CHAPTER 9 
CHAPTER 9
The next morning, Bob Barker unbanked the fire. There were still coals despite the rain, and he used his Ka-Bar to peel shavings from a stick to get smoky flames going, then added bigger fuel. Breakfast was going to be late. His hands were raw, dirty and numb by the time he was done, and he warmed them over the growing flames. His eyes were used to the acrid smoke by now. It would blow, he’d squint, and that was it. He could even smell it in his moustache.
It was overcast, with deep, heavy clouds that predicted more rain. He really wanted to put up another overhead to protect the food and fire. For now, there was a spare fire in the tepee, but they’d have to build up a platform for it. It was half puddle. That fire still burned too, but barely.
It had been cramped in the tent, with the four Paleos. They slept quietly, but took up a lot of room, and smelled. They probably didn’t smell worse than the soldiers, although Bob was still using deodorant every two to three days. But they did smell different. It was noticeable. They were musky, earthy, sharp and pungent.
Devereaux examined Oglan and pronounced him fit to travel. He gave instructions to walk steadily, not flex his right arm, and not hunt for a month. He should do light exercise in the meantime, and he demonstrated some isotonic techniques.
“And tell him to rest and eat well. He could use some fat and starch, as much as they have.”
Bob was sorry to see them go. He’d learned quite a bit about their skillsets and tools. But if they liked his archaic points made from a beer bottle, they’d be back. Of course, his supply of glass was very limited. Though he could do the same with good quality chert or flint, and teach them archery.
The others gathered around the fire one by one. They didn’t really bother with reveille. Everyone was up shortly after the sun anyway. Most of them wore Gore-Tex and sat on the rocks and logs. Elliott stayed standing.
“So how much information do we want to give them, sir?” he asked while chewing on some steak cooked until it was almost jerky, that tasted almost like leather. It would have to do.
Elliott said, “Well, they can’t understand where we came from. I don’t want to show them anything modern in use, meaning weapons, electronics or vehicles. Axes and knives are okay. They don’t need to know about night vision. As far as primitive skills, I really don’t see how upgrading their weapons is a problem, done slowly. They can’t do much to us. When did bows come about?”
Spencer had joined them, and the two men swapped glances.
Spencer said, “If I recall, there is some possible indication of fletched arrows thirty K years before our time. But we’re not seeing that here.”
The LT nodded. “Right. Make bows for us, so we can save ammo. Keep them out of sight as long as possible, then teach that, too. A little bit at a time will minimize the shock to them, and give us trade advantage. They’ll want to be friendly to see what we do next.”
Bob said, “I would like permission to use a roll of the dental floss for bowstrings. Dacron is a lot stronger than sinew or rawhide, and a lot easier than gut.”
Elliott screwed up his face. “I hate to waste it.”
“It really is better. Once we can replace it, it’s still usable as floss, barring a little fraying.”
“Okay,” Elliott agreed. “Do it.”
“Roger.” Yeah. He had no idea how gut string would work. Only theory. As in, he knew it could be done.
“You really are good with that stuff, Bob,” Spencer said. “You knock out points faster than they do. I’m glad you’re here. Well, actually, I wish you were home, but if you are here . . .”
He said, “I gotcha. Thanks.”
“Do you have a native name?”
He grinned. He loved this part.
“My Indian name is Bob.”
There were laughs all around.
Spencer said, “Bob is our man. As to the bows, sounds good, sir. And now it’s time to chop more trees.”
Chopping was hell on his back, but Spencer was right. The ditch was almost denuded, having only scrub left. Even all the deadwood and crud had been removed and stacked as fuel, doubling as a low wall along the north. The east had the creek, gradually losing trees along this bank along the frontage. The palisade was about long enough on the west, and they’d hopefully start along the south today. But until they had a solid wall, he wouldn’t be entirely relaxed.
It was also bath day. Hopefully it would get into the low 70s midday, and he could splash in the creek and get clean. Trying to sponge bathe with a washcloth and an ammo can of water was not as effective, though it was much more comfortable.
Sean Elliott felt better. Good relations with the neighbors and some diplomacy meant potential resources for them. They’d already agreed to bring more salt, and knew a place to get it. Eventually, they’d want to seek out other groups, too. As soon as they had a solid camp. And better food sources and enough fuel.
He understood why even in the nineteenth century some people never made it outside their own county.
He was going to do some chopping today, and he felt guilty about not doing it earlier when it had been hotter. It was quite mild today, with a soft breeze and just enough haze to cut the glare.
He was pondering that when Alexander came up.
“Sir, are you busy?”
