"Union troops?"

"I'm as surprised as you are to see them out here."

"They were probably holding them back in reserve. If the pulse hit the japs' own artillery, they're stuck with the Yankees. But why here?" Kennedy added, muttering. "And why now?"

"I reckon we might've aroused their interest, creating that corridor from Alamo. We've also been operating some hit and runs on any patrols that wandered too close to home."

"So they could still pass us by."

"They just might." Tecumseh shifted uneasily.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm sorry, chief. I'm thinking that maybe one of my Braves suffered too much from pride, and talked when he should have walked. I worry that someone might have given our legends too much credit, and been a little too vocal about it."

"No one knows what we have here," Kennedy said.

"Maybe... or maybe someone suspects that we have something worth hiding, worth protecting. The path through Red Rock is as good a road as any into Texas."

Kennedy checked his Einstein. A fine crack now cut across its face. Dawn was six hours away. Another eight hours, nine to be safe, might see them through.

He said, "We need to keep drawing the japs south. If we're lucky enough, they'll bump heads with the German armour and we can leave them to duke it out."

"I've got a platoon engaging Japanese patrols out past the lake bed. You want me to throw more men south? I've got three fresh squads between here and Alamo I can bring down."

Kennedy inspected the map. Tecumseh pointed to the positions of the Japanese patrols and the locations of the squads.

"Bring them down but skirt them along the edge of the base," Kennedy said. "Don't let them strike. The japs might know we're out here but they don't know where. Their intel's as screwed as ours. We've been hitting them from the east and south; we throw in a force from the north and they'll come straight through here. We have to concentrate our attacks south and draw them away."

"You want to give the appearance of an ordered retreat?"

"No," Kennedy said.

Tecumseh's expression grew more intense. The medicine man's fears had sparked new possibilities. Kennedy chewed them over.

"You think the Japanese are coming through here for a specific reason..."

"Maybe," Tecumseh said.

"Then let's give them what they want." Kennedy selected another map from the pile and let his hand drift across the chart to a point south of the Rock.

Tecumseh's concern gave way to fiendish satisfaction. He said, "It might work."

"In the meantime I want snipers and knife-men on their officers. I want their fuel, water and ammunition depots extirpated. Leave the Union forces untouched for the moment."

"Untouched?"

"Go easy on them." Kennedy stared out beyond the culvert to where the ridges fell away into an expanse of low dunes. The night's storm had swept across the mounds leaving its signature in hollowed-out banks and heaped knolls of sand. He gazed to the west.

I crawl in the sand out there. I die out there.

"Major?"

"What is it, Tec?"

The medicine man's eyes were hooded in shadow. "We can hold them."

"Let's hope so."

XI.

Morgan woke with the taste of ash in his mouth. His world lurched vertiginously.

He rubbed at his eyes and temples and made out Lightholler's outline amongst the shadows. He remembered where he was and fumbled for his watch. Quarter to two and the major hadn't showed.

He needed to take a leak. His fatigues clung to him and chafed. Now that he was awake he might as well cough his way through another of Lightholler's musty cigarettes. He staggered to the toilet and relieved himself. Ran the faucet, splashing cold brown water over his face and hands. He returned and reached for the packet by Lightholler's side, slipped it into his shirt pocket. Lightholler didn't stir.

Outside, his damp face tingled bitter cold. Exhaled vapour mocked his nicotine cravings. He groped for the packet in the dark. Three bent twigs remained of Lightholler's supply. He puckered one and set out towards the distant glow of a sentry's torch.

"Darren." A voice called to him from a clutter of stacked crates beyond the prefabs.

Morgan squinted into the darkness, half-expecting Hardas's ghost to slide out of the recesses. Kennedy was stooped on an overturned crate near the edge of the grounds.

"Major?"

Kennedy rose from his perch and began searching his pockets. He produced a butane lighter, slender and familiar. He flicked the wheel and its tip glowed bright and furious. Morgan leaned forwards and dipped his cigarette in the radiance, then stepped back, his eyes still on the lighter.

"It was his spare," Kennedy said. "I took to carrying it around. Here, it's yours." He handed the lighter to Morgan.

"He would have been pleased with the way you're turning out," Kennedy added after a while. "Surprised as hell, but pleased."

"He wasn't so bad, Major."

"The guy was a sour fuck, Darren, but I loved him all the same."

Morgan curled the lighter in the palm of his hand and pocketed it. "Thanks."

"I was about to check in on you."

"We're fine," Lightholler said from the shadows. Wrapped in a blanket, he had emerged from the prefab, a couple more bundled under his good arm. "It just feels strange, sitting on our hands only an arm's reach away from your... machine." He dispensed the blankets and the three of them huddled like crones.

Morgan handed him a cigarette and the lighter.

"Navy issue," Lightholler said. "Nice." He lit up and handed the lighter back. "What's happening out there?"

"There's a Japanese force due west. We're luring them south." Kennedy's look was oddly placid.

"You've got, what, maybe a hundred-and-fifty soldiers here, right?" Lightholler said.

"Closer to two hundred."

"Casualties?"

"Acceptable so far. What are you smiling at, John?"

"I'm not smiling. You've got just on two companies staving off an army. I'm wondering at your definition of 'acceptable'."

