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Headlights appeared as a supply truck rumbled down the road and squealed to a halt. Two soldiers got out and scanned the area.
"Think it's an ambush?" one of them muttered and gripped his rifle tighter.
"From those freak Section Three kids? Jesus, I don't know," the driver said. "Screw the rules of this exercise." He pulled a Kevlar poncho over his head. "I'm not gonna take a dart in my ass if it is. Cover me."
The man riding shotgun got out and walked around the truck. "Looks clear," he whispered. "Hurry."
The driver jumped out of the cab, moved to the rocks, and rolled them off the road.
John ran from the brush and crawled under the vehicle. He pulled himself up and wedged tight against the undercarriage, close enough that he smelled the rubber from the new tires. Kelly and Sam came next; Fhajad was last.
They hadn't been spotted. So far, so good.
The two men got back into the truck and proceeded down the dirt road.
Gravel bounced up and caught John in the side of the head, and cut him; blood trickled from his ear along his neck, but he didn't dare loosen his grip.
After a kilometer of being pelted by rocks and stung by sand, the truck eased to a halt at Tango Company's base. The guard at the gatehouse spoke to the driver, and they laughed. The guard then walked around and opened the back of the truck.
John squirmed and got his mirror ready. With a flick of his hand, he signaled the others to do the same. John held his mirror
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at an angle pointed at the undercarriage of the truck. His hand trembled but he forced himself to be steady. He had to.
The gate guard approached the truck with a long pole and a small mirror attached at one end. He stuck the mirror under the truck and swept it along one side.
John matched the position of the mirror with his, moved it steady along as the gate guard passed him so all the guard saw was the reflected image of the undercarriage—a meter to John's left.
They'd practiced this maneuver all last night. It had to be perfect.
The guard moved on to Sam's position, and then Fhajad's, and finally to Kelly's corner of the truck.
Kelly's mirror slipped and she fumbled—caught it just before it hit the ground. John held his breath; Kelly barely got the re?flective surface in place as the gate guard swept her section.
"Go ahead," the guard said and rapped the side of the truck. "You're clean."
"How are the dogs?" the driver asked.
"Still sick," the guard muttered. "Not sure what the heck they all ate last night, but they're still squirting."
"Damn," the driver said. He started the engine and rolled into Tango Company's base camp.
Last night Fred had fed the guard dogs a paste made of a few squirrels they'd caught, some unripe berries, and the antibacter?ial ointment in their first-aid kits—a concoction guaranteed to keep Tango's dogs out of the picture for another day.
The truck parked inside a warehouse. Two men came and un?loaded the back and then left, locking the doors of the warehouse behind them.