by Paul Kenyon
The Yakuts drifted back to their dome-shaped tent. There were sounds indicating that a drinking bout was in progress.
"I think we'd all better bed down as far from the yurt as possible," Penelope said. "And I'm posting a guard all night. I'll take the first watch."
"You could have done something," Sergei said in a shaky voice.
She whirled on him in a fury. "I could have done nothing!" she said. "I'm responsible for all of your lives. That man endangered this mission. His own people decided on his punishment. Personally I would have shot him. Just what do you think would have happened if I'd decided to interfere after telling Omogoy to keep his men under control?"
"Quite right," Tarda said. "If Omogoy himself had tried to stop it, his own men would have killed him."
The Baroness walked off. She felt a hand on her arm. It was Alexey.
"Do I still get a Penny in my sleeping bag tonight?"
She smiled. "That's why I'm taking first watch. Get some sleep, darling. I'll wake you up when I snuggle in with you. You'll find my tent in the side pocket of my pack."
She found a knoll that commanded a view of the entire camp. There was a tree trunk to protect her back. Sumo brought her a flask of hot coffee laced with brandy. She sat cross-legged, the Finnish semiautomatic sporting rifle across her knees. It was a thing of slender elegance with a tubular skeleton stock made of a lightweight alloy. It weighed about three pounds with its scope.
Scudding clouds had begun to switch the moon on and off, but she was able to see the yurt from time to time. Wild sounds were coming from its dark hump. Every once in a while a half-naked Yakut would stumble out through the flap to be sick or to relieve himself. She hoped they'd be in shape to travel tomorrow. But they were used to it. Drinking was a Siberian pastime. Sergei had told her that it was the custom to increase the proof of vodka with grain alcohol to conform to the latitude. In that case, the Yakuts were working on about 50 percent alcohol now: 100 proof.
The little one-man tents of the rest of the expedition were scattered at distances of several hundred yards. Penelope had decided it would be safer to disperse them. In case of any surprises from a Chinese patrol, they wouldn't be caught bunched together.
Footsteps crunched through the snow toward her. She couldn't see who it was. Unobtrusively she released the safety on her gun. The moon winked clear for a moment and she recognized Sergei's broad figure plodding toward her.
"My watch," he said. "Get some sleep."
She got to her feet. "Skytop will relieve you in two hours. No problems so far. I think the Yakuts are quieting down."
"Alexey is over there. Just past the two pine trees that are growing together."
"Thanks, Sergei."
He smiled. "Go on, don't keep him waiting."
She headed for the spot Sergei had indicated. It had grown dark again. The cold had grown more intense. She kept to her bearing, correcting herself whenever the moon peeked out a little. She was in a grove of scrub pine, picking her way toward the intertwined trees.
There was no time to react. Something hit her a crashing blow on the back of the skull. She pitched forward into the snow, the Finnish rifle flying from her grasp.
* * *
She hurt. Her whole body felt sore. She had a crashing headache. The air was smoky, with an overpowering smell of grease and sweat. She opened her eyes.
Her arms were tied behind her. She was naked, lying on a pile of greasy furs. She was inside the yurt. It was hot, stifling. She was dizzy for a moment, and the felt dome reeled. She was surrounded by leering Mongol faces that bobbed like tennis balls until she shook her head to clear it.
There were finger marks on her breasts and thighs. There was a burning sensation in her vagina. She'd been raped. She wondered how many times.
She looked around at the drunken Mongols for a clue. A thickset Yakut lay in a stupor against the felt wall, a leather flask clutched in his hand. He had a short, thick penis, crusted with dried semen. She memorized his face. Another Yakut looked toward her when she moved, a blurry intention forming on his face. He opened his trousers and pulled out a limp organ. He rubbed it experimentally, but it remained limp. There seemed to be a crust on it. He stuffed it back inside his fur trousers and went back to his drinking. She clenched her jaw. Those two would get it first.
