Shadows, стр. 26
“No, sir!”
“A heavy staff or rod?”
The man paused, rummaged in the short cargo bed, and trotted back holding a metal shaft an inch in diameter and three feet long. One end was beveled and the other had snapped off cleanly into a flat end.
“Will this do, Lieutenant? It’s a broken strut. But, sir, Major Moorefield says to secure the exit and wait for reinforcements before making entry.”
“Did he say how long before they get here?”
“No, sir. But I would guess a half hour, maybe more.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Sir, he sounded—”
“I heard you!” Tanavuna said and then repeated one of Cutter’s favorite lessons, “But guesses are not the basis for sound decisions.”
The irony didn’t go unnoticed that he had guessed the tire tracks might lead to Kesteluni, and then reversed the axiom for his own advantage. But the moment for worrying about such contradictions had passed.
Driven by the intensity of his instinct that Kesteluni was near, Tanavuna stalked to the door with an air that dared anyone to try and stop him. He knelt and probed the dirt with his fingers. He found the seam and felt the wooden slats, gauging their thickness at roughly two inches. As he’d assumed, it was much too heavy for a few men to lift. He inserted the beveled end of the broken strut into the seam, dug where the door met the frame, and gouged out a notch for leverage. Once done, he pried it open with the help of Ammaii, Kuun, and Unaa—enough to slide the butt of his M14 in to the gap to keep it from closing.
Dropping to his belly, Tanavuna peered through the crack into the darkness. The narrow shaft of sunlight gave just enough illumination to show a ramp of stone slanting downward. Getting to his knees, Tanavuna called for Moorefield’s man and the vehicle driver to join them. Reluctantly, they did.
Between them they rolled a small boulder into place beside the trap door. All five men then strained to lift the massive wooden platform, sweat pouring down their faces and turning the dirt on their hands into mud. When it was just over a foot above its frame, Tanavuna and Unaa shoved the boulder into place to prop it open.
They all leaned away and bent over, hands on knees, gulping the hot air. Despite his urgency, Tanavuna gave them a long moment to recover. Then, grabbing his rifle, he lay down next to the low opening.
“Tell the major we’re going inside,” he said to Moorefield’s man. Sliding sideways, he disappeared into the shadows.
* * * * *
Chapter 11
Yukannak stumbled out of the shattered doorway, barely avoiding the whinaalani’s swishing tail. Bracing against the wall with his right hand, he ran toward the tunnels, glancing over his shoulder in case the beast followed.
He twisted his head toward the gunfire coming from behind the buildings to his left, so he didn’t notice a man who appeared from the direction of the waterfall, raised a rifle, and fired. The bullet tugged at the collar of his robe. Only then did he realize the nearness of death in almost every direction.
Yukannak ducked left down an alley, hoping there were no more soldiers waiting for him at the other end. A second bullet zipped through the space he’d just vacated. The narrow passage opened onto a plaza, where he paused to get his bearings. Screaming people were running for doorways as militia men fired at unseen targets. A young woman fell as a bullet struck her in the back. She rolled and came to a stop at Yukannak’s feet; the spreading puddle of blood leaked between the cracks in the paving stones. Lifeless eyes stared up into his.
Bullets ripped into the wall beside his head. For the briefest instant, he froze, then he flinched away from the spray of sharp slivers. At his back was the same rifleman, still trying to kill him. Out of options, Yukannak sprinted across the plaza toward the relative safety of the tunnels.
* * *
The hardest part for Cutter was letting First Squad do its job. He wanted to go first, to take the biggest risk himself so they would stay safe. Having already lost a man brought memories of France into his mind’s eye, and he would rather substitute his own death for one of theirs. But he was the platoon commander, and taking all that risk personally was not only bad leadership, it was selfish. So, he held back as the point man moved into the streets of the Outer City.
They advanced with two fire teams forward and Cutter leading four men as a reserve. Scattered fires, smashed vendors’ carts, and empty shell casings were clear evidence of the fighting. Patches of dark blood didn’t bother him or his own men, though. He’d seen plenty of gore in Normandy, and living on R’Bak meant dealing with violent death on a daily basis—usually from animals, but not always—and the indigs didn’t give it a second thought.
Throughout the Outer City, clusters of adobe-and-stone shanties, some with roofs of wood or animal hide, huddled around communal wells. Bodies littered the narrow passages that served as streets, which reminded Cutter of St. Lô, France, after the savage fighting in July, 1944. Most were very young or very old, trampled in the panicked rush for safety when the shooting started. A few showed gunshot wounds, and the front of a dead fruit hawker’s robe showed powder burns; the close-range kill was evidence that some of the militia were already using the chaos to plunder.
The Outer City had a pattern; the densest parts were centered on community wells, with the cleared plazas around them serving as