Evans, Linda - Sleipnir

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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 backnow . 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 evenseen 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. Itcouldn'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 aleatherneck would have walked into this mess.

There were only two things I could see that I might have done differently. I shouldnot 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.

Iowed 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—ineveryone'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'tour 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. Thetower 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 knewyou 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."

As we started down the access road that led up toward the main missile site, I growled morosely,

"Odin help us if we run into trouble."

"Odin, huh?" Gary's ugly face broke into a lopsided grin. "The fledgling pagan speaks."

"You're a good one to talk about pagans, Vernon."

He laughed. "Yeah. Well . . ."

The little gold Thor's hammer I wore beneath my shirt moved on its chain as I shrugged. "I wish

more of those old stories had survived. It's really great stuff. Whoring, drinking, fighting off the bad guys

against all odds—our kind of guys."

"Kind of thought you might like that," he laughed.

I grinned; then we headed into the woodline and fell silent. It hadn't snowed yet. The iron-hard

ground was littered with leaf debris, all of it tinder-dry. It was tough to move without making enough

noise to wake the dead. Thanks to the full moon, ghostly white light fell in odd bright patches. The forest

floor was a nightmare of shadows and light. Where moonlight cut across low-hanging branches, hard

black lines ended abruptly in a tangle of silver limbs, confusing the eyes and distorting depth perception.

Patches of shapeless grey where low-hanging pine boughs brushed the ground made it hard to see what

was pine tree and what might be a foreign object under it.

With this lighting, we could run across anything from a wild boar to a Soviet Spetznaz platoon, and

not even see it. Of course, realistically speaking, we'd probably either run into ragheads or nothing at all.

I figured it was just a matter of time before one of the groups hit a nuke site. They didn't even need to

carry off any warheads—just blowing up a Pershing or three would generate the desired effect, and be

much easier.

I could see the headlines now—U.S. N<MS>UCLEAR M<MS>ISSILE E<MS>XPLODES.

Ought to do wonders for our political and military presence in Europe. Not that any of the little incidents

we'd had with terrorists over the past few months had made it into the press. They hadn't. Not one. And

we soldier-types were expected to keep the world safe for democracy—without bullets? I shuddered.

Stupid peacetime army . . .

One of these nights I was going to get backed into a tight enough jam to make a pact with Odin

myself, and see where it got me. All I'd ever gotten from Jehovah was a great big, fat silence, leaving me

to figure out ways to save my own rear end. That was the trouble with gods—

Gary froze.

Instinctively, I did, too.

He stood slightly ahead of me in a deep patch of shadow. I was near its edge, and had just been

about to move out of it. I held my breath and scanned the moonlit woods, although I knew what I'd see

even before I spotted them a heartbeat later.

And there they were.

I swallowed: half a dozen ragheads in black, hugging the shadows under the trees, their AKs held

at ready.

And I'd almost stepped out into that bright little patch of moonlight, straight into their line of sight. . .

.We went to ground, flat on our bellies under rustling pine branches, and watched them slip through

the deep gloom between the trees. They were headed away from the site, from the direction of Tower

Three. A scouting party that meant trouble later? Or part of a team sent to eliminate the patrol?

—Us.

I clutched my empty M-16 in sweaty hands and listened to Gary's breathing and the ragheads'

careful footsteps. I was surprised they hadn't heard us. Of course, I hadn't heard them either, and Iknew

better than to spend patrol time woolgathering, dammit.

The ragheads stopped within spitting distance and began to whisper among themselves. It sounded

to me like an argument. The evident leader said something really foul-sounding. The man who'd raised an

objection backed down. Then, just as they were turning to go, a brittle, snapping sound loud as gunfire

cracked through the darkness from almost next to my ear.

Sweat popped out all over my belly and thighs. The ragheads whirled and stared straight at us.

Rifle barrels swung around into a deadly line aimed less than a foot above our backs.

Iwilled the bright moonlight to blind them. . . .

Another loud snap came from near my right ear.What the hell was it? I didn't dare look—didn't

even dare breathe.

At a whispered command, the last terrorist in line started toward us, his features lost in the smear of

camouflage lampblack rubbed into his skin. His rifle—it looked like a Rumanian copy of the Soviet

AK-47—glinted in the cold moonlight. I watched the terrorist's boots walk straight toward my face.

Saw him begin to stoop down to peer under our tree . . .

I swore solemnly that if I got out of this patrol alive, I'd blood a good steel knife and leave it under

an oak tree for Odin.

It seemed to work for Gary.

