“If I don’t go mad first,” he muttered, plucking nervously at his bushy eyebrows.
“Sir?” Sheffield asked.
“Nothing important, Major.” Silas wanted to leave the bed and wash, but that would have to wait until the sec chief departed. A wave of shame tightened his chest, and he forced it away by sheer force of will.
“Has there been any word on Tanner and the others?” Silas asked harshly.
Sheffield scowled. “Nothing for over a week, sir. They left Front Royal in a repaired LAV-25 and disappeared. But we have sec men watching every drivable road from the north, south and east, with land mines and traps on all major bridges. Ryan will never reach Tennessee alive.”
Rubbing his sore leg, Dr. Silas Jamaisvous stared at the eager young officer sitting rigidly on the small chair. The man was so strong and proud. His blue uniform was spotless, his blasters glistening with oil, boots polished like a mirror.
“That’s what Overton said once,” Silas stated coldly.
“But I’m not playing politics with Cawdor,” Sheffield said, standing. “Believe me, as long as they keep to the roads, I’ll present you with their heads on a silver plate in only a matter of days, mebbe less!”
“Perhaps. But isn’t the Bradley Light Armored Vehicle, Piranha class, Model 25, amphibious? Isn’t the transport also designed to be used as a boat?”
The sec man was confused. “Is it, sir?”
“That is unknown to me,” Silas scowled. “I think we had better find out very quickly.”
Chapter Six
A sting-wing darted from the rushes along the basin.
Standing on the shore, the gentle waves lapping around his combat boots, Ryan saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. He drew his SIG-Sauer and fired. The silenced 9 mm blaster coughed, and the winged mutie exploded in midair, bloody feathers tumbling down onto the beach. There was a disturbance under the sand, and blue-shelled crabs rose into view like ghosts from a grave. They climbed over the tiny corpse, tearing the mutie apart with their sharp pincers and stuffing their mouths full. One large azure crab had a dozen tiny copies on its back and passed morsels of the sting-wing over its quivering antennae to the clicking brood.
A gray dawn was beginning to break in the fiery sky, and Ryan stood guard over the others as they finished conveying the last of the fresh water and ammo onto the bobbing rafts. Stout ropes moored the crude craft to the stump of a dead tree, a gentle current tugging them away from the shore.
There had been enough logs from the felled trees to build a dozen rafts, but the companions decided on just two. Lashed together with ropes and chains, the first was small, only ten feet squared, three of the inflated tires from the LAV bolted to the belly of the craft. A small pile of ammo, food and other supplies lay in the middle of the raft. A sheet of canvas covered the goods, and multiple ropes secured the cargo. A tiller made from a door off an ammo locker was at one end, tight between two upright stanchions. J.B. was dubious of the arrangement, but Ryan had assured the man it would work fine.
The second raft was much bigger, thirty feet squared, with four piles of supplies set between the tires bolted underwater at each corner. This kept the center clear, helped to balance the craft and gave the companions something to crouch behind in case of a fight. Another door served as a tiller. The bobbing craft were attached to each other with stout metal chains, which would keep them together through riptides or fog. But in case of emergency, they could cut the larger raft loose to block pursuit, and shoot the ammo boxes on board to eliminate their pursuers.
The end of the logs were ragged and full of splinters, and the companions had done nothing to change that. The wild array of jagged kindling made a very good defense against unwanted passengers—man or mutie— climbing on board.
Ryan studied the rafts with a critical gaze. Tree trunks with the bark still on, old rope, rusty chains and a handful of nails. They didn’t look like much, but hopefully they would last long enough to get them to Tennessee.