Linda Evans - Sleipnir.pdf - Linda Evans - margozap

SLEIPNIR

by Linda Evans

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, N.Y. 10471

ISBN: 0-671-87594-9

Cover art by C.W. Kelly

First printing, March 1994

Distributed by

Paramount Publishing

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N.Y. 10020

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, N.H.

Printed in the United States of America

Sleipnir is for

My family, because Lois, Don, and Michael Evans, Darrell Walton, Ron Walton, Frances Walton,

and Zella Evans all believed in a skinny, awkward kid . . .

Susan Collingwood, because she always tells me when I'm wrong, and believes in me when I

despair . . .

David R. Palmer, because he taught me craft and went above and beyond the call of friendship

doing it . . .

Marj Schott, because she gives of her soul . . .

Ms. "Mom" Wiley, Dr. Constantine Santas, Dr. Andrew Dillon, Dr. Gail Compton, Mrs. Bushong,

Mrs. Hill,

and all teachers everywhere, because

they create our future . . .

Doyle Pope, because so long as we remember, his Manta Ship will fly the stars . . .

Dr. John Boyle, because good doctors are worth

their weight in diamonds . . .

Toni Weisskopf and Jim Baen, because they

made my dream come true . . .

Debbie Anderson, Mary Ann Emerson, Bill Brand, Brenda Long, Kathy Lyons, Amy Repasky,

Daryl Finnegan, Jenny Bruno, Sandra Kay Haile, Robert Berger, Kathy Rath, and all my many, dear

friends in the North-Central Florida Sportsmen's Association and the NRA, because without good

friends, we can accomplish nothing, but with their help, we can work miracles . . .

but mostly, Sleipnir is for Bob Hollingsworth,

and all the heroes who fought the Cold War, because some of them never returned to tell the tale.

Chapter One

Pushing a cave isn't a job for amateurs.

But then, neither is hunting gods. Especially in their own stomping grounds. Predictably, I was

doing a lousy job of both.

Considering my past history—I never took advice I didn't like—it wasn't too surprising my

spelunking guide was so mad at me he wasn't speaking. Now, nobody has ever accused me of

possessing tact, but in Klaus' case, it had taken a lot of effort to get him to the stage of silent

jaw-grinding. Klaus had several thousand reasons—all of them deliciously green—to put up with my

demands, but even poor old Klaus had finally reached his limit.

Every morning for the past three days he had insisted we turn back for the surface. I insisted we

keep going. Klaus was stubborn; but I've been called less flattering names than a bullheaded, mule-eared

horse's backside. I got my way.

When I woke up that morning, I knew Klaus would try again. I braced myself for the inevitable,

and wasn't disappointed. Even before I'd crawled out of my sleeping bag, he looked me straight in the

eye—which left me half-blind, since he was pointing the carbide light on his helmet right at my face—and

muttered, "We go back. Now ."

The moment was fast approaching I'd either have to tell him what I was really doing down here, or

hit him over the head and go on alone. So, trying to delay the inevitable a little longer, I snapped,

"Tonight! We got one more day to go before I turn around. Read your contract if you're not happy

about it. And get that light out of my face!"

Nobody should have to argue with an angry Norwegian before breakfast. I'm not human until I've

had coffee—which probably explained my mood, since it'd been a week since I'd had any. I got myself

clear of the sleeping bag, and flexed my knees, trying to limber up before we came to blows. He was

older than I was, but probably in better shape. My leg still hurt from the gunshot wounds, and a slithering

fall down a sharp rockface two days previously hadn't done the rest of me any good, either.

Klaus scowled. His round face took on the look of a satanic elf. "Damn it," he growled, making

two words of it, "we have walked deeper than anyone. You have the record, Herr Barnes. We have

pushed Garm's Cave far enough. We turn back now . Our supplies are low—"

I nudged to see how far he'd give. "Tonight, Bjornssen! Or didn't I pay you enough?"

