Three of them carried small Indian flags on sticks that they had taken from Ketkar's desk. They cracked the windows and stuck the flags outside, waving them ceremoniously. Lobo pulled out of the garage, and Bogdanovich, at the wheel of the second car, followed. As soon as both cars were away from the building, Lobo started blaring the car horn in short beeps. The PCs, who were still a distance away, cheered and raised their weapons over their heads.
"They're opening the gate," said Wit. "Don't gun it, Lobo. Keep a normal speed. You're driving a major."
"Yes, sir."
Soldiers were leaving the safety of the barricade and running toward the cars, cheering and celebrating. Wit settled back in his chair, keeping his face in the shadows. The soldiers were still thirty yards away, but they would be on the cars in seconds. The gate was just ahead. "Normal speed," repeated Wit. "Nice and easy." The sentries at the gatehouse stepped outside and snapped to attention as the large gate doors slid open. Wit's car began pulling through the gate, passing the sentries, just as the cheering soldiers behind them reached the second car and began slapping the trunk in celebration. One of the sentries at attention lowered his gaze to Wit's car and smiled. The smile vanished an instant later. Then the man started yelling and reaching for his weapon, and all went to hell.
"Gun it, Lobo," said Wit.
Lobo floored it. Behind them Bogdanovich did the same. The celebration became a furious mad scramble. Men tried climbing on to the second car, reaching for the door handle. Spider rounds pinged off the glass. Bogdanovich swerved and floored it. Men tumbled off the car.
"Roadblock," said Lobo.
There were two vehicles parked in the road ahead with a half-dozen PCs already leveling their weapons.
Chi-won was sitting in the backseat beside Wit. "Chi-won," said Wit.
"Happy to, sir."
There was no explanation needed. Wit lowered his window just as Chi-won did. Their weapons were out the window an instant later, firing. PC suits flashed red and stiffened.
Lobo gunned it. "I'm going through."
"Don't run over anyone," said Wit.
Lobo struck the first vehicle at just the right angle to push it enough to the side to get the car through. Metal crunched. Glass shattered. Tires spun. Lobo put his foot to the floor, the vehicle rocked to the side, and then they were free, racing away. The second car was right behind them. The shots from their rear were less frequent now, but Wit knew they weren't in the clear yet. Far from it. The cars would be overtaken soon. They still had two hundred men between them and the MOPs camp.
They drove for another hundred yards around two winding curves and stopped. All nine of them were out of the car immediately.
Two MOPs soldiers emerged from the woods. Deen, the Brit, and Averbach, the Israeli.
"Evening, Captain," said Deen. "We thought you might not be coming." He looked at the new recruits. "These the new greenies? Pleased to meet, boys. Name's Deen. Whose crazy idea was this? I love it."
"Introductions later," said Wit. "You're about to have some angry PCs on your tail. Every vehicle on their base will be on top of you in about ten seconds."
Deen shrugged nonchalantly then got behind the wheel of the first car. Averbach jumped into the second.
"Where I am taking this, Captain?" asked Deen.
"All over creation," said Wit. "Have a field day. Just keep them occupied."
Deen brushed some glass shards off the front seat. "I see that we're not concerning ourselves with the paint job."
"Try not to total it," said Wit.
Deen gunned the engine and put a hand to his ear, smiling. "What's that, Captain? I didn't catch that last part." He laughed and peeled away, with Averbach right behind him.
Wit gave them a mile at the most. Then the PCs would be all over them. He'd never do such a thing in a real operation, sacrificing two men like this, but Deen and Averbach said they didn't mind. They'd take a spider round to the chest if it meant they got to trash a few vehicles in the process.
Wit was running down the slope through the forest with the new recruits. They tossed aside their red berets and replaced them with their helmets. Wit's HUD flickered to life, barraging him with intel: temperature, distance to the river, projected water depth based on the amount of snow and rainfall in the area that winter. Branches lashed at his suit and helmet. The flag was in his back pouch. They were through the trees. The footbridge over the river was old and dilapidated. Much of the railing had fallen away long ago. The river was twenty feet below. Wit never slowed down. His HUD told him the water was likely deeper to the right. Wit leaped from the bridge. He flew through the air, hit water, and went under. The buoyancy of his dampening suit lifted him to the surface, and the current swept him downstream. His HUD gave him the water temperature and tracked the location of his men. All eight were in the water with him, moving quickly, bobbing along. The current was relatively calm in spots but it raged in others. Twice they saw large groups of PCs heading up the road adjacent to the river, back toward the base, hoping perhaps to stop whomever had the flag. No one looked toward the river. Or if they did, they didn't see anything in the dark.
The last mile was uneventful. The river calmed, and Wit moved to the opposite shore. The suits were heavy and waterlogged, but they made good time on foot, reaching camp ten minutes later. Wit was not surprised to see all of the remaining MOPs and about sixty PCs gathered around a bonfire in their undergarments. A tall pile of discarded dampening suits stood off to the side. Most of the suits were stiff and red, but a good number of them were still operable. The PCs and MOPs were mingling and laughing and drinking and playing cards. Four of them were singing a ribald drinking song, much to the delight of those around them. No one noticed Wit and the new recruits, who watched from behind one of the tents.
Wit's instructions to the MOPs at camp had been clear. Don't let the PCs get the flag, but don't them let feel like failures either. Show humility. These men are allies not enemies.
Five men were sitting on crates and cargo boxes nearby playing a hand of ganjifa. Calinga, the Filipino MOP, laid down a hand of the circular cards and celebrated. Those playing with him moaned. Calinga's wrist strap flashed green, and he excused himself. He came to Wit, smiling and keeping his voice down. "Evening, Captain. Things turned out well for you, I assume. These the newbies? Welcome to MOPs, gentlemen."
The eight recruits nodded a greeting.