CHAPTER 6 
CHAPTER 6
Felix Trinidad couldn’t shut his observations off. They were down at the beach on the river to get clean. They’d all had diarrhea, all their clothes were at least sweat-crusted, and they were sticky, slimy messes under their uniforms. They’d changed socks daily, because Doc insisted, and underwear twice. They were still out of clean clothes. There wasn’t even any way to air them out in the sun, with grabby native hands all around.
They had a couple of bars of soap, and cold water. It was better than some COBs, much better than some places in the PI, and he felt a lot better after a cold splash, a soaping and a cold rinse. He ignored the naked men around him easily, though some of the urbanites were more tense than he was, and he felt that. The water was too shallow for modesty. It wasn’t great for shaving, either, but his face itched terribly. When he was done scraping, it burned and stung.
Farther out the river was deeper, and quite broad. Not as big as the Mississippi, but maybe the Mindanao, but younger and faster. He wondered if the natives crossed it or if it was a hard barrier.
He didn’t mind grit and leaf debris as he redressed. He realized how filthy their uniforms were, though. He almost itched, but figured it was in his mind. The other uniform he’d brought had been cleaned with soap, wrung out, and was over a tree branch to dry.
The natives were fascinated by the layers of clothes and armor, the softness of fabric rather than leather, and the Multicam patterning. They had no idea what the weapons and other gear were, but knew they were something special. Caswell was guarding the men’s gear as they plunged.
“Hurry up,” she said. “It’s cold water, not a hot tub, for fuck’s sake.”
“I’m dressed,” he said, as he finished fastening his armor. They didn’t bother with helmets, but they still felt safer wearing armor.
“As soon as the guys are done, you and Barker are covering me and Alexander,” she said.
“Okay.”
That was interesting. The women had used Spencer for several days. Now she wanted Barker and him. Why the change? Possibly he was perceived as less of a threat, and Barker was more familiar with native crafts.
She hadn’t liked Spencer’s advice to buddy up. Apparently that was personal for her.
So he’d have to be very discreet, getting an eyeful of her naked, and never mention it.
Downstream, there was a web of stakes and sticks, and two men were pulling fish out of it, into baskets. That was a labor saver. Wherever they settled would have to be on a watercourse, and that would be a useful tool to have.
Rank was only one way of sorting people by status. Knowledge was another. Sergeant Barker was probably the best at skills for this environment. Spencer and Caswell seemed useful, too, at least on social matters.
Felix would have to analyze everything he could to help.
Barker came over, also dressed, and checked his weapon.
“Hell, we don’t need these in camp,” he said. “Fobbit central.”
“It is. But we do need to watch the locals. They’re after the stuff.”
“And our women.”
“I noticed.” Yes, several of the men were on the bluff looking down at the river. He took a quick, professional glance.
Caswell was lean and fit, but he liked a little more curve. She had a great ass, though, and he shouldn’t think about that.
Alexander had curves, almost too many, but worth looking at. Nice tits.
They were both pale as ghosts.
Well, he’d file that for later “analysis.” Meantime, he did need to keep kids away from gear.
He couldn’t do anything about the whistles from above. He didn’t think the girls liked them.
Doc yelled, “Before you leave, brush your goddamn teeth. I don’t want to pull them with a Gerber plier.”
The man was right, but damn, he was annoying.
Bob Barker found his mood improved. They had feathers, and he found something close to willow saplings, straight and even. He cut five, barked them and scraped them, and left them in the hut. Pine sap wasn’t hard to find. Some way of cooking it, however, was. He finally settled for rolling it in a chunk of gut. There was so much leather and gut around that no one tracked it. They had more every day.
While that heated near the low daytime fire, he sliced pheasant feathers along the shaft, scraped and trimmed, all with his Leatherman tool. Three elfin kids sat and watched in fascination, jabbering away to each other. There were a lot of sounds in the language, but not a lot of what sounded like words. They had enough sounds and tones for a small vocabulary.
The sap boiled until it oozed out of the tied gut, then burst it, and he worked quickly, using a twig to smear some on the shaft, slap down a feathered vane and stretch it taut, then press along its length with the butt of the twig. He burned himself on the hot pitch on the third one, and swore. He repeated eighteen times, because he flubbed three fletches and had to repeat.
He realized Spencer was watching from his right, and Caswell from his left.
“I need to peel a bit of sinew to tie them with,” he said.
Spencer asked, “What about a tight ring of rawhide?”
“Yeah, that would work, but sinew is better.”
He’d peeled some from a bone earlier and had it soaking in a hide-lined hollow in the ground.
“And that’s how they discovered tanning,” he said.
