That was how it was supposed to work. Glancing at Takka and Schmidt and the other strangers in his squad, Roland wondered how the sergeants and instructors could accomplish such a thing. Frankly, it sounded awfully unlikely.
But hell, guys like Kleineiman and Wu have been soldiering for five thousand years or so. I guess they know what they’re doing.
How ironic, then, that they finally made a science of it at the very end, just as the profession was trying to phase itself out of existence forever. From the looks given them by the UNEPA marshals, that day could come none too soon. Necessity allied the two groups in the cause of saving the planet. But clearly the eco-officers would rather do without the military altogether.
Just be patient, Roland thought as he worked. We’re doing the best we can as fast as we can.
He and another recruit disassembled the shrine at the back of the cavernous treasure room, carefully unwinding snakeskin ropes binding the two huge archway tusks. They were lowering one of the ivory trophies to the floor when Roland’s nostrils flared at a familiar smell. He stopped and sniffed.
“Come on,” the Russian private groused in thickly accented Standard. “Now other one.”
“Do you smell something?” Roland asked.
The other youth laughed. “I smell dead animals! What you think? It stink worse here than Tashkent brothels!”
But Roland shook his head. “That’s not it.” He turned left, following the scent.
Naturally, soldiers weren’t allowed tobacco, which would sap their wind and stamina. But he’d been quite a smoker back in Indiana, puffing homegrown with Remi and Crat — as many as eight or ten hand-rolled cigs a week. Could a noncom or UNEPA be sneaking weed behind a corner? It had better not be a recruit, or there’d be latrine duty for the entire squad!
But no, there weren’t any hiding places nearby. So where was it coming from?
Corporal Wu’s whistip blew, signaling another short break. “Hey, Yank,” the Russian said. “Don’t be a pizdyuk. Come on.”
Roland waved him to silence. He pushed aside one of the tiger skins, still sniffing, and then crouched where he had first picked up the scent. It was strongest near the floor beside the glass case — now emptied of its brown jars of macabre powder. His fingers touched a warm breeze.
“Hey, give me a hand,” he asked, bracing a shoulder against the wood. But the other recruit flipped two fingers as he walked away, muttering. ” Amerikanskee kakanee zas-sixa …”
Roland checked his footing and strained. The heavy case rocked a bit before settling again.
This can’t be right. The guy who owned this place wouldn’t want to sweat. He’d never sweat.
Roland felt along the carved basework, working his way around to the back before finding what he sought — a spring-loaded catch. “Aha!” he said. With a click the entire case slid forward to jam against one of the huge, toppled tusks. Roland peered down steep stairs with a hint of light at the bottom.
He had to squeeze through the narrow opening. The tobacco smell grew stronger as he descended quietly, carefully. Stooping under a low stone lintel, he entered a chamber hewn from naked rock. Roland straightened and pursed his lips in a silent whistle.
While this hiding place lacked the first one’s air of elegant decadence, it did conceal the devil’s own treasure… shelves stacked high with jars and small, bulging, plastic bags. “Hot damn,” he said, fingering one of the bags. Gritty white powder sifted under a gilt-numbered label adorned with images of unicorns and dragons, though Roland knew the real donor must have been some poor, dumb, mostly blind rhino in southern Africa, or another equally unprepossessing beast.
“The freaking jackpot,” he said to himself. It was definitely time to report this. But as he turned to head back upstairs,-a voice suddenly stopped him.
“Do not move, soldier-fellow. Hands up or I will shoot you dead.”
Roland rotated slowly and saw what he’d missed in his first, cursory scan of the room. At about waist level, near a smoldering ashtray in the corner of the left wall, some of the shelving had swung aside to reveal a narrow tunnel. From this opening a middle-aged man with Chinese features aimed a machine pistol at him.
“Do you doubt I can hit you from here?” the man asked levelly. “Is that why you don’t raise your hands as I command? I assure you, I’m an expert shooter. I’ve killed lions, tigers, at close range. Do you doubt it?”
“No. I believe you.”
“Then comply! Or I will shoot!”
Roland felt sure the fellow meant it. But it seemed this was time for one of those inconvenient waves of obstinacy his friends used to chide him for, which used to get him into such trouble back home.
“You shoot, and they’ll hear you upstairs.”
The man in the tunnel considered this. “Perhaps. On the other hand, if you were to attack me, or flee or call for help, the threat would be immediate and I would have to kill you at once.”
Roland shrugged. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“So. A standoff, then. All right, soldier. You may keep your hands down, as I see you’re unarmed. But step back to that wall, or I will consider you dangerous and act accordingly!”
Roland did as he was told, watching for an opportunity. But the man crawled out of the tunnel and stood up without wavering his aim once. “My name is Chang,” he said as he wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief.
“So I heard. You been a busy guy, Mr. Chang.”
Brown eyes squinted in amusement. “That I have, soldier boy. What I’ve done and seen, you could not imagine. Even in these days of snoops and busybodies, I’ve kept secrets. Secrets deeper than even the Helvetian Gnomes had.”
No doubt this was meant to impress Roland. It did. But he’d be damned if he’d give the bastard any satisfaction. “So what do we do now?”
Chang seemed to inspect him. “Now it’s customary for me to bribe you. You must know I can offer you wealth and power. This tunnel bears a floater trolley on silent rails. If you help me take away my treasure, it could begin a long, profitable relationship.”
Roland felt the piercing intensity of the man’s scrutiny. After a moment’s thought, he shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
Now it was Chang’s turn to pause. Then he giggled. “Ah! I do enjoy encountering wit. Obviously you know I am lying, that I’d kill you once we reached the other end. And I, in turn, can tell you have more urgent goals than money. Is it honor you seek, perhaps?”
Again, Roland shrugged. He wouldn’t have put it quite that way.
“So, again we have a standoff. Hence my second proposition. You help me load my trolley, at gunpoint. I will then depart and let you live.”
This time Roland’s pause was calculated only to delay. “How do I know…”
“No questions! Obviously I can’t turn my back on you. Agree or die now. Begin with the bags on the shelf by your shoulder, or I’ll shoot and be gone before others can come!”
Roland slowly turned and picked up two of the bags, one in each hand.
The “trolley” did indeed float a few millimeters above a pair of gleaming rails, stretching off into interminable darkness. Roland had no doubt it was meant for swift escape, or that Chang would be long gone by the time UNEPA traced the other end. The guy seemed to have thought of everything.
He tried to carry as little as he could each trip. Chang lit a cigarette and fumed, watching him like a cat as Roland leaned over the tiny passenger’s pallet to lay his loads in the trolley’s capacious cargo hamper.
Roland’s experience with babushkas and grempers back in Indiana helped, for he seemed to know by instinct how to just brush the inside edge of provocation. Once, he fumbled one of the clay jars. It hit hard and trickled powder onto the tunnel floor, crackling where bits struck the silvery rails. Chang hissed and the knuckles of his hand whitened on the pistol grip. Still, Roland figured the geep wouldn’t shoot him just yet. He’d do it at the last moment, probably when the trolley was ready to go.