“You know where you're going,” Gary contradicted.
There was a moment of silent hesitation. The two exchanged glances.
Gary prodded one with the automatic. “Where?”
“There's a bridge at a place called Fort Madison, Iowa,” the soldier told him sullenly. “We—”
Gary chopped him short by reversing the gun and bringing the butt down on his head. The man crumpled to the ground. His companion stared down at the unconscious form.
“The bridge at Fort Madison,” Gary said smoothly, “has a hole in it a mile wide. Now I'll ask you.” He stepped close to ram the barrel in the man's spine. “Where are you going?”
“It ain't Fort Madison,” the other answered shakily. “It's a bridge called the Chain of Rocks, or some name like that. It's around St. Louis someplace. They're waiting for us there.”
“Who is?”
“I don't know — honest I don't. The whole damned army, I guess. We're just supposed to deliver these trucks.”
“Why? What's in them?”