“Mmm?”
He explained as he worked. “The chamber pot in the lodge is a hole lined with a hide. They close up the hide in the morning and dump it out, then rinse it. Hide plus fat plus piss equals tanning. Anything they didn’t scrape fully would wind up tanned, and be very supple wet, very hard when dry. Once you know that, you have leather. Then when you use it as a windbreak or cover, the smoke colors and softens it.”
“Ah. Makes sense. Isn’t that something everyone wondered about?”
“How it developed? Yeah. And now we know.”
“And no way to get rich off the idea, even if there were much money in it.”
“Well, have Alexander take some photos.”
“I am,” she said from behind. “If we do get back . . .” she stopped and paused for almost a minute, hiding her wet eyes behind the camera as she pretended to shoot more photos. “I’ll have lots of information.”
The sinew being soft enough, he peeled off a cordlike strip with his blade. He made a loop, a tuck, pulled, wrapped, poked and pulled again. The front of one fletching was done. He ran a twist around and along the feathers, then made another terminal wrap at the rear. He’d made hundreds of them over the years, for friends. Now he had to make them to work.
“They can add their own points,” he said. “Now, how do we want to demonstrate these and gift them?”
“Throw them at a target.”
“So I need to tip one of them. Slate will work.”
He found a broken piece near one of the walls, and beat it into a very rough point. He wanted weight as much as anything.
That done, he bored into the end of the shaft, melted more pine tar, and set the tip in place, adding a wrap of sinew as supplement.
It was already evening and the sun sinking behind trees when he stepped to the eastern wall, set his finger into the hollow he’d carved there, cocked back and hurled.
The yard long, inch-thick dart flew a good fifty yards.
The kids cheered. They were different kids from earlier, but they knew he’d been making something.
One of them ran out, brought back the dart, and shouted enthusiastically. He pulled the kid’s fingers off the fletches, said, “No!” and threw it again.
By the third throw, most of the adults had gathered.
Spencer said, “Start with the chief.”
“Yeah. Oglesby?”
Oglesby stepped forward with him, and started chatting.
“I said you are Bob Who Makes Things. The Sun Lemur has approved of us showing them your spears that fly with feathers like a bird. I think that’s what I said.”
“Cool. Now tell him this one is a gift. He may wish to replace the tip. It needs to be stone for weight.”
The chief brightened immensely on receiving a gift, and held it clumsily, but aloft, and shouted approval.
“Let me show you how,” Barker said, and moved in, and damn, the man stunk. He’d sweated into the breechcloth. On the other hand, Bob was pretty ripe again despite his dip in the river.
“Finger here, hold here, lean back, and throw.”
The chief managed a good thirty yards, and there were more cheers.
“Now find me the senior male and female hunters.”
Barker presented one each to them, and they did even better. He gave a slight bow as he waved the other two darts in a broad arc, then handed them to the chief as well.
At once, the shaman and someone he recognized as a stone knapper were handling the shaft, caressing the feathers and sniffing at the glue. They had the idea. No doubt their first few dozen would suck, but they’d learn soon enough.
Spencer said, “I think that went a long way toward the balance sheet.”
Yeah, they were a lot more interested in the soldiers now.
That evening turned into another party. There didn’t seem to be any days of the week here, nor any schedule other than hunt, fish, dry some food, eat the rest, chop the bones and hide up for use, and hang about playing games. It was almost an idyllic life, and the meat made the bastards tall. But goddam, he wanted a bushel of apples and a salad. It had been nothing but meat and a few nuts and a handful of berries for the duration.
Tribal rites weren’t anything new, but these were unlike any he’d seen, of course.
They gathered around the main fire again, and several conversations went on at once. There wasn’t any real order until the headman stepped up and said something, in lyrical tones. He came over, placed a hand on Barker’s head, and held aloft his new, cherished dart. He shouted something, and there was a cheer in response.
Unable to think of anything else, Barker stood and said, “Thank you,” with a nod and his hands open. He hoped he hadn’t been adopted or something, or if so, he didn’t suddenly have some obligations.
Around the circle, several somethings were being passed hand to hand, apparently food. People nibbled as they came around.
The first was dried, salted liver. It might have been salted in blood or urine; there was a sharp tang to it.
The second was very dry, very tough, very chewy. He didn’t have the jaws these people did, and had to work and twist to tear off a bit. After five chews he was pretty sure it was dried gut. He kept chewing, made a surreptitious pass with his hand and got rid of it. Gah. They ate anything here.
Then the entertainment got interesting.
