but Beau’s a cautious guy. And he’s the one with all the
responsibility. So our tactics are going to be nighttime outflanking
maneuvers. Encircle the UN penetration in the forest and mow it down
with crossfire. Up close and personal, right? That training’s going
pretty well. We can move fast and quiet in the dark, no lights, no
sound, no problem at all.”
Reacher looked at the forest and thought about the wall of ammunition
he’d seen. Thought about Borken’s boast: impregnable. Thought about
the problems an army faces fighting committed guerrillas in difficult
terrain. Nothing is ever really impregnable, but the casualties in
taking this place were going to be spectacular.
This morning,” Fowler said. “I hope you weren’t upset.”
Reacher just looked at him.
“About Loder, I mean,” Fowler said.
Reacher shrugged. Thought to himself: it saved me a job of work.
“We need tough discipline,” Fowler said. “All new nations go through a
phase like this. Harsh rules, tough discipline. Beau’s made a study
of it. Right now, it’s very important. But it can be upsetting, I
guess.”
“It’s you should be upset,” Reacher said. “You heard of Joseph
Stalin?”
Fowler nodded.
“Soviet dictator,” he said.
“Right,” Reacher said. “He used to do that.”
“Do what?” Fowler asked.
“Eliminate potential rivals,” Reacher said. “On trumped-up charges.”
Fowler shook his head.
“The charges were fair,” he said. “Loder made mistakes.”
Reacher shrugged.
“Not really,” he said. “He did a reasonable job.”
Fowler looked away.
“You’ll be next,” Reacher said. “You should watch your back. Sooner
or later, you’ll find you’ve made some kind of a mistake.”
“We go back a long way,” Fowler said. “Beau and me.”
“So did Beau and Loder, right?” Reacher said. “Stevie will be OK.
He’s no threat. Too dumb. But you should think about it. You’ll be
next.”
Fowler made no reply. Just looked away again. They walked together
back down the grassy half-mile. Took another beaten track north. They
stepped off the path to allow a long column of children
to file past. They were marching in pairs, boys and girls together,
with a woman in fatigues at the head of the line and another at the
tail. The children were dressed in cut-down military surplus gear and
they were carrying tall staffs in their right hands. Their faces were
blank and acquiescent. The girls had untrimmed straight hair, and the
boys had rough haircuts done with bowls and blunt shears. Reacher
stood and watched them pass. They stared straight ahead as they
walked. None of them risked a sideways glance at him.
The new path ran uphill through a thin belt of trees and came out on a
flat area fifty yards long and fifty yards wide. It had been leveled
by hand. Discarded field stone had been painted white and laid at
intervals around the edge. It was quiet and deserted.
“Our parade ground,” Fowler said sourly.
Reacher nodded and scanned around. To the north and west, the high
mountains. To the east, thick virgin forest. South, he could see over
the distant town, across belts of trees, to the fractured ravines
beyond. A cold wind lifted his new jacket and grabbed at his shirt,
and he shivered.
The bigger bolts were much harder. Much more contact area, metal to
metal. Much more paint to scrape. Much more force required to turn
them. The more force she used, the more the crushed end of the crutch
was liable to slip off. She took off her shoe and used it to hammer
the end into shape. She bent and folded the soft aluminum around the
head of the bolt. Then she clamped it tight with her fingers. Clamped
until the slim tendons in her arm stood out like ropes and sweat ran
down her face. Then she turned the crutch, holding her breath, waiting
to see which would give first, the grip of her fingers or the grip of
the bolt.
The wind grabbing at Reacher’s shirt also carried some faint sounds to
him. He glanced at Fowler and turned to face the western edge of the
parade ground. He could hear men moving in the trees. A line of men,
bursting out of the forest.