Pilo Traveling Show (Pilo Family Circus #2)

19. ABOVE

Arizona, early evening. From the lift, they stepped out to the small iron ladder leading up to a manhole cover. Traffic passed above, but they heard no voices, and chanced pushing away the cover—to hell with it if someone saw it move, or saw them emerge. With some difficulty they maneuvered the gate pieces through the gap, Curls spitting curses nonstop, certain he was being set up for yet another fall. Jamie fought the urge to clobber him so he could concentrate—they had left plenty of time to find this place, or so he thought.

A lot of faith was needed in the scrawled note that read Northeast, half a mile until road signs pointed them toward the base. The regular street blocks gave way to wide open fields, tall fences, and the occasional roar of craft cutting across the sky. "This is it," Jamie said.

They threw the gate pieces over the tall fence topped with barbed wire, and though cameras pointed their way, they could only hope they weren't seen. They prowled through acres of parked jets, helicopters, armored jeeps, until they found through sheer luck their way toward a barracks, guided in part by the sound of distant shouts. They stood near an open window where a briefing was underway to some uniformed cadets. They listened for a minute or two but heard nothing relevant, ran through covered walkways, hiding now and then behind hedges as people passed by. Finally they found a group in full uniform, bulky with helmets and Kevlar vests, long guns in their arms, chatting and laughing as they walked. They followed, still unseen, for about half a mile out into the fields, where now and then a distant bark of fire could be heard. Curls stopped cursing and stared about himself like one who has stumbled onto a new planet.

They saw a mass of buildings ahead, what seemed a kind of adventure course of imitation apartments, with only empty rooms, doors, windows. There came the crack of doors being kicked in, shouting voices. The group they'd followed went off to the side, waiting their turn for urban combat simulation.

Jamie and Curls snuck past, climbed another fence, and then watched for a gate or door where all the soldiers seemed at one point to pass through.

•

"Delta six, do you copy?" The unit commander looked at his apparently broken hand radio. It hissed static at him, as did his headphones. "Sir, we seem to have lost contact with Delta six."

"Lost contact how? Are they not with you, Delta nine?"

"They are in shouting distance, sir; they just entered domicile one and went in, but are not responding. Radio is dead, sir. No shots fired, but something is, uh, something is wrong, sir. We can see no sign of activity in domicile one." Unless my fucking binoculars are broken too, the marine thought. Eight men in that small apartment and none had yet passed by a window . . . ? Some of the little surprises they threw into these drills . . .

The order came through: "Send in Delta four. Delta one will split to sweep the back door."

"Copy that. Delta four, do you read me? Proceed to domicile one; tell us what you see." He wasn't supposed to say this kind of thing—they were to treat all this as seriously as the combat they were soon likely to see in a few weeks' time, but a strange feeling had come over the marine, one that put his hairs on end. It wasn't like a military base had never been infiltrated or attacked before, even on home soil. "Take care in there, Delta four; this is live ammunition in an enclosed space. Safeties on. You better not need me to tell you that."

When Delta four went through that same door and failed to respond, or even to walk past a window just like the last group, naturally the other teams were sent by an increasingly nervous mission coordinator. "Stop the drill," he shouted into his radio. "Stop the fucking drill. We have an incident here."

•

Hidden in the dark, crouched low as possible in fear of a stray bullet, Jamie whispered, "How many have gone through now?"

Curls began a finger count but couldn't get past nine.

"Must have been thirty at least," Jamie said. "Is that going to be enough . . . ?" It was hard to think; unnerving, to say the least, when so many large heavily armed men had seemed to stare right at him, one after the other.

Curls groaned. "You said this was just to take out the clowns, these gun having tricks. How many more you need? I'm being set up!"

"Can never be too careful, Curls. But they need us to get back there and help." He looked at the list again, struggling to concentrate while shouts rang out and boots pounded past them. He wanted more than thirty, but it had been mostly luck that had gotten them here in the vastness of the base, and he didn't like the odds of finding another base, somewhere else in the world. A vision came to him: right now, the guns being pried out of the docile hands of sleepwalking tricks, lured under by the carnival's song. Maybe Gonko had returned early and found Dean . . .

Alarms began to blare, the electronic howl rolling across the base. Garbled orders crackled from speakers and echoed nonsensically. More boots pounded the pavement, coming this way.

"Gettin' hot," Curls observed. "I'd say we kicked an ants' nest."

"This could be good," Jamie said. "Give it a few more minutes . . ." but Curls had already dashed through the doorway where they'd set up the gate pieces, leaving Jamie alone. Pretty soon they'd probably have all the armed marines below they'd need and then some, as long as no magic below won the day. Why not just leave the gates where they were? The more who came through the merrier, and there was no point in sneaking back and pretending they were loyal carnies any more. JJ would know just where to point his accusing finger, and if it failed from here . . .

Jamie dashed through the doorway, back to the showgrounds.

***