The Omicron Legion by Jon Land Page A

unchanging.
    In the darkest parts, the range finder’s sweeping red grid made for a grim luminescence. McCracken had been carrying it since they’d left the clearing and the corpses of Ben Norseman’s team. The thing made a slight beeping sound with each circular pass. Blaine figured they were still thirty minutes from the river. There were no guarantees Luis would have waited the extra time with the boat. Their best chance there lay in the hope that the whiskey had lasted longer than expected. If not—
    Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep…
    McCracken heard the range finder come alive in his hand. Suddenly its circular sweep was lined with red flashing dots clustered along a narrow sphere in the bottom left-hand grid.
    Wareagle had already gone rigid.
    “We’ve got company, Indian.”
    “Where, Blainey?”
    “Behind us to the south. Five hundred yards back, if I’m reading this right.”
    McCracken stripped the M-60 machine gun from his shoulder. Damn thing weighed a ton. He’d handled a 7.62-mm Vulcan in the streets of Tehran, but not dead tired and in darkness so profound it was sure to confound his aim.
    “No, Blainey,” said Wareagle.
    “What?”
    “Norseman and his men would have seen the same thing. They reached the clearing and made their stand because that is what the Wakinyan wanted. The Green Coats saw only what they were supposed to see.”
    On the range finder, the blips had moved into the next grid.
    “What are you saying?”
    “The graves, Blainey. I realize now the graves are the key. They did not dig them to bury Norseman and his men. The holes were already there when the Green Coats arrived. The Wakinyan dug them so they could hide and then lunge upon the Green Coats from within their midst. It explains everything. By the time Norseman and the others opened fire, it was too late.”
    Beep, beep, beep…
    “Then…”
    “They’re ahead of us as well as behind. Planted somewhere, camouflaged, waiting in the very spot they know we will make our stand.”
    McCracken’s eyes darted back and forth from the range finder to Wareagle. “But they knew Norseman was trailing them. We’re a different story.”
    “The night has betrayed us. They must have circled back. Or…”
    “Four hundred yards, Indian. Or what?”
    “They knew about our presence from the start.”
    “And left Norseman’s weapons out in the open?”
    “Giving us what we wanted, what we needed to play their game.”
    “Three hundred and fifty yards…What now?”
    “They timed their move perfectly. All routes north and south are impassable.”
    The range finder seemed to be getting louder. “Leaving us with only east and west. Terrific.”
    “There is a third option, Blainey.”
    “Three hundred yards, Indian.”
    “They know even before we do where we will choose to make our stand ahead. Their greatest weapon is this very understanding. It was no different in the hellfire with the Black Hearts. Remember, Blainey?”
    McCracken’s mind drifted back and wanted to stay there. “We became the Black Hearts, and that’s how we beat them. That’s how we stayed alive.”
    “As we must do again, Blainey.”
    Beep, beep, beep…

Chapter 9
    THE DITCHES THEY DUG in the ground were just deep enough to conceal them under a layer of dirt and brush. Blaine had switched the range finder off when the blips were less than one hundred yards away. Then Johnny helped him cover himself. How the big Indian could manage the same task all by himself, Blaine would never know. But there was plenty about Johnny he couldn’t fathom and never would.
    Blaine silently counted out the steps of their pursuers, trying to anticipate the second those steps would be upon their position. If Wareagle’s ploy didn’t work, death would come with no chance for resistance. But Johnny’s words had their usual ring of confidence. The best strategy makes use of something the enemy uses himself, something so personal that the idea of another using it is