Of Children and Angels 8

Of course, it meant a lot of swing-shift work, as Preston called it.
For the next week, at least ten kilometers in all directions, they rode every road, lane and trail they could find. They took pictures of everything conceivably interesting, uploading them every day to the dropbox. Every unusual sight and oddball character they saw was added to the collection. They had memorized the topography in detail. They even went so far as poking around the fence line of Javelin Barracks. While there were some good telephoto shots, nothing offered a clue they could use.
After dark, they were hardly the only people about, even in the countryside. Each night they observed one or two runs by the MP vans. They counted three different plate numbers. So far, they always ran the same pattern: Running the autobahn to the Roermond-Oost exit, and then turning around under the autobahn just a short ways north. They always dropped into the Burger King on the same property as the Albert Heijn, then back out and back to Germany.
Early in that week, though, Preston struck an acquaintance with a K-Mar sergeant he saw coming out of the firing range area. He waved the van to stop. The driver at first seemed only to be humoring him until Preston spoke in his clearly American English. His first comment was to ask if who was responsible for digging the spent bullets out of the sand backstop on the range. The sergeant was riding shotgun and laughed heartily. After Preston explained his previous use of the range, the sergeant seemed quite interested in a conversation. Preston explained he and his wife were professional photographers on a working vacation. They chatted about the old days when Preston was still in uniform.
Eventually the K-Mar had to go, but Preston got his business card with a cellphone number. Later that evening, he tested things by sending a brief text message. He asked if the sergeant would have time for a dinner invitation, and could he suggest a good restaurant for it. The sergeant demurred, but thanked him. Thus began a conversation mostly by text messages about various military news items.
At one point they crossed paths again on one of the main routes when the van pulled past them, and then stopped as they rode up alongside. During the conversation Preston mentioned seeing American MP vans in the area and the sergeant acted as if it was routine burger chasing, a taste of home.
Preston and Angie had begun to despair of seeing anything different. Perching somewhere different every night, they watched with decreasing enthusiasm. On their eighth night, the van turned off the N280 heading south on the A73 ring road. They lost it of course, but decided to keep heading along the parallel road. It was just a hunch, but they rode up onto the highest overpass overlooking the area where Preston and his associates used to turn into the woods to get to the firing range.
Just at that moment, another MP van passed under and ran down the newest highway laid through the area. His eyes followed the lights far down in the quiet night, while Angie trained the camera on it. She strained to track the vehicle, but the tall trees standing alongside the road hid them after a few moments. They rode as quickly as possible along the same route and somewhat beyond where they had last seen the tail lights. They were now on the north edge of Herkenbosch following the N570. To their surprise, yet another MP van roared past them, turning off on a country lane. The taillights remained visible against the tree line across the fields for quite some distance.
Again they strove to chase it as far as they could. Some distance down this small lane running east, they eventually spotted headlights coming at them. Sure enough, it was one of the vans running in the opposite direction. They knew they had to be very close to the turn-around point where the vans had gone. From previous exploration they knew this wooded area stood just north of a sprawling camping park filled with little trailer houses. These were all pretty much identical, owned by the park management and rented to visitors. In the woods were some carved trees of various mythical figures from Dutch and German fairy tales.
Just ahead, another vehicle came out of the woods on the left. They ducked down a side path and waited, carefully noting where the van had emerged from the woods. Once it was past, they rode hastily to the spot and just past it. Dragging their bikes into the woods, they laid them in the underbrush and began creeping through the gloom toward a lighted area. It was fenced and screened by thick hedges. They were just tall enough to prevent Preston seeing anything but the roof and eaves of a long, low building. There was the noise of some activity and quiet voices.
Preston quietly grabbed Angie, stood her back to him and lifted her on his shoulders. She understood immediately and sat upright just enough and took a short video of what she saw. She tapped him on top of the head and they fled as if their lives depended on it. They continued up the same road to avoid being seen by the last MP van leaving. Just a few hundred meters took them to a bike route running the border back to the highway they had been watching all this time.
It was no surprise they spotted one of the vans heading back into Germany as they rode alongside the autobahn to their small overpass.