The camp on the high dark rock ledge was quiet, save for the crackle of a smokeless coal fire bowl and the distant, rhythmic roar of the underground waterfall.
The twelve hundred commoner refugees had settled into their canvas bivouacs between the cargo haulers. Exhausted by the sky-high bombardment, the wild descent through the fault line. The oppressive air pressure of the deep cave, most of the families had fallen into deep, dreamless sleep. Sentries armed with bolt-action hunting rifles and salvaged riot shotguns patrolled the outer edge under Valerie Koslov’s sharp tactical direction, their flashlights cutting narrow beams through the hanging mist.
Around Arthur Vance’s personal fire bowl, the core vanguard was gathered.
Valerie Koslov walked over from the sentry line, her scarred knuckles wrapped in dirty combat tape, an unlit roll-up cigarette tucked behind her ear. She dropped onto an empty fuel drum across from Arthur. It spread a grease-stained topographical map of Trench 05 across her knees.
“Silas Kane’s forward patrols are holding at the second river bend,” Valerie said. Her voice gravelly from was cold cave air. “They have three armored dredging barges and an ironclad gunboat mounted with dual tiny rotary cannons. If we try to push forty-two haulers past their narrows, they’ll chew our tires to ribbons before we reach the underground water bed.”