Abruptly a small hedgehog, about the size of a well-grown box turtle, waddled out from beside me

into the patch of moonlight. The terrorist stopped and grinned, teeth gleaming whitely for an instant. Then

he raised his rifle and aimed for center of mass on the spiny little body. An angry hiss came from the

trees. The would-be shooter snarled something in reply. The hedgehog reacted to the voices and

snapped into a tightly curled ball, spines bristling.

Another whispered argument broke out. The leader strode over and grabbed his man by the arm.

He gestured angrily toward the missile site, then off toward the little village about two klicks away

through the forest. The subordinate shrugged and kicked viciously at the hedgehog. It squealed and

curled up tighter than ever, skidding to a pathetic stop a few inches from our noses.

My knuckles went white gripping the useless rifle. If it'd been loaded, I wouldn't even have stopped

to think about it. Hurting a hedgehog brought unthinkably bad luck. Not thatI was overly superstitious—

The two terrorists rejoined their group, and the three of us—hedgehog, Gary, and I—lay frozen in

place, waiting. If they searched the immediate vicinity for good measure . . . Fighting it out under halfway

decent odds was one thing. Given three-to-one their favor, Gary probably would've charged in and let

Odin sort it out. But getting shot to pieces because all you had was an empty tube with a flimsy plastic

stock on one end was not my idea of a good time. Even a Berserker would've prayed they just turned

around and walked away.

For once, something came out the way I wanted. The black-clad Palestinians—or whoever they

were—disappeared into the darkness. Gary and I waited until the sound of their footsteps had died

completely away; then I rested my forehead on my arm and started breathing again. I tried not to shiver

too loudly in case the sound carried.

Then, noticing for the first time the wonderful, Christmasy smell of the pine tree, I squeezed Gary's

arm in silent thanks. I nodded when he made a motion with his thumb. We crawled cautiously out from

under the pine tree. The hedgehog still hadn't moved. Poor little guy . . .

Then, like a swimmer coming up from a long dive, I took a deep breath and let it out again silently.

Looked like I owed Odin a knife.

And Gary my life.

Chapter Three

I finally managed to get the sparker going. The carbide lit with a hissing pop. The cave was so quiet

I could hear the silence listening to me, waiting for me to make a move. So I just sat still for a moment

and let my eyes adjust to the grey light pouring from my helmet. There should've been a warm yellow

glow; but the walls swallowed the color, leaving only an eerie, dead grey to light the low-ceilinged

cavern. Even my skin looked grey. The only exception was that deep black hole beside me.

When I got a good look at it . . .

There was literally no way I could have avoided stepping into that hole.

It was a good four feet across, nearly round, and smack in the middle of the passage Bjornssen

and I'd been following. If it had been there, I would either have seen it or fallen into it. No question. But

a hole that size couldn't have opened up between us without either of us noticing—a cave-in is not a

quiet phenomenon. If it was an illusion, it was a damned good one.

I leaned cautiously forward. The walls were absolutely perpendicular. No ledges, no bumps, no

projections—it plunged straight down like an enormous sewer pipe farther than my light could penetrate

into the blackness. I hadn't heard Bjornssen hit bottom. I sat back again, knowing that I had to stand up,

move, do something; and wished intensely for a cigarette. I hadn't smoked anything in three years.

My lamp flickered; then flared bright again, and sent shadows rippling across the walls. Odd kind

of rock in this part of the cave. Stranger yet, hadn't I just been thinking that when Bjornssen

disappeared? My brows puckered and I chewed at my upper lip, moving my head to play the light

across the opposite wall.

The surface was jagged, and unused to light. Even the shadows it cast were wrong. Nothing I

could put my finger on, exactly . . .

I got to thinking about the marks Bjornssen had made with his surveyor's tape, and a feeling I didn't

stop to analyze hauled me to my feet. I piled my gear in a heap and went back to verify the last marker,

which my guide had made about ten feet the other side of the chimney.

Jumping over the gaping hole gave me a case of serious sweats—which was stupid. I was too smart

—or too well trained, anyway—to let fear get the best of me like some half-brained Stone Age savage.

So I worked harder at reminding myself that I was a modern, civilized, highly trained combat soldier on

a very simple recon mission. Christ—it was only a ten-foot recon at that. In a totally empty cave. No

problem.

After two full minutes of steady hiking, I still hadn't found it. I looked back the way I'd come, and

absently scratched my elbow. Odd, I didn't think I'd walked that far from the spot where we'd spent the

night. I went back to the chimney and started again, watching both walls this time and paying closer

attention.