“Always, but I need a break and I’m here for you. What do you need?”
“Operations proposal, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m not as physical as the others, but I hope to do a bit more with the solar power, and with the laptops.”
“Long-term, yes. Is everyone keeping their phones charged?”
She said, “Now they are. I had to institute a schedule.”
“Okay. Well, I do want lots of photos for documentation. If we ever do get back, that proves our legitimacy, and I’m sure the scientists will be all over it.”
She lifted her camera bag. “Twenty-four, seven, sir. But I’m talking about regular old Forty-Two Alpha administration, orderly room style.”
“I’ve got enough of that already. It’s burying me.” God. PowerPoint in the Stone Age. He still couldn’t get over that.
She was trying to sound confident but not managing, as she said, “But that’s why you need me, sir. You need to know what we have, a charging schedule for phones, maps, lists of edible foods, a calendar and almanac, journals of what we find and learn to manufacture. We need reliable, regular schedules for duty, long term, because the seasons are going to matter. Farming will definitely require documentation.”
He hadn’t really thought of it, and it still sounded secondary. But she was right, they did need records of weather and farming at least.
“I can have everyone write a log in the evening,” he said. “It’s a good idea.”
“Yes, sir, but then it needs collated so you can find it. No, the search function isn’t enough. You remember college texts. They have a bibliography and index. That’s my civilian job. Companies call me in on contract to sort their files, define their positions and create databases and SOPs.”
“Well, what do you think we need?”
“All the things I said, and whatever else I can come up with. I have to see what people log and build the database as I go.”
That made sense. Admin was necessary to run a unit, though it was hard to think of something the size of a squad needing that much support. And they did need muscle power. But . . .
“You do have a training in this, I assume?” Her job description suggested it.
“Three degrees.”
“. . . three?”
“Bachelor’s in IT and financial management, and a master’s in forensic accounting.” Before he could ask, she explained, “I go into their files and find the missing figures. IRS auditors hate me.”
And she held three MOSes, or two and an Air Force AFSC. Regardless of her physical condition, she sounded like a formidable mental asset.
“Then go ahead, define what we need and do it.”
“Thank you, sir.” She gave a professional nod.
“May I ask a personal question?”
“You can always ask.”
“Why aren’t you an officer?”
She said, “I was too old when I came back in.”
“Understood. Though you should be a senior NCO at least.”
She looked mildy annoyed as she said, “Well, that depends on a Guard unit having its shit together. If they lose files enough, no one’s promotion paperwork gets to Brigade. I can’t find what hasn’t been entered into GFEBS, iPERMS or AKO.”
“I see. Well, have at it, though I’ll still call you if we need backup labor, and your other technical knowledge.”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to brief everyone this evening.”
“Agreed.”
“And I can still do physical stuff, including guard duty and hauling or chopping. This just makes me more useful in ways I can be, rather than pretending I’m as strong as Dalton or Ortiz.”
She climbed up into Number Nine and started moving stuff around.
“Is that going to be the Orderly Room?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
It would have been nice of her to ask, he thought.
On construction, Spencer was a decent manager. The logs came over steadily, carried by troops and locals. When a few feet worth were ready, the ditch and rampart were dug, the bases burned, ash dumped in, and the logs erected. The fill was tamped down with the shovel and a ball bat from the Hajji-Be-Good box in Number Nine. The brush pile grew. Visibility got better as the trees came down.
It was muddy in the morning, but better by afternoon, though cooler, probably 60s.
He took a turn chopping, enjoying the feel of his biceps and core flexing and straining. He panted for breath, sweated and felt invigorated, as his hands went numb from the impacts, and chips flew past his legs. He took down three uprights and pruned them smooth.
“You’re pretty good with an axe, sir,” Dalton said.
“Thanks,” he replied as he swung and sheared a limb, twisting as the axe descended to throw its velocity at an angle. That was a physics trick, though he’d learned it long before at his uncle’s cabin. Uncle Walt was long dead, but he missed him even more now.
“How do you do that twist?”
“Like this,” he said, raised the axe, lowered his body, twisted and raised his elbow as if batting. He did it slowly and just nicked the next limb. “Let gravity bring it down, twist it like batting, and follow through the same way.” He took another swing and severed the limb.
“Damn. Good stuff, sir. Let me try.”
He let the axe drop, bit down, and passed it over handle first.
Dalton got it within a couple of swings, and turned his brawny shoulders into it. He fairly walked along the down timber, cutting limbs every couple of steps.
“Damn, I came out here to help,” Elliott said. “Not to be outclassed.”