Omogoy lurched toward her, his chest and arms bare. He was carrying her Finnish rifle. He leaned it against the wall of the yurt and squatted beside her.
"Did you enjoy yourself, Omogoy?" she said. "Do you like rubbing yourself against an unconscious woman without having to prove yourself a man?"
His eyes smoldered. "I was not among them. I waited. I want to watch your face, man-woman. Your American Chukchee stole my woman. Now I will have his."
"I'm not Skytop's woman," she said. "You're a man of little understanding."
"Silence!" he said, stung. "I understand that I will be important man when Russia has this Chinese secret we're after. When we don't have to share it with the Americans."
"So that's it. You waited until we were in Chinese territory before you made your move. You made a mistake, Omogoy. The Russians aren't going to appreciate this."
"Is all fixed. I have important friends in Moscow."
The hard-line faction, Penelope thought. There's one in every government. She wondered how far the takeover plot went. Was Alexey involved? She found that hard to believe.
"What does Alexey think about this?" she said.
He didn't answer. He prodded at her ribs. "Skinny," he said.
"Did he tell you to do this?"
He smiled, showing tombstone teeth. "He will be happy to take over expedition when all Americans are dead. Later we kill him too. Yakuts get credit for everything."
"Alexey doesn't have the coordinates for the laser weapon."
His face fell. "But we are in Chinese territory."
"You jumped the gun, you fool."
"Alexey say he will have position of weapon after we cross border."
Her voice was bitter. "I would have given it to him in the morning."
"Is no matter. You will tell me." He drew a stubby steel knife and thrust it into the charcoal brazier to heat.
"I don't have the coordinates memorized, you idiot," she lied.
"We see. It not matter. If you die without telling, we will get position from little radio operator."
He held up the little knife. The blade was glowing a dull red. He stared at it critically, then put it back to heat some more.
"Our ancestor is Ghengis Khan," he said. "We know how to have sport with captives. I have made strong men beg to die. You will tell what you know."
There was another Mongol crowding Omogoy's elbow. He said something in their harsh dialect, fumbling at his clothing. Omogoy roared at him and pushed him away.
"They all want to do it to you before I cut you apart too much. Woman in man's yurt is there to be used like pot. But I am chief. I use you first."
The Yakuts crowded around, grinning with anticipation, except for a couple who had passed out. Two of them grabbed her legs and forced them apart, leaning on them with all their weight. Omogoy dropped his felt trousers and knelt between her thighs. His organ stood out like a dagger handle from his hairless groin.
She struggled, trying to close her thighs. The two Yakuts bore down harder, smirking. That was what she wanted them to do. With her arms tied behind her, it was the only way she could adequately brace herself.
Omogoy eased himself forward, one hand guiding his peter, the other on her hip. She sat up as suddenly as a mousetrap spring, using her powerful abdominal muscles, skidding forward with the help of the startled Yakuts holding her legs. Her belly slammed into Ogomoy's erect penis, flattening it. He howled in pain and began rolling around the floor, hugging his groin.
One of the Yakuts holding her had lost his grip. She drove a knee into his face. He screamed and fell backward.
With her free leg, she caught the other Yakut in the sid
e of the neck with a heelbone. He made strangling noises, choking on his tongue.
She was already rolling toward the brazier. A few Yakuts were moving uncertainly toward her, stupefied by alcohol and by the suddenness of events. She snatched the knife out of the glowing coals, holding the red-hot blade behind her. She sprang to her feet in time to kick the brazier into the face of a Yakut who was advancing on her. He made a terrible sound and began scrabbling at his eyes.
She could sense the man behind her, feeling his body heat on her bare skin. She lunged backward with the knife. It must have gone in somewhere below the belt. There was a sizzling sound and the smell of scorched flesh. There was a horrible bleating noise. She pulled the knife free with a jerk and lurched toward the wall of the yurt.
The opposite wall had already caught fire from the scattered coals. The felt was impregnated with years of grease. The disoriented Mongols were trying desperately to smother the flames.