It still wasn't there.

Just when and where had Bjornssen made that last mark? I knew he'd put a marker along the

straight stretch here, and Bjornssen always plastered a bit of tape atevery turn. I'd watched the

"mark-the-trail ritual" too many times to doubt that. We'd come through a whole series of turns and side

tunnels fifty feet back, or so. I'd miscalculated, was all.

I started from the chimney again. Sixty-five feet of carefully measured steps later, I stopped.

Nothing. Not a trace of where we'd spent the "night." Not even a hint of old adhesive on the walls. And

while I never actually saw them change, the shadows looked different every time I glanced away and

back.Worse, the side tunnels were missing. As far as I could see, ahead and behind, there was nothing

but unbroken grey rock wall.

At one hundred twenty feet I stopped again, breathing hard. My shirt was soaked and sweat

trickled down my skivvies (I hoped it was sweat) to run past my knees and into the tops of my socks. It

tickled like blazes—and I was too worried to scratch.

Those tunnels couldn't be gone. Theycouldn't . But they were. Suddenly I wondered what else

might disappear—

Goddamned one-eyed son-of-a-bitch!

I broke and ran like hell for my pack, leaping the chimney like a running longjumper. My gear was

still piled where I'd left it, complete with food, canteens, carbide—and the Armalite AR-180 assault rifle

strapped across it. . . .

I slid down against the wall, barely feeling the needle-sharp projections that scraped my back, and

sat swearing at the wall opposite me. Odin was playing games again.

I scrubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands and tugged on my hair for a moment, and

wondered with a nagging sense of futility what would have happened if Ihadn't kept my half of that

misbegotten bargain with Odin? Surely it couldn't have been much worse than whathad happened. I

laughed aloud, and shuddered at the same time.

It was far too late, of course, but I couldn't help wishing I'd kept the knife and said the hell with

Odin and every other god ever invented. What a waste of a perfectly good blade . . . and a pile of

money, not to mention my time, and Gary's.

I even found myself wishing for Frau Brunner's company. Odin himself would've thought twice

about crossingher .

Frau Brunner—a shrewd old woman who had survived everything from the Allied Blitz to

navigating landmines at the East German border—was known throughout town as a shark.

Her standard sales-floor expression was a scowl that routinely cowed GIs, tourists, and rabid

dogs. By the time I'd bargained my way to a final sale on the Mauser K-98-k bayonet I'd chosen, I was

sweating into my uniform, and was convinced that Frau Brunner was a throwback to the original Viking

traders she was descended from. She might have been closer to eighty than seventy, and was homely as

a bald crow—but the lady wassharp .

Which made the compliment Gary paid me when we walked out the door even sweeter.

"Pretty good, RB." He grinned. "Most of the officers on base warn guys away from her; but you

got a good price on that. Nice blade, too." Then his grin turned nasty. "Too bad you can't bargain like

that when it really counts. If you could talk like that to the brass, you wouldn't get yourself in half the

jams you end up in. And you might just get yourselfout of the other half."

I grunted and didn't deign to respond.

He chuckled. "Cat's got your tongue, eh? Well, you did a good job, anyway. Sometimes Frau

Brunner reminds me a little of my grandma. She used to make me bargain for cookies when I was a kid.

Nobody ever got anything over on her. You'd love her."

"I'd like to meet her," I said, thinking about the lonely old woman who'd cried over the letter Gary'd

shown me. "Think you could talk her into visiting you over here?"

Gary shrugged. "Don't know. She's kind of funny about traveling. Says the men in the family have

done enough traveling for several lifetimes. She's got a point, I guess, considering the odd corners of the

world we've been sent to fight in. Grandpa, Dad, and now me. She never figured on a bunch of

ragheads shooting at me over here. Poor Grandma." Gary shook his head; then got an evil glint in his

eye. "One of these fine nights, you know, those bastards are going to overrun the site, and leave brass

holding a bunch of bodies in the bag. Ought to be some fight, huh?"

I regarded Vernon with a jaundiced eye. Gary—and his dad, and his granddad—had been raised

with this pagan thing about fighting for glory because that's what life was for. Both his father and

grandfather had been decorated in their respective generations' wars before they died together,

pointlessly, in a car wreck. I guess Gary was just intent on continuing the family tradition.

I admired Gary's heroic attitude; but it was going to get him killed, and then where would he be?

