The hair on Sims’s head amounted to little more than brown stubble and, due to the way his ears stuck out, some of the men referred to him as “jughead.” Never to his face however, which was dominated by coal chip eyes and an extra chin. Rather than use the plugs most people wore, Sims favored a minimal mask that covered his nose. It was held in place by an elastic band. Tychus nodded. “Gunny Sims? My name is Findlay… . You got a minute?”

Sims shrugged. “Sure, Sergeant… . Take a load off. What’s on your mind?”

Tychus let the rifle slip off his shoulder, placed the weapon within easy reach, and sat down. The chair creaked and seemed to disappear beneath him. “We have a mutual friend,” Tychus began cautiously. “Somebody who believes in the importance of free market capitalism.”

“And who might that be?” Sims inquired levelly.

“The individual I’m referring to is Master Sergeant Calvin.”

Sims nodded. “I know Calvin… . We were corporals together. He’s a good man. What’s he up to these days?”

“He’s in charge of the 2nd Battalion’s transportation company.”

“Interesting,” Sims said. “So, like I said earlier, what’s on your mind?”

This was the point of no return. Because if Tychus told Sims what he had in mind, and the gunny turned him in, his next meal would be served in a military work camp up in the mountains. But if he didn’t take that chance, no money could be made. So Tychus took the leap, as he’d done so many times before. “You’ve got a lot of stuff sitting around here, Gunny… . I’d like to take some of it off your hands.”

Sims brought his feet down off the desk, pulled a drawer open, and stuck a hand inside. Tychus felt his stomach muscles tighten knowing that the other noncom could be reaching for a gun. But what Sims brought out was a box of cigars, which he flipped open. “Care for a smoke?”

Tychus produced a wolfish grin. “As a matter of fact I would, Gunny … thank you very much.”