The Descent

Attached  to  his  dogtag  chain  was  a  small  steel  Maltese  cross,  the  official  emblem  of the   Knights   Templar.   Recently   revived   through   the   largesse   of   a   sports   shoe manufacturer,  the  military  religious  order  had  become  famous  for  employing  former high  school  and  college  athletes  with  little  other  future.  The  recruitment  had  started at Promise Keepers  and Million Man March rallies, and snowballed into a well-trained, tightly disciplined mercenary  army  for hire to corporations and governments.

In  passing  a  knot  of  the  indios,  she  saw  a  head  rise;  it  was  Ike.  His  glance  at  her lasted  barely  a  second.  She  still  owed  him  thanks   for  that   orange   in  the   Nazca elevator.  But he returned  his attention to the circle of porters,  hunkering  among  them like Marco Polo.

Ali  saw  lines  and  arcs  drawn  on  the  stone  in  their  midst,  and  Ike  was  shifting pebbles and bits of bone from one place to  another.  She  thought  they  must  be  playing a  game,  then  realized  he  was  querying  the  indios,  getting  directions  or  gathering information.  One  other  thing  she  saw,  too.  Near  one  foot,  Ike  had  a  small  pile  of carefully stacked  leaves,  clearly a last-minute purchase. She  recognized  them.  He  was a chewer  of coca leaves.

Ali  moved  on  to  the  soldiers'  part  of  the  camp.  All  was  in  motion  here,  men  in camouflage uniforms bustling around, checking weapons. There  were  at  least  thirty  of them,  even  quieter  than  the  indios,  and  she  decided  the  legend  must  be  true  about the  mercenaries'  vows   of  silence.  Except   for  prayer   or  essential   communication, speech was considered an extravagance  among themselves.

Drawn  by  coffee  fumes,  the  scientists  found  a  stove  perched  on  rocks  and  helped themselves,   then   started   poking  through   the   neatly   arranged   crates   and  plastic drums, looking for their equipment.

'You don't belong here,' the black soldier said. 'Please vacate  the depot.' He moved to block them. They  went around him and rooted deeper.

'It's okay,' someone told him, 'it's our stuff.'

The  hunt turned unruly. 'My  spectroscope!' someone announced triumphantly.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' a voice requested.

Ali barely  heard him over  the shouting and jostle of equipment.

A single gunshot  cracked  the  air.  The  bullet  had  been  aimed  out  from  camp,  angled toward  the   ground.  Where   it  struck   the   bare   bedrock   fifty   feet   out,  the   round blossomed into a shower of splintered light.

Everyone  stopped.

'What was that?' a scientist said.

'That,'   announced  the   shooter,   'was   a  Remington  Lucifer.'   He  was   a  tall  man, clean-shaven,  slim  in  the  fashion  of  field  officers.  He  wore  a  chest  rig  with  a  shoulder holster  for  his  modest-sized  pistol.  He  had  black   and  charcoal-gray   camouflaged SWAT  pants  bloused  into  lightweight  boots.  His  black  T-shirt  looked  clean.  A  pair  of night glasses dangled at his throat.

'It  is  an  ammunition  specially  developed  for  use  in  the  subplanet.  It  is  a  .25-caliber round, made of hardened plastic with  a  uranium  tip.  Different  levels  of  heat  and  sonic vibration shape its functional capabilities. It  can create  a devastating  wound,  break  up into multiple fléchettes, or simply create  a  blinding  distraction.  This  expedition  marks the  official  debut  for  the  Lucifer  and  other  technologies.'  The  accent  was  Tennessee aristocracy.

Spurrier  approached  the  soldier,  muttonchops  fluffed,  hand  outstretched.  He  had

delegated himself the scientists' spokesman. 'You must be Colonel Walker.'

Walker  bypassed  Spurrier's  outstretched  hand.  'We  have  two  problems,  people. First,  those  loads  you  have  looted  were  packed  by  weight  and  balanced  for  carrying. Their  contents  have  been  carefully  inventoried.  I  have  a  list  of  every  item  in  every load.  Every  load  is  numbered.  You  have  now  set  our  departure  back  by  a  half  hour while the loads are repacked.

'Problem two, one of my  men made a request.  You ignored it.' He met  their  eyes.  'In the future, you will please treat  such requests  as  direct  orders.  From  me.'  He  shut  his holster case with a snap.

'Looting?' a scientist protested.  'It's our equipment. How can we loot  ourselves?  Just who's in charge here?'

Still  wearing  his  pack,  Shoat  arrived.  'I  see  you've  met,'  he  said,  and  turned  to  the group.  'As  you  know,  Colonel  Walker  will  be  our  chief  of  security.  From  here  on  out, he'll be in charge of our defense and logistics.'

'We have  to ask him for permission to do science?' a man objected.