CHAPTER 7 
CHAPTER 7
Sean Elliott felt a lot stronger mentally than he had last week. They were still lost, with almost no resources, but he had an idea on the environment now, and at least a summary plan. That didn’t make it easier to pack up and leave the native village. The huts, fire and people made it a home of sorts, and now he was taking his element off to create their own camp. There were over a hundred people in this village. He had ten.
But, those ten had skills. They had a translator, a medic, a vet tech who could be another medic, two people with SERE training, who were both reenactors of different historical eras. Barker knew a bunch of Native American primitive skills. They had someone who knew sociology, and a couple of skilled hunters. Then, Trinidad had grown up in a remote village and knew about wells and animals also. Sean was an engineer. Between them, they had the brains to make it work. He wasn’t sure if they had enough muscle.
There was nothing to be gained by remaining, though. This wasn’t their culture and hopefully never would be. He needed to jump now before he chickened out.
“Ready, Oglesby?” he asked.
“Ready, sir,” the man said, and held up his notebook. He’d done an impressive job with the language in only three days. Hopefully, they could make their point known.
“Caswell?”
“Got it, sir.” Caswell had suggested donating some plain wooden pencils. They were biodegradable, would wear out quickly, and were gimmicky. They didn’t do anything charcoal wouldn’t do for these people, but they’d hopefully be appreciated.
Outside, he sought the chief, hoping the man was up, even though it was early. There wasn’t any real schedule here. The natives hunted, trapped fish, played, lazed about, had sex, and ate as they wished.
But the chief was awake, and responded to Oglesby’s greeting, along with the shaman. A couple of others loitered nearby, and moved in closer. They weren’t quite too close this time.
Caswell stepped forward and held up a pencil. She had a small piece of rawhide and a stick, peeled to clean wood. She took out a sharp rock flake and scraped a point on the pencil, then marked on the stick, then the leather.
There were oohs and ahhs. She gave them the one to play with, and there was much giggling and pointing, waving and excitement.
Then she handed over the rest of the dozen, unsharpened.
This time there were cheers. The visitors had finally given them something neat.
She stood stoically with a panicked look on her face as the chief grabbed her shoulder, tried to cup her through her armor, and patted her ass. She took his shoulder, slapped his buttock lightly, and stepped back.
It took a few moments to get their attention back from the pencils, while Oglesby stepped forward with his notebook.
He used a combination of pantomime and native words. “We (gesture) ugyi (point at hut) build (gesture of piling sticks). Va!se (point at river) runs west (point) from the east (point). Where should we (gesture) go (arms forward and out) to build (gesture) ugyi (shrug)?”
There was a modern sounding exclamation of “Ah!” and a huddle. It sounded like a flock of birds throwing nuts at trees, but in only a few moments, three people stepped forth, one woman and two men. They were from the party that found them, and hunted the antelope.
“Rish,” one of the men said, pointing east. He ran to his hooch, emerged with a small wrapped bundle and a spear, and started walking.
“Crap. Folks, grab your gear fast, we’re marching!”
Luckily their three guides moved at a leisurely walk, and waited a few yards out for the troops to catch up. They looked bemused. As soon as they saw the last troop out of the lodge—Alexander—they turned and resumed trudging.
Their pace was not brisk, but steady. They stayed above the wood line of the river, along the high steppe. Occasionally, game would leap away, and once a large wildcat.
“Damn,” Alexander said, from behind her camera.
“Alexander?”
“Lions, sir. A pride of four females and a male. Up the hill that way.”
“I see, barely.” Lions. Yet another animal that would eat them.
That rise right there was where the trucks were. He didn’t want to try to answer questions about them, even though they’d likely been seen by some party or other. He lagged down toward the trees, and it worked. The hunters didn’t stray far up, and kept walking.
It was another two miles across hummocky terrain above the river and the forest that edged it before they came to a wood line running south and uphill. It grew low and rugged, with some straight trees right along the edge.
The lead hunter chattered something, and Oglesby said, “He says, ‘good camp here.’ It seems pretty good to me, sir, and well away from them.”
“It’s workable. Thank them, and tell them we’ll meet again soon.”
Oglesby spoke back, clutching hands with each of them, and they departed.
They were such a simple people, and he meant that in a good way.
Elliott said, “I want to look uphill before we pick a spot, and we may bivouac for a day or so before finalizing.”
“Final.” That word. They were choosing their homestead in a place that would be Afghanistan in about 12,000 years.
They strung out in patrol formation and worked their way uphill. The slope was gentle. The terrain was prairieish with knotty trees here and there, bushes, clumps of heavier grass.
“Looky there,” Elliott said as he crossed a rise.
Ahead was a merging smaller stream and a line of small trees.
“Good?”
“It means there’s enough water. We don’t want to be on the river because of floods, and we don’t want to be too far from it—we need water and sanitation.”
They moved up, a bit closer together, but always looking around and feeling that creepy wrongness.
The line of trees was on a watercourse that was more a ditch than a side stream, though it likely held water during wet season. It was spongy and full of moss and small trees, birch or something like it, along with brush and thorns.
