"Slow down, we're not Stasi," first thing he'd pull off the web gear was any East German markings, but that was not here or now, "We're Americans and we just shot a bunch of Vopos, do the math. If the car's dead, we have transport." 

"Legion!" shouted Holmes, from a distance, "What's the holdup, man!" 

"Civilians, car's busted. Can you get a pickup over here?" Danny called back.

The conversation was at a distance, and one of the militia types, with the latest-greatest optics on his guns, camo'ed out the wazoo, started to object and the green beret was distinctly heard saying, "We aren't killing civilians and we aren't leaving witnesses behind, so what do you think we can do? Just get the damn truck." 

There was a dichotomy there; the Special Forces guy was a lot more rumpled, his field gear a lot more broken in from actual use. The country was seeded with SF guys who were doing what they were trained to do -- train guerrillas, lead guerrillas, keep the fight going behind enemy lines as long as possible. It was the classic mission they were designed for in the 1960's, the Kennedy years.

Daniel was a different sort; wearing the sort of upland hunting gear one might expect in Vermont, but adding German web gear to it, that he'd just acquired. He looked less formally military than even the militia guys, but that was probably a lot less threatening than some over-eager gun nut that was enjoying the invasion because it gave him an excuse. He and Holmes had the same look -- they were calm as they went about the business.

"Listen," he told Bruno, his voice low and urgent, "we don't have time to fix the cab, so Sergeant Holmes there is getting a truck to you and we're loading you and anything you think you need out of your truck on board. We can't just leave you behind to be interrogated, because that exposes us more than we've been exposed already. We have safe areas in the mountains here and we can figure out how to move you into Canada when it's safe." He wasn't sure how, but he had to hold out something besides throwing in with a bunch of guerrillas involuntarily, and that seemed to be it.

His eyes were already scanning the horizon -- others were doing the same -- looking for signs of aircraft, listening for the sound of any sort of engine. They were on a time table.