She mustered an odd smile. "I remember you as a schoolboy, Martin."

"I'm not supposed to be like this." A lump shaped itself in his throat. He looked away from the carapace. "That damn machine is muddling my thoughts."

"It's clearing them, Martin. That's part of what it does."

"My father's somewhere out there. He's marching up from Indian Springs." He composed himself. "This used to feel like the most important thing in the world. Now it just feels like running away. But how can we stay?" He felt caught up in the immensity of the idea but pressed on. "This place. I can't know for sure, but I don't think it lasts."

"I don't think it's meant to." Her eyes glittered a brilliant ebony lustre. "I don't think it's meant to at all. It's just that I can't imagine the alternative."

Distant sounds-ones that could only be the muffled import of explosions travelling down the service shaft -murmured ruin. They grew louder.

The carapace had almost slaked its thirst. Its energy reservoir hovered at ninety-five per cent, but it remained without direction and therefore was without use. Shine watched as Doc pushed back his seat and walked over to the generator. He pulled the plug and said, "We pick up the last five per cent when we reactivate."

"The data sets are almost complete. Once they're through, I'll have to run them all simultaneously against the model. If they're a match-up, we're good to go. I'm thinking another four hours."

Seeing the incredulous look on Malcolm's face, he added, "It took me six months to develop the calculations for our first prospective insertion. Another three to develop this one. I've been reworking the damn thing for eleven hours straight now, so please, cut me some slack."

The carapace dozed in fresh shadows. Shine had to look twice. The cavern's smooth walls, the machine's hushed purr. He felt as though he was seeing the machine as Wells might have seen it for the first time, through fearful, haunted eyes.

The ubiquitous whine of the generator dwindled to silence.

XXI.

Lightholler rapidly crossed the broken ground, heading towards the shack. His security team fanned out to either side.

The rest of the base, partly dismantled on Echo's behalf, approximated Wells' Waste Land more with each passing moment. Ahead, eclipsing the shack in afternoon shadow, the rude stump of Red Rock cleaved the sky.

The escort closed up. One checked his headset and triggered a swift reply on his Morse key.

"Captain, the japs are trying to dig in at the foot of the west watch. We can expect an artillery barrage at any time."

"How long can we hold them, Davies?"

The security man fired off another message. They waited for a reply, crouched by the shack's low entrance. Moments later, the receiver let loose a furious staccato.

"Hard to say, sir. They're being more cautious. Sounds like they're bringing a tank battalion around the western ridge. And a battery of eighty-eights, Union guns, are being set up northwest of the tower."

"What do we have out there?"

"Two squads of tank busters, four machine-gun teams and a batch of snipers. Sixty men all up."

"Where's Tecumseh?"

"Holed up behind enemy lines. He got pinned down behind their first rush of berserkers."

In his mind's eye, Lightholler saw them again. Line upon line of crazed infantry, charging across the field of mushrooming flame and glazed, boiling sand. He shuddered inwardly and said, "I need to go back out there."

"Captain, you need to be right here." Davies' face contorted darkly. "Besides, we have more squads concealed around the base."

Lightholler didn't bother scanning the landscape. He had about as much chance of identifying their hidden positions as the Japanese.

"We're more likely to run out of ammunition than we are to run out of soldiers," Davies added.

An ear-piercing shriek tore the sky. A spout of sand and earth erupted not twenty yards from the shack. As soon as the debris had settled, Davies sprang into action.

"We're taking you inside, Captain."

They guided him into the small building. Hayes was waiting inside.

The air was cooler within the antechamber. Dazzling light glowed from a strip of fluoros along the wall. A monitor screen, split four ways, displayed mottled images of the desert beyond. The elevator doors were slightly parted and a tangle of free wiring suggested that the device remained out of commission.

The team arranged themselves around the circular entrance that led to the service shaft.

Hayes pointed to a small black box that hadn't been there during Lightholler's inspection. Two thin wires connected it to a length of lead piping that spanned the building's height and penetrated the floor.

"That's the detonator."

Lightholler recalled Kennedy's words: You'll find it easiest to do what's necessary. He would have spat if he'd had any saliva in his mouth.

The look in Hayes' eyes, so resolute in beliefs he could never comprehend, filled him with a sense of self-loathing. He hadn't earned this role. He'd fought Kennedy tooth and nail the entire time. He glanced down at his shirt. Sweat-stained and dirty, it still bore patches of the brightest blue. He didn't deserve to wear it.

He looked at Hayes and said, "I'll go on down. You don't have to wait here."

"We wait till the major returns or you depart. You'll need me to start you on your journey." Hayes lifted the heavy entrance to the shaft.

Another explosion, further out, rattled the shack walls.

Lightholler began his descent.

XXII.

Standing at the cavern's entrance, Lightholler made a quick survey, taking in the explosives, the quiescent generator. "How much longer?"

"Three hours, to get it right," Doc replied irritably.

An exceptionally thunderous blast rocked the cavern. They all looked up to see a fine seam open in the high smooth vault of the ceiling. A sprinkle of dirt cascaded down to form a small mound on Doc's desk.

"Less, at a pinch," he added hastily.

Unruffled, Lightholler said, "I've seen what the ghost dancers are capable of. We'll get those hours, with time to spare."

"And if we don't," Morgan said, "you'll make sure there's nothing left here but dust and ash."

Lightholler eyed the canisters unrepentantly. "If it comes to that."

They watched Doc work in silence.

It was some time before Morgan realised that the shelling had ceased. He turned to Lightholler and said, "They've stopped."

Lightholler nodded.

"Is that a good thing?"

"Not likely."

