own punishment. What’s this guy’s name?”
Tom put the question to him; he seemed a little surprised to be asked. “He says the Russians just called everyone by numbers or nicknames. His name…” They went back and forth on it for a while.
“It’s One Ocelot. That’s the name of the day of the month he was born on.”
“Maybe it should be One Lucky Cat, instead,” Tully said, and grinned. “After all, we got here before the coyotes.”
A day later, Tully took off his hat. “Do you realize where we are?” he said solemnly, pointing to the open country to the north of the creek whose bank they were following.
“No,” Tom sighed. “Where are we, exactly, Tonto?”
“This, Kemosabe, is Movie Flats.”
He swept a finger around the rolling sage-and-grass-covered circle, taking in the towering peaks of the high Sierras behind them to the west, and the rough upthrust slabs and boulders and wind-worn arches of the Alabama hills ahead. As he spoke the dawn broke over the Inyo Mountains still farther east; they were nearly as high as the Sierra Nevada, towering ten thousand feet above the Owens. The first spears of light hit the snow still lingering on Mount Whitney behind them, then ran down the sheer face of the sawtoothed granite range like a speeded-up film. A few seconds later it struck the tops of the Alabamas, only five thousand or so feet but still looking formidable in their scarred, tumbled, boulder-strewn steepness, turning them blood colored for an instant.
Tom felt a prickle of awe at the sheer bleak grandeur of the view, then thrust it aside. Tully continued:
“They filmed Gunga Din here. Springfield Rifle. And How the West Was Won. And Maverick… And pretty well all the Hopalong Cassidy, Tom Mix, B-movies, and all the Lone Ranger episodes…”
“You’re impossible,” Adrienne snorted.
“Naw, just highly improbable,” Tully said.
Tom grinned; sometimes Roy’s clowning got a little wearing, but it was also a welcome break in the tension at moments like this.
After a moment Tully went on more seriously: “It’s a lot prettier in real life, though.”
They urged their horses into a canter; they were heading down Lone Pine Creek, eastward toward the canyon it cut through the hills. There was no road along it on this side of the Gate, barely even a trail just north of the water, but there was plenty of cover—big Freemont cottonwood trees reaching up to nearly a hundred feet, their serrated-edged leaves clattering overhead; the dark cool damp-smelling air was thick with their downy seed fluff. Sycamores and willows formed the understory, hanging over the water; walnuts showed their furrowed, dark brown trunks. He heard something snort, grunt, and crash aside through the undergrowth as they passed—wild boar, by the tracks—and there were the broader cloven marks of feral cattle in the same wet sand, and the neat prints of d
eer.
Stone closed around the little stream, but not in unbroken walls; there were gaps between the tilted rock ledges. Tom counted them carefully; it was easy to get lost in this tangle, and easier still when the version he was familiar with was different in so many details. He’d been through here on Fish and Game business FirstSide, and on hiking trips, but… There was a lot more vegetation for starters, and no network of dirt roads, and that didn’t complete the list. Hundreds of years of difference in the details of the weather had made an impression even on the rocks—a boulder falling one way rather than another, or the shape of a wash.
“We turn north here,” he said at last.
The open sandy wash was as good as a road for horses; better, since it was easier on their hooves than a hard surface. It was also more open than the growth along the creek, which made him nervous. If he’d been in command of the conspirator’s forces, he’d have had more Scouts and lookouts combing the area. But there hadn’t been any sigh of humans or shod horses, even though the sandy dirt showed tracks well.
Well, that’s what you get for using untrustworthy troops, he thought, a little smugly.
Half a mile up the wash a ridge let up to the crest of the hills—and to a weird-looking loop of rock, a natural arch at the crest. They dismounted and handed their reins to One Ocelot; the Zapotec was almost pathetically grateful and eager to please, being even more completely isolated and lost than he’d been as one of the Batyushkov’s mercenaries. If he lost their help… well, it was a very long walk home. Until they told him, he hadn’t ever realized that there was an overland connection.
Together the three of them made their way up the steep ridge; Simmons and Kolo were off looking over Cerro Gordo, and Sandra had to stay with their horses at the base camp—you didn’t leave a hobbled horse alone in grizzly and leopard country.
The ascent took about ten minutes of hard climbing, enough to have them breathing deeply. They took the last bit before the crest very slowly. He felt the rock harsh and gritty under his hands, the smell dry and dusty in his nostrils; his rifle was across the crook of his elbows. Carefully they raised their heads until their eyes were over the ridge.
“Well, that’s not just a hunting lodge, by Jesus,” Tom said, looking at the settlement several miles away through the clear dry air.
The original building might be—it looked a lot like a fairly fancy dude ranch, complete with corrals and stables and barns, all in Western form and what looked at this distance to be adobe; the swimming pool added an appropriate touch….
“Marble?” he said.
“There’s a quarry of it a couple of miles that way,” Adrienne said, pointing southeast. Snidely: “I’m shocked the whole place isn’t built out of it.”
The patch of cultivated ground northward looked too large, several hundred acres… and so did the X-shaped airstrip south of the house and near the edge of the great lake. Each arm of the landing field was fifteen hundred feet at least. A Hercules stood on it, and several smaller two-engined planes he couldn’t identify at this range were parked slightly off it in earth revetments. There was an improvised-looking wooden control building with a radar pickup and broadcast antenna on its roof at one end, next to the wind sock. Southward at the edge of the water was a boathouse and a fair-sized sailboat tied up at a long wooden pier.