She pushed the point of the knife into the felt behind her at waist level. Fabric ripped. She sat down hard, with all her weight. The knife slid down the tent wall, tearing a long gash. She rolled out into the snow.
The intense cold was a shock. It struck her exposed body like a hammer blow. She jackknifed to her feet and ran barefoot through the snow, uphill toward the others, her hands tied behind her.
She breathed through her nostrils, afraid to let the freezing air into her lungs through her mouth. The cold gripped her like a vise, almost a physical thing. She ran up the slope like a startled deer.
There was a rifle shot behind her. A bullet whizzed past her head. A red glow from the burning yurt cast her shadow before her.
There was activity up ahead, but she couldn't tell what was happening. Then she saw the bright flash of a rifle, a flash that could only mean that the muzzle was pointing directly at her. There was a hot searing sensation along her thigh. She was sure that the shot had sounded like one of the Czech rifles used by the Russians. Then there was another sound, Wharton's heavy AR-10, aiming at targets behind her.
She risked a backward glance. The yurt was in flames. A couple of bulky figures were pursuing her. They hesitated, then turned back after snapping off a couple of wild shots in her direction.
Skytop's big form was bounding over the snow toward her, clad only in thermal underwear. He scooped her up in his huge arms and hugged her to him, giving her some warmth. "Hold on, Baroness, just hold on!" he said, bearing her up the slope.
He pushed her unceremoniously into one of the little thermal tents. It wasn't much bigger than a coffin, but Inga was there, waiting for her.
"Quick! Quick!" Inga said, tugging at one of her legs to get it into a garment. "Get this on immediately!"
She struggled gratefully into the skintight thermals. It was only when their comforting softness was on her that she began to feel sensation. She started to tremble uncontrollably.
"Here's some quick heat," Inga said. She plugged in the little battery pack. Warmth flooded through the network of embedded wires. The trembling stopped. She put on the rest of the garments that Inga was holding out to her.
Skytop poked his head through the flap. He was wearing his parka now. "Dan and Tommy are already going after Omogoy's boys," he said. "The Russians are on their way too. Can you manage?"
"Somebody took a shot at me from up here," Penelope said.
His eyes narrowed. "Alexey was the first one out with a gun."
She took the automatic carbine he was holding out to her and followed him down the slope, Inga behind her. Wharton was waiting, his AR-10 held low like a tommy gun.
"Omogoy and his boys took off," he said. "The ones who were able to, that is."
There were two sprawled bodies at his feet, rifles lying beside them in the snow. Those were her two pursuers. Their bodies were stitched with slugs from the AR-10. A third body lay closer to the smoking ruins of the yurt.
The Russians stood around in a little knot, silent. Penelope took a step forward. A blackened body lay within the charred framework: the man she'd knifed in the belly.
Something was writhing weakly at the Russians' feet. The man she'd treated to a faceful of hot coals. He must have managed to crawl, blinded, outside. She started toward him. If he could talk, perhaps she could get a clue to the plot to take over the expedition.
Before she could get there, she saw Alexey turn to speak to Tania. The blond girl nodded eagerly, and with unholy anticipation on her face knelt beside the blinded Yakut and sliced his throat with a knife.
Alexey turned a grim face to Penelope. "He was suffering," he said.
"There were a couple of questions I wanted to ask him."
"I have already questioned him. He said that Omogoy planned to kill all the Americans tonight."
"Did he tell you that he was also planning to kill the Russians later?"
Alexey shook his head. "No, he did not tell me that."
"Alexey, darling, somebody took a shot at me from up the slope."
"That was me, Penny. An accident. I was aiming at the men behind you. It was very confused up there. Foma ran into me and spoiled my aim."
"Foma would verify that if I asked him, of course."
His face closed like a door. "Of course."
Sumo was skipping over the surface on snowshoes, an automatic rifle in his hand. "Their tracks go down the slope. Do we go after them?"
