For one, awful moment, Dan Collins thought McKee would shoot him out of hand. He didn't go crazy wild. He just went very still, with the silent deadliness of a viper poised to strike. He stared down at Dan, eyes narrowed. His fingers tightened slightly on the M16 he'd been holding casually trained on Dan's belly. . . .
Then he was moving, almost faster than Dan could follow. He grabbed Dan by the front of his parka and hauled him to his feet, then grunted and heaved him up into a fireman's carry. Dan's breath whistled out sharply. His aching head spun. He landed in a heap sideways on the passenger's seat of the truck and lay still. At least McKee hadn't left him to freeze to death in the snow. . . .
McKee climbed behind the wheel and slammed the door shut, then propped the M16s between himself and the door. Dan grimaced. Did McKee think he could take the stupid things away from him and use them? With his hands manacled behind him?
The knowledge he'd failed at his one pitiful chance threatened to crush him. Lucille and Danny and the others would die because this madman had gotten the drop on him—or, rather, the drop-kick. Dan didn't feel much like splitting hairs at the moment. The truck lurched into motion. Lightning sprayed madly all around. McKee gunned the engine and sent the truck plunging forward.
Without warning, Dan felt as though he were falling. He clenched his teeth. I've been through this before, it lasts only a moment. A long moment. . . . Invasive white light he couldn't escape, even with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, blinded him. He couldn't hear the truck. Having his hands manacled helplessly behind him only worsened the gut-wrenching sensations.
Then solid ground reached up and slammed against the wheels. Dan yelled. He was thrown violently forward. He landed against the dash with rib-cracking force and slid helplessly onto the floor, jammed in sideways. He groaned, then bashed his head again as McKee stood on the brakes. The lunatic sent the truck fishtailing across a shifting, unsteady surface. Heartfelt oaths reached him as McKee fought the wheel. . . .
Then, blessedly, the truck skidded to a halt and stopped bashing Dan around like a pea in a pinball machine. McKee swore again, then the big maniac threw open the door and jumped out. Something hard slammed into the steel roof. Muggy air blasted in through the open door. Muggy, hot, and foul beyond belief. Hellish, unidentifiable noise bombarded his ears. Dan coughed and tried to squirm around into a sitting position. He could barely move.
Then McKee was back, yanking open the passenger door. The look on his face sent Dan's blood pressure into the stratosphere. McKee seized him and bodily hauled him clear of the truck, with no regard whatsoever for Dan's head, knees, or feet. He grunted, then he was stumbling in sand. He blinked and tried to focus. McKee swore monotonously in his ear. Something which was neither rain nor hail nor snow pelted down steadily from utterly black skies: pebbles, some of them glowing. . . .
McKee dragged him around the fender of the truck and pointed wordlessly across maddened surf. The truck's headlights cut a swath through the murk, revealing a harbor crowded with stone jetties, piers built over arches, tall, graceful columns. . . .
Beyond, riding at anchor on an endless stretch of black water, was an entire flotilla of Roman triremes.
"Where the goddamned hell are we, Collins?" McKee shouted. "You lying son-of-a—"
"I don't know! This was supposed to be Krakatoa the day before the big eruption! The Firellian Transfer didn't work!" He heard the panic in his own voice and didn't bother to disguise it. "I don't know where or when we are!"
McKee outdid his previous vocabulary. Some of it didn't even sound like English. He ended with, "What do we do now?"
"I don't know. We can try the second jump—"
"And end up on the backside of the moon?" McKee interrupted caustically.
"—but since the first one went wrong, we could very well end up on the backside of the moon. Firellian Jumps are damned dangerous. And with the time stream slipping already . . ."
McKee's jaw worked. Then he spat. "Great. Just great, Collins. Marooned God knows where and we don't even dare try to get home—"
He grunted sharply.
Then slid to the ground.
Dan stared, slack-jawed, at a nearly naked man. He'd managed to creep up silently behind McKee, without either of them noticing. He held a fist-sized rock in one hand.
"You okay?" the astonishing apparition asked.
In English.
