Defensively, the rodent hissed and snapped at the intrusion. Without an expression, Jak flipped his wrist and the rat fell over dead, its head neatly removed. The neck stump pumped out a gush of red blood, soaking the books and making the pulp paper swell to twice its original size.
Interrupting the search, a window rattled as a boom sounded from outside, closely followed by two sharp whistles. Roistering their blasters, the companions relaxed and returned to their task. Whatever the trouble was, Doc had handled it alone.
“Found the warehouse ID card,” Dean said, pulling a plastic card from a battered wallet, then glanced at the open door. “Same name as the base CO.”
“Keep it,” Ryan said, standing in the middle of the dusty room, his arms crossed. “Could come in handy.”
“At least it means we’re on the right track,” J.B. said, going through the top drawer of the desk.
Krysty made a rude noise as she lifted a ring of keys into view and started going through them one at a time. The lock on the warehouse was large and shaped like the letter H . A Vishi, or something like that. One of the few locks J.B. said nobody could trick or pick. He often joked that a sledgehammer was the best way through a Vishi.
Not helping in the search, Ryan stayed where he was and continued to carefully study the furnishings of the room. Something was out of place here, but he just couldn’t put a crosshair on what was wrong.
Then he spotted it. Hung on the wall behind the desk was the classic unfinished portrait of George Washington. There was nothing obviously suspicious about the picture, and Ryan had to look twice before finally realizing it was the only thing hanging on the walls that was still perfectly plumb. This close to the volcano, the base had to have received thousands of miniquakes from pressure vents over the decades.
“There’s a wall safe,” Ryan said, going around the desk and pushing the office chair of bones out of the way. The deceased commanding officer tumbled to the carpet and was kicked aside, but the bones rolled under the desk. Even in death, the officer refused to relinquish his post.
Running his fingers along the frame, Ryan thought that the portrait was nailed in place, until he touched a release switch on top and it swung away from the wall on squeaky hinges. Set in to the concrete wall was the pebbled armor front of a small safe. It was regulation size, with the standard numbered dial and lever.
Ryan stepped out of the way and let J.B. sweep it with his compass.
“No mag fields,” he said, tucking the compass into a pocket. “If it’s boobied, I can probably bypass the trigger.”
“Mebbe we shouldn’t bother,” Krysty said, beating the dust off her clothing. “Safes are usually cleaned out.”
“Not always,” J.B. replied, pressing an ear to the steel door and closing his eyes to concentrate on the task.
Artfully, he rotated the dial twice to zero, then began slowly turning the dial listening for clicks. Less than a minute later, J.B. twisted the handle and began pulling out wads of papers marked Top Secret.
“No warehouse manifests,” Ryan said, glancing at the paperwork before tossing it away.
Triumphantly, the Armorer withdrew a small wooden box. Forcing the lock with a knife blade, it sprung open to show red velvet lining with irregular indentations, spaces for a dozen keys, but only four were in place.
“Front gate,” J.B. said, reading the tags, “main office, fuel pumploading dock!”
“Bingo.” Mildred grinned.
Leaving the office, the companions started toward the last warehouse. Blaster in hand, Doc waved in passing, a shoe resting on top of a crow, feathers strewed across the parking lot.
From the jungle, Ryan could hear a mixture of animal noises and glanced at his rad counter. The needle was near the redline and climbing steadily as they approached the rear of the warehouse. Any higher and they would have to cancel the recce or risk getting rad poisoning. That was a bad way to get aced, just about the worst.