“Ah, hell, sorry, sir.” Dalton seemed embarrassed.
“No problem. Use it tomorrow,” he replied. It wasn’t as if they were going to run out of wood to cut.
He went back to pruning.
Food was improving. Barker and Caswell really knew this stuff. That evening, there were several edible grasses chopped up in the small cooler lid, and more greens. It was a sort-of salad. The stalky things were probably cattails. He bit into one. It tasted a bit like cress. At least it was juicy and not meat. The variety helped.
“What’s this?” he asked about something green and leafy.
“Sorrel,” she said. “The long stalk is wild plantain, and is a bit like asparagus.”
Barker said, “The meat is deer of some kind, roasted in herbs with wild onions. But I really need to find a salt lick, sir.”
Yes, that would help. “We’ll need to make a recon patrol.”
Spencer said, “I’m going to need ground bone meal. My stomach meds are running out, and that’s the closest I’m going to find, unless I eat actual chalk daily.”
Barker said, “Damn, that sucks, dude.” Others made comments of support.
Spencer shrugged. “I can last a couple more months. I always knew it was an issue. Are we going to tan the deer hide?”
Barker said, “Yeah, hair on. It’ll make a nice rug or wall hanging, but that’s going to take some work. You can chew the bones for calcium.”
“I was thinking of the bones for tool handles and eating utensils. We may be able to trade for a few, too. It’s not like the Paleos lack them.”
“Good.”
Oglesby said, “They’re called the Urushu. Singular and collective both.”
“Got it,” Spencer said. “Urushu.”
If there was anything Elliott was going to thank God for every day, it was that he had troops with these skills. Without them, they’d be reduced to living with the Paleos and depending on charity. This world was so alien to him it might as well be another planet, but Alexander, Spencer, Caswell and Barker knew how to make it work.
“Okay, formation for the evening. Everyone listening?” He looked up to Caswell and Ortiz on watch. They thumbed up. “Good. Sergeant Alexander is going to be our admin, logistics, armorer and readiness NCO. Go ahead, Alexander.”
She looked around, stepped slightly forward, and spoke.
“Just as the lieutenant says, we must account for everything. I’ll be using Number Nine as the HQ, office, armory, whatever. Everything will be stashed in there. If you need something, see me first. If I’m not around, neatly take what you need and log it. There will be an open notepad on the laptop. Don’t try to update the spreadsheets. I’ll do that. Just write it and sign it so I can look you up if I need to.”
She stepped back. There was muttered assent and hooahs. Everyone seemed to understand.
“Let me reiterate,” he said. “I know a lot of you don’t think of admin as serious. It is. The Romans became the world power they were because of documentation. Otherwise, everyone else was barely above our neighbors here.” Emotionally, he wasn’t convinced, but mentally, he knew she was right, and that he’d appreciate it in future.
That got quiet but attentive nods.
She added, “I can log enough information we can find a growing season. That means better food. I can map out salt, rock, timber, edibles. I’ll have walking times to reach them. Everything. It means you won’t have to scratch your head and think, or try to find someone else. I’ll have the info. You just have to give it to me.”
They seemed to understand.
She said, “Look, let me give you background. Some of you know this, but I don’t want to tell the whole story ten times. I was active duty Air Force in the early nineties. Airborne Intel equipment operator aboard an AWACS. I came back in the Army Guard after September Eleventh. I’ve been in Iraq, Kosovo and here. I’m a photographer and an admin, and I have college degrees in management. But I’ve got bad ankles, bad knees, bad wrists and thyroid problems. My medication will last about three months. After that,” she sighed. “After that, my memory will get fucked up badly, my attention will slip, I’ll have trouble sleeping, my blood sugar will get chaotic, and I’ll probably gain weight, too.”
She sounded tired just from sharing that.
Next to him, Dalton muttered, “Can Caswell make a wooden wheelchair?”
She heard him.
“Corporal, when you’ve survived a forced landing in an E Three, a car wreck, two kids, surgeries on your joints and are forty-three years old, you get back to me.”
Elliott cut in fast. “Yeah, easy on the jokes. We’re all going to get old and worn out,” he said, with a firm glance at Dalton.
“Sorry,” he said. “Bad attempt at humor.”
She said, “Accepted. And I’m sorry to be sensitive about it. For now, I can keep up, and there may be some dietary workarounds. I can use an axe. I can haul wood.”
“Good.” Was there any way to work around that medication? Probably not. And yes, he was assuming they were here for life, because he didn’t think there was anything they could do about getting back. He had no idea how they got here, so getting back was the second problem, and he didn’t think they had any control over it. And there was something else, but he couldn’t remember it.
