“He’s right, Captain,” said Mabuzza. “We go where you go.”
“So what if they court-martial us,” said Deen. “Beats turning our backs on the people in China. I’d rather have a clear conscience as a deserter than a lifelong guilt trip as a soldier in good standing.”
The men murmured their consent.
“All right,” said Wit. “I see you’re all as bullheaded as I am. You’ve got ten minutes to strike camp. Move!”
They moved.
Nine minutes later, the vehicles were pulling out, heading down the mountain pass toward Srinagar. Wit and Calinga sat in the cab of the lead truck, with Calinga at the wheel and Wit watching the sat feeds from China on the dashboard monitor. On screen the landers had spun into the ground, digging in. An aircraft was on site, recording it from every angle. Wit opened his holopad. A map of northern India appeared in the air in front of him, a small pin marking their current location.
“I think our chances are better if we cross into China from Pakistan in the Karakoram Mountains,” said Wit. “Here at Khunjerab Pass.”
“Pakistan?” said Calinga. “Now we have to cross two borders?”
“Getting into Pakistan won’t be a problem. It’s still the Kashmir region. And the borders between Pakistan and China are far more lax than those between India and China. Plus Khunjerab Pass is a cargo hub. Lots of commercial traffic. Big trucks. Freight loads. There will be cargo planes on the China side carrying freight east. Short runways. Dangerous flights. We’ll hitch a ride.”
“What about the vehicles?” asked Calinga.
“We’ll ditch them in Srinagar,” said Wit. “Roads are bad and fuel is scarce in that part of western China. We’d be abandoning them anyway. Plus it’s hard to pass as civilians when you’re driving military trucks.”
“What’s the elevation there?”
“Close to five thousand meters.”
“You’ve got to be an insane pilot to take a job like that,” said Calinga. “Winds in the mountains. The constant threat of storms. Big cargo planes. That’s asking for a nosedive into a mountainside.”
“That will work to our advantage,” said Wit.
Calinga made a face. “How you figure?”
“A pilot who takes a job like that is interested in one thing only. Money. And money we have.”
They drove into Srinagar and found a warehouse where they could store their trucks and supplies. Wit had the men lock up everything tight, though he doubted he would ever see any of the equipment again. His men were all in fatigues, which pegged them as soldiers. The trucks were clearly military as well. Which meant they were probably filled with valuable tech. Guns almost certainly. And military weapons on the black market would catch a very good price in Srinagar. Pakistan was only a hop, skip, and a jump away. Afghanistan wasn’t much farther. Ten to one, thought Wit, the owner of this warehouse will have a burglary in the next few days, a burglary he secretly arranges himself for a decent cut of the profits.
But what could Wit do? If they approached the border as soldiers, they had zero chance of getting through.
They left the warehouse carrying only personal items in their pockets: holopads, passports, radio communicators, sat receivers. Small items. Inconspicuous.
They walked to a street market nearby and looked for clothes. Merchants shouted to them, offering their wares and promising incredible prices. Fruit, fish, jewelry, pirated music. Wit walked on, ignoring them.
They found a merchant selling men’s clothing, but the designs were all wrong. Too small and too festive. The merchant held up a bright, shimmering pair of pants and a multicolored kurta. Wit forced a smile. If he and his men showed up at a Chinese border wearing that, they’d be mistaken for a troupe of acrobats.
“We need plain clothes,” said Wit.
The merchant smiled and held up a finger. “Ah. Plain. These are too flashy for you, yes? Perhaps this is more to your liking.” He pulled down a bright yellow kurta that hung down to Wit’s knees and hurt his eyes.
“Not my style,” said Wit. “Is there a dry cleaners near here?”
The merchant’s smile vanished—Wit was no longer a potential sale. The merchant cocked a thumb down the street then turned his attention to someone else. Wit and his men pushed on. As they left the market, people began to stare. Mothers grabbed their children and pulled them out of the street. Pedestrians stopped and watched them with narrow eyes. Old men scowled.
“Not the friendliest of neighborhoods,” said Calinga.
“We look like soldiers,” said Wit. “Merchants love us because soldiers have money. Civilians like soldiers as much as they like a hole in the head, which is what soldiers in this region of the world sometimes give.”
“Why a dry cleaners?” asked Calinga.
“Clothes obviously,” said Wit. “And more importantly used clothes.”