"Everybody has to hit the three-hundred-yard targets," Fowler said. "It's a requirement of citizenship here."
Reacher shrugged. Wasn't impressed. Three hundred yards was no kind of a big deal. He kept on strolling down the half-mile. The four-hundred-yard targets were damaged, the five-hundred-yard boards less so. Reacher counted eighteen hits at six hundred yards, seven at seven hundred, and just two at the full eight hundred.
"How old are these boards?" he asked.
Fowler shrugged.
"A month," he said. "Maybe two. We're working on it."
"You better," Reacher said.
"We don't figure to be shooting at a distance," Fowler replied. "Beau's guess is the UN forces will come at night. When they think we're resting up. He figures they might succeed in penetrating our perimeter to some degree. Maybe by a half-mile or so. I don't think they will, but Beau's a cautious guy. And he's the one with all the responsibility. So our tactics are going to be nighttime outflanking maneuvers. Encircle the UN penetration in the forest and mow it down with cross fire. Up close and personal, right? That training's going pretty well. We can move fast and quiet in the dark, no lights, no sound, no problem at all."
Reacher looked at the forest and thought about the wall of ammunition he'd seen. Thought about Borken's boast: impregnable. Thought about the problems an army faces fighting committed guerrillas in difficult terrain. Nothing is ever really impregnable, but the casualties in taking this place were going to be spectacular.
"This morning," Fowler said. "I hope you weren't upset."
Reacher just looked at him.
"About Loder, I mean," Fowler said.
Reacher shrugged. Thought to himself: it saved me a job of work.
"We need tough discipline," Fowler said. "All new nations go through a phase like this. Harsh rules, tough discipline. Beau's made a study of it. Right now, it's very important. But it can be upsetting, I guess."
"It's you should be upset," Reacher said. "You heard of Joseph Stalin?"
Fowler nodded.
"Soviet dictator," he said.
"Right," Reacher said. "He used to do that."
"Do what?" Fowler asked.
"Eliminate his potential rivals," Reacher said. "On trumped-up charges."
Fowler shook his head.
"The charges were fair," he said. "Loder made mistakes."
Reacher shrugged.
"Not really," he said. "He did a reasonable job."
Fowler looked away.
"You'll be next," Reacher said. "You should watch your back. Sooner or later, you'll find you've made some kind of a mistake."
"We go back a long way," Fowler said. "Beau and me."
"So did Beau and Loder, right?" Reacher said. "Stevie will be OK. He's no threat. Too dumb. But you should think about it. You'll be next."
Fowler made no reply. Just looked away again. They walked together back down the grassy half-mile. Took another beaten track north. They stepped off the path to allow a long column of children to file past. They were marching in pairs, boys and girls together, with a woman in fatigues at the head of the line and another at the tail. The children were dressed in cut-down military surplus gear and they were carrying tall staffs in their right hands. Their faces were blank and acquiescent. The girls had untrimmed straight hair, and the boys had rough haircuts done with bowls and blunt shears. Reacher stood and watched them pass. They stared straight ahead as they walked. None of them risked a sideways glance at him.
The new path ran uphill through a thin belt of trees and came out on a flat area fifty yards long and fifty yards wide. It had been leveled by hand. Discarded fieldstone had been painted white and laid at intervals around the edge. It was quiet and deserted.
"Our parade ground," Fowler said, sourly.
Reacher nodded and scanned around. To the north and west, the high mountains. To the east, thick virgin forest. South, he could see over the distant town, across belts of trees, to the fractured ravines beyond. A cold wind lifted his new jacket and grabbed at his shirt, and he shivered.
THE BIGGER BOLTS were much harder. Much more contact area, metal to metal. Much more paint to scrape. Much more force required to turn them. The more force she used, the more the crushed end of the crutch was liable to slip off. She took off her shoe and used it to hammer the end into shape. She bent and folded the soft aluminum around the head of the bolt. Then she clamped it tight with her fingers. Clamped until the slim tendons in her arm stood out like ropes and sweat ran down her face. Then she turned the crutch, holding her breath, waiting to see which would give first, the grip of her fingers or the grip of the bolt.
THE WIND GRABBING at Reacher's shirt also carried some faint sounds to him. He glanced at Fowler and turned to face the western edge of the parade ground. He could hear men moving in the trees. A line of men, bursting out of the forest.
They crashed out of the trees, six men line abreast, automatic rifles at the slope. Camouflage fatigues, beards. The same six guards who had stood in front of the judge's bench that morning. Borken's personal detail. Reacher scanned across the line of faces. The younger guy with the scar was at the left-hand end of the line. Jackson, the FBI plant. They paused and reset their course. Rushed across the leveled ground toward Reacher. As they approached, Fowler stood back, leaving Reacher looking like an isolated target. Five of the men fanned out into a loose arc. Five rifles aimed at Reacher's chest. The sixth man stepped up in front of Fowler. No salute, but there was a deference in his stance which was more or less the same thing.
"Beau wants this guy back," the soldier said. "Something real urgent."
Fowler nodded.
"Take him," he said. "He's beginning to piss me off."
The rifle muzzles jerked Reacher into a rough formation and the six men hustled him south through the thin belt of trees, moving fast. They passed through the shooting range and followed the beaten earth path back to the Bastion. They turned west and walked past the armory and on into the forest toward the command hut. Reacher lengthened his stride and sped up. Pulled ahead. Let his foot hit a root and went down heavily on the stones. First guy to reach him was Jackson. Reacher saw the scarred forehead. He grabbed Reacher's arm.
"Mole in Chicago," Reacher breathed.
"On your feet, asshole," Jackson shouted back.
"Hide out and run for it tonight," Reacher whispered. "Maximum care, OK?"
Jackson glanced at him and replied with a squeeze of his arm. Then he pulled him up and shoved him ahead down the path into the smaller clearing. Beau Borken was framed in his command hut doorway. He was dressed in huge baggy camouflage fatigues, dirty and disheveled. Like he had been working hard. He stared at Reacher as he approached.
"I see we gave you new clothes," he said.
Reacher nodded.
"So let me apologize for my own appearance," Borken said. "Busy day."
"Fowler told me," Reacher said. "You've been building abatises."
"Abatises?" Borken said. "Right."
Then he went quiet. Reacher saw his big white hands, opening and closing.
"Your mission is canceled," Borken said quietly.
"It is?" Reacher said. "Why?"
Borken eased his bulk down out of the doorway and stepped close. Reacher's gaze was fixed on his blazing eyes and he never saw the blow coming. Borken hit him in the stomach, a big hard fist on the end of four hundred pounds of body weight. Reacher went down like a tree and Borken smashed a foot into his back.