And east of the house was a tent camp. Several dozen big twelve-man tents were up, with more rising; he could see the unmistakable centipede of a column of marching men there, raising a trail of dust. So did vehicles heading south and east, along a rough dirt track around the lake and back toward the mountains. Guard towers stood at the four corners of the camp, even if it was still mainly empty space; they were tripods of lodgepole pine with a central ladder. The platforms had roofs and walls of thick logs squared and notched, and poking out through the slits were the barrels of heavy machine guns. Searchlights too…
“Well, that’s proof,” he said, softly.
“With a dollop of whipped cream and a maraschino cherry on top,” Tully said.
“And you know,” Tom said, “those guard towers would be absolutely useless for defending that camp. Against anyone with modern weapons, that is; and not even really useful against Indians. Shooting down at a steep angle like that, you don’t get a beaten zone. The bullets just hit the dirt and stay there. But they’d be crackerjack for keeping people from getting out.”
Adrienne hissed softly and began to level her binoculars. “Well, that’s of a piece with everything else we’ve seen.”
“Careful,” Tom said, adjusting the angle of the glasses with his hand. “Into the sun like that, even with nonglare lenses, you’re chancing a reflection.”
She nodded thanks, studied the scene, then handed them over to Tom. He used them in turn, noting details. “Those sunken bunkers… armory, I’d say; or explosives store; or both. Fuel blisters near the airstrip. HQ tent… yah, when they get that setup completed, it’ll be tentage for a battalion. Roy?”
He handed the glasses to the smaller man. Roy whistled softly as he worked the area over. “I’d say that bunch… looks to be about a company’s worth… marched in from somewhere about half a day’s shank’s-mare travel away. Looks like they don’t have enough trucks to move the men—I’d guess they were up around Cerro Gordo, like you thought, Kemosabe. Good place to train; you’d build endurance fast at eight thousand feet. And it’s out of the way. But they must be nearly ready to go.”
Tom looked over at Adrienne. She was looking calm enough, but there was a line of white around her tight-held mouth….
Of course, she was born here. It’s just an operational problem to me, and a personal risk. To her, it’s like me seeing some shaheed was about to nuke Chicago.
“What are those smaller aircraft?” he said.
They weren’t any type he was familiar with: sleek elongated teardrops with the wing mounted through the middle of the fuselage, bubble canopy forward, and two big piston engines.
“Mosquito fighter-bombers,” Adrienne said, her voice tightly controlled. “World War Two design, slightly modified and built here.”
“How many would the Collettas have?” Tom said. And this private-armies setup is insane, whatever your grandfather thinks, he added to himself.
“Mmmm… four. The Commission has a dozen, and about as many more are kept by some of the Families—they maintain them for the Commission’s use in lieu of taxes. Those are probably there to escort the transports with the troops. The swine!” she added with hissing malevolence. Then, flushing: “Sorry.”
“No problem,” he said sympathetically. “Well, Simmons and Kolo ought to be on their way back by now.”
“Right,” she said unemotionally. “Let’s get back to camp and settle what we can do.”
If anything, hung suspended on the air.
“Wait a second,” Tully said quietly, and threw up his hand.
They all reined in. Tom looked around; the steep canyon trail up the side of Mount Whitney seemed just the same as when they’d left a couple of hours ago, save for the fact that the sun was near noon and it was warmish rather than chilly. Water chuckled down the center, falling over smooth colored rocks; not far ahead was the little pool and U of meadow where they were camping. The air smelled of warm rock, pines, and water.
“Tonto think it maybe too quiet, Kemosabe,” Tully said—but his voice was soft and deadly serious; his hand went to the rifle riding in the scabbard by his knee.
A raven launched itself out of a lodgepole pine, giving a harsh gruk-grukgruk cry. Apart from that, there was nothing….
Sandra walked out from behind a rock; she was carrying her rifle, but she looked white around the mouth.
“It’s OK!” she called. “They’re friendly! Sort of.”
“Who are they?” Adrienne said.
“Ah—”
There was a rustling though the woods and canyon sides all around them, and figures were standing—figures whose heads loomed monstrous under
headdresses of bear and wolf and tiger. For a heartstopping moment he thought the Akaka had caught up with them. But…
One head was topped by a lion with turquoise eyes.
“Hi!” Chief Good Star called. “Surprise!”
The moment stretched. Then another voice called, from upslope:
“Surprise to you too, and don’t move!”
Simmons, Tom thought with relief. Up there with his scope-sighted rifle… he got back and didn’t walk into a trap.
The same thought must have struck Good Star; beneath the demon-clown tattoos and paint, his grin went a little sickly.
“No trouble!” he said rapidly. “Hey, Shoots Fast—come out!”
Someone did; it was Henry Villers, unmistakable despite the bandages that covered most of the left side of his face.
“Hello, Warden Tom, boss lady,” he said. “What say we all catch up?”
“…so we heard the shooting and hit ’em where they weren’t looking,” Good Star said, puffing on his cigarette and leaning back against a log. “Some of the Akaka got away, but most didn’t.”
There were a number of fresh scalps at his belt, and his expression was like a contented cat’s as he went on: “Thanks, by the way. Swift Lance and his Dreaming aren’t going to look so hot any more, you know what I mean? Especially since one of you Deathwalkers dropped a boulder on his head.”
Villers looked at Tully, who was sitting close to Sandra Margolin; the little man had relaxed since she’d convinced him she’d come to no harm except a thorough fright. They were all grouped around a small smokeless fire, not far from the edge of the pond. The meadow was a little crowded, even though the Nyo-Ilcha hadn’t brought all their horses here. Adrienne’s party and the chieftain shared log seats around the fire, and many of the warriors were crouched outside that circle; others were attending to their animals, or camp chores. Two of them were butchering a brace of mule deer and an elk.
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