"Linda Evans - Sleipnir" - читать интересную книгу автора (Evans Linda)

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