He looked for a moment like he wanted to punch me. In fact, when his fists tightened down I set

myself to feint to one side and end this the hard way. Then he just turned his back and slammed his gear

together. I let tense gut muscles soften, and started breathing normally again. Another day gained . . .

Given the white-lipped set of his face, I halfway expected him to march back toward the surface—

alone. But he didn't. He just slouched down with his back to me, and started wolfing his breakfast. For

all the attention Bjornssen paid me, I might have been part of the rock under his khaki-clad backside.

I thought about apologizing, but I wasn't about to go back now. Not after the price I'd paid—

money and blood—to get this far. So I kept my mouth shut and let him stew in silence. When I was

ready to go, I stood up and shrugged into my pack.

Bjornssen glanced back and eyed my unorthodox gear. He scowled again; then deliberately

reached for another handful of dried apples from his own supplies. I shrugged metaphoric shoulders.

Klaus Bjornssen had known what I was carrying from the outset. That gear was partly why his fee had

been so high. Besides, he was the only guide I'd been able to find willing to take a rank amateur into a

cave only professionals had dared "push" before.

Part of the reason I'd been riding him so hard was the hope he'd finally blow his temper and leave

me to get back out the best way I knew how. To date, that part of the plan had failed. Call it

professional ethics or masochism, Bjornssen had absorbed all the punishment I could dish out, and was

still with me. All things considered, Klaus was entitled to a sulk. So while he finished his meal, I lit my

carbide lantern and explored the passageway out to the limit of Bjornssen's helmet light. My footsteps

sounded hollow against the muffled sounds of Klaus reshuffling gear and readjusting straps.

I glanced back as Bjornssen marked the wall with a strip from his ever-present roll of surveyor's

tape; then I moved on as he turned to follow. A whole series of hundred-foot dropoffs, which had

required ropes and rock-climbing pitons to traverse, had given way to another long, low cavern with no

apparent end. The rock no longer looked entirely like limestone; or maybe it was just my eyes. I'd been

looking at nothing but grey rock for days, now. The only genuine difference I could pinpoint was the

absence of water.

After a good bit of beard-scratching, I decided that must account for the almost subliminal changes

I was noticing. The lack of water worried me—we were lower on water than anything else—but it

shouldn't have surprised me. It was predictable that the immortal bastard I was hunting would dry up the

water supply when I needed it most.

Bjornssen's footsteps stomped up close behind me. He was muttering to himself in Norwegian.

From the sound of it, he probably wanted to tear my head off and serve it to me for lunch. I started to

step out of his way before he could shoulder past and take the lead—

—and he yelled. The light from Bjornssen's lamp swung crazily. He smashed forward into my back

and kept falling. I stumbled, and windmilled for balance. A loud, sickening scrape reached my ears, then

he grabbed wildly at my ankles. I crashed to the floor and bruised face and ribs on rough stone. The

impact extinguished my lamp. Stunned, I tried to catch my breath. Bjornssen gabbled hysterically. His

weight was pulling me backward over a lip of rock. Both of us slid out over nothing at all.

I yelled—and all that came out was a gurgling croak. I left skin behind on the rough stone, and tried

to lift my face. We were still sliding. I grabbed for any available handholds to brake our fall, and didn't

find any. His whole weight hung suspended from my ankles. The only light came from his helmet. It

swung crazily as he struggled. Wild, distorted shadows left me grabbing for handholds that were nothing

but illusion.

"Hang—on—" I gasped. He made a lunge for my knees with one hand—and missed. I slid

backward another six inches, and dug in with my fingernails. The rough lip of stone caught my crotch.

"Dammit"—I used elbows and hands, hugging stone in an effort to stop our fatal slide—"get your—hands

around—my knees—"

My feet jerked hard. I gave an involuntary yell as I slid backward clear up to my chest. My legs

dangled in empty space. Even without looking, I could sense how long a way it was to the bottom.

