“Hurry up!” the Han millionaire spat. “You move like an American!”
That gave Roland an excuse to turn and grin at the man. “How’d you guess?” he asked, slowing things another few seconds, stretching Chang’s patience before grabbing two more jars and resuming work.
Chang kept glancing up the stairs, obviously listening… but never letting his attention waver long enough to give Roland any foolish notions. You should’ve reported the secret passage the minute you found it, Roland thought, cursing inwardly. Unfortunately, the opening was behind the display case, and who knew when it would be discovered? Too late for Private Roland Senterius, probably.
The look in Chang’s calculating eyes made Roland reconsider the scenario. He knows that I know I’ll have to jump him, just before the end.
What’s more, he knows that I know that he knows.
That meant Chang would shoot him before the last moment, to prevent that desperate lunge. But how soon before?
Not too soon, or the smuggler would have to depart with a half-empty trolley, abandoning the rest of his hoard forever. Clearly, Chang’s profound greed was the one thing keeping Roland alive. Still, he’d have to do it before the cargo hamper was topped off… before Roland’s adrenaline was pumping for the maximum, all-or-nothing effort.
Five loads to go, Roland thought while fitting more jars snugly into place under Chang’s watchful eye. Will he do it at three? Or two!
He was delivering the next load, beginning to screw up his courage, when a noise echoed down the steep stair shaft, preempting all plans.
“Senterius! It’s Kanakoa. And Schmidt. What the hell you doing down here?”
Roland froze. Chang edged against the wall near the steps, watching him. There came the scrape of footsteps on stone.
Dumpit, Roland cursed. He was bent over the trolley in an awkward position, much too far away to attack Chang with any chance of success. In addition, his hands were laden with bags. If only he were carrying jars, that could be thrown…
“Senterius? What are you doing, asshole? Smoking? Kleinerman’ll roast all of us if they catch you!”
Roland suddenly realized why Chang was watching him so intently. Chang’s following my eyes!
Roland’s gaze could not help widening when one booted foot appeared on the topmost visible step. Chang was using him to gauge where the other recruits were, to tell when the moment was just right for killing all three of them! In holding onto seconds of life, Roland knew suddenly, horribly, he was murdering Kanakoa and Schmidt.
Still, even knowing that, he remained statuelike. In Chang’s eyes he saw understanding and the glitter of contemptuous victory. How did he know? Roland railed inside. How did he know I was a coward?
The admission belied every one of his dreams. It betrayed what Roland had thought were his reasons for living. The realization seared so hot it tore through his rigor and burst forth in a sudden scream.
“Cover!” he cried, and threw himself onto the pallet, slamming home the trolley’s single lever. Almost simultaneously a series of rapid bangs rattled the narrow chamber and Roland’s leg erupted in sudden agony. Then there was blackness and the swift whistle of wind as the little car sped into a gloom darker than any he had ever known.
Seconds ticked while he battled fiery pain. Clenching his jaw to keep from moaning, Roland desperately hauled back on the lever, bringing the trolley to a jerky halt in the middle of the arrow-straight shaft. Waves of dizziness almost overwhelmed him as he rolled over onto his back and clutched his thigh, feeling a sickening, sticky wetness there.
One thing for certain, he couldn’t afford the luxury of fainting here. Funny — he’d been taught all that biofeedback stuff in school, and drilled in it again here in training. But right now he just couldn’t spare the time to use any of those techniques, not even to stop the pain!
“There are two types of simple thigh wounds,” memorized words droned as he wrestled the belt from his waist. “One, a straight puncture of muscle fiber, is quite manageable. Treat it quickly and move on. Your comrade should be able to offer covering fire, even if he can no longer move.
“The other kind is much more dangerous …”
Roland fought shivers as he looped the belt above the wound. He had no idea which type it was. If Chang had hit the femoral artery, this makeshift tourniquet wasn’t going to do much good.
He grunted and yanked hard, cinching the belt as tight as he could, and then slumped back in reaction and exhaustion.
You did it! He told himself. You beat the bastard!
Roland tried to feel elated. Even if he was now bleeding to death, he’d certainly won more minutes than Chang had intended giving him. More important still, Chang was brought down! In stealing the smuggling lord’s only means of escape, Roland had ensured his capture!
Then why do I feel so rotten?
In fantasy Roland had often visualized being wounded, even dying in battle. Always though, he had imagined there’d be some solace, if only a soldier’s final condolence of victory.
So why did he feel so dirty now? So ashamed?
He was alive now because he’d done the unexpected. Chang had been looking for heroism or cowardice — a berserk attack or animal rigor. But in that moment of impulse Roland had remembered the words of the old vet in Bloomington. “A fool who wants to live will do anything his captor tells him. He’ll stand perfectly still just to win a few more heartbeats. Or he may burst into a useless charge.
“That’s when, sometimes, it takes the most guts to retreat in good order, to fight another day.”
Yeah, Joseph, sure. Roland thought. Tell me about it.
As his heart rate eased and the panting subsided, he now heard what sounded like moans coming down the tunnel. Kanakoa or Schmidt, or both. Wounded. Perhaps dying.
What good would I have done by staying? Instead of a leg wound, he’d have gone down with several bullets in the heart or face, and Chang would have gotten away.
True enough, but that didn’t seem to help. Nor did reminding himself that neither of those guys back there were really his friends, anyway.
“Soldier boy!” The shout echoed down the narrow passage. “Bring the trolley back or I’ll shoot you now!”
“Fat chance,” Roland muttered. And even Chang’s voice carried little conviction. Straight as the tunnel was, and even allowing for ricochets, the odds of hitting him were low even for an expert. Anyway, what good was a threat, when to comply meant certain death?
It wasn’t repeated. For all the millionaire knew Roland was already at the other end.
“Why did I stop?” Roland asked aloud, softly. At the terminus he might find a telephone to call an ambulance, instead of lying here possibly bleeding to death.
A wave of agony throbbed up his leg. “And I thought I was so smart, not becomin’ a dazer.”
If he’d ever slipped over that line — using biofeedback to trip-off on self-stimulated endorphins — he’d certainly have a skill appropriate for here and now! What would have been self-abuse in Indiana would be right-on first aid at a time like this.
But then again, if he’d ever been a dazer, he wouldn’t even be here right now. The corps didn’t accept addicts.
Suddenly the cavern erupted in thunder, shaking the very walls. Roland covered his ears, recognizing pulse-rifle fire. No doubt about it, the real soldiers had arrived at last.