Task Force Mars - Kevin Dockery [92]
Parvik let out a whistle of astonishment. “That’s a mijar’s braid. They’re the aides to the savants, the ones who do the talking for them. This aircraft must have been his personal transport. It might be a perfect disguise for someone who wanted to have a look around the pyramid.” He looked more closely at the uniform, then turned to grin at Char-Kane.
“Looks like it’s cut for a female,” he said with a grin, eyeing her up and down while she glared back at him, flushing.
“I think you’d fill it out rather nicely,” Olin Parvik said in a tone of approval.
They decided to make the little crater in the upper wall of the pyramid their base of operations as they worked out a plan. With a little vigorous scooping, they piled enough shards of concrete in front of the jetcar to block it from view except for directly overhead, leaving enough space that it could fly out of there in a hurry. Ruiz took charge of selecting firing positions to defend against anyone approaching from outside, and Jackson and Olin Parvik started looking at the great cracks extending through the wall at the back of the crater.
“This one is wide enough for a person to fit through,” the pilot concluded after crawling forward into one gap. “It drops right into a corridor. I saw lots of dust and rubble but no smoke. More important, no guards, either.”
“Let’s have a little look-see,” Jackson said. He found a piece of wire and draped it down through the crack, which seemed to be in the ceiling of the corridor. After tugging hard to make sure it was secure, he shinnied down the cable. Olin Parvik, nothing loath, came right behind.
Dim lights glowed from panels high on the walls, and they guessed they were emergency lights. They stepped over chunks of concrete and made their way along the eerily silent passageway. Several doors stood open to one side, and they entered what proved to be living quarters. With a definite purpose in mind, Jackson hunted through several bedrooms—sleeping chambers much like those a person would find in an elegant hotel in New York or Paris—looking into the wardrobe closets. He found and ignored a number of ornate robes and shimmering gowns, but in the fourth apartment they inspected he struck the jackpot.
White uniforms—Eluoi officer’s garb—lined the racks in the closet. They were a close enough fit for him, so he took one. Olin Parvik watched in mute curiosity as the lieutenant then proceeded to rip the gold braid off several more uniform tunics. In short order they made their way back to the breach, climbed up the cable, and crawled back into the crater where the aircraft was parked and the SEALS—and the Shamani woman—awaited them.
“You’re mad if you think you’re going in there!” Char-Kane snapped when the officer proudly displayed his trophies. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
Jackson smiled with more confidence than he actually felt. “I’d like to get to that transponder and send a message back home, specifically to the Pegasus. While I’m at it, I’d like to get some intel on the interior of this place, find out where the prisoners are kept, at the very least.”
“Your translation program in the earpiece only allows you to understand the language,” the Shamani woman said sharply. “How do you expect to pass yourself off as an Eluoi officer when you can’t talk to them?”
“That,” Jackson said, smiling even more broadly, “is where you come in.” He turned to Parvik. “That uniform we found in the ship gave me the idea. You said it was a ‘mijar,’ right? The aides who do the talking for the savants?”
“Yes,” the pilot replied, intrigued.
“Well,” Jackson declared, holding up the uniform he had claimed from the apartment wardrobe. “I figure I have enough gold braid here to make those rings around the sleeves. I intend to promote myself to an Eluoi savant.”
The Shamani woman looked startled, but then she frowned. “It is an intriguing idea,” she admitted. “And your eyes are dark