Dan blinked. He'd spoken English. New Jersey English. Twentieth-century New Jersey American English. Involuntarily Dan glanced again at the triremes, then back. He focused on the man's horribly bruised face. Noted with some shock the misshapen burn scar on his neck, the thick metal collar which half obscured that scar, then noticed a welter of other bruises and older scars. The man wore nothing but a loincloth and improvised bandages around his ribcage.
"Uh—yeah," Dan said, intelligently. "I'm fine . . ." He blinked and managed to add, "Who the hell are you?"
Whoever he was, he'd stooped over McKee. He was busily rifling the man's pockets. He came up holding the manacle key. "Somebody else who got marooned, obviously," he answered unhelpfully. He unlocked Dan's wrists, then began stripping McKee of weapons. "Who are you?"
"Dan Collins." Dan was shucking off his arctic-weather parka as fast as he could. Sweat had pooled under his shirt. What looked and felt like ash rained down steadily. An occasional large rock fell from the sky and impacted hotly on the sand. Lightning from the time storm still blasted through the air, although the doorway itself had already closed.
The stranger glanced up briefly from looting McKee's pockets. Dan saw a quick gleam of white teeth. "Nice to meet you, Dan Collins. What'd you do to merit execution?"
Dan sucked in air between his teeth. Who was this guy? "I take it somebody sent you here to die?"
He snorted. "Something like that."
"Carreras?"
The man went utterly still. Then finished his search and straightened up. He seemed perfectly at home with the rifle in his hand as he checked the chamber and magazine. "And if it was Carreras?"
Dan managed a wan grin. "Then you're one lucky son." He didn't elaborate. This guy would figure it out once McKee woke up, but in the interim, Dan had an ally. And he needed allies.
"How so?"
"There's a tremendous chance we won't live through it, but we're going after Jésus Carreras. At least I am. Two members of his goon squad are locked up in the back of the truck."
That earned him a sharp glance. "What? Show me."
He moved ahead of Dan, dragging one nearly useless leg behind him. A clearly handmade brace should have stiffened it, but one side had broken and hung in splinters. Dan bit off an exclamation. The scars on that leg . . . The man's spine went rigid. When Dan kept his mouth shut, he seemed to relax again.
Christ—what had this man been through?
The stranger limped awkwardly to the rear of the truck. Dan opened the doors with a cautious, "They might be awake."
They weren't. Dan retrieved his flashlight and played the light across them.
"I don't know that one," the stranger mused. "Him, I recognize. Richie or Ricky, something like that. He was one of the ones who brought me through."
The stranger shot Ricky through the temple. Dan jumped nearly out of his skin. He shot the other one while Dan was still reeling, then turned and offered Dan the other rifle.
"Two down."
Dan's ears still rang from the concussion of the shots. The stench of gunpowder, blood, and human brain overpowered even the stink in the sulfurous air. His hands shook when he accepted the weapon. He'd never actually seen anyone die before. . . .
The stranger began to limp toward McKee, who still lay sprawled in the sand.
Oh, shit—
Dan sprang forward as the man raised his rifle to fire. At the same moment, McKee shook his head groggily and opened his eyes. The fallen lunatic stared up at the rifle trained on his forehead. Dan slammed desperately into the man holding that rifle. The blow knocked off his aim—
The shot ripped into the sand two inches to the right of McKee's head. Whoever he was, the stranger snarled and came up fighting.
He fought dirty.
Dan grunted, got in a punch to the solar plexus—
McKee's boot connected with Dan's ribs. Another kick caught the stranger on the point of the shoulder. A third sent his rifle spinning away across the sand.
"Halt!" McKee thundered. He'd retrieved Dan's 9mm semiauto. The unwinking muzzle refused compromise.
They rolled apart. Dan blinked grit and ash out of his eyes and wondered a little hysterically what came next.
McKee spoke first. "Collins," he grunted reluctantly, with a darting glance in Dan's direction, "I owe you my life. And that surprises the living shit out of me. I really didn't believe you."
"Great. You're welcome."
McKee turned a glare on the man who'd just tried to shoot him. Dan noted with grim satisfaction that McKee had the pistol trained on someone else for a change.
"Now just who are you?" McKee demanded.
