“I need several shots,” Murphy declared.
Two men sat by a different heater, playing blackjack. The others lay on the sleeping bags, one of them already snoring.
“You feel like a shot?” Murphy asked Paul.
“I could use a beer,” Paul admitted.
“Let’s go find a bar,” Murphy said.
“Didn’t you hear the man?” asked one of the card-players.
“What?” Murphy asked. “You miss your grandma already?”
“Sure,” the card-player said. “You want to dig your own grave, there’s a bar about four hundred yards to the north.” He glanced at his companion and shook his head.
“You coming?” Murphy asked Paul.
Paul hesitated. Murphy was obviously a troublemaker, but Paul needed a beer. Did they have beer out at the oil rig? It would be a shame if they didn’t, especially if he gave up this last chance to have one here.
“Yeah, let’s go,” Paul said.
“You’re smart guys,” the card-player said. He’d just won the round and was re-shuffling the cards. He was a big man with a crewcut and had the feel of a master sergeant.
Murphy scowled, and it looked like he wanted to start something. Paul recalled when they’d first been in the airport at Anchorage. Murphy had beeped every time through security. It turned out he had a metal plate in his head. He had been somewhere bad once and had been captured by Arabs. They’d held him for almost a year, abusing him in a cave. Maybe that’s why he was crazy.
Paul slapped Murphy on the arm and pointed at the door as he headed toward it. He began buttoning his coat.
When Paul opened the door, Murphy swore behind him. It was cold and snow fell out of the darkness. Paul saw lights to the north. Four hundred yards wasn’t that far. He’d drink his beer and hurry back. How much trouble could that cause?
After crunching over snow, they entered the Klondike’s Rush. It was warm inside, with stools along a cedar bar with a zinc top, a mirror in back, and rows of the familiar bottles.
“Home,” Murphy said. He lurched onto a stool and pulled off his gloves. “Give me a whiskey!” he shouted. “And be ready to give me another.”
Paul sat on a stool and glanced around. Except for the bartender, there were only three other people: a woman and two men. The woman had seen better years and she wore a deer-hunting hat. She also wore garish lipstick and purple eye shadow. One of the men with her had a beard and a scar running into his left eye. His narrow-faced friend had a blue parka with denim jeans.
“Who are you?” the bearded man asked.
Murphy grabbed the shot glass as the bartender, an older man, quit pouring. The ex-Army Ranger tossed it down as he swiveled around.
“We’re Blacksand,” Murphy said, with an edge to his voice. “You got a problem with that?”
The woman hunched her head as she turned toward the bearded man. He shrugged and went back to talking to her.
“Didn’t think so,” Murphy said, swiveling back to the bar. “Another,” he said. “I told you to pour me two.”
The bartender looked like he wanted to say something, but a glance into Murphy’s eyes changed the old man’s mind. “Yes, sir,” the bartender said.
Murphy gave an ugly laugh, and he shot Paul a look. “Train them fast is what I say. Let them know right away who is boss. Then they know better than to give you crap.”
The bearded man at the table glanced up, seemed to measure Murphy with his eyes and decided he didn’t want anything to do with him. The man turned his chair so the back was aimed at the bar.
“Whiskey,” Murphy said, slapping his hand on the counter.
Paul sipped his beer, watching Murphy. The beer tasted good. After that plane ride, he needed this. He was beginning to think, however, that he should stay far away from Murphy.
The door to the bar opened and in walked the big master sergeant from the shed, the card-player with the crewcut. He had his partner with him. “Party’s over,” he said. “Red Cloud wants you two back. Told us to come fetch you.”
Murphy tossed down another shot before swiveling around. “You go run to Red Cloud and tattle on us?”
Paul took a swig of beer before standing and putting a ten on the bar. “Let’s go,” he told Murphy. It had been mistake coming, Paul could see that now.
Murphy blinked at him in surprise. “You chicken?” he asked. “The bristle-top make you scared?”
A flash of heat went through Paul. He’d never liked bullies or bigmouths. His dislike of such people had led to more than a few fistfights in high school, which had led to continuation school and finally, a few nights in jail. The last time, a judge had suggested the Marines. Paul had taken the bait. No one fought fair in jail anyway, and he’d gotten tired of fighting four or five against one. He now picked up his beer and took a last swig.
“I took you for a fighter,” Murphy was saying.
Paul shrugged. He’d had enough of the ex-Army Ranger. He began buttoning his coat.
“You too, tough guy,” the master sergeant told Murphy.
Murphy gave him the bird before turning back to the bar and grabbing a fistful of peanuts. “Whiskey!” he shouted.
The bartender was at his spot at the far end of the bar. Maybe there was something about the master sergeant that kept the bartender where he was.
“I said WHISKEY!” Murphy shouted.
The master sergeant grumbled, nodded at his partner and purposely strode for Murphy. “You’re coming with us even if we have to haul you in.”
Murphy surprised everyone. The ex-Army Ranger slid off the stool and hurled his shot glass all in one motion. It was a perfect throw, catching the master sergeant between the eyes. It dropped him as his head jerked back. The master sergeant collapsed like a hunk of jelly. His partner stopped, staring at his friend. Murphy kept moving. There was a crazy look in his eyes, and he kicked the partner’s left kneecap. The man’s leg buckled under him. The partner fell as he clutched his knee, and his groans were animal-like. Murphy was still moving. The ex-Ranger was like greased death. He produced a switchblade, clicking out the metal. Kneeling by the master sergeant, Murphy grabbed him by the throat of his coat.
“I’m going to leave you a scar, tough guy.”
Before the ex-Ranger could cut the master sergeant, Paul grabbed Murphy’s wrist. He’d crossed the distance between them, recognizing a killer. You didn’t talk a killer out of hurting others when his blood was hot. Murphy looked up. The ex-Ranger had craziness in his eyes, so Paul hit him in the face. Blood spurted from the nose and Murphy’s head snapped back. Paul twisted the wrist as he slapped the back of Murphy’s hand. The switchblade clattered onto the wooden floor.
“You’re gonna die, beer-boy,” Murphy muttered.
Paul hit him a second time, harder than before. It hurt his knuckles—it gashed them—and it smeared his fingers with the Ranger’s blood. That stunned Murphy long enough for Paul to haul back and hit him with a haymaker. Murphy thumped onto the floor, the back of his head knocking against wood. He was unconscious, and blood poured from his nose.
“Call Blacksand,” Paul told the bartender. The old man kept blinking at him. “Did you hear me?”
The bartender reached for the phone.
Rubbing his sore fingers, Paul sat on a stool, picking up his beer. He looked at the three men on the floor. The partner was weeping now, clutching his leg, as if it would run away if he let go.
With a tired sigh, Paul sipped his beer, deciding he might as well finish it. This was looking to be a long night, or day. He still didn’t know what time it was.
In the darkness of the Arctic Circle, a Leopard Z-6 Hovertank slid across the tundra. Several kilometers away, the lights of Ambarchik glittered like a prized jewel. It was a lonely outpost, one of the most godforsaken towns in the world. It was at the northern edge of the Eurasian continent, nestled against the frozen East Siberian Sea. As an arctic tern flies, the Siberian side of the Bering Strait was twelve hundred kilometers away. The Russian city of Murmansk, which was near Finland, lay three thousand six hundred kilometers to the west. Three kilometers from Ambarchik was Ambarchik Base, the third largest Chinese military facility in East Siberia.