Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (19 page)

Nick, ignoring Grim’s sarcasm, scanned their surroundings and then pulled a map from his load vest. After a minute of deliberation, he pointed north. “I saw the drone fly off in that direction. That wizard-dude came from that way, too. Let’s see if we can find out where their HQ is located, and then we can head home.”

The team was soon moving out, staying to the thickest part of the forest to avoid detection. Nick knew traveling in broad daylight was dangerous, but now that he understood the technology being used by the locals, he judged the new objective worth the risk. No matter what kind of camera was hanging from a drone, it couldn’t see through these trees.

They made good progress, traveling along the unexploded portion of the ridgeline that bordered the valley where all of the construction was taking place. Nick kept listening for a warning whistle, but none sounded.

Every half kilometer or so, Nick would halt the team and stalk to the ridge’s edge in order to keep his bearings and spy on the workforce below. It was during the last such side trip that he spotted the wizard-boss riding in a golf cart, surrounded by several armed horsemen.

Nick followed their progress up the valley, using his magnified optic to track their movement. Without warning, the white-topped buggy made a sudden turn and entered a narrow opening in the forest that appeared to be some sort of logging lane or dirt path. The horsemen followed.

Returning to the team, Nick filled everyone in on what he’d seen. “We’ll move on down the valley for another two clicks and then hold up for nightfall. Let’s hope we can track those horses back to the outlaw’s lair.”

Feeling better about the day’s progress, Hack was actually whistling as he plugged the golf cart’s recharging cord into the outlet.

Satisfied that his ride’s batteries were being topped off, he then made for the drone that had returned from the construction site. Flashing a mischievous grin to his Apache friend, the toymaker’s voice sounded full of teenage glee. “I want to see the video recording of the explosion,” he informed the bodyguard. “That was one hell of a bang.”

A few moments later, Hack was connecting the flying robot’s memory to his computer, eager to see an airborne view of the devastation. “I haven’t had this much fun since we flushed cherry bombs down the toilets in college,” he confessed.

Motioned over by their leader, several members of the security force gathered over Hack’s shoulder, apparently anxious to see the ridge obliterated.

The recording appeared, the hovering drone above the soon-to-be blasted ridge. Hack could make out the ant-like figures of the workers moving to the safety of the opposite side.

Pushing a button, he fast-forwarded the mundane images, watching as the squiggly lines and distorted images rolled across the computer’s screen. “There, that’s about right,” he said, slowing the picture back to its intended speed.

Several puffs of what looked like smoke shot out from the ridge’s wall, and then the entire formation of stone and rock seemed to rise into the air. So violent was the concussion, the drone’s camera shook and rattled from the wave of air striking the tiny flyer.

It was the Apache leader who saw something odd. “Can you rewind the recording, Grandfather?”

“Sure,” Hack replied with a grin, glad that he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed a good detonation.

Hack’s fingers manipulated the touchscreen and soon the video was playing for the second time. “Stop it right there!” the Apache ordered, his finger moving toward the display. “What’s that? Or who is that?”

The toymaker saw what his friend was pointing at, three tiny human figures where no one should be. “What are those people doing up there?” he whispered, trying to order the computer to magnify that section of the image.

Eventually, Hack figured it out, and the video display zoomed in on the top of the ridge.

The picture was grainy, but what they saw was clear enough. Three men, running away, the outline of two rifles clear against the backdrop of brown desert. While it was impossible to be certain, Hack and the Apache both thought they were looking at soldiers.

After exchanging troubled looks with his protector, Hack said, “Come on, I want to launch another drone and have it scout that area. Maybe they were killed in the explosion.”

“I’ll send some men to search that side of the ridge, and I’m going to double the patrols tonight,” added the Apache.

“We’ll find them,” Hack replied with confidence. “There’s really no place for them to go.”

The trail had been easy to follow, even in low light.

Accounting for the fact that horses were a common mode of transportation in the area, Nick didn’t believe that golf carts were. In the end, it had been the tire tracks than put the Alliance team onto the cabin’s lane.

Motioning his men close, Nick took his flashlight and held it a few inches from the ground. After the team had formed a tight huddle to block the torch, he poked a finger in the soil and then drew a ring around the middle.

I want to circle the property, he has saying.

They moved like ghosts through the New Mexico pine forest, Nick and Grim up front, one scouting ahead with their NVD, the other advancing slowly. Butter stayed ten meters behind them, Kevin bringing up the rear at a similar spacing.

The clear sky, combined with the high mountain star field allowed them to make safe progress at a good clip. They were one quarter of the way around Nick’s circle when Grim’s fist snapped into the air.

