"No. We can take him with us as a prisoner. He's good, and he's lucky. I've never seen someone blown out of a vehicle like that still living.
They spent ten minutes working on the driver's injuries-abrasions and contusions, luckily for him-and secured him with a plastic restraint. Then they took a look at the vehicles.
He learned why they were hustling back to the camp so quickly to tell their news. The vehicle on its side was rigged for long-range radio. The antenna, designed to lie flat atop the armored car, had been torn away somewhere or other.
"The base still doesn't know about us," Valentine said.
"Unless there's a Reaper prowling around," Duvalier said. "I checked out the interior of ours. Either the previous users had really big feet or the car carried a Reaper recently. Long, pointed boots with the climbing toe."
The Wolves, pounding down the road in a double line, caught up to them.
"Lieutenant Carlson says a couple of platoons left camp in trucks and a command car, sir," the sergeant in charge reported.
The dead driver from Valentine's car looked clownish now, in that big white hat and gold-rimmed aviator glasses. Like Carlson, he was black. Valentine had an idea.
With tow cables, a stout tree, and some judicious driving by one of the Wolves, they managed to right the tipped armored car. They drove back to headquarters at a much more cautious pace, with Valentine and Duvalier tucked inside the front one, tending to each other's scrapes and cuts.
"Lieutenant," Valentine said, upon their return. "Do me a favor. See if that hat fits." He handed Carlson the hat and sunglasses.
"The glasses are prescription, but I can manage," Carlson said.
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.