Instead of answering, the battered, nearly naked man stared from McKee to Dan and back. "Will somebody please tell me what hell is going on?"
"Logan Pfeiffer McKee," Dan said drily, glancing at the escaped madman who held that 9mm steadily in his direction, "meet another one of Carreras' victims." He gestured toward the nearly naked man crouched nearby. "He hasn't bothered to tell me his name. Not that I blame him. If I were in his shoes, that is, if he had any, I wouldn't be too trusting, either."
The men studied one another. The stranger said to McKee, "If you're supposed to be Carreras' victim, how come you had this guy cuffed?"
McKee gave him a bark of laughter. "What would you do if you got the drop on one of Carreras' hired killers?"
"Shoot him."
The calm answer clearly startled McKee.
"He shot both guards through the head, McKee," Dan offered. "Didn't even wake them up first."
McKee's glance at the stranger was piercing. "Did you, now? And logically thought I was one of them. Thanks for saving me till last." He nodded toward Dan. "Carreras ordered this guy to kill me."
The scarred stranger shook his head. "You just lost me again, pal. If he's one of Carreras' men, why didn't he just shoot both of us? I gave him a rifle," he added brusquely, with a dark glance toward Dan.
"Yeah, well, it isn't real clear to me, either," McKee muttered. McKee rubbed grit out of his hair. "Look, buddy, I don't know much about what's going on, so there isn't much I can tell you. My name's Logan McKee, like the colonel, here, said. I'm nobody special, just an escaped lunatic who found out too much about Carreras by accident. This guy is Colonel Dan Collins, in charge of this whole mixed up time-travel mess."
The stranger shot Dan an intent stare.
McKee was still talking. "He claims his family and a bunch of other people are being held hostage. I didn't believe him. Now I'm not so sure. He did keep you from shooting me. Like you say, I don't figure he'd have done that if he was one of Carreras' men."
"Hostages?" the stranger repeated. "Jesus H— No wonder . . ." He focused on Dan's face. Then glanced at McKee. "I don't know what he told you, McKee, but I'd be inclined to believe him. Carreras does have hostages. I've seen the list of names. Somebody called Firelli"—both McKee and Dan started—"and some kid named Zac Hughes, and a woman and her son." He swung on Dan. "Collins. Their names were Collins. Lucille and Danny."
Dan asked very quietly, "How do you know that?"
The stranger hesitated. Then his face closed into something completely unreadable. "I've had a few business dealings with Carreras. Snooped into some things I didn't expect to find."
Dan began to sweat again. "Mister, what you know about us is not only one of the most classified military secrets in history, it's also enough to get a whole lot of innocent people killed. And we don't know jack shit about you."
The stranger just grinned, a red-haired imp in the light from the truck's headlamps. "Good. I think I like it that way. You can," he added, "call me Charlie."
"Well, Charlie," McKee said dryly, still holding the rifle, "would you mind at least telling us where we are? We weren't supposed to end up here at all."
Charlie's brows dove together. "That's very interesting, gentlemen. Very interesting, indeed. No wonder you were arguing so intently."
McKee grimaced and muttered under his breath.
Charlie laughed aloud. "You don't know how good that makes me feel, McKee. I haven't exactly had a good year—"
"A year?" Dan gasped.
Charlie darted him a surprised glance. "Well, actually, it's been four. But the past year was, in some ways, the worst. You're the hotshot engineer, Collins. Can't you see it? Time on this end is completely irrelevant. For all I know, back home it's the same day Carreras' crew dumped me here to die. Or maybe that was twenty years ago. Or fifty years from now. Time on this end doesn't mean a thing."
Dan shook his head. "No, it can't have been more than four months. They haven't had access to the equipment longer than that."
Charlie's glance was keen. "That so? Good. Then they're still learning."
Dan shuddered. "Yes."
