pleas to pause for the night, to establish a base camp, draw the trucks and half-tracks around wagon-train fashion, and wait for the storm to blow over.
The more plaintive these requests got, the more heated Turk became in opposition. “That’s playing into their hands,” he would say, referring to the growers who resided deep in the heart of the muddy county. “To delay tonight would be to sacrifice the element of surprise.”
We’re going to surprise ourselves, Harry thought but said nothing. No, Turk was too far gone. He was absolutely committed to this venture. But if hell couldn’t impede his progress high water just might.
Another man counseled putting off the ascent on Charlie at least for a few hours. “Maybe it’ll clear enough to send up the spotter,” he said tentatively. “With infrared photography we should be able to gauge our bearings more accurately.”
Turk wouldn’t consider this suggestion either. “We have all the data we need,” he said. Turning to Harry, he said with evident disdain, “Last-minute jitters. Once we start, once we make our first bust, then you’ll see.”
See what? Harry wondered. But again he knew enough to remain silent.
Turk attempted to contact Davenport. “Domino One, this is Xanadu One. What’s happening there?”
“We’ve got someone working on the truck right now. Just got here.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?”
“The mechanic they sent out here isn’t sure. He wants to try himself, but it seems to be a bigger job than he expected. He might have to go back into town for more equipment.”
“Damn. Well, you do the best you can. We’re moving right along here.”
And they were moving right along, surprisingly enough, in spite of the oozy earth. At times the paved surface of the road could not be seen, there was so much mud strewn over it. And visibility was nearly zero, compelling Turk’s column to slow down to fifteen miles an hour maximum.
But little by little the gradient of the road became more pronounced. The column was at last proceeding up into Rain Mountain. Yet there was scarcely reason for optimism; this was the easiest part of the journey. Soon the road that had led them out of Russian River would disappear, replaced—if the maps could be relied upon—by a network of smaller unpaved roads that on paper looked like so many broken veins in the nose of an alcoholic.
It was more thickly wooded here, dense with brush and tendril. The ground was cluttered with rocks and overtaken by moss. The most frequent sound, aside from the steady attack of the rain, was the squeal of tires fighting against the slippery surface, gnashing spokes, mud, and stone until purchase was obtained.
But they continued to make progress, which was more than could be said of Davenport’s column. That one hadn’t moved since early that evening and, given the latest information, wasn’t likely to any time soon.
It was nearly eight o’clock. The atmosphere was rain and dark, dark and rain, nothing else. The neighboring trees rose like ghosts in the high-intensity headlight beams. Dinner was a few sandwiches and soda packed earlier by one of Russian River’s restaurants.
“We should be reaching the turn-off right about now,” Turk said, laying his road map flush against the steering wheel.
And within five minutes his judgment proved to be correct. There, caught in the headlights, was the juncture at which the main road came to an end and divided into two.
And positioned squat in the middle of the juncture was an abandoned school bus, more rust than yellow, with all the glass gone from the windows.
With an oath Turk brought his truck to a halt and radioed back that the other drivers do similarly. The last thing he needed right now was for a pileup to develop because someone applied the brakes too late.
For half a minute Turk sat in stony silence, staring at the obstacle in his path.
“Well, what do you think we ought to do? Try and ram it out of
The more plaintive these requests got, the more heated Turk became in opposition. “That’s playing into their hands,” he would say, referring to the growers who resided deep in the heart of the muddy county. “To delay tonight would be to sacrifice the element of surprise.”
We’re going to surprise ourselves, Harry thought but said nothing. No, Turk was too far gone. He was absolutely committed to this venture. But if hell couldn’t impede his progress high water just might.
Another man counseled putting off the ascent on Charlie at least for a few hours. “Maybe it’ll clear enough to send up the spotter,” he said tentatively. “With infrared photography we should be able to gauge our bearings more accurately.”
Turk wouldn’t consider this suggestion either. “We have all the data we need,” he said. Turning to Harry, he said with evident disdain, “Last-minute jitters. Once we start, once we make our first bust, then you’ll see.”
See what? Harry wondered. But again he knew enough to remain silent.
Turk attempted to contact Davenport. “Domino One, this is Xanadu One. What’s happening there?”
“We’ve got someone working on the truck right now. Just got here.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?”
“The mechanic they sent out here isn’t sure. He wants to try himself, but it seems to be a bigger job than he expected. He might have to go back into town for more equipment.”
“Damn. Well, you do the best you can. We’re moving right along here.”
And they were moving right along, surprisingly enough, in spite of the oozy earth. At times the paved surface of the road could not be seen, there was so much mud strewn over it. And visibility was nearly zero, compelling Turk’s column to slow down to fifteen miles an hour maximum.
But little by little the gradient of the road became more pronounced. The column was at last proceeding up into Rain Mountain. Yet there was scarcely reason for optimism; this was the easiest part of the journey. Soon the road that had led them out of Russian River would disappear, replaced—if the maps could be relied upon—by a network of smaller unpaved roads that on paper looked like so many broken veins in the nose of an alcoholic.
It was more thickly wooded here, dense with brush and tendril. The ground was cluttered with rocks and overtaken by moss. The most frequent sound, aside from the steady attack of the rain, was the squeal of tires fighting against the slippery surface, gnashing spokes, mud, and stone until purchase was obtained.
But they continued to make progress, which was more than could be said of Davenport’s column. That one hadn’t moved since early that evening and, given the latest information, wasn’t likely to any time soon.
It was nearly eight o’clock. The atmosphere was rain and dark, dark and rain, nothing else. The neighboring trees rose like ghosts in the high-intensity headlight beams. Dinner was a few sandwiches and soda packed earlier by one of Russian River’s restaurants.
“We should be reaching the turn-off right about now,” Turk said, laying his road map flush against the steering wheel.
And within five minutes his judgment proved to be correct. There, caught in the headlights, was the juncture at which the main road came to an end and divided into two.
And positioned squat in the middle of the juncture was an abandoned school bus, more rust than yellow, with all the glass gone from the windows.
With an oath Turk brought his truck to a halt and radioed back that the other drivers do similarly. The last thing he needed right now was for a pileup to develop because someone applied the brakes too late.
For half a minute Turk sat in stony silence, staring at the obstacle in his path.
“Well, what do you think we ought to do? Try and ram it out of
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