Shadow Fortress. James Axler
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got dogs?” Mitchum asked suspiciously, glancing at the wags.
“Something close enough.”
There was only one other possibility. “Hunters!” the sec chief gasped, backing away a step. “Are you mad?”
“No Hunters,” Glassman snapped. “The local baron had one that he claimed was tame as a gaudy slut. Even did tricks, and such. Shot it dead in its cage. There is no such thing as a tame Hunter. They just act whipped until that door is open, and then rip off your head.”
“Smart move,” Mitchum said, sagging a little as his thigh trembled with weakness. For a moment, he gazed at the wags longingly, then stood tall once more.
The captain tucked his thumbs into his wide belt. “We’ve got a dozen hunting dogs trained to track escaped slaves. You give us anything with their smell, and those beasts will track them through fire and water.”
“Lots of bloody clothing at the wreckage,” Mitch-um said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Most of it is burned, but mebbe something is still usable.”
“Good,” the captain said, turning to the wags. “Corporal Yantar! Take a squad and check over the wreckage of a wag down the road. I want anything stained with human blood. Anything at all. If these dogs are any damn good, they should be able to track the scents of a dozen slaves with no trouble.”
The corporal grinned, displaying badly stained teeth. “We’ll have those outies in chains by nightfall! I’d bet my life on it!”
“Accepted,” Mitchum grunted. “Find them by darkness, or we leave you staked out for muties.”
Going pale, Yantar scrambled from the Hummer to join the sec men walking past the officers and headed for the wreckage.
“Better get in a wag, Mitchum,” Glassman ordered. “Have the healer check those wounds. Should put some shine on them, and a little in you to ease the pain.”
“I’ll walk,” Mitchum replied stiffly. “Can’t show weakness in front of my men.”
“They aren’t your sec men,” Glassman stated coldly. “All of your troops are chilled. These are my navvies, and some of the local baron’s grunts. They obey only me. Now, get in the bastard wag. You’re the only person alive who has seen the faces of the outlanders, and I may need that in case they try to slip through us to steal a boat. I’m gonna keep you alive at any cost, so get in or get dragged in like a chained slave. I don’t care. Your choice.”
“How about we try this instead, ya skinny fuck. Tell them I’m your new chief,” Mitchum growled softly, “or I blow you in half.”
There was a jab into his gut, and Glassman looked down to see a blaster pressed against his stomach, the hammer pulled back and ready to fire. The barrel was warm, but it sent a chill down his back. Unfortunately, Glassman was blocking the view so there was no way the sec men in front, or behind, could see he was in danger.
“Decide fast,” Mitchum ordered, touching him up a little with the barrel. “Share the command or die. Your choice.”
Glassman could feel sweat forming on his face, but kept his voice level and forced out a soft chuckle. “Black dust, I’m impressed. Always need men good as you. But the lord baron wants the outlanders alive. Agree to that, and you’re my new top kick.”
The blaster moved forward an inch. “No.”
“Then do it, gimp,” Glassman spit, pressing his body against the blaster, forcing a surprised Mitchum to back up. “Shoot me and watch my men take you apart as I drop.”
Temporarily outmaneuvered, Mitchum clenched his teeth, fighting the pain of his wounds and the burning desire to seek revenge. Few men would face down a weapon to their guts. Glassman had to be a fanatic, or Kinnison had a hold on him more frightening than death.
“I get to ace Ryan, you get the rest,” he offered hatefully.
“Agreed,” Glassman stated, then bellowed over a shoulder. “Sergeant Campbell!”
“Sir?” came the prompt reply.
“Mitchum here will be assuming your duties as my second in command. You’re the new top gunner.”
Looking around the dirty windshield, Campbell stared at the two men talking down the road. Something was going on, but since he had no idea what it was, he’d best just obey orders for the present.
“Yes, sir!” Campbell shouted, stepping into the rear of the vehicle to take a position at the big machine gun.
“Satisfied?” Glassman asked, staring the man in the face.
“For the moment,” Mitchum said, jabbing the sailor with the muzzle of his flintlock one more time, then holstering the piece. “But remember, I took you face-to-face, while surrounded by your stinking troops, and I can do it again whenever I please.”
“Mebbe,” Glassman muttered.
“Try me anytime,” the wounded man growled, shuffling for the lead Hummer, then bitterly added, “sir.”
“Count on it,” Glassman whispered, but only the ocean breeze heard the words.
AS THE LONG EXHALATION of stale air ceased flowing from the inside of the plane, the companions stopped holding their breaths and took a tentative sniff. The interior of the craft still reeked faintly of rotten flesh, kerosene and dust, but the smell was quickly fading as the fresh clean air of the jungle poured into the ancient cargo bay.
His blaster leading the way, Ryan walked inside and waited for his vision to adjust to the dim recesses of the giant aircraft. J.B. and the others were right behind him, with Doc staying at the open hatch and Jak remaining in the tree.
The scant light coming in through the open hatch-way of the C-130 was barely sufficient to see anything, so Krysty and Dean lit candles, while Mildred dug a small flashlight from her med kit. Pumping the handle a few times to charge the ancient batteries, she flicked its switch and out came a strong white beam that soon faded to a soft yellow. The hundred-year-old device was slowly dying, and there was no way the physician could ever replace it. But the weak light filled the cargo bay of the aircraft, outshining the dancing flames of the tallow candles.
The ceiling was twenty or so feet above them, and heavily padded with some sort of insulation material. Pieces of ventilation conduits, wiring and fuel pipes showed here and there for maintenance. Directly in front of Ryan was a row of seats filled with the bones of dead crew members. To his left, a door was set into a metal wall that led to the front ammo bunkers and the washroom. Alongside that was a short flight of stairs going to a veined door with multiple hinges, the access to the cockpit. J.B. went straight up the steps and checked the door.
“Give me a sec, it’s locked,” he announced, pulling tools out of his bag.
Moving deeper into the behemoth, Ryan saw the main body of the aircraft extended for yards and yards, with huge canvas lumps filling the central passageway, the mounds of cargo resting on thick pallets and firmly lashed into place by a dozen ropes and chains. The distant rear of the craft was lost in shadows. Dean headed that way along the left wall, and soon came back along the right.
“Nothing else but these things,” the boy said, nudging a pallet with his boot. “No more bones or doors.”
“Careful opening those,” Krysty warned, lifting her candle high to follow the path of some power cables. “The gov often booby-trapped important cargo.”
“Gotcha,” Dean said, moving away from the canvas mound. He made a mental note to ask J.B. to start teaching him about traps and locks. It was an important skill these days.
At the open hatch, Doc stomped on the deck, crushing something with a lot of legs under his boot. “Be-gone, Visigoth!” he snorted, and kicked the dead millipede onto the wing. As it landed on the leaves, the vines twitched and a flower bent over it to close its rainbow petals about the pulped insect and start