Armand Devereaux was on watch at sunrise two days later, ready to grab a bite. They had fifteen feet of the north wall done, the corner reinforced with a mound of earth and two buttresses. He felt a bit more secure.
Off to the closed side, he saw movement, and called, “Natives approaching from the west. Five people, three with spears.” They didn’t seem troubled, but they weren’t really enough for a hunting party.
Caswell and Dalton went out to meet them through what would eventually be the front gate, but for now was a framed opening with a sill. He kept them covered from the hatch.
Caswell was good. She graciously offered to carry their spears, and then they were disarmed. She came in and stowed them in Number Nine, along the floor.
“I think you’re needed,” she said. “I get the impression one of them is sick.”
“Okay, want to cover me?”
Barker clattered up and said, “I will.” He climbed up the outside as Armand wiggled down inside.
Caswell was back and talking to the woman, with Oglesby translating. He was getting pretty good at their language, and maybe they should all learn some. Something might happen to him.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Oglesby said, “This is Ai!ee. She’s been cursed with illness in her genitals. They stay inflamed and leak poop smell, I gather.” He blushed.
Caswell said, “Oh, goddammit. Ulceration of the vaginal canal. Happens in Africa. The women tend to work until they pop. Strain can cause abrasion, and then add in delivery. The tear is from the vaginal canal to the rectum.”
That wasn’t something he was trained for.
“So she’s leaking feces through a fistula.”
“Basically, yes.”
He thought about it. He wanted a reference book, but that sounded straightforward enough. “I can do minor surgery. My concern is sterility, anesthetic, and I’ve never done a procedure like that. Sort of a high-end episiotomy repair.”
Caswell said, “I’ll help.”
“First you’ve got to explain it to her.”
Oglesby was clearly embarrassed and uncomfortable.
“Okay, what do I need to say?”
“First I need a look. Caswell, do you know what we’re looking for?”
“Sort of.”
They led Ai!ee into the back of Number Eight, and he grabbed a flashlight.
“I don’t have anything resembling a speculum,” he said, as Ai!ee pulled her skirt aside and leaned back.
“Spoons,” Caswell said, and ran to grab two MRE spoons.
Using those to spread her hair, her labia, and the vaginal canal, he could see a discolored area, and got a definite whiff of bowel.
“That’s it, yes?”
Caswell bent over and took a look.
“Yes,” she said.
“Okay, we’ll do surgery. We can fix it with knives and sutures. She has to purify herself for two days with only water. Then she must purify herself afterward with a special diet. This is in accordance with the spirits.”
Oglesby spoke slowly to Ai!ee and her friend. It took a good fifteen minutes back and forth, between him and them, and then between each other, to come to an agreement.
“She asks if you can actually fix an inside tear. They seem to know what the problem is.”
“Tell her yes, we can do it. It will be sore, and it will have to heal, but it’s doable.”
After a few more minutes, Oglesby said, “She asks about fever spirits.”
“We should be able to keep fever and infection controlled. We can’t guarantee it, but we’ll work hard on it, and the spirits often listen to us.”
“She says she will bring two speakers with her, to talk to the spirits. They will also guard her to make sure she stays pure. She asked about her family. I said they should pray at home, that separation increased the odds.”
Caswell said, “Good, we don’t need spectators. We will also wash her with special soap against the spirits, when she returns.”
There were some pleasantries which he took in with half his mind, while trying to remember more about this type of thing. If he opened the edges of the tear and sutured it closed, it should heal. He didn’t know much about plastic surgery.
Caswell seemed to have some idea. He’d need to talk to her.
The natives had brought some sausage, stuffed into cleaned animal intestines, and a decorated hide that obviously was significant to them. He smiled and thanked them, and did look at it for a few moments. It held geometric designs and images of stick figures.
Caswell retrieved their spears and sent them on their way.
He said, “I need to figure out how to do this.”
She said, “We need to make it ritualistic.”
“Well, we have clean clothes, gloves, masks, hats. That’s pretty ritualistic. But I meant the surgical process.”
Oglesby said, “Sorry I’m twitchy about it. I really don’t like stuff that personal.”
“You did fine.”
“Thanks. And they said there’s salt north and east of here, toward that rise.”
Barker overheard and came over. “Really?”
“‘Blood rock,’ they call it. Salt.”
“Goddamn, we’re in business.”
“Yeah, that’ll be a nice plus.”
“It’s not just a plus. Cooking. Food preservation. Curing leather. Several other processes. We need salt. I’d even think about taking a vehicle, but we probably can’t risk it. We’ll need a sizeable party or several trips, though.”
