“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 feed 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 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 eyesbrows. 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 si
ghs 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 goretex, 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?”
“Un
fuckingreal.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Do you see the faint glow to the west?”
“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 Gugenheim or whatever.
Suddenly she did feel tired, whether it was due to andrenaline 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.