Bjornssen screamed and cursed and hung on by my bootlaces.

Then he was gone.

The light faded swiftly below me. His screams echoed, dropped rapidly away until I couldn't hear

him anymore.

For long moments I hung absolutely motionless, halfway to falling to my own death. Then, in the

process of scraping myself painfully forward, gasping and flailing until most of me was on solid rock

again, it occurred to me I hadn't even seen a hole big enough for a man to fall into.

I scooted backward until my back touched solid rock, and wished there'd been a way to back up

even farther. That hole hadn't been there. It couldn't have been there. I listened for a moment to my heart

pound in my ears. I thought about letting go of the rock floor to strike the sparker on my helmet; but my

lizard brain wouldn't let my hand relax its deathlike grip. Okay, I thought, I'll just sit here and think for

a couple of minutes . My thoughts weren't pretty.

I'd seen men die before. Had killed a few, myself. But this . . . I felt sick all over, like I'd tricked a

puppy into the jaws of a killer wolf. Dammit, I hadn't liked the man much; but he had been a good

spelunker, a loyal guide, and a decent enough human being. He certainly hadn't deserved to die,

especially when he didn't have the faintest idea what I'd dragged him into.

I was hunting Odin by my own choice. My own pride, combined with the recognition that I needed

to hire spelunking expertise, had contributed to Klaus' murder as certainly as though I'd shoved him

down the chimney myself. Guilt ate up whatever comfort could be found in the knowledge that I'd

always done better when hunting alone in the dark.

I swore bitterly and breathed deeply for a moment; then listened to my pulse rate gradually slow

down and fade from the foreground of my awareness.

Klaus Bjornssen had doubtless gone to his death convinced I was the biggest asshole this side of

hell. I snorted. If I were right, he was there right now, probably still calling me every name he could think

of, to every poor, dead soul who'd listen. I hoped it made him feel better.

No more innocents in the way. Odin had another think coming if he and his buddies thought they

could stop me just by pulling the ground out from under my feet. . . .

Well, it wasn't going to be the last time he'd try it. And he had at least as much to lose as I did;

maybe more. I swore aloud; then grinned, although the wobbly effort felt a little sickly. I might be

shaken, but I must have managed to put a serious dent in Odin's confidence. That counted for more than

a little in the deadly game I'd found myself caught up in.

And since the only score which mattered was survival, that left me on top. So far, anyway.

Somewhere at the bottom of this cave, Odin must be spitting ten-penny nails.

Gary would've been proud. Well, maybe he would; then again, maybe not. Gary Vernon had

wanted me to go Stateside when my discharge came, find myself a decent job and marry some

freckle-faced kid with a down-home Cracker accent. But if I had, I would never have been able to look

myself in the eye again. Gary Vernon was the reason I was here, stranded on the lip of a bottomless

chimney in a freezing Norwegian cave. And no one-eyed, oath-breaking, cold-blooded killer was going

to divert me. Of course, nobody'd ever accused me of having too many brain cells; but Randy Barnes

wasn't, by God, a quitter.

I can't speak for the rest of humanity; but having my life wrenched inside-out by assholes really

pisses me off. I never could tolerate an asshole. (Despite a sneaking suspicion that I was one.) I let out a

bark of laughter. They do say the only creature on this green earth stupider than an infantryman is a

Marine. Not even a leatherneck would have walked into this mess.

There were only two things I could see that I might have done differently. I should not have opened

my big, fat mouth and told Gary Vernon to go to hell. And I certainly shouldn't have made a pact with

Odin .

Hindsight is a mother.

It's also a waste of time. I muttered something ugly into the darkness and my words echoed oddly

in the close air. I growled out something even nastier, hopeful the curse followed my dead guide all the

way to Odin's ears. I'd learned the hard way that you never knew who—or what—might be listening

when you cursed, or took an oath, so I cursed away, because sure as worms eat little green apples,

nothing I said now could possibly get me in deeper than I already was.