"Well." He seemed to shake off some impenetrable thought process, then glanced at McKee. "To answer your question, you're standing on the beachfront near the spa town of Stabiae, on the southeastern edge of the Bay of Naples, sometime on the morning after Vesuvius blew up. The year's, uh, a.d. 79, the way we count years. That"—he pointed off inland, into the heart of the black ashfall—"is Vesuvius. That"—he pointed across the bay at the triremes—"is the Roman Navy, which tried to get to Herculaneum and Pompeii last night to rescue survivors." His voice darkened. "They didn't make it. We almost didn't. We got out of Herculaneum harbor right ahead of the eruption." Something in his voice made Dan's skin crawl.
McKee's keen insight startled Dan. "Who didn't make it out, Charlie?"
Charlie turned away from them. He stared across the dark water. Ash settled blackly across his shoulders and hair and scarred back. "Another of Carreras' victims." After a moment, he added, "She's the only reason I'm alive now. She knew the eruption was coming and warned me. . . ."
Dan shut his eyes.
Charlie added with a growl, "Look, let me get my kid. Then let's get the hell out of here. If that's all right with you?"
Dan turned his head to see a child huddled on the beach sand. He hadn't even noticed. Evidently, neither had McKee, from the surprise in his eyes. Charlie picked up a little girl who couldn't have been a year old and carried her back toward the truck. Her hair, in the glow of the headlights, was a bright red-gold. Her eyes were wide and scared. Charlie hugged her close.
"If it hadn't been for Lucky, here, I'd have stayed and kept looking," Charlie said quietly.
Dan didn't know what to say. McKee holstered the pistol. "Letting yourself be killed never stops the enemy, Charlie. They just keep on killing as long as civilized pansies let them."
The look Charlie shot McKee was dark and deadly. "Watch your mouth, McKee."
The lunatic held his gaze. "You know I'm right."
"So how do we find Carreras?" Charlie asked. His voice was anything but civilized.
The naked brutality in Charlie's eyes shook Dan to the core. Clearly, there were several forms of hell worse than the one he'd been living.
"Get into the truck," Dan said quietly. "This'll take about ten, fifteen minutes."
Another time storm was already beginning to rumble when Collins suggested quietly, "Why don't you go around back, Charlie, and salvage some clothes? Boots, socks, parka, and all. It's going to be colder than a—" Collins glanced at the wide-eyed little girl watching him and said, instead, "It's going to cold if we get where we're trying to go. Bundle up the kid, too."
Charlie nodded. He was grateful neither man followed him. Lucania drooped across his shoulder, watching Collins and McKee and even the truck with curiosity.
Modern clothing felt unbelievably alien. The combat boots were a little snug, but not bad. The trousers felt oddest of all. He twisted his lips in a wry grimace. It'd taken months to get used to going without them. Now they felt weird. He shook his head and finished getting dressed, then snagged both parkas. He bundled up Lucania in one of them, tying the sleeves shut around her. Then he swung the truck tailgate shut. Collins and McKee were staring out at the triremes.
"It's still hard to believe," McKee was saying. "a.d. 79 . . ."
"Be thankful you didn't wake up here in chains," Charlie growled. "It's not an experience I'd recommend."
"Where did you injure that leg?" McKee asked quietly.
"In the arena," he answered shortly. His whole manner said, "Topic is off limits."
Collins shivered and looked ill.
Collins, Charlie pegged as a bureaucrat. Good at his job, probably, or Carreras wouldn't have bothered to keep him. But not exactly a line officer. McKee . . . McKee looked like he might possibly understand some of what Charlie had been through. More than time was etched into that craggy face.
Neither man pressed him for details. They divvied up the weapons between them, then stood beside the truck and watched the time storm brew. The short hairs on the back of Charlie's neck prickled. He understood, now, why Sibyl had been so unnerved by sight of the time storm. He squeezed shut his eyes. Sibyl . . .
At least his daughter was safe. As safe as he could make her. Was he doing the right thing, risking her life going after Carreras? Stupid question. Would you rather keep her here, to grow up as a slave? When lightning began crackling down into the beach sand, Collins said, "Let's be ready for it, shall we?"
They piled into the truck. McKee drove by unspoken consent. The engine, left at idle, had died. McKee pumped the accelerator and restarted it. Charlie held his breath until it actually fired up, McKee nursed it on idle while they waited. Charlie watched ahead while McKee kept watch inland. Collins watched the big side mirror. About three minutes later, Collins said, "It's behind us."