Pact with Odin notwithstanding, sometimes Vernon had carried this Viking stuff a little too far. You did a

whole lot more damage to the enemy if you shot twenty or so with a sniper than if you took out half a

dozen in a suicide dash—and you generally didn't lose the sniper, either. Patton had had the right of it as

far as I was concerned—make the other poor, dumb son-of-a-bitch die for his country.

"You know, Gary," I said as we headed for the railway station, "I figured out why there aren't any

more Berserkers. They killed themselves off before they could reproduce. What was it Niven and

Pournelle said? `Evolution in action'?"

He gave me an enigmatic look from under his eyebrows. "Never thought of it quite that way," he

said quietly. "Maybe that's why Grandma asked me to quit Special Forces." His voice trailed off quietly

and I winced; I hadn't meant to rake up bad memories. He'd once admitted—somewhat shamefacedly—

that he couldn't say no to anything his grandmother asked, because he was all the old lady had left to live

for. Our train ride was short, and soon we were back at the little village near the missile site, headed

into the surrounding forest. Within minutes, streets and houses were out of sight. It was hard to believe,

sometimes, that you couldn't get farther than a couple of kilometers from civilization anywhere in

Germany. The forests were so dark and forbidding, you could almost convince yourself you were living

a thousand years in the past—then a group of school kids would come trooping by, waving and shouting

and playing radios or something. . . .

"Uh, Gary?" I was careful to keep my voice low-pitched. That wasn't reverence for the forest; just

ingrained caution and leftover paranoia. One couldn't always count on hedgehogs. I hadn't told Gary any

details about my oath, and hadn't planned to—but the towering silence of the trees left me looking over

my shoulder for . . . something. I didn't know quite what. Abruptly I wanted to share my thoughts.

"Yeah?" He glanced back.

"Anything strike you as, well, strange about that hedgehog the other night?"

Gary turned to look at me over his shoulder. "Like what?"

"Like why it didn't just roll up into a ball under the pine tree? It was close enough to me, it must've

heard my heart beating, never mind smelled me, and you know how shy they are about people."

"You weren't moving, Randy."

"No, but . . ."

Gary glanced back again, one brow cocked quizzically.

"Okay, I'd barely taken that oath when out he strolls, maybe saving our collective bacon."

He stopped walking. "So you wonder if Odin heard you?"

I grimaced, falling silent again, and Gary nodded silently, as if to himself. We kept walking. It was

stupid, and I was probably just as superstitious as Brunowski—who at least was honest enough to admit

it—but I couldn't help wondering, at least a little. Kind of nifty to think of a genuine god answering my

oath . . . but then again, maybe not. What might a god consider a "marker"? And what would a god do if

he called it in and I couldn't pay?

Well-l-l, either way it couldn't hurt to just cover my bets—which was, after all, the reason I was

out here, and not sleeping late. At least Gary hadn't laughed at me.

A few minutes later he found the spot we'd been looking for, an enormous oak tree that looked old

and twisted enough to have seen the Germanic tribes sweep the Romans before them on their drive

south. Well, maybe not that old—but it might have been old enough actually to have had sacrifices made

to Odin in it. How long did an oak tree live?

Gooseflesh crawled along my back. I shook myself mentally and hastily removed the bayonet from

its wrappings and steel sheath. I shucked off my heavy jacket and handed it to Gary, and shivered in the

cold air as I rolled up my sleeve. Holding out my arm, I firmly took hold of the bayonet's grip and drew

the edge of the blade lightly along the inside of my forearm.

I suppressed a gasp as the cold steel opened my skin. As blood dripped down my wrist and

fingers to puddle on the frozen ground, I said, "May it please the one-eyed god, the Valfather who sits in

Hlidskjalf, where he sees and understands all: this offering of a new-blooded steel blade is given in

fulfillment of my own oath given in promise of blood."

I'd memorized the words in German, having looked up some of them to be sure. After I finished

speaking them, I knelt at the base of the tree and drove the blade up to its grip into the hard ground. I

rose then, and found Gary standing behind me. Weak winter sunlight turned his sandy hair to gold, while

I shivered in shadows under the gnarled old tree. His eyes had a faraway look. I wondered what he was

thinking. Or dreaming . . .

I wasn't sure why, but the moment reminded me of Hohenfels, when we'd been out one damp and

shivery late autumn day, on a week-long field problem. Gary and I had been ordered to secure an

observation post on one of the hills, so we dug in—and discovered it wasn't a hill at all. Under the moss

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SLEIPNIRbyLindaEvansThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©1994byLindaEvansAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABaenBooksOriginalBaenPublishingEn...

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