“Okay. Well, I’m glad the information helped.” He still sounded embarrassed.
Spencer arrived and said, “Yeah, I need that, too, and it’s just possible there’s coal around. Otherwise, we have to do a charcoal burn. And by that, I mean several tons of wood.”
“One thing at a time, dude.”
“Yeah, I know. And bone meal. Nice, tasty bone meal to settle my stomach.”
Armand asked, “Having trouble?”
“Not yet. I have enough Zantac to last another three months. But once it’s gone, it’s gone. I thought we discussed this.”
“Ah, you want to test the idea first. Very wise, old man.”
“Thanks. And I’m not an old man, boy.”
“Heh. Sergeant, I’m trying to figure out how to do OB-GYN surgery on an injured woman. My brain isn’t all there.”
“No problem. You work on that, I’ll find something to chop.”
Regina had Number Nine full in short order, with the solar panel up top and the laptop up near the turret. She brought the panel in at night and during rain, religiously. Once that was gone, they had no power unless they burned fuel. Her charger could handle batteries for Spencer’s two flashlights and night vision, her own flashlight and camera powerpacks, her laptop, and it could trickle charge the truck batteries. It would also handle AAs, as would the small 110v charger Caswell had, with six batteries that worked in two more flashlights. With her USB kit she could charge all the phones and tablets.
She set up a schedule to keep the phones going, since those served as entertainment, note-taking devices, clocks, alarms and nightlights. The night vision in the trucks and on Spencer’s rifle had to be kept up for security. The lights would only need periodic charging. The other lights would all be useless once their batteries were exhausted. She had a bin for them, and spreadsheeted them by brand in case any spare parts could be scavenged. Otherwise, they were sturdy, waterproof containers.
Pens, pencils and paper were precious, but as long as their devices worked, they could use those.
There was probably some way to rig a wireless network. She’d covered that briefly in school, and tried to recall if she had enough equipment here to create a wireless router. It wouldn’t have much range, but photos from the perimeter, and text messages, could be useful during any kind of attack.
The biggest page, though, was a list of projects, chores and tasks. It was huge. They all pulled sentry duty every day and a half. They might decide that wasn’t necessary, but for now, they were still scared of animals. The wolves patrolled regularly, the lions stayed in the area, and there’d been leopards sighted.
She had CAD software, and Elliott had been using that for design. She cracked it and ripped a copy for his computer. Then she cracked and ripped every program she had, copyright being no longer an issue, and backups being desirable. Then she decided to do everyone’s systems. When she announced at evening formation, there were some astute nods. Yes, sharing all the software possible increased their resources and their recreation. But how long would the systems last? It was unlikely any of them would still work in a decade.
The laptop sat on an ammo crate at a slight angle due to the lean of the truck, and she propped it with a stick she shaved flat on two sides. She kept her weapon next to her, and there was the box of cricket and ball bats, clubs and irons known as Hajji-Be-Good. Melee weapons were still useful. There were also a glove and a ball, but no one wanted to risk losing them in the rough terrain. Maybe someday they’d clear a field.
The third day of her glamorous duty, she came in to find an ugly, flashing malware banner demanding she pay for “viruschek” or “stay infected.”
“Hey, LT!” she called.
He stuck his head around from the side a moment later and asked, “Yeah?”
“The laptop has a virus. How did that happen?”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s pretty obvious.” She pointed to the screen.
“Oglesby was in here last night, right?”
“Yes. Thanks, sir. Hey, Oglesby! Come here!”
He trotted over.
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“Did you have a geekstick plugged in here last night?”
“Uh . . . yes.” He flushed red.
She held out her palm and made the gesture for him to hand it over. Then she looked at the gawkers.
“Shoo!” she said.
The problem was she needed a boot disk to fix it, and didn’t have one. But she had her own flash drives, and she used the LT’s laptop to make a clean boot file.
Once she had it up in boot mode, banishing the malware still took two passes. She had to remove the root, then it changed names to “Save” her from itself. And without any online references, she was cracking from scratch. But it worked. Then she had to remote scan his drive.
Five minutes later, she knew was right on both suspicions. Oglesby’s flash contained porn, and some of it had been swapped for in theater, and was corrupted. As soon as he’d opened that file, the system was toast.
She scanned through the porn. It was pretty typical, nothing that made her twitch. Lesbians, blowjobs, fucking. She found the dirty file, killed it, checked it was gone entirely, and scanned again.
Once done, with the files back and not corrupted, she said, “Oglesby, here! You lost one corrupted file.”