McKee gave the big truck some gas and turned it around on the narrow beach. The doorway slid eerily open ahead of them.
"Well," Charlie muttered, "here goes nothing. Pray, if you believe in anything." He clutched Lucania and swallowed hard.
The truck roared ahead into the light.
Logan felt like he might possibly be getting used to this. The disorienting drop through nothingness still turned his belly inside out, but at least he knew what to expect. He gripped the steering wheel hard enough to leave his knuckles white.
The truck jounced.
We're through—
They skidded madly across a slick surface.
"Shit!"
Logan fought the skid and tried to straighten out the wheels, only to have the truck spin in crazy circles. Charlie yelled. Collins swore. Logan fought the wheel. He managed to counteract the spin, then Collins yelled.
"Look out—!"
They lurched sideways off a low dropoff. The truck skidded backwards at least five yards, spun around sideways, then slammed into a solid wall of ice. Collins grunted as he bashed against the door. Charlie fell sideways, ending up in Collins' lap, with a serious threat of falling all the way to the floorboards. His kid wailed in terror. As Logan threw in the clutch and kept the engine going, Collins managed to rescue Charlie from his dangerous slide and righted him in the seat. A miniature avalanche of brittle snow and ice chunks cascaded across hood and windshield.
The silence that followed was deeply ominous. The only sound outside the truck's engine and the little girl's sobs was a howling wind that rattled through the big truck's frame and shrieked past the doors.
"Well," Collins muttered. "So far so good."
"Oh, really?" Logan sat forward and glared at him past Charlie's shoulder.
Collins shrugged. "We're not on the backside of the moon."
"Yeah," Logan agreed dourly. "I'll give you that, Colonel. At least we've got oxygen to breathe. But where the hell are we? There's nothing out there. Or hadn't you noticed?"
He punched the windshield wipers to underscore his sour observation. The wipers scraped and groaned across the glass, shoving snow and ice chunks aside. Beyond, Logan saw more snow and ice and a towering mountain off to their right. In the distance, beyond its flank, was another range of mountains and a solid wall of ice at least a mile high.
Where'n hell are we? The heat inside the passenger compartment had vanished as though sucked out through a soda straw. Logan was already shivering. Charlie reached wordlessly for the heater controls and turned up the fan full blast. His little girl sniffled a few more times, then quieted.
"Well," Collins leaned forward, "if this jump worked, then we're back in Alaska. Way back."
Logan tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "Like, say, thirty thousand years back? Where the hostages are?"
Charlie whipped his head around to stare. "Thirty thousand years?"
Whoever he was, Charlie could be rattled. Logan began to feel better. Their mysterious guest unsettled him, and not just because he'd succeeded in bashing Logan over the head.
Collins' jaw came up defensively. "That's how the jump was programmed. I can't change that once it's been set. If it even worked right. The last one didn't. We ended up on the other side of the planet and about two thousand years off. Probably because Carreras is screwing around with the time stream so much, slippage is worsening. Was there another time doorway opened anywhere near you recently?"
For some reason, that question drained the blood from Charlie's face. He shut his eyes. "Yeah." It came out raspy, like the wind outside. "At Herculaneum. A few hours ago."
Logan wondered just what had happened on the beach at Herculaneum. Charlie's face was pinched, the cheeks and brow so pale his face looked more like parchment over bone than sun-darkened skin.
Collins saw it, too. He glanced out the window and said quietly, "That's it, then. Slippage opens cracks in the time–space continuum all around a doorway, letting things fall through. Things like McKee. That's how he got mixed up in this. My guess is, the more we use the portals, the more cracks we open, and the more cracks there are, the likelier we are to punch sideways through one of them and end up in the wrong place. Dr. Gudekinst worried about that, early on." He swore softly. "What I wouldn't give to have Sue Firelli along, or Zac Hughes. Maybe one of them could figure out a solution."
"You can't?" Logan asked.
"Me? Hell, no. I'm just an engineer. They're the brains on this project."
