No matter what happened next, it would happen in their own world.
CHAPTER 48
Sean Elliott fidgeted. It didn’t take long, but thirty minutes seemed forever. They were in a rural area, nothing nearby except some goats. But there were roads in the distance, and a contrail overhead. Then a distant roar resolved as a pair of Predators.
The JSTARS bird called again, inquiring about signal.
Spencer replied, “Negative, I do not have smoke. I can improvise panel, or remain on air, over.”
Tension. It was like sex, or the first night at OCS. It was less shock inducing than having disappeared in the first place.
Another flyby, this time a pair of OA10s.
Off in the distance . . . “I hear helos.”
“Yeah. Again, expect to be cuffed and manhandled. They won’t know who we are, only that we’re claiming to be someone long gone. Be very compliant.”
He did feel almost as helpless as when they’d disappeared. Now he had to explain, and fast, and not get his people locked up as loons.
“Shit, that’s a big response,” Dalton said.
Spencer said, “Ten of us. They normally send four or six birds for one downed pilot. They’ll want to split us up. Females, you should buddy up.”
The helos circled, and they all had guns. There were two Chinooks and two Apaches. The gunners were there to protect them against possible threats, but also to hose them down if it looked like a trap. Disappearing for six months was hard to explain.
Spencer said, “Soldiers, do exactly as they tell us. It’s their game now.”
The Chinooks orbited again, and they watched as they settled a hundred meters north, whomping rotors whipping wind across the scrub.
Over a bullhorn, someone said, “Place your weapons down.”
It was good to hear American voices, even if they weren’t yet friendly.
The other birds hovered. They were Marine choppers, and it was Marines who debarked at a run, first enveloping them, then moving in in pairs. They shouted orders clearly but loudly, and he complied, feeling a wash of anger, fear, relief and more fear. They were now back in the system, with an unbelievable story.
They were separated, and that hurt, too. They’d been family for so long. But the recovery unit needed distance to do their debrief.
One of the Marines was a captain, lean and wiry and looking young. He squinted in the sun as he looked at his tablet.
“What’s your name, rank and duty station?”
“Sean Elliott, Cap . . . First Lieutenant.” He gave his unit number, still a reflex in his memory. He’d have to remember he was a lieutenant, though. His promotion wasn’t effective here, until they approved it. Hell, he didn’t actually have time in grade yet.
“Last four?”
“Four niner eight three.”
“Tell me about your first pet.”
Yeah, that question, off his recovery sheet.
“Bonzo was a Labrador with big feet. He’d beat on the door to get in. He broke his chain and was hit by a car when I was nine.”
The Marine captain looked at his tablet and nodded. So they’d confirmed he was real.
“Okay, Lieutenant, we have to take you in for further debriefing.”
“I understand. I can vouch for my people, and of course you’ll check them yourself. I will not discuss our activity until we are on base. It’s a sensitive matter.”
“Understood, Lieutenant. I’ll relay that to my chain.”
He had no idea what would happen now. They’d probably accuse him of desertion, of some kind of political or financial sellout, or of gross incompetence.
If so it would still be worth it. They were home.
They were already searching his ruck.
“What’s this, sir?” one asked, holding up the handled blob of a Cogi flexitool.
“That’s one of the things I’ll discuss with higher command. It’s not dangerous.”
They didn’t seem entirely convinced.
En route, the Marines didn’t talk much, but of course, it was loud. They’d left crews to drive the vehicles back. Sean had a ruck with important things stowed, and they’d taken that from him. The Marines did watch them pretty closely. It seemed to be part curiosity and part professional interest.
They landed at Mazar-i-Sharif and were hurried inside a hangar. There were tables, pads, medics, laptops, an entire element ready to deal with recovered MIAs who might be badly broken.
A colonel waited for them. Elliot saluted and said, “Sir, I can thankfully report that we are all alive and in good health.”
The colonel, Findlay, said, “Excellent, Lieutenant. Welcome home.” He extended a hand for a firm handshake, then said, “Procedures, of course.” He indicated the table.
Sean went first, identifying himself to a female staff sergeant, rattling off personal information. A medic approached and looked him over. Two others asked questions. At the end was a chaplain.