He came over at a jog and took his precious personal information back.
“I only removed that one, though a few of the others may be damaged,” she said without a smile.
He blushed again.
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
“It’s safe with me.”
While she was at it, she might as well scrub everyone’s files.
Rich Dalton was chopping a log, of course. He heard his name, finished the swing, let the axe bite wood, and looked up.
From Number Nine, Alexander shouted, “Dalton, you’re next, bring me your phone, your tablet and your drives.”
She leaned around the hatch, wearing pants, a T-shirt and sneakers. She was pretty well shaped for a woman, and that was starting to look way hot. The running joke was that a four back home was a ten after two months in the field, and she’d been a six or maybe a seven to start with, given her age. She looked a lot younger even with her laundry list of damage.
Most troops had dogtags and flash drives around their necks. Some had religious symbols or jewelry. He’d thought she had a drive or a large religious doohickey, possibly some Thor’s hammer type of thing. He saw now it was a small push dagger, hanging just underside and between her domed breasts.
She had a folding knife clipped in her pocket, that huge tanto on her thigh, and a small sheath knife on her hip as well.
He wiped sweat on his T-shirt as he walked over to the tepee, panting for breath.
Inside was hot, dank and nasty, so he grabbed the stuff quick and got back into daylight and breeze. He walked around the trucks to where she was waiting.
“How come you two b—females have so many damn knives?”
She almost rolled her eyes.
“Think,” she said.
“I have. I don’t get it,” he said.
“Well, I suppose I should be glad of that. Just take it as a fact that you won’t see either of us ‘b . . . females’ without a knife, even when asleep or taking a crap.”
“Oh,” he said, suddenly getting it. That was an uncomfortable subject. But he needed more information and there was no way Caswell would talk to him.
“I didn’t realize the risk was that bad,” he said. He didn’t want to believe it. Most guys were decent. The constant harping . . .
She said, “It depends. Really bad among some of our eastern European allies. Or among the natives. Modern natives. And there are always some dangerous males even in our Army.”
“Sorry.”
She shrugged. “Not your fault. The Army doesn’t want anyone to drink, look at porn, jerk off, tell rude jokes, then expects us to kill people, go back to the FOB and become monks. And then there’s that five percent of men who are just abusive assholes. It’s a bad combination. And we’re the only two here, and the natives find us just exotic.”
He wasn’t sure what to say. He nodded. He wasn’t going to admit he’d considered her a few times late at night.
“And that’s why we’re bitches with knives,” she said.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I’ll let you work.”
“This won’t take long,” she said. “Have a seat.”
He sat on the ramp steps and watched her. She might not be a warrior, but she knew computers, and apparently cameras and night vision. His first thought had been that insisting on admin was an excuse for her to slack off, but she had two laptops up, cables from the solar panel running all over, and his files on screen.
Yeah, those files that . . .
His porn scrolled by too fast to see, but slow enough to identify. But she didn’t say anything, or give any indication she was upset. He still shifted uncomfortably. This was very personal.
“You were airborne intel?” he asked, hoping to distract her slightly. He was blushing.
Without looking from the screen, with folder “redheads” up, she said, “Sort of. I maintained the equipment for battle management. And that stuff was archaic. Built in the seventies.”
“Crashed?”
“Yes, North Carolina. A couple of planes have been lost entirely to bird strikes. We got lucky. Ingested geese into two engines on takeoff. Made it over the trees to the field beyond. Landed hard, all survived, but beat to hell, and the plane was a total loss.”
“No way to avoid the birds?”
“Not really. They fire guns and air cannons, shoot a few, bait them away, try to schedule around their cycle and watch for mass flocks, but eventually, there’s a lot of birds and someone’s going to eat one.”
She moused, keyed, closed the file and handed the stick back.
“Phone next,” she said.
He had all kinds of stuff on his phone, including his journal notes, religious thoughts, shopping list and bank info. But she scanned by eye and by software, nodded and handed it over.
“So why the Army Guard, not Air Guard?”
“Air Guard won’t take me with the bad ankles. Army Guard will take almost anyone. I keep up most of the time. I can’t run much, but I can walk as far as I need to.”
Yeah, she had.
“I noticed. I’m sorry for my comment the other day.”
Without looking from the screen, she said, “Well, you’re young. Apology accepted. Keep in mind you’ll be Spencer’s or my age eventually.”
She was old enough to be his mother, and she had a great rack, and had just scanned through his porn files.
“Yeah, I’m going to be old here.”
“Please don’t remind me. Here’s your laptop,” she said as she powered it down. “I defragged and did some routine maintenance while I was at it. It should be a bit faster.”
