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.
“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.
The gunshots ended almost immediately. Could it be over already? he wondered.
But no. As the ringing echoes subsided, he heard voices. One of them Chang’s.
“… if you throw down grenades. So if you want your wounded soldiers to live, negotiate with me!”
So Chang claimed two captives. Roland realized gloomily that both Schmidt and Kanakoa must have been caught, despite his shouted warning.
Or maybe not! After all, would Chang admit to having let one recruit escape down the tunnel? Perhaps he only had one of the others and used the plural form as a ploy. Roland clung to that hope.
It took a while for someone in authority to begin negotiations. The officer’s voice was too muffled for Roland to make out, but he could hear Chang’s side of the exchange.
“Not good enough! Prison would be the same as death for me! I accept nothing more rigorous than house arrest on my Pingtung estate.…
“Yes, naturally I will turn state’s evidence. I owe my associates nothing. But I must have the deal sealed by a magistrate, at once!”
Again, the officials’ words were indistinct. Roland caught tones of prevarication.
“Stop delaying! The alternative is death for these young soldiers!” Chang shouted back.
“Yes, yes, of course they can have medical attention … after I get my plea bargain! Properly sealed! Meanwhile, any sign of a stun or concussion grenade and I shoot them in the head, then myself!”
Roland could tell the marshals were weakening, probably under pressure from the peacekeeper CO. Dammit! he thought. The good guys’ victory would be compromised. Worse, Chang surely had means at his estate for another escape, even from state detention.
Don’t give in, he mentally urged the officers, though he felt pangs thinking of Kanakoa, or even Schmidt, lying there dying. If you plea bargain, the bastard’ll just start all over again.
But Chang’s next shout carried tones of satisfaction. “That’s better! I can accept that. You better hurry with the document though. These men do not look well.”
Roland cursed. “No!”
He rolled over and reached into the cargo hamper, tossing bags and jars onto the tracks ahead. They split and shattered. Narwhal tusks and rhino horns coated the tracks in powdered form, obstructing further travel in that direction. Then Roland fought fresh waves of nausea to writhe around on the narrow trolley, facing the direction he had come.
He’d worried he might have to manipulate the lever with his feet. But there was a duplicate at the other end. A red tag prevented the switch from being pushed past a certain point. This Roland tore out, ripping one of his fingers in the process.
“Yes, I am willing to have my house arrest fully monitored by cameras at all times …”
“I’m sure you are, carni-man,” Roland muttered. “But you don’t fool me.”
He slammed the lever home and the trolley glided forward. What began as a gentle breeze soon was a hurricane as power flowed from the humming rails.
You forget, Chang, that your estate is still on Mother Earth. And my guess is that Mom’s had just about enough of you by now …
The light ahead ballooned in a rapidly expanding circle of brilliance. Roland felt solenoids try to throw the lever back, but he strained, holding it in place. In an instant of telescoped time, he saw a figure turn in the light, stare down the shaft, raise his weapon …
“Gaia!” Roland screamed, a battle cry chosen at the last second from some unknown recess of faith as he hurtled like a missile into space.
It was a mess the UNEPA team came do
wn to inspect, after peacekeeping personnel pronounced it safe, and once the wounded boy had been rushed off to hospital. They were still taking pictures of the two remaining bodies when the green-clad Ecology Department officials came down the steep stairs at last to see what had happened.
“Well, here’s your missing cache, Elena,” one of them said, picking carefully through the white and gray powders scattered across the floor. Three walls of shelves were intact, but a fourth had collapsed over two quiet forms, sprawled atop each other in the corner. There, the snowdrifts had been stained crimson.
“Damn,” the UNEPA man continued, shaking his head. “A lot of poor beasts died for one geek’s fetish.”
Elena looked down at her enemy of all these years. Chang’s mouth gaped open—crammed full of powder that trailed off to the limp hand of the young recruit she had spoken to early in the evening. Even dying, riddled with bullets, this soldier apparently had a sense of symmetry, of poetry.
A peacekeeping forces noncom sat near the boy, smoothing a lock of ruffled hair. The corporal looked up at Elena. “Senterius was a lousy shot. Never showed any promise at all with weapons. I guess he improvised though. He graduated.”
Elena turned away, disgusted by the maudlin, adolescent sentiment. Warriors, she thought. The world is finally growing up though. Someday soon we’ll be rid of them at last.
Still, why was it she all of a sudden felt as if she had walked into a temple? Or that the spirits of all the martyred creatures were holding silent, reverent watch right now, along with the mourning corporal?
It was another woman’s low voice Elena seemed to hear then, so briefly it was all too easy to dismiss as an echo or a momentary figment of exhaustion. Still, she briefly closed her eyes and swayed.
“There will be an end to war,” the voice seemed to say, with gentle patience.
“But there will always be a need for heroes.”
After the breakup of the supercontinent Pangaea. millions of years passed while the Indian landmass wandered northward away from Africa, creeping across the primordial ocean in solitary splendor. Then, once upon an eon, India collided head on, into the belly of Asia.