That was when the shouting at the door became truly loud.
In the oilskin tent that his men had hidden in the folds of Illa dels Conill’s rolling terrain, Miro leaned back from the map spread on the folding field table. Illuminated by a covered lantern, it was an enlarged copy of the bay of Palma, inexpertly but functionally reproduced from a Frommer’s Guide, and heavily footnoted by Miro’s appendations. Around the table, all the shipmasters, as well as Harry, Sean Connal, Virgilio, and one of the cleverest of the Wild Geese, Turlough Eubank, stared down at it intently.
“So, the plan is clear?”
Mumbled assent drowned out Virgilio’s loud, nervous gulp. “Don Estuban, this journey could be worse than the Alps.”
“Not for us. But for Harry-”
Harry shrugged. “Ah, this shouldn’t be so bad. Anyhow, I do think I am properly equipped for the job.” He patted his homemade web-gear, from which hung eight carefully handcrafted and slightly curved magazine pouches. “Eight thirty-round mags of Combloc 7.62 should do me just fine.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a few of those myself,” muttered Turlough.
Miro smiled. “A point you have made several times, already. But they must stay with Harry. After all, he will be in a position to save your life, not you his.”
The Irishman smiled crookedly. “Well now, if you’re putting it that way…”
Aurelio was still frowning down at the map. “So after the rescue is complete, our ships do not stay together?”
“No. And I understand your reservations. Normally, there would be safety in numbers. But remember this: the largest of our ships cannot successfully fight theirs. Our advantages will be our head start, our speed in the wind conditions we expect-”
“-and base trickery,” interrupted Connal; now even fretful Aurelio smiled. Miro suppressed a grateful sigh. From the very start, the Irish physician had proven as adept at raising spirits as he had at healing bodies, and both had been invaluable to the morale of the men. They might respect Miro, and hold Harry, North, and O’Neill in a kind of terrified reverence, but it was the young Sean Connal that they loved. Miro nodded at Aurelio, getting his attention once again. “Just follow the headings you’ve been given once we are on the run, Captain. First we’ll confuse the Spanish, then we’ll link up and make for home.”
“Very well. Now, on the approach, it is the Atropos that leads us in?”
“Yes, but only to your loiter point, well south of Palma’s bay. As indicated on the map, the Atropos will head farther west, leaving the rest of you to stay formed up on the Guerra Cagna until you begin to flee. Now, one last time: any more questions?” Silence. “Very well. Virgilio, are the burners at full?”
“Yes, Don Estuban. The crew of the Atropos signals that inflation of the balloon has begun.”
“Are you sure you want to ride her on the way in? We have others who could now perform so simple a task as keeping her in true while being towed.”
Virgilio shook his head. “She is my airship; I will be at her controls. And will be sure to supervise the correct loading sequence of the fuel casks. I don’t want any of the gasoline containers mixed in with the regular fuel. I want all that gasoline reserved for our outbound flight. And I don’t want to start loading until the last second: we must keep the dirigible as light as we can, as long as we can, to conserve fuel.”
“We’ve given you a pretty good margin of error, Virge,” drawled Harry at the nervous Venetian dirigible pilot.
“Yes, I have a good margin of error-but Fate usually eats it up. Particularly when she is tempted to do so by plans as audacious as this one.” He shuddered. “So I will be a miser with the fuel, if it is all right with you, Captain Lefferts.”
Harry shrugged, smiled. “Okay by me, Virge. Hell, I’m just along for the ride. Well, most of the ways. Which reminds me, Estuban; I double-checked the suspension lines and the wires for the airship’s communications relay rig. We’re good to go on my end.”
“And I have checked the telegraph in the dirigible,” added Virgilio quickly.
Harry frowned. “Well, if you really want to call what we’ve got a telegraph set, I guess you can, but-”
Miro held up his hand. “What I have just heard is that the suspension lines and the electric wiring we have secured to it are confirmed as fully functional, yes?”
The two men nodded.
“Excellent. Then we are ready. Aurelio, please have your men break down the tent. I will take the map back to the Atropos with me. Good luck to you all.” He walked outside, glancing about at the flurry of activity: the tent being broken down, the last wind measurements being taken, and the captains moving purposefully to the small boats that would take them back to their ships, waiting dark and quiet beyond the low breakers.
Miro stepped toward the skiff from the Atropos, and nodded to the waiting rowers. “Let’s be on our way,” he said, as much to himself as them.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Linguanti rose to meet Valentino. “So, it is as we thought?”
Valentino nodded, came to the center of the dimly lit cave, and nodded for the man with the oil lamp to adjust the wick. The yellow glow brightened as Valentino scraped a quick map on the floor. “Yes, they are at the Villa Molini. We have seen their sentries-cleverly hidden-here, here, and here.” He indicated the three compass points of north, east and west. “They may have one or two more that we missed.”
“Probably behind them, to the west, too.”
Valentino shook his head at Odoardo’s suggestion. “No. They are shielded from the west by Monte Maggio. The only other way into the dell in which the villa sits-this very difficult pass from the Valle Terragnolo, up north-is where they might have another outpost. But for anyone to come at them that way, they would have had to travel by way of the Val Adige, almost all the way to Trento. And almost none of the news from this valley is going to pass over these high mountains to the other side, and vice versa. So no one on the Trento side of Monte Maggio would even know to come here, looking. So the up-timers and the pope can rest assured that their west is almost completely safe. And with their backs being up against that wall, we have no ready way to get around their pickets and come at them from behind.”
“So what do we do?”
Valentino touched the point on the map that indicated his group’s current position in the southernmost of the caves of Monte Cengio. “At dusk tonight, we start moving southeast, skirting Menara. Then, when we come to the low part of this arm of the valley, we turn west immediately, staying as far from Laghi as possible.”
Linguanti looked at the map. “That puts us well within a mile of Molini. An easy walk.”
“It would be, if the approaches weren’t observed.”
“So I ask again; what do we do?”
“We stay away from the most direct route, which they can observe from two points: the outpost they have just to the side of the path that leads to the villa, and the outpost they keep up north, on the western slopes of Monte Cengio. Instead, we will move across the path to the south, and sneak up on this small hill.”
“Where they have an outpost, also.”
“True, but we can get behind that outpost.”
“So once we are behind them, then what?”
“We bait them out.”
Odoardo guffawed. “What a great plan. If, as you suspect, they have a good number of professional troops, we’re not going to be able to bait them out into the open.”
“Of course not, oaf. We will be far more subtle. We will make faint noises to the front of their position. Nothing too provocative, but enough to get them to send out a scout. We will lead him on and, ultimately, into an ambush.”
“Which the others see, or hear, and set up an alarm.”
“No, because they will be dead by then.”
“How?”
