“How about we try this instead, ya skinny fuck. Tell them I’m your new chief,” Mitchum growled softly, “or I blow you in half.”
There was a jab into his gut, and Glassman looked down to see a blaster pressed against his stomach, the hammer pulled back and ready to fire. The barrel was warm, but it sent a chill down his back. Unfortunately, Glassman was blocking the view so there was no way the sec men in front, or behind, could see he was in danger.
“Decide fast,” Mitchum ordered, touching him up a little with the barrel. “Share the command or die. Your choice.”
Glassman could feel sweat forming on his face, but kept his voice level and forced out a soft chuckle. “Black dust, I’m impressed. Always need men good as you. But the lord baron wants the outlanders alive. Agree to that, and you’re my new top kick.”
The blaster moved forward an inch. “No.”
“Then do it, gimp,” Glassman spit, pressing his body against the blaster, forcing a surprised Mitchum to back up. “Shoot me and watch my men take you apart as I drop.”
Temporarily outmaneuvered, Mitchum clenched his teeth, fighting the pain of his wounds and the burning desire to seek revenge. Few men would face down a weapon to their guts. Glassman had to be a fanatic, or Kinnison had a hold on him more frightening than death.
“I get to ace Ryan, you get the rest,” he offered hatefully.
“Agreed,” Glassman stated, then bellowed over a shoulder. “Sergeant Campbell!”
“Sir?” came the prompt reply.
“Mitchum here will be assuming your duties as my second in command. You’re the new top gunner.”
Looking around the dirty windshield, Campbell stared at the two men talking down the road. Something was going on, but since he had no idea what it was, he’d best just obey orders for the present.
“Yes, sir!” Campbell shouted, stepping into the rear of the vehicle to take a position at the big machine gun.
“Satisfied?” Glassman asked, staring the man in the face.
“For the moment,” Mitchum said, jabbing the sailor with the muzzle of his flintlock one more time, then holstering the piece. “But remember, I took you face-to-face, while surrounded by your stinking troops, and I can do it again whenever I please.”
“Mebbe,” Glassman muttered.
“Try me anytime,” the wounded man growled, shuffling for the lead Hummer, then bitterly added, “sir.”
“Count on it,” Glassman whispered, but only the ocean breeze heard the words.
AS THE LONG EXHALATION of stale air ceased flowing from the inside of the plane, the companions stopped holding their breaths and took a tentative sniff. The interior of the craft still reeked faintly of rotten flesh, kerosene and dust, but the smell was quickly fading as the fresh clean air of the jungle poured into the ancient cargo bay.
His blaster leading the way, Ryan walked inside and waited for his vision to adjust to the dim recesses of the giant aircraft. J.B. and the others were right behind him, with Doc staying at the open hatch and Jak remaining in the tree.
The scant light coming in through the open hatchway of the C-130 was barely sufficient to see anything, so Krysty and Dean lit candles, while Mildred dug a small flashlight from her med kit. Pumping the handle a few times to charge the ancient batteries, she flicked its switch and out came a strong white beam that soon faded to a soft yellow. The hundred-year-old device was slowly dying, and there was no way the physician could ever replace it. But the weak light filled the cargo bay of the aircraft, outshining the dancing flames of the tallow candles.
The ceiling was twenty or so feet above them, and heavily padded with some sort of insulation material. Pieces of ventilation conduits, wiring and fuel pipes showed here and there for maintenance. Directly in front of Ryan was a row of seats filled with the bones of dead crew members. To his left, a door was set into a metal wall that led to the front ammo bunkers and the washroom. Alongside that was a short flight of stairs going to a veined door with multiple hinges, the access to the cockpit J.B. went straight up the steps and checked the door.