“Cavern?” Jak asked, looking down the long dark tunnel.
“That could be trouble,” J.B. admitted. “But we’ll have plenty of time to get past the cavern before the charges blow. I set them for thirty minutes.”
“More than enough,” Ryan said, going to the hole and glancing outside. The shadows from the high walls of the quarry made it difficult to determine if true night had fallen yet. Drawing the SIG-Sauer, the one-eyed man settled down on a rock and patiently waited until the darkness was near absolute, softened only by the cold moonlight.
“Good enough. Let’s go,” he said, and started to climb into the ragged hole.
Crawling over the smashed rocks, the companions exited the tunnel and moved silently through the jumbled remains of the quarry. Bits and pieces of crumpled machinery jutted from the piles of stones, along with an occasional human arm or leg, most of them still wearing the chains of their servitude.
Watching the cliffs above for any sign of movement, the companions proceeded a few yards and paused, repeating the process until reaching a sloped road. They followed it to the top of the quarry and saw the wall of the ville rising before them. There didn’t seem to be any sec man walking patrol along the top of the wall, and only a single searchlight swept over the ville. Then the revolving beam washed briefly across the dish, rising majestically into the sky. At that close range, the predark antenna looked impossibly huge. Directly ahead of them was a gate set in the limestone wall, banded metal of some kind with hidden hinges, with no lock or handle. They instinctively knew it would take explosives to get through that portal. Thankfully, they had another way inside the Shiloh base. That was, if Ryan and J.B. remembered the layout of the ville correctly. If not, the mission was a bust from the start. The backup plan was to simply shoot the dish with the LAW rockets from outside the wall, then run for cover and hopefully get back inside the underground tunnels before sec men arrived in an APC and shot them to pieces. The plan bordered on suicide, and they all knew it, but the destruction would stop the blues. At least, for a little while.
Raising a hand to signal for a pause, Ryan pulled the lone HAFLA rocket launcher from his backpack and placed it on the ground next to a whipping post for slaves. He laid a strip of dark cloth on top, then sprinkled some dirt over both. In the darkness, the lump was nearly invisible from only a yard away.
Ryan gestured at the hidden weapon with a stiff finger, then slashed a hand sideways across his throat. The masked companions nodded in understanding. The launcher was for life-and-death emergencies only. Ryan gave a thumbs-up and gestured to the western side of the quarry, slightly away from the imposing wall.
Following the edge of the cliff, the companions spotted dark shapes in the wan moonlight and found a line of broken wags. Sheffield and his people were still here. Jak and Ryan stood guard with their silenced weapons, while J.B. found a vehicle in decent shape and put it into neutral. He steered while the rest pushed the wag toward the wall, its flat tires crunching over the loose gravel. Coming abreast to the wall, J.B. parked the wag and set the brake. Weapons at the ready, the companions walked for a minute, listening for any reactions or alarms, but all was still.
Going to the rear of the wag, Krysty tied a rope to the main axle, loosely coiling the rest of the length over a shoulder. The strong cotton rope had been machine washed in hot water with dark clothing of different colors found in the redoubt and came out a murky camou pattern that was barely visible.
One by one, they climbed up the wag and onto the top of the wide stone blocks. Krysty was the last, trailing the rope behind her as she joined the others, and they stood gazing upon the ville of the blues. There seemed to be some damage to a few of the buildings, and each attributed it to possible mutie attacks. The rad-blasted animals of Tennessee were the wild-card factor in the whole operation. If there was an attack by screamwings or stickies while the companions were planting the charges, the chances of their getting out were slimmer than a baron keeping a solemn promise.