"Those're my boys out there." Kennedy's reply was a soft undertone.

"So what can we do to help?" Morgan asked earnestly.

"You can rest up." He turned, smiling, to Morgan. "You can conserve your energy."

"I'm not fond of having others fight my battles," Lightholler grumbled.

"Me neither," Morgan offered. Reading their glances, he continued, "Not any more."

One of the ghost dancers was approaching. His shadow covered the ground swiftly. "We need you in the south tower, sir. Sacagawea's platoon returned with sixty-three scalps."

"Scalps?" Morgan mouthed.

"Figure of speech," Kennedy said, unconvincingly. He turned back to the ghost dancer. "Go on."

"We've rigged up another transmitter. Tecumseh's taking it out now to the squads on the west ridge. We're going to use Morse code, phonetic Sioux, to track and report jap movements."

"Any news on those squads?"

"Don't expect to hear from them for a while yet, sir. They got no wheels, no radio and they're too close to the japs for smoke signals."

"What about the crew from Alpha?"

"Nada."

Kennedy nodded. "Okay, I'll be there in two."

The ghost dancer sprinted back into the night.

Lightholler asked, "Do they really believe their shirts will keep bullets away?"

Kennedy let the blanket slip away from his shoulders and undid the flaps of his jacket. Sometime during the night he'd managed to change into a fresh uniform. His shirt, sky blue and buttoned to the collar, was covered with the familiar symbols and talismans of his crew.

Lightholler smiled faintly. "You're shitting me."

Kennedy tapped his chest. There was a muted chime. Lightholler reached for the shirt and felt the bulky layer of material that lay beneath it. Kennedy lifted it to reveal a second thicker layer of moulded plastic and ceramics.

"They all remember what happened at Wounded Knee," Morgan said. "This time they're wearing armour."

"I'll make sure both of you are kept up to date." Kennedy caught Morgan's intense stare. "And I'll let you know if we need you." He handed Lightholler his blanket. "But the last thing I want to worry about is you two hobos running around my compound." He eyed them firmly. "Get back inside. Get some rest."

They stood in silence for a short moment before Kennedy added, "I mean it."

Lightholler raised his eyebrows.

Morgan shrugged.

They exchanged a look and began the short walk back to the prefab. Morgan looked back from the doorway to find the major still standing there, but he didn't appear to be watching them. His gaze was fixed on some distant object.

XII.

Kennedy stood outside the prisoners' prefab, peering up at the night sky. Nothing remained of the recent turmoil save the fine drift of tumbling sand. He couldn't shake the notion that the nuclear blast and the pulse it had spawned demonstrated a greater scheme at work.

The bouts of foreboding had faded to mere inklings of gloom, easily explained away by situation and circumstance, but he was still here, waiting to see Reid.

He'd detoured by his quarters and peered through the window, pleased to find Patricia curled up and sleeping in bed. He'd examined the forwards areas and spoken to the men who guarded the night. He'd checked each machine-gun post and surveyed the freshly laid minefield, pointing out where the charges might have been too obvious. He'd walked a mile out into the desert and sat under the stars, examining his base with an enemy's eyes. Finally, he'd gone over the new plans with Tecumseh, yet some misgiving had drawn him here.

There was no further news on the men who'd left Alpha. Contact with the Japanese vanguard had been restricted to brief scuffles and short exchanges of rifle fire. The ghost dancers had carried out their pitiless tasks of assassination and sabotage, and left their traces in the night.

There was a vestige of smoke in the chill air. Dawn was less than four hours away, and more than likely it would bring enemy planes and armour and a resumption of the conventional face of war. Until then, the various sides would feint and probe in darkness.

He'd placed a work detail on the camouflage. What hadn't been torn away in the storm hung in tattered nets, yet the sand had done its own part to obscure traces of their presence. They'd have to rely on the reduced visibility of the storm's wash, along with whatever repairs might be effected between now and sun-up.

A sentry opened the door and told him that the prisoner was ready.

Reid was propped up in a chair in one of the hastily converted barracks rooms. He was unable to conceal his surprise at Kennedy's entrance.

Kennedy pulled up a chair and turned it backwards. He sat down, leaned over the back rest, and said, "Who were you expecting?"

"Don't know." Reid rubbed at his wrists. "It's 3 a.m., bud. Maybe your girlfriend."

"Well, you get the bonus plan tonight." Kennedy cracked his knuckles. "You get me." He rocked his chair forwards, putting him closer to Reid's face. "And I'll be glad to extend that little love-tap Morgan gave you, ear to ear, just to see the expression on your face. Are we clear, bud?" He rested the chair back on its four legs.

Reid gingerly reached for his injured scalp in an almost unconscious gesture. "We're clear." He placed his hands on the table and sat stoically.

After a moment of silence, Kennedy spoke. "What was your assignment?"

"I was told to secure you at Hot Springs, holding you there until I received further instructions."

"Who gave the order?"

Reid just stared.

"Why would Webster do that?" Kennedy asked. "You already had me in custody."

Silence.

Kennedy thought it over, and said, "That wasn't part of the original plan, was it?"

"No." Reid shook his head. "But it was the first he knew of your capture. Malcolm was holding back on him. She said she was waiting on further evidence."