"Huh," Charlie said. Collins had given him the time he needed to pull himself together. "Well, I guess I'd rather freeze a free man. . . ." But he tightened his arms around his little girl. "It's possible more than one time doorway was opened near Herculaneum. Tony Bartelli," the name came out knife-edged, "has been there more than once. Probably setting up the scam to get the manuscripts in the first place, then again to kill—"
He clamped his lips shut and said nothing further.
Time to get us out of here, Logan decided. Get his mind off it and onto this crazy rescue scheme.
Logan put the truck in gear and eased cautiously away from the ice wall they'd hit. The truck groaned and slid, then settled down to a slow forward crawl. "Which way, Collins?"
"We programmed it to come in from the south, so drive north."
He handed Logan a compass. Logan glanced at it, nodded, and corrected direction.
Collins was studying the terrain. "Looks like we came through on a chunk of detached glacier west of Shoulder Mountain. That should be the mountain directly east." He nodded toward the massif off to their right. "We ought to see the Colleen River pretty soon, frozen solid, of course, but that'll be our guide. We'll follow the Colleen north, toward Table Mountain. If we don't find Table Mountain, or the Colleen, then we didn't make it to the right place."
Logan muttered something appropriate and pressed the gas. They bounced across the rough surface of the glacier. Logan checked the fuel gauge and muttered again. Under half a tank. This place had better not be far. Troop-transport trucks got lousy gas mileage and that terrain didn't look like it'd be much fun to hike across.
He set course by Collins' compass and the sun and picked his way cautiously north. The terrain forced them to backtrack frequently to circumnavigate crevasses and icy hillocks. Their tires didn't have enough traction to climb over, so they had to go around. Fortunately, there was a mountain off to the north that Collins said looked a lot like Table Mountain. Logan hoped that boded well. Collins seemed to relax a little, once he'd seen it.
Charlie just sat grimly silent between them and rode it out. Odd bird, that one. . . . But who was to say he didn't have the right, after what he'd clearly been through? Besides, Logan was legally nuts. Compared to an escaped lunatic, Charlie was probably a normal Joe. Too bad about his leg. And the person who hadn't made it out. Logan felt sorry for this Carreras character already. He grinned. He just hoped he was around for the fireworks when Charlie got his hands on the bastard.
Ought to be fun.
Provided they survived.
It was nearing nightfall and Logan had accumulated a whole battalion of cricks and aches in his back by the time they were close enough for Collins to pick out landmarks. They'd eventually slid off the edge of the glacier, bouncing across a wide gravel moraine before they slipped down onto a snow field that was less densely packed than the ice sheet they'd just left behind. The truck's tires gained more traction, which let them pick up speed.
When they found the Colleen, Dan Collins relaxed another notch and started looking for other landmarks. They followed the frozen river for several crawling hours. Fortunately, her tributaries were frozen so solid, they had no trouble crossing. By now, however, the truck was dangerously low on fuel. Despite the heater, all four of them were stiff and numb from the paralyzing cold. By common assent, they let the little girl hog most of the heat coming out of the truck's vents, which at least helped Charlie a little, because he'd tucked her under his parka, using body heat to help warm her and leaning forward so the vents blew directly across her—and thereby, into his parka.
Dan Collins pointed. "That ridge over there, McKee. Steer for that. I recognize that outcropping. We're not far from the concrete bunker. Five minutes, maybe."
Logan nodded and turned the truck. They skirted a hillock of ice which rose squarely between them and the ridge. Probably a piece of glacier that broke off. Got left behind when the ice wall retreated. Logan steered around it, glancing upwards at the landbound iceberg. The thing was the size of a tramp steamer. He caught a glimpse of something moving, just as Charlie yelled.
"Jesus—"
Logan hit the brakes, which sent them skidding again.
"—Christ—"
They slid sideways and slammed into the side of a shaggy animal twice the height of the truck. A bellow of mingled pain and rage shook the whole windshield. Others echoed it. The truck was abruptly engulfed by a whole herd of angry, trumpeting animals.
"Elephants!" Logan snarled. "Goddamned elephants!"
Something huge slammed into the back of the truck. The impact threw Logan into the steering column.