Alexander said, “Thorns mean it stays wet.”
“Good,” Elliott nodded. “So let’s move downhill just a bit, a hundred meters or so.”
Gina Alexander watched as he led the way, with that zoned expression again, though it wasn’t panicked this time. He just looked lost in thought. That was good. He seemed to be taking charge. Even if he wasn’t a great leader, he needed to be some kind of leader, or step aside and let Spencer do it.
At almost exactly a hundred meters by her estimate, the LT stopped and stood, then turned slowly around, shifting his weight and gazing. He mumbled to himself and pointed.
Spencer opened his mouth to speak, but Alexander nudged him and shook her head. He gave her a quizzical look. She raised a finger to tell him to wait. She’d seen her husband assess problems like this. And that made her sob again.
After about three minutes Elliott spoke.
“I don’t like the slope, but it’s what we have. We need to decide between a low spot to minimize wind, and high ground to give us a field of fire. Unless anyone has a good reason not to, I’m choosing that hump there. We’ll make that our camp for the duration.”
No one objected.
Alexander saw what he was doing. That wasn’t a bad choice. They had the stream to the east, what looked like a seasonal ditch uphill to the south, the river less than a half mile to the north, enough exposure for sun, decent position for observation. They had a line of trees along the watercourses, and a copse a bit downhill in what was almost a meadow. It might not be the most comfortable, but it was probably the best combination of resources and tactical location.
“Okay,” he said. “I’d like to leave a detachment here while the rest get the vehicles. Five to go, which is a ground guide, and a driver and gunner for each, and swap off. It’s only a couple of miles. It should be a one-day thing, starting in the morning. For tonight, I want a low fire, three up at any time on watch. We’ll dig hasties and bivouac, unless someone is eager to build a lean-to.”
“Looks clear enough for tonight,” Dalton said.
She’d rather have some kind of overhead. Much rather. She could work something with her poncho and some sticks, or even with dug earth and the poncho, but they were all in a group, it wasn’t likely to rain, and she didn’t want to stand out nor go to that much effort.
“Where’s the latrine?” she asked.
“The stream. South of that rock there,” Spencer said.
The lieutenant nodded. “Yeah, for now. Keep it downstream from there. We’ll get water upstream. Everyone done with assplosions?”
She was, but that reminded her that her ass was still burning, itching, oozing. It could have been worse. She could have been stuck in a convoy vehicle. But it wasn’t pleasant.
Dalton raised his hand and spoke.
“Sir, may I offer an invocation?”
“I would like that, yes. Please be brief.”
Dalton looked around, bowed his head, and said, “Heavenly Father, we thank you for guiding us to our new home. Bless our labor, courage and teamwork through the coming adversity, so we may thrive. Amen.”
“Amen,” replied most. Devereaux, Trinidad and Ortiz crossed themselves.
Dalton added, “And for some of us, this is in Jesus’ name.”
Spencer was silent. Alexander felt uncomfortable. Christians always had to make it about their God.
Barker said, “Sir, I’d like to kindle the First Fire this evening. It’s a tradition we have.”
Yes. If they could pray, she could have a holy fire. Barker was a good guy. She’d ask him about her rituals, too.
“I’d like that, too. When?”
“I need a couple of supplies. Alexander and I can do it. If we’re going to cook, I’d say I start by seventeen hundred.”
“Let’s get hasties dug and some sort of barricade first.”
“Roger that, sir.”
They dug hasty positions in a circle around where the fire would go, earth ramparted out, and dragged some scrub from the ditch. Barker and Trinidad went to work on some local bushes with their machetes, and they had a kraal of sorts. It did help psychologically define their territory, and it would slow wolves. It might not stop lions. Her hands were sore after her turn with Barker’s E-tool, but she felt better.
Rich Dalton threw himself into digging. These were a bit better than hasty positions, because he expected they’d expand them later. If not, they’d work for latrines, storage or trash.
“Dalton,” the LT said. “I see a lot of goats. Please shoot us some dinner.”
“I’d rather have steak, but we won’t do it with these damned things,” he said, shaking his M4. Hell, it was barely enough for people even if you did hit. But he took a walk east and leapt the stream at a spot only eight feet wide or so, with Trinidad following. The grass was thigh deep, thick and tangled, and threw up dust and occasional angry bugs as they trod. The dust coated his uniform in short order.
He looked over at Trinidad’s machete, held out in the man’s right hand.
“Are you going to chop it up on the spot with that sword?”
“That’s right, man. You shoot, I chop. They can have leftovers.” The short man grinned a big white grin in his brown face.
“Cool. Well, I see some right over there, but eventually they’re going to get scared of us.” He choose one fat one that was nearer than the rest.
“Maybe we can pen some in and farm them.”
He thought that was a good idea. “Yeah, a small farm would be good, but I think we have to build a bunch of stuff first.” He lived in Louisville, but there were enough farms around he’d seen plenty. They wouldn’t be ranching this year. Next year, though, if they were still here, definitely.
He aimed, breathed, squeezed the trigger, and the goat thrashed and fell. He thought he’d scored a headshot, but it might have been neck.
