Traitor, Book 1 of The Turner Chronicles

  Chapter 35

  The compound looked as if it had been the center of a minor war. All the buildings around Klein were skewed and broken and burned. Brick littered areas that had once been lawn and road. Glass shards pointed out of the ground and trees. Yellow tape and men dressed in real military uniforms walked with determined purpose.

  Smiling grimly to himself, Helmet cautiously looked around. Possibly, he might have made a small error in deciding to return to Jefferson one last time. It looked as if sad fate had finally caught up to Mister Albridge Field and his toy Militia. So far, only pure luck dictated that the same fate had not yet landed on Helmet.

  He took one more look at the remains of the Everlasting Life Militia Field Division Compound before he crawled back into the crumbling building he had arrived in.

  Once there, he frowned. This turn of events was not a good thing. Not a good thing at all. He had counted on fresh supplies from the Militia, especially ammunition because his people thought rifles were a great idea. Rifles made a nice banging noise, and when used properly, rifles had it all over bows as a weapon of war. His tribes people loved their rifles to distraction, carried them everywhere they went, and used them in every battle and skirmish they managed to get themselves caught up in.

  No problem. That was what the rifles were for.

  The problem was that the tribes people loved their rifles too much. They loved their rifles so much that they constantly fired off any ammunition they got their hands on. The damn savages would shoot at rocks, bushes, and drops of water falling from the sky. Hell, they shot at the clouds and then looked disappointed when the clouds refused to fall down. Rationing ammunition helped some, but it was not the total answer.

  Unfortunately, Helmet had to give them bullets so they could practice hitting what they pointed at. Also, they had to have bullets to make their weapons effective if they ran across hostiles. However, despite all his admonishments, most of his people could not keep a full clip for more than a day or two before they gave in to impulse and fired most of their rounds off.

  And now he was here, stuck in the middle of the wrecked compound, surrounded by a few dozen too many uniforms because his people sometimes acted like children more than they acted like hardened warriors. No. This was not good.

  Okay, Mister Klein, he told himself, now is the time for all the good little boys to turn deceptive. The first order of business was to get rid of his uniform and its identifying insignia. As best he knew, Field's Everlasting Life Militia was not all that overcrowded with Colonels. The last time he checked there were only four. Investigating four different names when they caught someone wearing a Colonel's insignia was not one hell of a lot of work, even for a government man. It wouldn't take the dimmest clerk more than about one short minute to decide he was the Colonel they wanted above all the others.

  Well, if they wanted to talk to him they would have to work for it. Of course, if he did not want to have that confrontation, he would have to do a little work himself. For now, his first task would be stripping down and getting naked. The idea did not bother him because he was now a man of Chin. Modesty was a rare item among the nomads.

  Helmet wasted no time stripping off his clothes, right down to and including his monogrammed underwear. Footsteps passed his hiding place as he stuffed the clothing into the smallest cubbyhole he could find. After the footsteps passed, he covered the cubbyhole with about three hundred pounds of debris.

  When he finished, he stilled and took stock of himself. His lungs pumped a little quicker than he liked. His heart beat heavily, a faint sheen of sweat covered his bare torso, and his head felt light. Adrenaline high. Gods, wouldn't Sheem have a laugh if she were here now. Imagine, the indomitable Shahalla being excited by the small matter of being surrounded by enemies while he was naked and unarmed. She would ridicule him, and then she would show him exactly how SHE would rectify the situation.

  Helmet chuckled, reflecting that this was not a seemly situation for a would be emperor. He doubted if the King of Jutland would ever be found running around nude in a destroyed camp while the enemy searched the area. Then again, he doubted the fat bastard completely disrobed even when he tupped one of the servant girls. King Fulgis was a man well known for his modesty. Since he had met the man once, Helmet fully understood Fulgis' reasoning. Anyone with that much fat rolling over his many ceremonial belts could not be a pretty sight in bare skin. Hell, the man had to be downright repulsive to any woman with standards.

  Being naked did have some advantages. Naked was not only nameless, it also gave the appearance of vulnerable.