Regina Alexander used her camera as a shield. Behind it, she could observe anything calmly, even enemy fire or death. The locals had no clue about technology at all, and as long as she didn’t use flash or view screen, she could shoot as she pleased. She’d slapped a band-aid over the LED and not had the problems Oglesby had with his flashlight.
This was the cursed work, though, shooting through an IR lens with the fire and a hand held illuminator for light. Her husband had given her the light with the IR filter, and it was far too hot a spot for any photography, but it might be useful for searching or whatever, so she’d brought it. Now she needed it. She’d rather have him.
She blinked tears again. There was nothing to be done about that, and other issues that were critical. Back to photos.
“Caswell, can you hold this for me? Point it where I say.”
“Sure, hon,” Caswell said, and took the light. She had nothing against Caswell, but they weren’t likely to be friends, but she was glad not to be the only woman. “Hon” wasn’t really appropriate from a subordinate, but Caswell was an SP and Gina had originally been airborne intel in the USAF. As the only two females, with similar background, she didn’t really mind and didn’t see a need for formality.
“Getting good shots?” Caswell asked.
“I think so,” she replied. “I can’t tell until I can look at them.”
“Old school.”
“Almost.”
She wanted to see these photos on the screen, but that would have to wait. She thought that was a good shot of the chief and Barker.
Caswell did okay, following the camera lens and lighting whatever seemed to be the subject.
Then she paused. Two of the women had stepped out, but were starting to dance. They wore wrapped skirts, draped half-ponchos and beaded headbands that looked to be made of shells and bone. “Headdresses,” she said, and zoomed in for a shot.
It was an odd dance. It had tempo and beat, with both claps and stomps, and some percussion with sticks and sections of bark.
Then the singing started, and it was a slow chant, not very melodic, but oddly resonant. Then it sounded like a bullroarer.
“Oh, throat singing!” Caswell said.
“Dammit,” Gina swore, and fumbled with the camera. She was a still photographer, not a videographer but . . . dammit.
She pulled her coat around and over her head, ducked down, and flicked the screen on. Options, settings, there, video. She closed the screen.
Now the two women were singing, too, holding hands and stamping feet while echoing deep sounds from their throats, almost like didgeridoos.
They moved into an arm-to-arm embrace, and Caswell said, “That’s almost like the Inuit. Even to the headbands.”
The others were also chanting, softer, somewhat harmonically, and the percussion softened to background, but still palpable.
The Paleo people had much smaller personal spaces than modern people. But even so, these two had to be close friends or relatives.
Or . . .
She kept videoing, and around her, she could almost hear the held breaths.
The two women danced arm in arm, face to face, cheek to cheek. There was a harmonic resonance with their voices that close together that added shimmery sounds to the echoey resonance.
Their eyes were closed and they were in trance, like some club dancers or meditationists.
Then they were supporting each other, one leg raised, wrapped around the other, in a remarkably stable and almost erotic stance. She wished she could get some stills, too. The symmetry was striking.
They hit a harmony and kept the chant going in stereo. They were very close to each others’ notes, but there was a faint warble, like tuning an instrument. Phase cancellations? Yes. Ethereal. And they were more than close, they had hands on each other and inside their minimal clothing.
Devereaux muttered, “Goddamn.”
She always felt embarrassed watching people make out, but she kept rolling. She could put about twelve minutes on each of these cards, and she had ten cards with her, but she had already filled three. She might be able to load some to her phone.
Caswell said, “That’s a new one to me. Sensual touch between close associates or sister-mates is not unusual, but I’ve never heard of sexual contact. But it seems more for feedback than sex.”
Gina wasn’t sure. Their breathing turned to panting a couple of times. Their hands writhed all over, not just on erogenous zones, but there was definite masturbation involved.
“Given the casual way they touch here, it’s not that shocking.” Talking about it clinically was the only way not to be embarrassed.
“No, but I haven’t heard of anything like it.”
Then the women flowed apart again, the deep singing continuing, but the intensity and volume slackened slightly.
That wasn’t all. Someone had a curl of bark stuffed with some kind of leaf. They applied a glowing stick, waved it to flame, blew it to char, and inhaled deeply of the thick, oily smoke emanating from it.
Oglesby said, “Uh, yeah, what do we do, LT?”
The LT hesitated, and Spencer said, “Under the circumstances, have a polite whiff and pass it on. Fake it if you need to.”
Oglesby was first, and accepted the scroll gravely. He held it up, drew at it with his mouth, and almost coughed.
“Strong,” he said, as he passed it to Devereaux. “I don’t know if it’s weed or what.”
Devereaux did cough, and seeing as how she was allergic to smoking and found it disgusting, Gina made a token show of waving it under her nose, arched so it looked like she expanded her chest, and passed it.