Then he realized the goat wasn’t fat, it was nursing. Some little kid came braying out, squealing about his momma. Crap.
Hating himself, he lined up and shot, and Junior became hors d’oeuvres.
Trinidad clapped him on the shoulder. “Eh, they’re small. We’ll chop them up there. Here’s one of your brass.” The Filipino dug a bit more, and found the other.
At least God provided plenty of food for now, though he wished for a salad. And a soda.
He grabbed the goat, Trinidad shouldered the kid, and they trotted back. The smell of dead goat didn’t help his feelings, except it also meant food, so that was okay.
Barker, Spencer and Alexander waited right across the stream.
“Double, eh?” Barker asked.
“Yeah, I got the mother first and wasn’t going to let the little critter starve. Not cool, but it is what it is.”
“Yeah, well lay them down here and we’ll get them ready and start the fire. Ortiz wants to chop up more animals.”
There was already a circle of rocks, dragged from the stream and still wet, to mark the fire circle. He slapped the mother goat down just outside of it.
Alexander bent over and . . .
“Did you just suck goat milk from a dead udder?” He was fascinated and revolted at the same time.
“Yes.”
“What the . . .”
“It’s the only milk we’re going to get around here,” she said, wiping her lips.
Spencer knelt down in the grass and did the same thing.
Caswell said, “I want to pen a few; we can get milk, butter and cheese,” echoing what Trinidad had said. At a gesture from Spencer, she added, “No thank you.” Yeah, he wasn’t about to go for milk that fresh either. He hoped.
“Oh, hell yes,” Ortiz said. Dalton stared at him. “I mean the butter and stuff.”
If the animal handler wasn’t interested in goat milk from an udder, he wasn’t either. Thanks.
Elliott said, “Barker, please proceed with your fire, and dinner, and we much appreciate your services in this.”
“Yes, sir.” Barker spoke firmly, but there was a faint crack under his baritone voice.
He opened his pack and started pulling out gathered sticks, then bark, twigs and some leaves.
It was still full light, but afternoon, and they’d want time to dig in more. Anyway, they were hungry. It made sense to eat now.
Dalton was respectful. In a perfect world, everyone would hold to Christ’s teachings, but it wasn’t a perfect world, and while “diversity” was used as an excuse by many, it was important. They had their paths, and he’d Witness to them if they asked, support his fellow soldiers regardless.
Barker was actually making fire by friction, with a firebow made of a bent limb from some scrub tree, twisted bark as the cord, and some bits and pieces. He tied and twisted and pulled until he had a loose bow, whittled at a stick, used his knife to drill at a broken slab of some other wood, and piled leaves around something else. He seemed to know what he was doing.
Alexander squatted near him, with some kind of grass, some dirt, and something clutched in her hand.
Everyone gathered at a respectful distance, but close enough to watch. Barker wrapped the stick in the bowstring, placed it on the chunk under his foot, and started sawing back and forth.
Rich sent a prayer out that God would bless the proceedings, and the camp. He then focused on the fire circle again.
In only a couple of minutes, a faint curl of smoke rose from the board. Dalton raised his eyebrows. He knew this could be done, and probably the Stone Age people could, but to see it in person by someone modern was fascinating.
The twisted bark parted suddenly, falling away. There were sighs and groans, but Barker grabbed another length, twisted, pulled, wrapped it around the bow, inserted the stick and resumed.
Alexander muttered something. She placed a hand on Barker’s shoulder and kissed the bundle she held, then moved it back down to the board, where smoke was curling again already.
In another couple of minutes, Barker bore down on the stick, bowed furiously, and the smoke thickened. Then he dropped the bow to the side, scooped up the board, tapped it and blew.
The fuzz and grass puffed out white smoke that turned filthy yellow, then dark, then there was as faint glow that turned angry red, and a small flame crackled through straw.
Everyone sighed out held breath and let out soft whoops and cheers. Next to him, Trinidad said, “Fuckin’ a, man.”
The burning tinder went under the fire lay, and in a few seconds there were obvious flames, a fire.
They had a camp. They’d built it, would improve it, and they had a fire they’d started. He felt it. It was a charge. They hadn’t needed a lighter or fuel, just native materials and patience. They controlled the elements.
Alexander caught an ember on the bundle she held and waved it to white smoke, which she carried carefully out to the circle of soldiers, and around them before going over to the creek. She muttered something as she went.
She strolled back to the fire, and ground the smudge out on one of the rocks, then tossed the dead bundle into the flames.
Barker said, “Okay, it’s lit. Make sure we keep it fed. We need a good bed of coals at night, so we can blow flames up in a hurry if we need to. And we’ll want some kind of cover—a movable lean-to—against rain. But tonight looks clear.”
Dalton hadn’t had any objection to the ceremony, but now he was in favor of it. This was their fire, dammit. Not just a fire.
As Barker gathered up the fire sticks, Dalton moved in and shook his hand.
“That was inspiring, Sergeant.”
“Thanks.” Barker nodded but did little else. He was very stoic overall.
“I’m guessing you’ve got Native American heritage?”