“How are you feeling, Lieutenant?”
He breathed deeply. How did he feel? He was home. There was no way he could express it.
He said, “Very good, sir. I’m delighted to not need your services just yet, though do please check with my people, and I hope you’ll be around while we’re debriefed.”
“Of course. Welcome home.”
An hour later they were in a briefing room, sitting around a table, waiting. He felt less relieved, more tense.
“So we tell the truth,” Ortiz said.
He said, “I can’t think of anything that would work better.”
Trinidad said, “Neither can I, but I’m scared.”
“Yeah.”
They didn’t speak much past that. Sean wanted to offer something, but he wasn’t sure what.
The door opened, and a staff sergeant said, “Lieutenant Elliott, sir, can you come with me please?”
He rose, put a hand on Ortiz’s shoulder as he walked past.
The NCO took him across the hall and into a room with Colonel Findlay and a man in unmarked tan field uniform. He looked Italian, shorter, and fit. Almost like a Roman.
It was a basic field office. Out the window he could see tents and an occasional troop moving about.
“Sir, Lieutenant Elliott reports as ordered,” he said with a salute.
Findlay returned it, and offered a hand, though he wasn’t smiling.
“Welcome back, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You said you wanted to discuss your . . . activities in private. It’s me, and Special Agent DiNote from Air Force OSI. He’s the investigator at hand, so it’s his job.”
DiNote had an ID folder out with badge and card that identified him. There was no reason to question it, so Elliott shook his hand and said, “Good to meet you, sir.”
“And you.”
DiNote turned on a video recorder, and said, “Do you understand we are now recording?”
“I do, sir.”
DiNote mirandized him from a card, then said, “I need to read you the following from the UCMJ. It’s a formality, but necessary.”
“I understand.”
DiNote read it off a screen, but seemed very familiar with it.
Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ)
ART. 31. COMPULSORY SELF-INCRIMINATION PROHIBITED
(a) No person subject to this chapter may compel any person to incriminate himself or to answer any questions the answer to which may tend to incriminate him.
(b) No person subject to this chapter may interrogate, or request any statement from an accused or a person suspected of an offense without first informing him of the nature of the accusation and advising him that he does not have to make any statement regarding the offense of which he is accused or suspected and that any statement made by him may be used as evidence against him in a trial by court-martial.
(c) No person subject to this chapter may compel any person to make a statement or produce evidence before any military tribunal if th
e statement or evidence is not material to the issue and may tend to degrade him.
(d) No statement obtained from any person in violation of this article, or through the use of coercion, unlawful influence, or unlawful inducement may be received in evidence against him in a trial by court-martial.
“Do you understand all that, Lieutenant?”
“I do. Am I being charged?” he asked.
“Not at this time. It’s now standard for returning MIAs whose circumstances are not known.”
He wondered why it was “now standard.”
“Very well,” he said. He turned to Findlay.
“Sir, before we continue, can I ask you to summarize what happened at this end, from the convoy’s point of view?”
Findlay looked slightly confused, but said, “Sure, Lieutenant. It came under attack, there were at least two explosions. The convoy commander deployed his troops to counter the attack. No hostiles were found. There was a substantial area of road damaged in the attack, but no one knows how. It appeared to have been caused by a number of emplaced charges, but no residue was found. We assume your vehicles unassed the area and sought cover before you were captured or displaced.”
“That helps, thank you, sir.”
Findlay said, “So talk to me.”
Sean took a deep breath and tried to calm his hammering pulse. They were not going to believe him.
“Well, sir, it’s a complicated story, and it’s going to be hard to believe. I have one piece of supporting evidence. It’s in my ruck.”
DiNote asked, “That gray object with the handle?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“I need to show you.”
Findlay said, “I’d like to hear first.” He looked tense. Under-standably.
“I really need to show you, sir. Have EOD check it out.”
“I did. They can’t do anything with it. It’s inert.”
“Then can we please see it?”
Findlay grabbed his desk phone, called a number and said, “Bring it. Thanks.”
Shortly, a sergeant wearing the EOD badge walked in with it. He seemed casual enough.
Sean took possession and waited while the obviously curious man departed.
Findlay said, “Okay, so let’s see it.”