Everyone froze, the rest of the team going low and raising their weapons.

Nick waited and listened a good 20 seconds before moving forward to see what had stopped the point man cold.

Grim waited until his friend was close enough to make eye contact and then with minimum motion, the contractor pinched his fingers together and drew them through the air. A trip wire!

It took Nick only a moment to find the line, the length of wire stretched taut against Grim’s shin. Another quarter of an inch, and the trap would have sprung.

Tracing the line with his eyes, Nick followed the barely-visible wire to a nearby stump. There, he found a section of pipe, someone having wrapped the small bomb with rusty nails and screws.

Chancing his flashlight, Nick illuminated the device, finding a simple trigger mechanism. After exchanging a “here goes,” look with Grim, the team leader proceeded to disarm the booby-trap.    

Happy to have both of his legs intact, Grim led the duo back to Butter’s position where they then waved Kevin forward.

“The area is wired,” Nick informed his team. “They’re using pipe bombs and trip lines. We’re going to back out the way we came in. Be careful, and make sure you follow Grim and me precisely. Close up our spacing to three paces, and try to use the same footfalls. Got it?”

The two junior members nodded their understanding, Nick noting Butter’s eyes seemed a bit wider than before.
You wanted to be here
, he thought.
Deal with it
.   

Nick backtracked over about 50 meters, again motioning his people in close. “We’re still going to circle that property, but in a wider arch.”

Their progress was slowed by an abundance of caution, but Nick was determined to scout what he deemed a critical location. If the Alliance was going to figure out a solution, every fact was important, even the smallest bit of knowledge might make the difference.

He was watching Grim’s cat eye, the small glowing patch of tape bouncing and moving as the contractor progressed through the forest. In a blink, it disappeared.

Nick went low without thinking. A few seconds later, he could hear the patrol.

He estimated there were five or six of them, walking in a straight line less than 20 meters to the south. They evidently were pretty good, able to approach that close before Grim had picked them up.

It was the innocent rattle of someone’s equipment that had given them away, other than the occasional tinkle that sounded like a far-distant cow bell, Nick was impressed with how quietly the patrol was moving.

The Alliance team let them pass, their path intersecting Grim’s position by less than 15 feet. After waiting a minute to give their foe a head start, Nick went forward to his point man’s position and said, “Follow them in.”

Grim’s eyes went wide at the order, such a bold maneuver fraught with peril. “They’re amateurs,” Nick reassured. “They won’t post a rear guard. Go.”

“I hope you’re right,” came the mouthed response, and then Grim was moving again.

Nick’s logic was simple. The patrol would know where the booby-traps were located. Following in their footsteps would be the safest way to close on the objective.

For over 40 minutes, they tailed the local patrol, Grim struggling to maintain a safe distance while at the same time not losing his guides in the forest.

Twice the Alliance men got a fairly good look at the group in front of them. There were six males, all with long guns and small packs that appeared to contain ammunition and water. “They’re all Indians,” Grim observed after almost running into the back of their column. “They’re wearing war paint… or whatever they call it.”

“So are you,” Nick replied, pointing at the streaks of camo-paint crossing his man’s face.

“They move pretty good,” continued the report. “They’ve wearing boots, just like ours. I always thought Indians wore moccasins?”

Nick nearly broke noise discipline by laughing at Grim’s expression when he delivered the report. The ex-contractor seemed on edge about the discovery, like he was haunted by the notion of facing Native Americans.

“They don’t take scalps anymore,” Nick reassured.

“That’s good to know,” Grim mouthed.

“These tribes are headhunters. They want your entire brainpan.”

There was enough light for Nick to see Grim nearly bought it, realizing a moment later that his team leader was messing with his mind. “Very fucking funny,” the ex-contractor hissed.

At one point, the Alliance team watched as someone in the patrol decided he wanted a smoke. A match was struck, momentarily glowing like heat lightning, and then the red of a pipe’s embers could be seen as the owner stoked the bowl. A few seconds later, Nick smelled the tobacco.

After taking their short break, the patrol resumed its pace, now having traveled to a point almost directly north of where Nick believed they would find the headquarters. And he was right.

Twenty minutes later, they made a sharp right turn and then held that course.

They crested a small rise a short time later, the Alliance men finding themselves looking down on the faint glow of electric lights gleaming through a cabin’s windows. Nick called a halt, thinking they were close enough.

They watched the patrol continue into the compound, small pools of electric light allowing the team to track their progress as they moved closer to the complex.