“One-eighth Sioux. My grandmother.” Barker stowed the fire-starting stuff in his ruck, and started scavenging sticks for fuel from the grass. There was already a small pile, but they’d obviously need more.
Rich said, “Well, it’s awesome you’ve got those skills. Thanks, and well done.”
“No problem. I just wish they weren’t quite so useful.”
“Yeah. And you, Alexander?”
“An eighth Cherokee,” she replied.
“Really? I mean, you’re a very pale blonde.” Then he wished he hadn’t said it. That was pretty insensitive.
She said, “Some were.”
“Okay. So your traditions were close enough you could do that fire ceremony?”
Alexander shrugged said, “I have no idea, actually. I don’t know anything about that side of my family.”
“Oh. I gathered from the herbs and your ritual it was something of yours.”
“It is, just not Indian.”
“Oh?”
“I’m Wiccan.”
“Huh?” He heard it but—
“I’m a witch. That was a spell to secure against spirits and bring good luck to the hearth.” She pulled her dog tags and held them out to him. Religious preference, Wiccan.
“Okay,” he said, trying to be noncommittal.
She smiled, but looked pretty put out underneath it.
“I don’t do spells against people, they’re not really magic, any more than any other form of prayer, and we don’t worship Satan.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that,” he said. He wasn’t going to have a debate on how the Adversary might work through the gullible.
He’d thought she was an atheist. Caswell was obviously a hardcore feminist, but was Lutheran, and the realistic woman was a practicing Witch. It just seemed ass backwards.
He’d need to watch his manners. He got along with most Christians, though most were too casual for his taste. Jews were okay. He liked the Hindus and Sikhs he’d met. He wasn’t real comfortable with Muslims. He didn’t know anything about Native or other primitive beliefs. And he really wasn’t sure how to respond to a woman who professed to be a Witch.
Obviously, God wanted him to learn more about people. Whatever else happened here, he had a sign to do that.
And if Native American rituals were similar enough to witchcraft he couldn’t tell them apart . . .
For now, he was going to enjoy the fire. Whether or not he’d enjoy another round of barbecued goat remained to be seen.
Gina Alexander didn’t mind dark at all. Dark in the literal middle of nowhere with predators around, she hated. There was also still that fear that there might be another bang, and everyone sent home, except her. It wrecked her sleep and her calm.
She really wanted some kind of tent. A bivvy bag on the ground felt so exposed. Then there was the matter of dew. She did the best she could, dossing down between Barker and Caswell. Dalton was down past her feet at an angle. That left her head toward the fire.
She dragged her carbine inside with her, ensured by touch that the chamber was empty, a magazine inserted, and safety on. It made her feel a lot better. That, and her Ontario tanto alongside. She hated mummy bags, so she’d brought her own mountain bag, but even in there, it was cramped, with uniform, the weapons, her other knives.
The stars were cold, bright points in swaths overhead. That was most definitely the Milky Way and she could even see individual Pleiades. She dozed fitfully in and out, startling awake to animal noises, the sound of wood being added to the fire, the clatter of a rifle against rock, and occasional mutters.
She wanted to look at the clock on her phone, but there was no reason to. It wouldn’t make things come any faster, and the ability to recharge was limited. They’d set approximate time based on finding noon with a stick and shadow. They’d have to correct that again soon, but at least it gave an approximation.
It was chilly, but clean and brisk. Camping trips like this would sell for a lot of money.
Sighing, she pulled up her phone. The ghostly glow said it was 0037.
She lay back, breathed deeply and tried to relax.
There were almost no insect noises, but she heard occasional howls of wolves and grunts from herbivores. It was shocking how far sound traveled here.
She woke again, and the stars had moved, possibly an hour’s worth. The moon was down, but it was in early phase anyway.
Silently screaming in frustration, she wiggled out of her bag and grabbed her boots, which she’d set upside down on stakes to keep them dry and free of bugs. She shook them out anyway. Those donned, she pulled on her Gore-Tex, trying to keep the noise down, grabbed her rifle, and moved over to the fire.
Caswell, Barker and Trinidad were on watch.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she replied.
“Can’t sleep?” Caswell asked.
“Not well.”
They sat, staring at the very low fire, nothing but a bed of embers. Too much light would be a bad thing, she knew.
Combat Survival School had been useful to her, but wasn’t entirely applicable here. At least she knew she could eat, no matter what happened. Bugs and slugs weren’t tasty, but get hungry enough and they were protein. In fact, she’d almost be willing to cook some slugs in lieu of more goat.
Trinidad said, “Time to wake Devereaux to replace me.”
Barker said, “I’ll do it,” and leaned back. He thumped the medic’s bag.
“Yeah, I’m up.”
Shift change took five minutes, including time for both men to leak in the stream. They didn’t have to drop trou and either splash their boots or lean back against a rock.
In five minutes, it was quiet again. Devereaux poked at the fire with a twig.
“I’ll grab some more sticks,” Caswell said.
“Hold on,” he said, looking up. “Dayum.”
“What?”
“Unfuckingreal.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Do you see the faint glow to the west of overhead?”
