where

area was a

area was a beehive of activity. The packed earth was rapidly chewed up still further by a multitude of stamping hooves.
The Eisenach militiamen staffing the gates were the only foot soldiers in the area. But they were able to start working the gate mechanisms from within the protection of the stone gatehouse. Mike was out in the open. He scampered back toward the stairs and started climbing them—again, two steps at a time. Being on foot in an area where a thousand horsemen were moving their chargers into position was not anywhere he wanted to be. Squash. Oops. Sorry ’bout that.
Once he was back at the redoubt wall, Gayle offered him the ­radio again. He cocked an eye. “Problems?”
“No,” replied Gayle. “Except Frank told me to tell you that you’re a soft-hearted wimp.”
Mike smiled. He brought the binoculars back up to his eyes. “Yeah, I know,” he murmured. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
As he studied the Spanish tercios beyond the walls of Eisenach, Mike’s smile faded. There were six tercios in that army—­approximately twelve thousand men, he estimated—along with two thousand cuirassiers positioned on either flank. It was not a huge army, by the standards