Well . . . shit . . . tell him he's dead . . . I mean really fucking dead. Tell him I put Royce in charge of that sector.' Pendergast trembled slightly with the vivid memory of a man ripped into two pieces and screaming his lungs out— begging, pleading—for someone, anyone, to kill him and put him out of his agony.
Though Pendergast didn't mention that part; could not, in fact. The memory of his own rifle's muzzle pressed against Davis' head . . . the squeeze of the trigger . . . the flash that burned even through his closed eyes . . . no, that he could not mention, nor even quite bring himself to think about . . .
'Sergeant Major? Sergeant Major, wake up.'
Pendergast's eyes opened immediately from the rough shoving. It took him several moments to place the voice. 'Major Williams? Sorry, sir, I just . . .'
'Never mind. You needed the sleep. But sleep time is over. The guards say there's movement outside, a lot of it. All the walls.'
'Figure they're coming?'
'Yes . . . BMNT comes in about forty minutes. I figure they'll hit us simultaneously from every direction.'
Pendergast forced a smile with a confidence he did not truly feel. 'We'll hold 'em, sir, never worry.'
* * *
Outskirts of Santa Fe, New Mexico
Tripp really could not quite believe his good luck, if it was luck. Still, against his own expectation here he was, he and his battalion, sheltered under cover in a small town south of the city.
Though the people were friendly and cooperative, Tripp had had the phone lines and cellular repeater tower knocked down just in case. Now, with a small party dressed in civilian clothes forward to recon the state house and the routes leading towards it, the battalion—minus a small local security element, himself, the company commanders and the staff—caught up on rest. Even those still awake had had some chance to eat; Tripp vaguely remembered reading an Israeli study that said troops recently rested, fed and watered were much more effective than those without that consideration. Not that it would have mattered what any study said; to Tripp it just seemed plain common sense.
Chapter Seventeen
From the transcript at trial: Commonwealth of
Virginia v. Alvin Scheer
DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED
BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. You watched the entire battle on television, Alvin?
A. No, sir. I didn't see when it started, wasn't even awake yet. Though the TV did give some flashbacks. But I did see everything that went on from about ten o'clock that morning until late that afternoon. That took a lot of beer, like I said.
The beer was maybe a mistake because I starting cheering when they showed some of the killed and wounded being brought out on stretchers. Some folks in the bar weren't too happy about that and I shut right up.
Didn't stop me from smiling a whole lot, though.
* * *
Western Currency Facility, Fort Worth, Texas
'Think of it as an opportunity,' Major Williams had suggested, once the artillery pounding had begun. 'Sure, they will make some holes in the walls. Likely they'll get some of us, too. But see, we will know where those holes are . . . and we'll be able to prepare a very warm reception for anyone trying to come through one.'
And so it had been. Working like beavers whenever there was a lull in the incoming fire, sometimes even when there was not, the defenders of the WCF had shifted firing positions, moving entire bunkers to take advantage of the routes in that they now knew the PGSS must use.
Unseen in one such midnight-dark bunker, Fontaine forced a smile to his face. He had perhaps hoped that the smile would give him confidence, even help him to slow his rapidly beating heart. It did not; his heart continued to pound in his chest, breath coming short and hard.
This was worse, far worse, than the first day's action had been. Then, following Pendergast around and simply doing what he was told, the young enlisted man had barely had time to think; he could only react. Now, with weeks of pondering and fretting behind him—weeks of tension, days of frightful bombardment and hours of chest-pounding fear . . . the boy was simply terrified half out of his wits.
He heard the scraping of something metallic on the concrete floor behind his bunker. A friend, he was sure; there had been no break in as of yet.
'Fontaine, that you?'
'Yes, Top . . . I mean, Sergeant Major. Me and Silva on the machine gun.'
Pendergast noticed the strain in the boy's voice. 'You okay, boys?'
'I'll be fine, Sergeant Major. It's just the waiting . . .' Silva grunted agreement.
'Not much waiting to go. They're massing all around.'
'I know. Sometimes you can hear the diesels,' answered Fontaine. 'They're close. . . .'
* * *