"Okay, Barnes," I muttered. "What next?"

My lips and throat were dry. I fumbled for a canteen and swallowed a sip. I didn't dare drink

more; no telling how long this half-full canteen would have to last. Once it was secure again, I leaned

back and blew out my breath in a gusting sigh.

"What a mess."

Most people in my shoes would've had the sense either to go quietly mad, or to forget the whole

thing had ever happened. Johnson would have cracked—and, in point of fact, had. Nobody else

involved had even come close to admitting what was going on, probably not even to themselves. Gary . .

I swore again. Gary might have believed me. Had believed, in fact, even before I met him.

Not that it had done him any good.

Regret was also a waste of time. I needed to get my carbide lantern relit, see what I was up

against. I hadn't just spent three years guarding nuclear missiles—and playing pussyfoot with half the

terrorist groups in the world—for nothing. I had survived everything the Army and the ragheads and

Odin could throw my way. I owed myself—not to mention Gary Vernon—something better than sitting

in the dark.

I owed Gary Vernon an apology. And my life.

Chapter Two

Of all the gutless wonders, greenhorn newbies, dopers, and fools who joined the Army and

somehow got themselves assigned to Pershing, only a pitiful few were competent to handle the job of

guarding nuclear missiles. Among those few were guys like "Wally" Wallenstein, and Charles "Chuck"

Norris, and Crater, who, as far as I knew, had never been called anything else (although I'd heard it

rumored that his real name was Haversham).

They'd been among my closest friends.

But head-and-shoulders above the whole crowd—in everyone's opinion—was Gary Vernon. The

best of the best. An all-around nice guy, who'd lend you beer money when you were short, and watch

your back on patrol. Which was good, since he was generally acknowledged to be the luckiest man

alive. And since his luck seemed to rub off on whoever pulled patrols with him, everybody wanted to be

teamed with him.

Gary always laughed it off, attributed it to a pact he'd made with Odin. Whatever the cause, it

seemed to work. And the closer I got to discharge, the happier I was that Sergeant Brown and

Lieutenant Donaldson teamed us up a lot. We worked well together, and nothing got past us.

Being teamed with Gary got a whole lot more attractive once the brass sent down their

no-ammo-on-patrol policy. The official explanation sounded like an updated version of Mom's "You'll

shoot your eye out" excuse for never buying BB guns for Christmas—and made just about as much

sense. We were sitting on several megatons of nuclear warheads, and incidents with terrorist groups

running "training missions" in our area had been up at least three hundred percent over the previous three

months. Yet brass decides out of the blue we ought to go sneaking around in the dark with empty rifles?

Go figure.

It wasn't our fault some goddamn fool of a civilian had gotten himself shot on one of the other sites.

The way we had it figured, he'd probably been point scout, anyway, and got caught. But brass up at HQ

had had a royal cow, so we got stuck with the cow patties. The tower guards got live ammo; just not us

poor, dumb fools assigned to patrol the perimeter.

Being GIs, we found ways around it, with nobody the wiser, and none of us ending up casualties.

We had the situation well in hand—until that inevitable, bitter night under a full moon when I turned to

Gary and whispered, "You got any spares?"

He shot me an incredulous look. "You don't?"

"No—Wilson borrowed 'em last night. He's running scared. You know, his second kid's due in a

couple of weeks, and I felt sorry for him. Besides, I knew you always carry."

Gary snorted, visibly disgusted. His breath steamed.

"Great. I dumped mine back into my gear while you were in the can. Brunowski almost caught me

when he poked his head in the door. I knew you always carry."

I wasn't sure which of us was more dismayed. Neither of us had any illegal personal ammo; which

meant we now carried what amounted to clumsy plastic-handled clubs.

"Well," Gary muttered philosophically, "I guess it's you and me and the gods tonight, good buddy."

Linda Evans - Sleipnir.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: