THREE MILES away the war whoop was reproduced in a set of headphones clamped around the head of Mickey Weisinger, CEO of the Sam Beasley Corporation.
"These fucking yokels sound serious," he said thickly.
"They are," said Bob Beasley in an utterly unconcerned voice.
"I can't just drop in there and make a speech. They'll tear me limb from fucking limb."
"There are worse things."
"Name one."
"Oh," said Bob, ticking off items on his fingers, "pissing off my Uncle Sam, betraying my Uncle Sam and finding your balls clutched tightly in my Uncle Sam's hydraulic right hand."
In the mobile communications van, parked in a thicket of piney Virginia woods, Mickey Weisinger crossed his legs protectively and croaked, "When do I go in?"
"After the shooting starts," said Bob Beasley, snapping a microphone on.
"Shooting? What shooting? Who's going to shoot who?"
"Everybody."
"Huh?"
"Everybody's going to shoot everybody else once the California Summer Vacation Musketeers break through Rebel lines."
"Whose side was California on during the Civil War?"
"Our side," said Bob Beasley. He brought his lips close to the mike and said, "Musketeers, it's your day to howl."
Mickey Weisinger wiped his moist brow with a silk handkerchief. "I just hope it isn't my day to die."
Chapter 10
The line of primer gray cars disappeared up Crater Road in a dusty cloud. The trailing car, windshield smeared with dirt, fell more than five car-lengths behind the others. It was a four-door sedan, Remo noticed.
"Quicker to ride than to walk," Remo suggested.
"Agreed," returned the Master of Sinanju.
They started off, moving with an easy grace that oddly enough seemed to slow the faster they ran. The great worm of brown dust that had all but consumed the trailing Confederate car swallowed them up, too.
Coming up on the sedan, Remo broke left while the Master of Sinanju veered to the right-hand side. Their hands snagged the rear door handles, popped them, and with a skipping hop they bounced into the backseat cushions. The doors closed with a perfectly synchronized double thunk.
Ensconced in the rear, they rolled past the Confederate pickets who guarded the entrance to Petersburg Battlefield Park. Remo saw that they wore no boots. No shoes or socks, either.
He and Chiun exchanged puzzled glances and settled down for the short ride back to the Crater. They sat perfectly still, knowing that the human eye was sensitive to sudden movement, and if they kept still the driver was unlikely to notice them in his rearview mirror.
They would have probably ridden all the way to the Crater undetected except for the fact that a front tire hit a chuckhole and let go with a pop and a low hiss. The left forward corner of the car began to settle, and the driver tapped the brakes and banged his steering wheel with a hammy fist.
He turned in his seat to reach for the tire iron that sat on the drive shaft hump. A helpful hand attached to a thick wrist obligingly handed it to him.
The driver recoiled as if brushed by a stinging jellyfish.
"Who the hay-ell are you two!" he thundered.
"Passengers," said Chiun in a voice as bland as his papery expression.
"Passengers in a hurry," clarified Remo.
"Get the hell out of my car!"
"When we have reached our destination," said Chiun.
"And not before," added Remo.
The driver threw open the door, cupped his hands over his mouth and set his elbows on the car roof. "Hey, you Johnnys! Lend a hand here. I just caught me two Yank spies!"
The slapping of bare feet came up the road. Confederate troops surrounded the car on all sides. They began shoving musket muzzles in through the driver's window, some with their ramrods still jammed in.
"Who are you boys?" a quavering voice demanded. It belonged to a cadaverous blond man with the double bars of a Confederate first lieutenant on his collar. His droopy mustache puffed out with every syllable.
"I was just about to ask you the same question," said Remo in a cool, unconcerned voice.
"We be the Kentucky Bootless Bluegrass Band."
"Is that a military unit or a musical group?"
"Well, we do a little pickin' and grinnin' now and again," the lieutenant admitted. "But just 'cause we prefer the banjo to the bullet don't meant we can't scrap when we get a mind to."
"Do tell," said Remo.
"Now, are you gonna come out or do we perforate your skulking Yank breadbaskets?"
"Open your window, Little Father," said Remo to the Master of Sinanju.
"Gladly," said Chiun.
The windows came rolling down, and more muskets intruded into the car interior, vying for a clear bead on the captured Union spies.
"Are you a-comin' or are you a-dyin'?"
"Neither," said Remo, snatching the lieutenant's musket from his unresisting fingers, along with a clump of adjoining weapons.
He laid them at his feet. They clattered atop the bunch the Master of Sinanju had already harvested.
"Hey! That ain't fair. You give us back our ordnance, hear?"