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rounded eyes, which were imbedded in a face of dark leathery skin. They were features that the local Chinese knew at a glance belonged to a Mongolian.
    â€œPeking is falling. Already the refugees are fleeing,” he said, pointing toward a small dirt road a mile away. Rolling through the dust, a half dozen ox-drawn carts toted the life possessions of several Chinese families escaping to the west. “We must abandon the excavation, sir, before the Japanese are upon us.”
    Hunt instinctively felt for the .455 caliber Webley Fosbery automatic revolver holstered at his hip. Two nights before, he had shot at a small gang of marauding bandits that attempted to steal a crate of excavated artifacts. In the environment of China’s collapsing infrastructure, bands of thieves seemed to roam everywhere, but most were unarmed and unsophisticated. Fighting his way past the Japanese Imperial Army would be an entirely different matter.
    China was rapidly imploding under the juggernaut of the Japanese military might. Ever since the renegade Japanese Kwantung Army had seized Manchuria in 1931, Japan’s military leaders had set their sights on colonizing China in the manner of Korea. Six years of thrusts and parries and staged incidents finally erupted in the summer of 1937 when the Japanese Imperial Army invaded northern China, in fear that the Nationalist forces of Chiang Kai-shek were growing too strong.
    Though the Chinese forces vastly outnumbered the Japanese Army, they were no match for the superior equipment, training, and discipline that the Japanese forces brought to the field. Utilizing his resources as best he could, Chiang Kai-shek battled the Japanese by day, then retreated at night, in an attempt to slow the Japanese advance in a war of attrition.
    Hunt listened to the crack of the approaching Japanese artillery that now signaled the loss of Peking and he knew that the Chinese were in trouble. The capital city of Nanking would be next, resulting in yet a further pullback to the west of Chiang Kai-shek’s army. With an impending sense of his own defeat, he glanced at his wristwatch then spoke to Tsendyn.
    â€œHave the coolies cease all excavations at noon. We’ll secure the artifacts and complete final documentation of the site this afternoon, then join in the growing caravan heading west.” Glancing at the road, he noted a ragtag band of Chinese Nationalist soldiers filtering into the evacuation route.
    â€œYou will be leaving on the aircraft to Nanking tomorrow?” Tsendyn asked.
    â€œAssuming the plane shows up. But there’s no sense in flying to Nanking under these hostile conditions. I intend to take the most important artifacts and fly north to Ulaanbaatar. You’ll have to manage the remaining items, equipment, and supplies with the packtrain, I’m afraid. You should be able to catch up with me in Ulaanbaatar in a few weeks. I’ll wait for you there before catching the Trans-Siberian railway west.”
    â€œA wise move. It is evident that the local resistance is failing.”
    â€œInner Mongolia offers little strategic value to the Japanese. They are likely just chasing the remnants of the defensive forces out of Peking,” he said, waving an arm toward the distant artillery barrage. “I suspect they will pull back shortly and enjoy a few days or even weeks pillaging Peking before renewing the offensive. Plenty of time for us to be on our way.”
    â€œIt is unfortunate that we must leave now. We are nearly finished with the excavation of the Pavilion of Great Harmony,” Tsendyn said, surveying a maze of excavated trenches that stretched around them like a World War I battlefield.
    â€œIt’s a bloody shame,” Hunt said, shaking his head in anger, “though we’ve proven that the site has already been well-ransacked.”
    Hunt kicked at some excavated fragments of marble and stone piled near his feet and watched as the dust settled