Caswell inhaled a sip through her nose, as Oglesby said, “Oh, shit, whatever it is, I got a buzz.”
Caswell sniffed a bit deeper, coughed. Her hands shook as she passed it, and as soon as Barker had hold of it, she sneezed.
“Oh, that was nasty.”
Barker took a deep drag and didn’t seem at all bothered.
“Not quite pot. I wonder if it’s some fungus on a leaf?”
Spencer didn’t seem fazed. Ortiz and Trinidad passed it quickly, and Dalton faked it very badly. The LT lingered over it, not inhaling but making a good show, before passing it to the shaman, who took it with a flourish and grin.
There was more chanting and drumming, and two couples wandered away from the fire circle. Then another.
“Looks like they’re breaking up, LT,” she said.
“Yeah, we’ll stick around a bit. Watch out for anyone trying to pair up with us.”
Spencer said, “The Sun Lemur would not approve.”
Devereaux said, “Sister over there has a nice shape to her. I’d be happy to help with some diplomacy.”
Elliott said, “I’m sure you would, but there are a lot of reasons why it’s a really bad idea at this point.”
“Yeah. Including diseases we have no idea about.”
“Did everyone hear that?” Spencer noted.
There was zero chance she was going to involve herself with any of these men. They were aesthetically pleasing, but socially disturbing, and she was married. The idea of strange, Stone Age STIs made them even less appealing.
The barkajoint came round again, and she waved it past her face. Oglesby looked disoriented, and Barker was almost out of focus.
“Yup, I’m betting on some form of ditchweed with some mushroom sprinkles,” he said. “Wheee.”
It was hilarious to see him stoned.
Caswell said, “Maybe morning glory, too. Mild hallucinogen.”
Gina was still recording.
She ducked under her coat, switched back to still, swapped memory cards, placing the one very carefully in a case in a dedicated sealed pouch on her gear. She could swap cards under fire in seconds. Then she got a shot of Barker standing, staring at his hand.
Looking around, she realized all the Paleos had gone to their huts, and it was a bit cool.
Spencer said, “Goodnight, everybody. Alexander, we’re on first watch.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Sitting by their dim inside fire, she wished she had a real video camera, and the ability to check all the images here. She had her laptop and the solar charger, but was reluctant to let the Paleos see anything that wasn’t just a chunk of material. They were at the truck anyway. It would have to wait.
Spencer said, “We’ll have Oglesby and Barker on last, so they have time to sober up.”
“Are they in trouble?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, we needed to be social with our hosts. They had two hits each. But that stuff must be strong. I had one toke and I felt it for about twenty minutes.”
“So we’re leaving tomorrow?” She was of mixed feelings.
“If we can. We’ll see if they can recommend a place for us. And we’ve learned a bit here.”
She said, “We have. I’ve learned I don’t want to live with them. They’re very nice neighbors, and good fences make good neighbors.”
“Indeed. I’m also worried about the younger males wanting to shack up.”
“Only the younger ones?”
He raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing like the personal habits and the physiques of the thirty-year-olds to make me appreciate the simple beauty of my right hand,” he said. “They age fast.”
“They do, but they don’t seem to age past that. From twenty-five on, they all look the same.”
“Yeah, but their twenty-five is a well-worn fifty for us.”
She raised a hand at a noise, but it was a voice, and sounded as if someone was well impassioned.
Spencer caught it, too.
“People who live in grass houses shouldn’t throe moans,” he said. “Throe with an E.”
She tried not to choke and failed.
“I shouldn’t be laughing,” she said through a sore throat and leaking eyes. “We can’t get home.”
“It doesn’t seem like it. So we need to deal with it.” His eyes were wet, too, much as he was trying to hide it.
“I’ll swap bad jokes for a bar of dark chocolate.” She missed chocolate, and was going to miss it a lot more. Even Hershey would be welcome now. As for Ghirardelli . . .
“Yeah. Coffee. Oglesby and Barker want smokes, I want coffee. Goddamn I want coffee.”
They wanted their families, but weren’t going to say that. So . . .
“There is coffee. All you have to do is reach the ocean and paddle five thousand miles.”
“I’ve thought about it. But our home isn’t there yet. It would be all raw wilderness and no more familiar than this.”
She said, “And I don’t know the history of coffee in South America.”
“Ethiopia, actually. We could walk there, in theory.”
“Oh, right.”
Either way, it didn’t matter. They were in the middle of Central Asia, with no guidebook for the trip, and no way home.
They stared silently at the skin door.
In the near distance, they could hear dogs or wolves growling and fighting over the offal from the hunt. It had been tossed into the woods.