“Thanks. Facebook will be much easier now.”
She ignored the joke.
“Actually, we might be able to set up a local network,” she said, “I need to think about that. It wouldn’t work for more than a couple of hundred meters, but we could swap images from the perimeter.”
He didn’t really see how that would be useful, but Oglesby had been wrong about the Ripit cans being trash. Those were being used to steam meat and roast roots.
“Cool. Good luck with it.”
“Thanks. Politely tell that red-headed bitch I’ll look at hers next.”
Interesting. So she didn’t like Caswell either.
“Roger.”
“Politely,” she reiterated.
He slid the laptop under his arm and carried it, since he was going to drop it back in the tepee after relaying that last message.
Caswell was over past the kitchen area, lashing limbs together.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Another wall for the latrine. Eventually double walls for insulation and a roof.”
“Cool. That’ll be nice in winter. Alexander says she’ll look at your stuff now.”
“Stuff?”
“Computer, phone, memory sticks.”
“Eh. Mine are fine. I check them regularly.”
“I get the impression she’s insisting on checking everyone’s.”
“Oh, goddamn her,” Caswell replied. She didn’t move, though.
Polite. “I’ve delivered the message. You’ll have to argue the point with her, or with the LT or Spencer.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He left. He didn’t want to argue with her, and yes, she was a bitch. She didn’t have age or injury as an excuse. And it wasn’t being non-Army. Trinidad was Navy. Barker was Reserve and had been Navy. Alexander had been Air Force also. So it was just her.
Possibly because of her looks? Did she play them for advantage and it wasn’t working here? But she hadn’t done that at all when the convoy started. Was she afraid of her looks? The natives had definitely homed in on her. She was at least an eight, maybe a nine, and the nicest looking thing around. He wouldn’t mind some attention, but even if it wasn’t a bad idea, there was no way to approach her.
If God wanted to test a young man, this environment was the way to do it.
He walked back to the tepee. Maybe chopping another half dozen trees would burn off some of the tension. Or at least give him blisters.
The next day, the Paleos returned to see Armand.
“Natives inbound, party of five,” Spencer called from the turret.
Armand was nervous. He had a vague idea what to do, and hoped it would work. He had fears of either making the problem worse, or causing infection and death. This wasn’t life-saving field surgery. It was a complicated OB-GYN reconstruction. Well, complicated from his experience. He was a second-year student, not a surgeon.
“Are you guys ready?”
“Yes,” Barker said.
“I am,” Dalton agreed. He looked uncomfortable.
“Yes,” Alexander said.
“This is damned near an all-hands operation,” Barker added. “Like overhauling a ship.”
The approaching Paleos were Ai!ee, two women escorts, and two warriors with spears. They also each carried four javelins like the ones Barker had made. They’d learned that quickly.
“They caught on fast, I see,” he said. “I’ll teach them other stuff, but we need to remind them how useful we are.”
“Sure. In case she doesn’t make it,” Armand said.
Caswell said, “You’ll do fine.”
“Okay, ask her when she last ate. It should be two days ago. She shouldn’t have drunk since last night. But make them answer, don’t lead them.”
Oglesby said, “Got it,” and turned.
“She says two days, no food, praying to her mother and grandmother and the nature spirits. She’s very hungry but at peace and had a good vision last night.”
“Good. Bowel movements?”
“Yesterday. And she’s thirsty now.”
“Okay, wet a rag in the boiled water and she can suck on that.”
He led the party into the tepee, and then Caswell chased the men out. On the one hand, he appreciated it. On the other, if she was going to push this equality thing, she shouldn’t exclude them.
Not his problem.
They had ponchos on the ground, swept and clean. He figured they could be washed in the creek afterward.
“The spearchuckers are out,” he said. “I always wanted to call someone a spearchucker.”
“Well, they are,” Barker said with a laugh.
Caswell rolled her eyes, but said nothing. She didn’t seem to have a sense of humor, though she was interested in science. He’d keep it serious around her.
“Are you ready to assist?” he asked her.
“Ready, Doc.” She sounded sure.
“Gina?”
Alexander had instruments laid out in an ammo can lid.
“Is that the correct order?” she asked.
“Yes. You know the names of everything?”
“Well enough.”
“Good batteries in the light?”
“Full charge.”
He turned to Oglesby.
“I need her naked and on the poncho. We’ll need to hold her legs. Her head will be on a pillow, and she can talk with her friends and the spirits. This is going to be as painful as childbirth.”