There was a clatter of footsteps on the ladder. Davies brushed the blanket aside carefully and entered with downcast eyes. "The enemy is in the camp." He seemed more subdued by his proximity to the carapace than by the statement he'd just uttered.

"How many?"

"At least a battalion. They're advancing with flamethrowers. They're razing the site, inch by inch."

Lightholler shot Doc a look and then searched the others for their expressions.

Morgan said, "Go up, Captain. Man your station."

Malcolm rose from the bed purposefully and walked over to where the others were standing by Doc's desk.

Doc hadn't shifted, nor had he slowed down. He kept running his equations. "I'll enable the generator."

"Wait for my signal," Lightholler said.

"I'll need fifteen minutes and the first insertion stage is still labile. I'll have to wing it."

"Just find us a dry spot to land, Doc. We'll give you your fifteen minutes." He turned to Shine. "Martin, you're with me."

Morgan gave Lightholler a look. He nodded back. Davies took point and they ascended the rungs in darkness, a red glow shining beneath them, a halo of bright light above. Davies pushed the door aside and they broke into the brightly lit antechamber of the shack.

There were four ghost dancers there, packed tightly with Hayes in the small domed room. They had two radios barking a cacophony of foreign speech. Morgan watched as Lightholler crouched low by the black casing of the detonator. He turned his eyes away to scan the monitor.

The first shaky image, shifting black and white, was taken up by the bulk of the Red Rock formation. Scanning the other three windows on the screen, he saw images north, south and east of their position. It was an alien landscape of pits and craters. The prefabs were aflame. Grey on grey, the pictures seemed unreal. They had the feel of old documentary footage. The shape of a body, writhing half-seen among the dunes, brought it home to him. He didn't need a colour image to know that the soldier's shirt, torn and muddied, had once been a vivid blue.

A platoon of Japanese soldiers were working their way forwards on the north screen, shrouded in a grainy haze. Behind them, the remains of Doc's oasis blazed fitfully. Grey liquid fire spewed from their weapons. They were almost on the camera when the earth beneath them broke open. Charred ghost dancers danced among them. A brief sparkle of filtered sunlight flashed on an exposed blade. It buried itself in astonished flesh. A soldier's face, mouth and eyes wide black holes, pitched and flopped in front of the screen. The burnt shadows vanished, leaving a pile of corpses. The image died as a flamethrower's flask ignited.

To the south there was no movement, but to the east three Dragon tanks lurched among the debris. A company of Japanese soldiers picked their way past the buildings that had once housed Major Kennedy's office. Morgan watched as two figures detached themselves from the skeletal frame of a prefab. They hung upside-down, suspended from the smouldering rafters. In seconds the ground beneath them became a hollow pit, brimming with dead and wounded. The company dispersed riotously. Grenades deployed, the dancers were reaching for their guns when Dragon fire whipped over them. Their flaming bodies dropped into the fresh pit below.

The company resumed their approach.

"Captain," Shine said softly, "the generator."

"There's no time, Martin, and nowhere to go." Lightholler's hand strayed over the detonator. He closed his eyes.

"Captain."

There was a sudden burst from one of the radios. Davies cocked an ear.

Then both radios emitted a chorus of anguished cries. Morgan didn't need to speak Japanese to appreciate their meaning.

On screen, the soldiers had stopped moving. The tanks had settled into their clouds of dust and the soldiers hunkered down low to the ground among them.

Lightholler's voice was a low growl. "What are they saying?"

"Tanks..." Davies was stooped by the nearest radio. He twisted the dial, catching a new thread of agitated dialogue. His dark face accentuated bright bared teeth. "There's a column of tanks."

Lightholler watched as the Dragons started up again. They were turning around.

Shapes flitted across the screen. Another tank veered into view. It bore unusual markings: two broad, vivid diagonal stripes. Handprints were smeared along its side. It shook violently, firing off a round. The explosion pummelled the walls of their enclosure before coming to a halt. It sprayed a salvo of machine-gun fire on the evaporating line of fleeing men. Japanese soldiers began running, headlong, away from the shack.

A second tank pulled up alongside the first. A head emerged from the commander's hatch, leonine and bearing a full war bonnet of notched, wind-blown feathers over long braided hair. He turned towards the camera. Two buffalo horns adorned the wild ruffle of his headdress.

"It's him," Hayes murmured.

"Him?" Lightholler asked. "Who's he?"

"Michael Iron Horse," Shine whispered. "He led the left flank at Mazatlan."

"Well, I'll be damned." Lightholler's face gleamed in the monitor glare and twisted in dark delight. "The cavalry's arrived and bless me if they aren't indians."

XXIII.

April 29, 2012.

Groom Mine, Nevada.

"The Japanese are pulling back, sir, rallying this side of the west tower."

Kennedy acknowledged the captain's words with a forbidding smile. He surveyed the escarpment. Twenty-two functioning heavy Jackson tanks had been recovered from Indian Springs; spoils taken from Alpha's occupying force. Fourteen of them were now arrayed before him. The remainder had been dispatched-along with a portion of the men-to Red Rock, under Iron Horse's command.

Ghost dancers, riding the armoured side-skirting, had managed to decorate the vehicles while they were in transit. Bold black stripes of war paint now adorned each side. The bloody red hand of Lakota war parties, not seen in well over a hundred years, branded the turret of each vehicle. Besides the tanks, there were a number of trucks and an armoured car. The car, liberated from a platoon of long-range recon, brandished its new pennant-a red hand on a field of white.

Beyond, stretched out along the incline, his men were grouped into their various companies. They'd run all night, initially following Shine's path, and then trailing the refurbished convoy. They were still running in now, massing as they arrived at the foot of the slope.

Nearly a thousand men.