It was Grim who found the notches.

“They’ve got the safe route marked around the booby-traps,” he said. “See those cuts on the trees? They always pass between them.”

It took Nick a bit to see what Grim was talking about, but then he was nodding. About shoulder high on two nearby trunks were what initially appeared as random bark damage, but after his man’s observation, the ex-operator could spot the guides.

“Good, Grim. Very good. That will help.”

Daybreak found the team fed and in reasonably concealed positions. They were approximately 600 meters north of the complex, peering down on three buildings that Nick guessed were a cabin, some sort of barn or workshop, and a garage.

In addition to the fixed structures, there was also a grouping of tents.
The security force is temporary
, Nick observed.

Into mid-morning, the Alliance men watched, photographed, and scribbled notes on the activity below. The horses were fed and watered, a cooking fire was rekindled, and the perimeter security changed shifts. Overall, it looked like any other military camp the ex-operator had scouted.  

And Grim was right; the men they were surveilling were all Native Americans.

The discovery of the opposition’s HQ had expanded the duration of the mission but was well worth it in the big man’s mind.

While the Alliance leader pondered what he could do with such information, there was a change in the rhythm of movement below. Mr. White Hair appeared on the cabin’s front porch, his arrival prompting a new level of alertness in the guards.

Nick watched as the apparent leader marched across the ground, one of the older security-types keeping step. The duo opened a side door of one of the outbuildings and went inside, only to reappear a short time later with two other men.

One of the newcomers was clearly part of the security force, his rifle and face paint making that determination easy. It was the second man now being led outside that puzzled Nick.

At first, Nick thought the unidentified person was very old or drunk. There was something off in his step, almost as if he was struggling to keep his balance. A few seconds later, the man half turned, and Nick could see his hands were bound. A prisoner?

And then he knew. It was one of the U.S. team members. They weren’t all dead like Washington believed.

Fuck
, Nick thought.
That changes everything
.

His previous thoughts of a helo-born assault, surgical ground invasion, or even a smart-bomb taking out the enemy HQ, were now far more complicated with the appearance of the prisoner.

Nick couldn’t tell which member of the previous team had survived, but knew if it was the president’s son, the entire situation might easily spiral out of control.

The guards returned the captive to the interior after letting him walk the perimeter of the building for 30 minutes. It reminded Nick of something he’d read about maximum security prisons, and how the inmates received a half hour of outdoor time each day.

After that, things seemed to settle into a routine below, and that presented Nick with his own problem.

His men were exhausted, perhaps not so much physically, but mentally. They hadn’t rested, and despite his training and conditioning, Nick himself was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation.

He was just about to order a rotating shift of two hours shuteye for each of his team when the White Wizard’s flowing mane reappeared.

Carrying a coffee cup, he proceeded toward the garage with purpose in his step. Nick noted a few of the idling security men wandering closer, obviously curious about what the boss was doing.

The Alliance team’s angle didn’t allow them to see inside the garage after the rolling door was pulled open, but that didn’t matter much.

Again the easily identifiable hair appeared, this time holding something larger in his arms.

It became clear a few moments later that it was a drone.

With a small crowd of onlookers gathered around, the flying robot shot skyward. Nick followed the machine’s progress as it rose, his own curiosity piqued. That soon changed however when the drone flew directly at the Alliance team’s position, and then hovered above them.

“Oh, shit,” Grim heard his boss say. That was never a good sign.

Hack’s deductive reasoning was causing him to experience bouts of paranoia.

When his flying eyes hadn’t found the intruders around what was left of the east ridge, he’d begun to worry. The Apache entourage had returned empty handed, and that had fueled the toymaker’s stress even further.

They had flown infrared equipped drones throughout the night, but still no sign of the three men clearly depicted in the video.

That left only three options, the least likely being they were buried in the hundreds of tons of rubble that had been blasted from the cliff. Given their position and speed from the video recording, Hack wasn’t prepared to accept that explanation.

The second possibility was that they had escaped.

Again, the toymaker found that option unlikely. They would have spotted a motorized vehicle with drones. Any sort of helicopter extraction would have been reported by the picket line of listening posts the tribes had established around the territory. There was no way men could travel on foot beyond the scope of their searches. It was across open desert, and distances were too great, no matter how well conditioned those individuals might be.

That left the third alternative, which meant the strangers were still in the area and hiding in the forest.

They’d launched twice the normal number of “patrol drones,” Hack devising an expanding search grid centered on the last known position of the quarry. Most of those flyers had been loaded-out with thermal imagers.