Oglesby explained, and there were nods. She stripped easily from her skirt, and lay down as directed. Her belly was striated with stretch markes, her breasts flat and pendulous. Once they started squeezing out babies here, they aged fast.
Barker and Dalton each sat cross-legged and took one of her calves across their laps. They then pulled masks on.
“Okay, Oglesby, tell them to keep her company and soothed. And there is going to be bright, magic light.” He pulled on the magic gloves and masks, and just maybe that idea would catch on and save a few lives.
Her friends cradled her head and caressed her forehead and cheeks. They spoke reassuringly, and even smiled.
So here he was, operating by flashlight, in a hide-covered tepee, scrubbing a Stone Age woman’s vagina with soap while Caswell dilated her with two spoons. The squirt bottle made a handy douche for rinsing.
He peered in by flashlight, as Caswell straddled her belly and reached down with the dilator spoons.
“It’s not as smooth as I’d hoped,” he said, feeling a bit embarrassed even on duty. “I can’t localize the tear. Suggestions?”
Caswell said, “You may have to illuminate from behind.”
He thought about that.
“. . . yeah. Okay, I need my backpack,” he said as he pointed.
Alexander ran to get it.
“What’s in there?”
“More gloves. And a microlight.”
It worked. With some lube and effort, he inserted the wrapped glowing light into her rectum, and found the perforation where the light was brightest.
Two careful nicks with the scalpel sliced the membrane and exposed tissue. Ai!ee tensed and hissed, but didn’t move.
The tough part was suturing. There wasn’t much room, and he had only an improvised speculum.
“Wider, carefully,” he told Caswell.
The patient actually didn’t move much. There were involuntary muscle tremors of her wall muscles, and her ass puckered a bit, but no significant reactions to pain. And it had to hurt. Her friends chanted in a steady rhythm that was hypnotic and annoying. He glanced around Caswell. Ai!ee’s face was screwed up tight, but she didn’t twitch as he stabbed a suture needle through tender flesh.
Dalton mumbled something, he looked over, and realized it was the Lord’s Prayer. Well enough. Armand would do his part, the rest was up to the Almighty.
In fifteen minutes he was done, nodded, leaned back and then shifted so his foot wouldn’t cramp.
He never wanted to be that close to a native woman again.
He removed the light as Caswell removed the spoons.
“Okay, we need her to rest here. She is not to get out of bed until tomorrow, and no lifting anything for the rest of the week. Oh, and no food until tomorrow, and no sex for a month. She needs to drink lots of water and have help while urinating. I doubt they have bed pans, but they’ll need to hold her so she’s not straining muscles.”
Oglesby translated at length, and said, “I told them she should also pray twice a day.”
“Good.”
Barker said, “She really didn’t fight much.”
Dalton concurred. “Yeah, no real trouble. Tough constitution. But that was not a pleasant view.”
Caswell said, “It’s medicine.” She sounded cross.
Alexander said, “They’re male. It’s instinctive.”
“Okay, these gloves are now industrial, as long as they last. Any goat guts to process?”
“Yeah, I’ll take them,” Barker said.
He took a deep breath. That had gone okay, as near as he could tell. He wanted to know she had survived without infection. Because it sure as hell wasn’t the last surgery he’d be doing.
He wished they had booze. This called for a drink.
Caswell said, “There’s one other matter, and I’d like privacy.”
“You and her?”
“And Oglesby and you and the two women. Rest of you, get the fuck out, please.”
Damn, she was blunt. Barker and Dalton rose and left without comment. Gina shrugged and followed.
After they were out the flap in the door, she looked around, then said, “Oglesby, I need to ask them what to use in lieu of tampons.”
That was a damned good question Armand had wondered about himself.
Oglesby turned beet red, nodded quickly, and turned to the women. He pointed at Ai!ee, gestured with hands, looked words up in his notes, and repeated.
“They say you should ask the spirits for a baby. Get pregnant and nurse, and you’ll stop having moon sickness. I told them that wasn’t possible. Hold on.”
He looked very uncomfortable. He talked and pointed more.
“They say it doesn’t happen often. Only to women who are really well fed and not with men. They seem to use rawhide and cattail fluff.”
“Fuck,” she said. “I guess I wad up a T-shirt in my panties and waddle around. Goddammit. Well, thank them for helping. Are we done?”
Armand said, “You can go if you need to. I have it.”
“Thanks.”
After she left, he told Oglesby, “She meant to thank you, too.”
He replied, “No she didn’t. But I guess I can’t blame her. That’s pretty damned personal.”
“We’re all going to know too much about each other after a while.”
“‘Going to’?”