“Yes. It’s not predawn flashes.”
“No, that’s Gegenschein.”
“Geggen shine?” Barker asked.
“German. Gegenschein. Interplanetary dust reflecting sunlight.”
“Ah.”
Caswell said, “Neat.”
It was mildly interesting, in that she’d never seen it before, but not interesting enough.
He continued, “Yeah, but that’s not the neat part. Look up to the west, south, about where I’m pointing.”
She saw, “Something . . .”
Caswell said, “Very faint red tinge.”
“Yeah, that’s a Kordylewski cloud, I think.”
“What’s that?”
“The L Five point of the Earth-Moon system can accumulate dust.”
She knew what that was.
Barker said, “Spot where the gravity balances between them, right?”
“That’s L One. L Four is leading the Moon sixty degrees. L Five is trailing. L Two is behind the Moon, centrifugal force balances gravity. L Three is the same thing behind the Earth. Four and Five are reasonably stable.”
“Ah,” Barker said. “I’m guessing we can’t see them in our time.”
“Very rarely, nowhere near a city.”
“Well, it’s cool and all, but I’d rather see a city.”
“Yeah. Me too. Crap. Anyway, there has to be complete darkness, no moon, clear sky and dust concentrations.”
Regina rummaged for her camera bag, found the night vision attachment by touch, set it, pointed up, and got some shots of that and the Guggenheim or whatever.
Suddenly she did feel tired, whether it was due to adrenaline running out, or depression, or something.
“I’m crashing again,” she said.
Caswell asked, “When are you on shift?”
Barker said, “She’s on in an hour.”
“Damn, sucks.”
“Yeah, wake me.”
She crawled into her cold sleeping bag and tried not to cry.
She did sleep, until Devereaux nudged her.
“You’re on,” he said.
“Right.” She blinked and was half-nauseated.
He was a medic. Good enough.
“Devereaux, can you cover me while I take a leak?”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed. Well, she didn’t like it either, but she wasn’t walking down there alone.
There was just enough glow to carefully pick her way, and two cold, damp rocks made an uneven but workable seat. He stood about ten feet away, facing the other way, which she appreciated for discretion, and scared her because he wasn’t watching behind her. Gods, she hated this place.
That done, she staggered back to the fire.
It was graying in the east now. She was up for the day anyway.
Two hours later, after gnawing on some stale, roasted goat, she fell into rough patrol formation with Barker, Ortiz, Oglesby and Dalton. The trucks should be only a couple of miles west, slightly south, and over a slight ridge. They should be easy to see. Dalton had a compass, with notes for azimuths to landmarks, because it would still be possible to miss them in all this rolling terrain.
They walked about five meters apart, and she looked around constantly. The goats were endemic. There were also family herds of some ugly antelope, occasional large cows, and the yip of dogs, well, wolves, off up the hill.
In between that, they muttered to each other, because talking about anything meant human beings were nearby. They all kept looking behind them, including her, irrationally afraid of being followed.
They wore armor and carried rifles, because they just might need them. The ammo wouldn’t last forever, especially with them hunting an animal every couple of days.
It still seemed unreal. Ten of them, here, with nothing they didn’t carry. She knew how to weave, how to spin, how to sew, how to dye, and none of that would matter if they didn’t pen some goats for wool, or find plants that could be retted into fiber. Even so, that was a full-time job, and they had to build their own village first.
The so-called “simpler” times were nothing of the kind.
Up ahead, Barker called, “Good news and bad news.”
Oh, shit, what now?
She jogged forward, following Dalton, and drew up with the others at the top of a hummock.
The trucks were there, unhurt, just as they’d left them. However, the shadows next to them were occupied by a pride of lions.
Dalton asked, “Can we scare them off with gunfire?”
Barker said, “Nah, large animals usually think gunfire is thunder. And these critters have never heard gunfire, so it would be less than useless.”
“What then?”
“Looks like we can reach the rear of Number Nine, if we’re careful. Let’s hack down those two bushes,” he said, indicating two scrubby trees. “We’ll use them as shields, and shoot the shit out of one if we have to. Once we’re inside, we can drive around until they get scared.”
“Yeah,” Dalton said.
She didn’t have a better idea. It was sound on the surface, except it meant approaching lions who had no reason to fear humans.
She and Dalton kept an eye on the lions while Barker and Ortiz chopped through the bases of the two shrubs.
“Glad I have gloves,” Barker said. “Okay, I’ll take this one, Oglesby, can you handle that one?”
“I’d be better,” Dalton said.
“Yeah, but you’re rated expert. I want you clear to shoot if you have to.”
“Hooah. What’s the ROE?”
“If they approach, safety off. If they start batting at the tree, start shooting, and you, too,” he pointed at Regina and Ortiz.
“Roger that,” she agreed. A small-bore rifle against a lion? Yeah, that was smart. But it was all they had. She started jittering.
They advanced down the slope, obliqued over to keep the vehicles between them and the lions, and made quiet, steady progress.
Not quiet enough. One of the lionesses woke up and came around to investigate, padding slowly and confidently.
