The shooter spun on his heels and went back outside with the others. But Trennt remained. He emerged long minutes later, spent and dazed. Glancing at each face, he sought out his scout, perched silently above.
"What do you think, Top?"
Still miffed with his breach of security, the old-timer eyed Trennt sternly.
"I think we're really deep inside some tribe's backyard. Either a scout or hunting party happened by this before us. Tracks say they're on foot. Probably headed out to join back up with their main body, somewhere."
"How far ahead?"
"Hour, maybe."
"What else?"
"They look to be traveling loose and sloppy. So the gooners aren't expecting anyone this far inside their turf. That's big time in our favor. If we boogie right now, we can blow this pop stand with no hassle."
Trennt persisted. "How many?"
Like an oracle, Top gazed down, reading his thoughts.
"Ten, fifteen. Bad news is they got a couple dogs."
Trennt looked through the treetops. The sun was starting its nightward slide.
"I've come too far, Top. I've got to know for sure. You and the others wait down the trail or start back. I'll take it from here on my own."
Silent until now, Geri spoke up from the fringes.
"It's two days back, any way we look at it. I say wait here, until you do know."
Wayne nodded in accord, Baker didn't reply. Top went with the group decision, but he offered a final caution: "One last thing. Anybody notice the birds? Flocks been moving inland since we got here. Same with the game—all sounding to our east. It's not the time of year for anything to migrate. They know something's going down."
Baker clicked the safety back on his weapon, and squinted up at the old man. "You still talkin' quake?"
Top looked back. "Yeah, Slick, I am."
Even that possibility wouldn't put Trennt off. He snatched up Top's VDM specs and started out.
It was a tough hike. Trying to scout the gooners before dark meant a strenuous double-time pace. With his automatic shotgun carried at port arms, Trennt was breathing deeply after the first half mile. His slack mouth mechanically sucked at the thick air, choking down waves of suicidal gnats in raw gulps, fighting to ignore overheated muscles that throbbed and burned.
Near dusk Trennt broke into a clearing and came upon the hard-packed earth of a speed trail. He dropped to a knee, scouting the pathway. Sharp gouges and recent blood spatters were mixed with footprints and evidence of an animal kill. They also joined the cleated tire marks of at least two trucks.
Trennt raised his eyes at the buzz of overhead cicadas. Beyond, the turquoise heavens were thickening to an early bruise. For the first time in years, he felt a little boy's fear of the dark loosen deep within him. He swallowed hard, and, with the night goggles snugged in place, continued.
Traces of wood smoke were in the air . . . and voices. He heard them faintly, approaching the cola stained waters of a wide shallow stream.
Trennt sank to a crouch and crept the last yards through thick clutches of tall concealing reeds. It was dark enough now to hide his movements. But his mouth was full of bitter metal as he closed the final meters.
Top's estimate was right on the mark. Trennt counted fourteen gooners in the clearing. They looked to be a mix of Anglos and Hispanics, tattooed up and hard-core savage. Thankfully, no women or children were among their number.
The campsite appeared to be a familiar gathering point. As Trennt watched, a few members nimbly butchered a young boar. Others stoked the beginnings of a roasting fire. All were armed with machetes, guns and hand blades of varied nature.
The pile of miscellaneous loot sitting heaped at midcamp suggested the group to be a routine scavenging party. In its stack Trennt saw everything from scrounged cookware to pioneer tools. Also, there were tan-colored seat cushions and assorted trimwork from the plane—stuff destined to be creature comforts and gift trinkets.
A bolt of recognition flashed hot through him. There, among the spoils, was a familiar box: the same one he'd set inside the cockpit just moments before the passpod drop. All those rough air miles and it had somehow stayed aboard. He wondered if Kosinski might have preserved it in some selfless maneuver, which had ended up costing his own life.
Trennt's pulse heightened as a warrior, possibly the leader, walked over to open and examine the box. Another man happened by and the pair casually regarded the wire rack of stainless steel tubes suspended inside.
Each removed and evaluated one of the bullet shapes, before pressing the side detents and exposing the straw-colored glass ampoules held within. They raised the vials to the firelight, shook, and examined them. Deciding the fluid was of no immediate significance, they disregarded the box and walked off to check on the butchering.
