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Valentine took a cautious look at the camp. "They're expecting these armored cars, right? Let's have 'em drive right up to the gate."
They had hidden the damage somewhat by hanging packs and ponchos over the bullet holes. It looked sloppy, but if the plan went right the Georgia Control sergeants would have graver concerns than chewing Frat out about the gear exposed to roadside growth.
Valentine filled both armored cars with Wolves, and distributed the grenades.
Carlson drove up to the gate, and in an inspired move, sounded the Klaxon and flashed his lights. He took off his hat and waved it.
The Wolves, before opening fire, whipped off their Georgia Control helmets and jackets. Valentine himself had done plenty of damage wearing the enemies' uniform, but Carlson had told his platoon differently.
The armored cars tore through the camp's temporary structures, pouring fire into machine gun positions and the camp's watchtower. Grenades exploded all around like fireworks, adding a sharper krack! echo to the popping noise of the machine guns.
Valentine surveyed the action with his binoculars, hurting all over. He served as Bee's spotter as she employed her heavy, big-game rifle. One of Fort Seng's armorers, remembering how she probably saved his life by taking down a plane as it started a strafing run, did her loads by hand, testing each production run himself with her rifle on the camp's range. She eliminated a machine gun crew with three quick shots before they could ready their weapon.
She didn't even have two good eyes. Remarkable shooting.
With the wheeling armored cars causing chaos within, Valentine watched the Wolves hit the wire like a tornado. They tore through the posts and wire like a scythe through dry straw.
The shooting died off to a trickle, like the clamor of a noisy party winding down as the guests left.
"Carlson signals he's starting the mop-up," the coms tech said. "Fourteen prisoners so far."
Champers's engineers, an assortment of men and women, mostly over forty-five, Valentine suspected, seemed a strong, capable lot. They and their rescuers eyed each other, misfit to misfit.
Duvalier had gone in to the engineer's camp before the Wolves hit to poke around, and found a frightened, confused Reaper snarling in the explosives dugout. She quickly locked it within, and the engineers parked a bulldozer across the door. Campers kept everyone well away from the dugout.
"His master's probably running for Tennessee as hard as he can," Valentine said.
"Be nice if we could take it alive," Pellwell said. "The Miskatonic has wanted a living Reaper forever. Especially one bred to be controlled by a Kurian."
"You're welcome to try, shanks," Duvalier said.
Sooner or later it would get hungry and dig its way out. Champers volunteered to try setting off the explosives, but Valentine declined.
"The Control will move back into Site Green sooner or later," Valentine said. "Having a wild, hungry Reaper lurking in the area will add some excitement to their return."
Valentine gave the usual speech to the military prisoners, promising them freedom. Anyone trusted with a gun in the Kurian Zone had probably left a hostage or two behind.
"You know what's in those cells, Major," Frat said. "Human litter. Petty criminals, terminally ill. They'll slow us up."
Valentine thought back on his own days as a Wolf lieutenant, when he'd been upbraided for what his old captain called "rounding up strays." More trouble than they're worth, Valentine.
"Denial of resources, Lieutenant," Valentine said. "The Kurian wants them. That's enough of a reason for us to try to take them away."
"Perhaps," Major Grace began, "perhaps we could do our part by just setting them loose."
"For the Reapers to hunt down?"
"If it keeps them off us," Grace said.
"You ever heard the expression 'Whoever saves one life, saves a world entire'?" Valentine asked.
"I'm not sure. Is that some maxim of that Quisling churchman?"
"Older than that. How about 'Go fuck yourself'?"
"That's insubordination!"
"I was only asking if you'd heard it," Valentine said.