She seemed confused by the trees and the camouflaged forms behind them, but she closed her eyes and sniffed.
Uttering a growl, she moved to the side, trying to get a better view.
“Swing the trees!” Barker said, and shifted his around in a strong grip, feet spread, as if wielding a chainsaw or machine gun.
Gina kept her rifle ready, and already had the safety off, orders be damned. The Army had this paranoia that troops couldn’t manage a point-and-click interface, and if so, why did they issue the damned things in the first place?
The lioness backed up, growling.
“I’m going to watch this side,” she said, and moved to the right. If another animal came past there . . .
Then they were to the rear of Number Nine, and easing around the side. Barker handed the tree off to Dalton to guard the front with as he fumbled with the padlock on the passenger side. That done, he scrambled up and they retreated back to the rear as he thumped through the inside, and dropped the ramp.
She stepped against the grate and worked her way in, then put the safety back on her rifle. Ortiz slid past her, then Dalton, waving his tree as he backed up the ramp.
Dalton hit the lever and the ramp rose and locked.
It was tight, musty and metallic smelling. It took a week of fresh air to remind one how stinky these things were.
“Okay, fire the bitch up,” Dalton said.
“Working on it,” Barker replied.
The diesel needed a few seconds preheat on the glowplugs, then turned over and caught easily.
The lions took off at a trot, then slowed to a walk, but they kept going.
That done, Ortiz hopped over to Number Eight.
With Barker and Ortiz driving in column, the others walked ahead. The vehicles were unsteady going across the terrain rather than with it. Several times, Barker backed up and eased around an obstacle.
This time, no animals bothered them, but they were walking in much closer proximity. She chose the middle and no one made an issue of it. Dalton took left, Oglesby right.
By midday she was hungry, but the thought of more goat didn’t appeal. They needed to find something green, or something crunchy. She sipped water and kept walking, picking a route that seemed clear and flat as the terrain allowed. She pulled her eyepro down to cut the glare.
Eventually the camp came into view, and there was a shelter of some kind, and piled brush marking the perimeter. She realized she’d been staggering in exhaustion, and suddenly felt lighter. How could a mere couple of miles be such a drain?
The others stood waiting as they rolled in, and she walked past and shook hands with Caswell.
“I’m taking a nap. Please tell anyone who cares.”
She lowered her weapon, popped her armor and helmet, and sprawled on her bag.
Far Eye flattened and became rock. The huts weren’t huts, they were beasts. They growled and rumbled. Were those wings that opened? And the travelers got under them.
They were powerful wizards if they could control such huge beasts, and hide in the bellies.
Yet these wizards didn’t know words and had poor manners. Their robes were strange. They shaved their beards.
The great big beasts started moving, with smoke coming from the rear. Their legs moved like rolling pebbles.
It was probably a good thing they were going, but they were only a half morning’s hike away. He regretted not leading them farther. They seemed harmless, but they rode in animals and had magic stars contained in sticks, and those strange water skins, and the big waterskin.
The other newcomers had wolves that walked with them, and the little spears that flew fast. What was the name of the one? Yes, Bob Who Makes Things. Bob had made those small spears with feathers. They were almost like the little spears.
It might be good to visit and see if these wizards became more polite. Some of their nice-nice things would be very helpful. Perhaps one of the long knives that didn’t chip?
He must tell Ashmi what he’d seen. They would smoke to the spirits. There was a lot to smoke about.
Martin Spencer was glad to see the vehicles. The damned things were terrible off road, and he’d been afraid one would roll, once he remembered it was a very real possibility. In fact, he’d almost done that himself. Having both gave them a few more clubs, containers, and potentially an alternator to use for electrical power, either hand cranked or on a windmill. Maybe not soon, but he was damned well going to have the best gear possible, including power tools as long as they lasted. He might scavenge some metal for tools as well, from the strapping inside, the springs and such. He’d have to carburize it for tools. They needed that forge.
Elliott stood next to him, looking satisfied. Then he resumed talking.
The LT asked, “What’s the best way to chop small trees? The axes? Or should we just burn them at the base?”
“You’re thinking of a palisade, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Burning might be better. We can do a bunch of them at once and just keep the fires fed, and the ash and charring might help them resist decay.” Besides, the pioneer tools were all they had for heavy equipment, unless he could get a forge up and reduce ore to make others.
Elliott squinted around. “Okay, we can use the tools for trimming, and for shoveling a rampart, then.”
“Yeah, we need something defensible, even if it’s only against animals or stampeding herds.”
“Right. And as much as our neighbors seem friendly, I’d like to be able to button up.”
They talked for another couple of hours, some of it random BS, some of it repeats. They knew what they needed, but not how to do it. The others wandered in and out. For now, that was fine. They needed a bit of down time.
Martin said, “What we need is a full platoon. I’d even consider borrowing some natives.”
Elliott nodded. “Yeah, I thought about it. But we’d have to teach them how to do everything.”
Oglesby said, “Worse than Afghans.”
Elliott said, “Much worse. The Afghans function adequately at the iron-age level at least, wouldn’t you say?”
Martin said, “That’s a good summary, sir. The rural ones.”
