tachyon particles winking invisibly into sub-atomic existence in the air around them.
‘Your friend all right there, young man?’ asked a lady, clutching a basket. She stopped mid-stride and peered out from her bonnet, shading her eyes from the afternoon sun.
‘Oh, he’s fine,’ said Liam. ‘Just a little tired, ma’am.’
She nodded and passed by, casting one more curious glance back at them before crossing the high street.
‘Uh, Bob …? How about we just walk a little while you’re doing the message thing? You’re attracting attention.’
Bob remained rooted to the spot.
‘Bob?’
Finally he blinked awareness back into his glazed eyes and looked down at Liam.
‘Liam,’ he said. ‘I have just received a message from Madelaine.’
Liam’s eyes widened. ‘Well?’
Bob frowned at his flippancy. ‘Negative. The message does not indicate she is well.’
The other two joined them now. ‘Was it Maddy?’ asked Sal.
‘Affirmative. A partial message. The signal has been corrupted slightly. Message content is as follows: archway is un … tack … roceed to coordinates as fast as … freakin’ well can. Will watch for … with p … hole probe. Will ope … oon as … ee you.’
Liam looked at the others. ‘She sounds stressed. That’s never a good sign.’
‘Un … Tack …?’ Sal frowned. ‘Well, that’s under attack, clearly.’ She looked around at the others. ‘Right?’
Liam cursed.
‘Recommendation: we should –’
‘I know, I know,’ cut in Liam. ‘We can forget about a rest!’ He looked around, up and down the main street. He could see a couple of horses tethered to a rail outside one of the stores. Further along, a flatbed wagon pulled by a pair of huffaloes was slowly rolling up along dusty tracks carved in the street.
Too slow.
They were not following any road map to get to the rendezvous point; they were merely going as the crow flies, a straight beeline over fields, over hedges, through woods, streams. They needed something that didn’t require a road. He looked the other way up the street.
He saw the delivery vehicle still laden with bales of cattle feed: a long flatbed hooked up to a motorized tractor. Above a small driver’s cabin a chimney pot was impatiently puffing clouds of exhaust into the sky.
‘You, sir … are thinking of stealing that vehicle?’ asked Lincoln.
Liam nodded. ‘It may not be the fastest thing on the road … but faster than walking, right?’
Sal and Lincoln nodded.
‘All right, then,’ said Liam, ‘I suppose we better go and, uh, borrow it.’
CHAPTER 78
2001, New York
Devereau counted thirty seconds of almost continuous volley fire from his men before the crackle of gunshots began to wane as empty ammo clips were expelled with the telltale ping of their carbine’s ejector springs.
A new bank of gunpowder smoke was slowly drifting down the slope from their trench. As it thinned and cleared, he could see that the shingle and the shallow water around the ramps were littered with the bodies of the dead and wounded. A devastating opening salvo that at first appeared to have decimated the British. But they were now starting to return fire and he could see that a lot of the crimson tunics lying half in and out of the lapping water were men who had instinctively ducked to the ground and were now picking themselves up and levelling their carbines.
Divots of soil began to erupt along the top of the trench. Devereau found himself ducking down like his men as the British organized their covering fire.
His men were now firing independently as they replaced their clips, firing opportunistic shots, in singles and doubles over the sandbags.
Devereau chanced another long glance, his head foolishly above the line of sandbags for another half a minute. He speed-counted forty – maybe fifty – British casualties. Not bad for their opening salvo. But that was the best chance they were ever going to get to even the numbers. Now the British were dispersed across the shingle, making use of the new craters and the grooves and dents of old building foundations and exposed basements, of the small ruined humps of corner walls, little more than resilient piles of old masonry still managing to hold together after so many decades of punishment.
A shot whistled past his left ear. He cursed and ducked back down again. Devereau reloaded his revolver, struggling with shaking hands to slide each bullet successfully into its chamber.
Their best, their only tactic would be to hold the British there on the slope, keep them from organizing a cohesive advance on the trench. And try to whittle them down one