Giles Croft stood in the center of the North Crag Military Highway. He stared down into an eighteen-inch crater with eyes that burned like cold slate.
Around him lay pieces of shattered asphalt aggregate, scattered across thirty paces of freshly rolled roadway.
The asphalt was four inches of dense-graded binder course, crowned with a two-inch hot-mix bituminous wearing surface.
It had taken two weeks of nonstop steam-roller rolling to achieve ninety-eight percent modified Judge compaction.
Now, forty-two ragged impact holes pitted the road surface like the scars of a virulent pox.
“Barbarians,” Giles said.
His voice was terrifyingly soft.
Toby Karr stepped back two paces.