“Yeah. The locals have no idea as to anything.”
Oglesby said, “And they’d want to share everything.”
Elliott kicked the ground. “We’re alone. One short squad. That’s my biggest concern.”
“Agreed. Give me three strong backs and I can set up a forge and start beating tools tomorrow. But we need the palisade, shelter, food, water, plumbing of some kind—”
Elliott raised a hand and said, “One at a time. I have a rough plan for the palisade.”
“So what’s the plan?”
Elliott held up a note pad with a sketch. “About a two- to three- foot ditch with a two- to three-foot packed earth mound. Peak of the mound will have the palisade, and I want the saplings set down a couple of feet deeper. We’ll dig and fill as we work around. If we can bore holes through them at the top, we can drive twigs in to pin them in place, or we can set backbraces and lash them on if we can find a stringy bark.”
Barker said, “Do both, and use rawhide from animal skins to lash with.”
“Excellent, good,” he said. “We’ll buttress every ten feet or so. Then we’ll build shooting platforms. We’ll use the vehicles as high point for now, but we’ll want to build a central tower when we can. Eventually, we’ll want an actual moat and then start working on stone walls, but we may do that on the other side of the stream and a bit down the hill.”
Oglesby asked, “How long is this going to take?”
“Does it matter at this point?” Elliott replied.
Martin hated hearing it like that, but there it was.
Elliott continued. “We’re here for the duration. We need the best defense and best comfort we can get. We also need some latrines with seats, and then see about running water for washing, cooking and showering.”
Alexander came over, looking a bit better. She’d been ragged. Sleeping problems? He had those, too, and this environment made it worse.
He said, “Understood, sir, and I agree. So, how high do we want the palisade?”
“Well, if they’re two to three feet down, and two to three feet up, call that five feet. Another five feet of timber gives a good height, but I’d rather it wasn’t reachable by hand from the outside. Ten feet would be better. But that means fifteen to twenty feet of log, which gets heavy and is limiting. So we may be replacing this as we go. For now, we want to start between us and the neighbors, so we at least have engagement cover.”
Alexander said, “Shrubs, sir.”
“Shrubs?”
“Outside engagement range, say two hundred yards, we should plant long rows of shrubs close together. Let them tangle up, and it creates something else to slow them down. We can make gates so they’re channeled. And since they don’t have firearms, it means they’re outside both spear range, and the range they can throw anything flammable.”
It was working. They had a project, they were interested, and they were busy. Elliott was turning out to be alright.
He asked, “Do you know what shrubs will work?”
“I can find something useful, and transplant a few.”
Elliott said, “Do it. Now, what about shelter? Lean-tos?”
Alexander said, “I can stitch leather using sinew or cut thongs. A-frame tents with goat or antelope hide will keep us dry.” She wrinkled her face. “I’d like something a little classier than the squats our neighbors are in.”
“Good. Hold on. Formation!” Elliott called.
Everyone came over and gathered, but not in formation. They faced to cover a broad arc, and all had slung weapons. Good.
“Okay, first things first. There’s no way to correct deficiencies in gear, but be honest. Does everyone have at least five uniforms, undies, socks? Two boots and athletic shoes? Cold weather parka or Gore-Tex or something, and gloves? Hats or helmet liners? What about work gloves?”
Four people had work gloves.
“Okay, I’m glad of this so far. Everyone has a poncho or wet weather coat, I hope?”
There were assents.
“You all have rucks and weapons. Okay, then we have the basics. We also have a solar charger for phones and laptops. How many of those?”
Everyone had a laptop. Everyone except Spencer and Barker had smart phones. The two old guys were holdouts. Martin nodded to Barker with a slight smile.
Elliott kept talking. “We need to conserve vehicle fuel, but it’s not impossible we can distill some kind of oil from hemp or vegetables to make diesel. That will have to wait, though. In the meantime, we have a means to compute and record, and possible communication or at least traveling notes that don’t waste paper.”
He wanted to start work, not kick things around endlessly, but the LT needed reassurance, and needed to have his formations and discussions. To be fair, it might mean better planning, less labor and not overlooking something. So he’d deal with it.
Martin Spencer, along with Barker, backed and filled the MRAPs, while Elliott waved and directed them. They pulled up on the west side, with Charlie Nine angled slightly to create an arc. They were circling the wagons, as best they could.
The four precious coils of razor wire and piles of brush had to suffice to close the circle for now. The brush would turn into firewood once not needed.
They idled down and Martin unbuckled and got out. Even if it didn’t matter, he was going to let the engine cool before he shut it down, possibly for the last time.
As dusk grew long and dark, the damned wolves howled.
Martin wasn’t much of a dog person, and those wolves were large, mean, unafraid of humans generally, and likely hungry.
It was tragically beautiful here, with streaked purple twilight, and chill, and terrifyingly raw and wild. And he’d never get home. Allison was lost to him.
No one could see him blink back tears in the dim light, and no one would say anything if they did. Everyone had some kind of family or friends.