Already Trennt could smell faint wisps of pot smoke in the air and some of the warriors appeared to pass about jugs of homemade hootch. No one seemed concerned with security tonight.
Then he saw the reason for the camp's nonchalance: dogs—huge, burr-covered monsters. Scar-faced and mangy, they presented the biggest obstacle to a camp incursion and his own most immediate danger.
From his spot in the reeds, Trennt counted three of the grim brutes. As he watched, they roughly competed for castoff hunks of raw boar fat and bones. Even so, one paused, suddenly drawing a bead right on the spot where Trennt hid.
The beast stared with bone-chilling, murderous yellow eyes. Its lips slowly curled, as if considering a charge. But a new scramble for a slab of freshly discarded gristle distracted the mutt and, before he might reconsider, Trennt slowly backed away.
"Quarter loads," declared Baker, shining a light at Trennt's diagram in the dirt. "Quick 'n' quiet. With the silencer, hardly a peep."
"It'd only take one pooch to hear you and have the whole camp up," cautioned Top.
Baker shook his head definitively.
"Uh-uh. Them dogs'll be all together and near the carcass. Camp dogs're always hungry. When they get a rare chance to gorge themselves, they sleep like babies. Won't matter no how. They'll all be down before anyone can blink an eye. Guaranteed."
"Either way," interjected Trennt, "come morning they'll know we've been there. So we've got to move fast and hard as soon as we take the first step."
Baker glanced back to the diagram. "Gonna come upstream?"
"Best way. Enough water flow to mask our movement. Firm sandy bottom, barely shin-deep. Plenty of cattails to hide in." Trennt added more lines to the dirt.
"About fifty yards out it curves off to a straightaway. There, we'll set trip flares. If we're being chased, we'll hit them first and light up the area behind for Top, who'll be waiting with cover, further up here. As soon as the flares light, we dive off to the side and let him sweep the stream with suppressing fire."
The old timer rapped a thumbnail thoughtfully against his nose. "If you saw only two trucks, then it's got to be some kind of rendezvous spot for a still bigger group on its way."
Trennt had just one question. "Can we pull it off?"
The old Marine nodded judiciously. "Rock on."
They came in the early morning hours. Top took up station on the rise just around a sweeping bend from the camp. He matted down a good rest in the straw grass and clicked a 30-round banana clip in his SKS. Three other clips were set beside. The pair of noncombatants were left in his charge and safely tucked in behind him.
Top watched Baker happily assemble his two-piece sniper rifle, attach the long silencer, and quietly chamber subsonic .308-caliber rounds.
"Okay, homicide. Show us your stuff."
Baker's eyes twinkled as he and Trennt worked swipes of creek bottom mud over their faces. He put Top's night goggles on and started out in the lead. Clicking the safety off his S-12, Trennt tugged a loop of the gunman's pistol belt.
"Don't get carried away," he advised.
Baker's mud-streaked face parted to a brilliant white span of even, square teeth.
"Aw, Jimbo, quiet as a church mouse. Scout's honor."
But starting off, the shooter felt that sweet old rush mount up deep inside him. Leagues beyond the wildest passion, the nearest drug high paled in comparison. Be it for a country, kingdom, or square yard of earth, it didn't matter. This was his calling.
Once they'd disappeared, Top gauged his field of fire. He swept his rifle sights back and forth between the dim reed tops, then began prepping a couple of Baker's frag grenades.
Behind him Geri suddenly called in a harsh wheeze.
"Wayne! Where're you going? Wayne!"
Top was stunned to see the man already well away, briskly trailing after the sappers.
"Rookie!" he added hoarsely. "Get back here!"
But the man continued and Geri got to her own feet, ready to start after him. Top took her arm and shook his head.
"Let him go. Just hope he don't blow things."
Baker and Trennt followed the streambed as planned. At its bend, Baker stood guard while Trennt paused to set out a pair of trip-wire flares. They then made for the camp itself.
The air still carried a maddening scent of roasted meat. But the area was graveyard quiet. The cook fire had burned down to a smoldering night light's glow, with the barbecued hog all but a memory. Gorged on wild pork, stoked with herb and jungle hootch, the gooners slept on.