"No," she said. "Let them go. They've lost their yurt and most of their equipment. I wouldn't bet on their chances to survive."
Sergei spoke, concern showing on his bluff face. "But if they're captured by a Chinese patrol, they'll give us away."
"We'll have to take our chances. We're moving out immediately. There's been too much gunplay, and someone down there may have seen the burning yurt."
"But we can't climb mountains in the dark."
The Baroness gave each of them a hard look, its intensity crowding the fatigue out of her face. "That's exactly what we're going to do. We leave everything except essential gear behind. I want us miles away from here by morning."
14
The Baroness swung the ice axe, chipping a foothold into the sheer wall in front of her. The heavy pack on her back overbalanced her and she swayed dangerously backward. She dropped the axe and grabbed for the butt of the Spyder, hanging on to it with two hands. She pulled herself forward until she was pressed against the wall of ice, the axe swinging from the thong at her wrist. Cautiously she reached for the handle and resumed chipping the step in the ice. When she had a firm foothold, she dug her crampons into it and looked down over her shoulder.
She was high. She could see clouds filling the valley below like a milky soup, cottony fingers reaching into the crevasses. The air was thin up here, thin and sharply cold. The glare would have been blinding without the snow goggles.
Skytop was about thirty feet below her, on a thin plastic line that stretched between them. His bulk and weight made him a good anchor man in case she slipped. He was already climbing again, careful not to drag at her.
The rest of them were strung out in a long line below, little figures moving painfully across the bright snow. The last one, far down the slope, was Wharton, acting as rear anchor man.
They'd been climbing all day. The others had had more sleep than she'd had, but she'd reacted sharply when Alexey had suggested that someone else act as trailbreaker. She could see him there now, just behind Skytop. He was a good climber.
She chipped her way up the cliff for the next hour, automaton-style: cut a foothold, dig in crampons, haul on the line, let the Spyder's clutch take in another two feet of slack. The end of the line came then — a sheer drop with a little shelf of ice that would hold one or two people at best. The yawning gap in front of her was at least seventy feet wide. She waited until Skytop was perched beside her on the lip of ice.
"Give me more line," she said.
He undid the bight and silently played out another thirty feet of line.
She wriggled out of her pac
k and took aim with the Spyder. The plastic line streaked across the chasm and caught on a ledge. She tested it with a pull. It held. She tugged again for luck. This time it came free. She reeled it in and fired again. This time Skytop leaned his own weight on it beside hers. It seemed firm.
"Brace yourself, Chief," she said, and stepped into empty air.
When she'd made the ridge, she hammered four pitons in a square into the ice. She touched the studs at the top, and the grapnel flukes at the base sprang free and spread. She hitched the line around all four pitons, dug two heel holds for herself into the ice and propped herself there, keeping the end of the line taut. Skytop stepped off the ledge and swung heavily across. She helped him up seventy feet of sheer cliff, then signaled Alexey.
By the time they all were across, the sun was dipping into the foothills. The Baroness looked around at the tired faces and said, "All right, we make camp here. Inga, we'll have a hot meal. Chief, take a look at those outcroppings over there where the bare rock shows. There may be caves or cracks that'll give us some shelter. Tommy, come over here with me. I want to check our bearings."
Alexey said, "Isn't it time you let me in on those coordinates? I have a pretty good idea of our heading now, anyway."
"We'll see, darling. Maybe in the morning."
He shrugged. "All right. I don't blame you. But we're all going to need one another when we get there."
Wharton was lying on his stomach, peering over the edge with binoculars. He motioned the Baroness over.
"Take a look down there," he said.
She pushed her goggles up on her forehead and squinted through the binoculars. Far below, just brushing the tops of the low-lying clouds, was a swarm of antlike figures. There were about fifty of them, spread out in what looked like a search grid.
"A Chinese patrol. They're up pretty high. And there's too many of them for it be a casual area sweep. They're looking for something specific."