He was glad to be in the arc between the trucks. That was good planning on the LT’s part. One person was on the floor of each vehicle, the rest in that arc. Next to him, Oglesby had headphones on, listening to something techno or club mix or whatever. It was just loud enough for Martin to hear, and it sounded like a grinding engine.
He wasn’t listening to anything at night, though he really did want music tomorrow. At night, it was just too creepy to not hear every sound, and hearing them creeped him out even more.
Barker and Dalton seemed to enjoy sitting up top on the guns, so that helped. But he really wanted to see that palisade up in a hurry. To his thinking, they could burn logs down and chop others with the axes as fast as they could make it work. They were going to need about a thousand of them for the perimeter, then more for reinforcement. They were going to have to drag them, too. That copse to the east was going to disappear before they were done. It would take weeks to build that.
“We need some flat rocks by the fire,” Barker called down.
“This fire?”
“Wherever we put our cooking fire.”
“Ah, I get you,” he agreed. They’d fry stuff on those rocks.
He said, “Yeah, and I need a spot to put a forge, near the creek. A large granite rock will work as an anvil until I can do something better.”
An en masse howl of wolves interrupted their thoughts. After it died down, Ortiz said, “And some land mines.”
“I thought you liked wolves.”
“I do. That doesn’t mean I want to get eaten by them.”
Indeed. He’d always found wolves to be handsome creatures. Not now.
He took a long time getting to sleep.
The next morning he woke up stiff. He winced, jerked in pain, and tried not to let it show. When younger, he could sleep on a pallet of gear or a pile of rocks. Not anymore. He was going to spend the rest of his life waking up in contorted agony, then when his stomach meds ran out, he’d spend the days in pain, too. He wasn’t a fan of suicide, but he expected there were limits to his tolerance for a life of torture. At some point he’d probably find nothing worth existing for.
For now, he was going to do what he could to create a comfortable camp, because he’d run out of interest that much faster if he didn’t.
Nearby, Elliott rolled out of his bag, then went to the creek to drain. Already there was a path worn through the grass to their preferred rock to piss from.
As the LT came back, he said, “Morning, sir. Ready to start building?”
“Mostly. I sketched out a layout. Can you double check me?”
“Sure.”
He took the notebook and looked at the improved sketch.
The proposed site was roughly pentagonal, so in an attack they would have a troop at each point and one at each base for crossing fire. That drove home how small their element was. They could just barely defend their position. It was centered around the trucks, which would serve as a redoubt.
“The design’s good, sir, but it’s not big enough.”
“I want to keep it as compact as possible. What more do we need?”
“To be honest, sir, quite a bit.”
Elliott chewed his lip.
“Well, I’m glad I asked, but goddammit, I’m frustrated at getting everything wrong.”
“It’s not wrong, sir. It’s just based on being here a month, not forever.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t exactly covered in my training.”
“Nor mine. This comes from reenactments.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“You have the perimeter, two lodges, the vehicles, a latrine, a shower area, a kitchen area, and an arms room. We have space to work out and an undefined ‘work space.’ Those are all good. But long-term, we’re going to need a few more things. Some will need to be outside for safety, or because they stink. But ideally speaking . . .”
As Martin spoke, he listed those things on the bottom of the page. “We’ll need at least two more lodges. People need privacy. We need a sauna we can put a hot tub or bath in for the winter. I’ll want somewhere to put a smithy, near the stream also. We’ll need a place above the latrine, down from the smithy, to work leather and other animal products. We’ll need a smokehouse for meat and leather. And it would be a good idea to have some space for some other industry—a loom or such.”
“That means more perimeter and more buildings.” Elliott looked disappointed.
“Yeah, it’s going to take a while. And pentagonal would work with say, fifteen. But as few as we are, a square is just easier. We can build corner towers later, possibly. This means lots of cutting and hauling. Oh, we might be able to produce fertilizer, and even possibly gunpowder, in addition to the oil you mentioned.”
“I’d thought of that, and yes, that’s messy. As far as all the cutting, do you think they’ll do it?”
“What the hell else we got to do, sir? It was going to be a life of manual labor.”
“Yes, I had thought to keep people busy.”
“Well, let me take the four strongest other than you, and we’ll clear up by the ditch. That gives us firewood, a brush barricade in the interim, a potential location for a well or an aqueduct—we can dig it deeper so it fills from the stream—and we’ll see what we can put up.”
Elliott said, “And I stay here and manage. Yes, good for today. I’ll need some field time, too, though, for both familiarity and leadership.”
Martin extended a hand.
“Let’s build a future in the past, sir.”
God, that sounded corny.
“Good. First, I’m going to loan out my gyroscopic shaver to anyone who wants to use it. By which I mean they don’t have to use it, but have to shave somehow.”
“Understood, sir. And thanks.” Martin rubbed his bristly cheeks. As long as possible, they needed to look like soldiers and act like them.
“I wish we had a flag to fly,” he said.
“We do.”
“Oh?”
Elliott said, “It’s one of those ‘been on a combat patrol’ things. I was given it before we boarded. It’s behind the seat.”
“Yeah, we should definitely commandeer that.”
“I agree. We’ll run that up an antenna for now.”
They officially had American territory.