As Baker had declared, the dogs were as complacent as their masters. Glutted on scraps, they were sleeping off their good fortune in a heap near the butchering site.
Trennt nestled low against the wide stump of a rotten elm. He nervously clenched the rubberized grips of his weapon, while Baker wormed through a clump of cattails another fifty feet upstream.
In a couple of minutes, Trennt saw the first hound buck in its sleep. A second rose groggily, going down likewise a split second later. The third came fully awake, drew breath to bark, but never got the chance. In under four seconds Baker had neutralized the camp's early warning system.
The sniper climbed from the stream bank. Cautiously slinging the long gun upside down across his back, he replaced it with his S-12, raised a thumbs-up to his partner, and motioned ahead.
They entered the camp ninety degrees to each other, automatic shotguns again held tight and hip high; charged with a staggered mix of explosive shells and 10-gauge shot.
Baker scouted the two parked trucks. Both were well worn four-wheel drives, foreign makes beat to hell and decked out in tribal markings and gruesome curiosities. Scalps and frayed women's panties dangled from the bodywork. Also, strings of human teeth and what at first seemed to be dried garlic bulbs, but were soon evident as mummified testicles. Luckily, both trucks rode on old-fashioned pneumatic tires. With a cautious look around, the shooter dropped to a knee and worked his dagger into their muddy sidewalls.
They entered the camp further. Stepping over and around stoned warriors, they made for the booty pile. Astonishingly true to character, Trennt watched Baker actually spare time enough to rummage through a plate of leftover boar meat and select a hefty slice for munching.
Both men snapped their weapons toward a sudden movement at their rear. There Wayne froze, hands raised. Exchanging a bewildered glance with Baker, Trennt vigorously motioned the new man to stay put and he continued the camp probe. But in seconds Wayne ignored the order, and trailed after them.
Trennt found the ampoule rack still dumped atop the booty pile. Its contents were filthy, but intact. Unsuccessfully trying to one-hand the awkward mesh carrier into a cargo pocket, he paused when Wayne arrived beside him.
Wayne raised an empty canvas bandoleer and motioned for the vials. Still questioning his presence, Trennt obliged, gently handing over the device and freeing both his hands to cover their withdrawal.
They were backing away when Trennt heard one, then another, distinct clicks. He recognized a third as coming from behind and spun Wayne hard around.
Incredibly, the man was casually snapping off the glass necks and dumping the liquid as he walked along.
Trennt ripped the bandoleer away.
"Jimbo!"
Trennt ducked to the gray blur of a whirring machete. The thunderclap of Baker's S-12 flattened his ears, its explosive shell liquefying an attacking warrior's head poised just beside him. The men were showered in a gray-green mist of warm tissue and bitter, fleshy droplets.
A second gooner sprang up. Trennt dropped backwards, firing his own 10-gauge from the hip. Its round caught the man's midsection, cleaving him in a mince of shredded blue-pink organs and hunks of yellow backbone.
Trennt scrambled back to his feet. He shoved Wayne ahead and joined Baker, backpedaling toward the stream while dousing the awakened camp in a rain of shells. In an instant the simple incursion had become a full-fledged orgy of murder.
Wayne clenched anguished hands to his face at the water's edge. Screaming at the carnage, his words were lost to the searing thunderclap of heavy gunfire.
"No! My God, please! No!"
But there was no turning back. Explosive shells and buckshot fell heavy in crisscrossed, overlapping patterns. They scattered the campfire and dropped several more gooners in midstride. Yet the ravenous automatics hurriedly gobbled up their magazines and the infiltrators were left clicking on empty chambers while still yards from the protective stream.
They broke for the water as the first return shots burned hotly after. Bullets slapped tree limbs and trunks, whining off the gravel at their feet. Splashing like madmen, they juggled spent weapons and dragged the wretched, sobbing anchor Wayne had become.
Not daring to slow and reload or even glance back, they pounded twenty yards through the pitch-blackness. At a dead run, the sand made each new step an escape from living taffy. Thirty yards; thirty-five. forty. Pounding full speed through the night, their lungs burned with exertion.