  Somebody approached. Helmet heard only one set of footsteps, and that made him grin. One set was good. He could handle one. Two would be a problem because people sometimes had a tendency to shout when they were set upon. The last thing he wanted was an alarm.

  Hating it, he grabbed a sharp bit of broken brick and gouged deep scratches into his skin. Blood welled forth from his arms and his chest and his bare legs. He dug the rubble into his sides and the small of his back and then he scratched his buttocks. When he was done, he tossed the broken brick away, rubbed his hands over his body to smear the blood, and then rubbed the blood over his face.

  The footsteps paused outside as he artfully lay himself down. Moving almost soundlessly, he draped broken blocks and strewn furniture over himself, while the scratch of a striking match and the faint smell of cigar smoke reached him. He breathed the smoke in appreciatively.

  Gods, he missed cigars. Smoking was one of the vices he would have to introduce to his Chins. Actually, it was the type of thing many of them would enjoy. He could just picture the consternation of some of the enemy tribes while his people ate fire and breathed smoke before a battle. Now that would be fun to watch.

  Another set of steps approached just as Helmet was about to go through his routine.

  "Got another?" a voice asked.

  "What? Don't you Army boys get paid enough to buy your own?"

  "We don't get paid crap. The army sees no reason to pay us when we can cage what we want off all you dumb Rangers."

  "Well, it looks like you just found yourself another dumb asshole. Here you go."

  "Thanks."

  After several moments of silence Klein heard the hiss of a flaring match, an inhalation and then a satisfied sigh.

  "Damn, you buy the good ones."

  "No, I don't." The Ranger sounded smug. "Didn't buy these at all. Found them in the remains of an office three buildings back. Do you see that tire laying out there all by itself? These cigars were right by a hole in the wall to the east of the tire. Found them in a desk drawer by a bunch of clippings about the Vipers."

  "What kind of idiot follows the Vipers?"

  "The same kind of idiot who buys really good cigars," the Ranger answered.

  "Are there any more?"

  "I got all the ones in the desk, but I think there are some laying around on the floor, and maybe in some of the other desks too. I'll find out once I finish this smoke and do an official search."

  "You really are a fool. I'm not going to let a treasure trove like that run free. You stay right here and smoke your cigar because that room is mine."

  Footsteps hurriedly moved away. Helmet heard another slow inhalation, and then he heard the Ranger release a satisfied laugh.

  "Gullible idiot," the Ranger breathed so low that Klein had to strain to make out his words. "I'd rather you do the searching than me, my friend. You just let me know what you find, and then I'll tell Sarge about it and get any of the credit due. There's a reason you're army, and I'm not."

  Breathing in the rich aroma of a very fine cigar, Helmet smiled, released an artful groan, and then coughed.

  "What?"

  Helmet groaned again. He heard shuffling steps, and then the light striking his closed eyes was momentarily blocked.

  "Well damn. It's a naked little oyster what lost its shell. Hang on, Mister. I'll be there soon as I finish my smoke."

 
Helmet heard another couple inhalations and a satisfied sigh.

  "Ah now, army is right about one thing. This is a good smoke. I'll have to steal Sarge's cigars more often, but business first. Here I come, dude."

  Clunk

  "Shit. A person could get hurt in here. Mister, you got blood all over you. I don't know what mountain lion you tangled with, but I don't want none of it. Okay, got you uncovered, so let's see what we have."

  When a shadow loomed over him Helmet opened his eyes to see the young visage of a uniformed Ranger. He smiled at the concerned face.

  "Idiot indeed," Helmet said as the man's eyes began widening.

  He struck.

  After dressing in his stolen clothes and scrubbing his face clean of blood with a handful of dirt, Helmet bent to peer at his handiwork. The man lived, but he was definitely out of it. Helmet figured the Ranger had at least a concussion. He might have even given the man a small fracture.

  Oh well. Such is life. If a man played in the big leagues he had to pay the price every now and again. Here in Jefferson that price would entail nothing more than a headache for the few hours it took to get the Ranger to a hospital. In Chin the price would have been fatal.