"Wrong," Collins gritted. "Get us out of here, McKee. There's a bull mammoth ramming us—"
The truck jarred again. Charlie's kid screamed. Another bull charged from the side and smashed the truck solidly on the right-hand fender. Metal shrieked and crumpled. Logan glimpsed of about twelve feet of curved ivory as yet another bull trumpeted angrily. . . .
The driver's side window shattered. The impact slammed Logan against the steering wheel again. The horn jammed. Its strident noise blared out into the growing darkness. Squeals and trumpetings broke loose. Then the herd moved away, picking up speed as it went.
"They're running!" Charlie gasped. "McKee, they're stampeding right for the ridge. Follow them!"
Logan grinned, ignoring bruises across his sternum. "Roger that!"
Collins just stared.
Logan threw the truck into gear and stomped the gas. They raced after the fleeing mammoths, horn still screaming. The immense beasts broke into a shambling run. Logan glanced once at Charlie. He'd pulled his lips back into a feral grin that matched the hideous scar on his neck.
"Been in this kind of thing before, haven't you?"
"Not exactly," he chuckled. "But closer than Collins, I'll bet."
"I can figure out a diversion when you wave one in front of my nose," Collins muttered. He clung grimly to both dashboard and door to avoid being jounced off the seat or into Charlie. His kid—now that the terrifying crashes had ended and the adults were laughing—squealed and laughed, too.
Cute kid. . . . Collins grinned and tickled her under the chin.
Logan laughed. "You're okay, Collins. I just hope you can shoot as well as you can put together time machines."
"I qualified expert."
"Good. How about you, Charlie?"
"Won't be much good in a running battle, but I can lay a mean covering fire."
"Then keep one of the rifles in the truck and do just that. You'll fight better from here, anyway, with your kid in the truck. Keep her on the floor, under the dash. More metal for any stray bullets to go through. Collins, you and I go in. I'll take the rifle, you take the Beretta and those handguns we took off Carreras' goons. With any luck, that stampede will confuse 'em long enough to get us through the door. Hopefully, we'll do that before they realize we're hitting 'em. Describe this place. In detail."
"I've only been there once," Collins began. He drew a deep breath. "Okay. Four rooms. One main and three small ones off it. The whole thing's laid out in a square about twenty feet on a side. There's one door on the northern exposure, no windows. When you go in, you're in the common room, where the diesel heater is. Straight ahead is the sleeping room, full of army cots. The kitchen is on the right, in back, and there's a small bathroom beside it. None of the doorways have doors on them. I have no idea how many men they'll have posted. I saw four last time."
Logan was impressed. Collins couldn't have been in very good shape during his one visit to this place. Between jump disorientation, the shock of being kidnapped, worry for his family . . . For a desk jockey with no combat experience, Collins had a good eye for detail. Of course, he'd probably been mapping out this rescue attempt for months.
Logan said only, "How many hostages?"
"Four that I know of."
Logan nodded. "Okay. They may have somebody outside to investigate this stampede or to keep watch. In this weather, I doubt it, but Carreras seems like a thorough sort."
Charlie snorted. "You said a mouthful."
"Let's hope the stampede drives 'em all inside. If it does, we shouldn't have to worry about snipers. Charlie, if there are any, they're your responsibility."
"Right."
"Collins, I'm more experienced at this than you are. Cover my back and shoot anything that shoots back."
"Got it."
"Good. If anybody screws up," he added cheerfully, "then probably we all die. Including the hostages."
Nobody said anything.
Logan sent the truck full tilt after the stampeding mammoth herd. He grinned. Then bellowed out the theme from Rawhide. "Movin', movin', movin', keep them mammoths movin'—"
Charlie gave one snort of laughter. "Lunatic."
"That's what they tell me."
Collins just grunted.
Up ahead, the shaggy brown wall parted. The stampede flowed around a low, squat obstacle. The glare of headlights picked out a dingy concrete-slab structure. Logan laughed out loud, earning dour glances from Charlie and from Collins. He waggled his eyebrows and laughed again. He hadn't felt this good since the early days in Ethiopia.
"Hold onto your butts, gentlemen. Here goes nothing."