Sean waved his hand and the device came to life. It flowed into a large wrench, then into a shovel. With a twist and pull, it rolled on itself until it became a grid framework, almost translucent.
DiNote grabbed a DSLR camera, twisted knobs, and snapped photos and video.
He flipped the tool and it shrank into bolt cutters.
Nervously, he passed them to the colonel, handle first.
The colonel took them, looked at them, and didn’t flinch too badly when they changed into a shovel again, then flowed amorphously and resumed a ball with a handle.
“Mister DiNote, do you want to try?”
DiNote took it, and it shifted into a bat.
“Huh. I was thinking about baseball.”
Sean took it back.
“So that’s the supporting evidence.”
Findlay stared at the device, and said, “If you say ‘aliens,’ I’m going to punch you.”
“Time travel, sir.”
Findlay twisted his head, sighed, gritted his teeth and said, “Okay, son, you’re telling me this came from the future.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How far?”
“They wouldn’t tell us. I’m guessing a hundred to a thousand years, sir.”
“Then we need to get this to a lab. I’d say it’s the most fucked up story I’ve ever heard, except there were witnesses to you disappearing.”
Oh, good. Sean relaxed a fraction. “I’m relieved you believe us, sir.”
“I don’t know what the hell to believe. But you are who you say you are, and you don’t strike me as a traitor.”
Findlay stuck his head out the door and called. A moment later, the staff NCO came in.
He said, “Get a photographer here. One of ours, not allied. Then we need to get this damned thing to a lab and start figuring it out.”
He’d have to tell the colonel about the lifespan of that device. But he’d wait a little bit. It was good for about twenty more transformations, then its battery would fail and an internal process would cause it to flake apart.
Turning back, Findlay asked, “So how did you wind up in the future?”
“First we wound up in the Paleolithic, about fifteen thousand years back.”
Eyes wide and nodding, Findlay prompted, “Uh huh. And how did you determine the year?”
“Devereaux is studying astronomy, and Spencer knows a lot about prehistory. They were able to estimate.”
Findlay gave him a suspicious look. “For that matter, how did you know where you were?”
“Not far from here, sir. We didn’t move much appreciable distance. The Amu Darya was still there.”
DiNote was making notes, in addition to the video.
Findlay asked, “Then how did you get to the future?”
“Sir, we weren’t the only people displaced. There were some Neolithic people, ancient Romans, east Indian Mughals, and two people from the future time. Eventually, contact was made and they took us all forward.”
“And then back here.”
“Eventually. And only within six months. They couldn’t pinpoint exactly.”
“Are they here?”
At least the colonel asked intelligent questions. That was a good sign, right?
“Not that I know of. They seem afraid of what they’ve created.”
“Yeah, that’s now. Give them five years.” Findlay paused a moment. “Any other U.S. or Coalition forces?”
“None that we saw, sir.”
“Damn. Well, that answers that.”
“Sir?”
“I was hoping we might find some other MIAs. So, why don’t you tell the whole long story to Mr. DiNote. He’ll ask questions as needed. I’ll make sure someone brings coffee and I’ll listen in.”
“Very well. Ready, sir?” he asked DiNote.
“I am, Lieutenant.” Through it all, DiNote had been a stoic observer. He seemed prepared to take any story down and analyze it later.
“At oh nine fifty seven, we experienced a loud noise and sharp impact to the vehicle. I assumed we were under attack, and . . .”
Armand had expected debriefing to be long, but this was beyond even that. They’d been billeted in a tent, and Elliott stayed with them. That was partly companionship, partly being a very good officer, and probably partly fear of being separated after all this time.
And partly because there were guards outside the tent.
It was 1600 the second day before they got to him, after Elliott, Spencer, Barker and Trinidad.
There was an AFOSI officer, and an interrogator in civilian clothes and a beard, proving nothing. He could be any branch, civilian or contractor.
His interrogator asked, “So you were able to tell what year it was by the position of the stars?”
“Not the year, no. I could tell it was one of several timeframes, and the weather and animals narrowed it down. That was Sergeant Spencer’s work.”
“Okay. Keep going.”
He talked for hours, about the medical issues of the Urushu, the interactions and fights, the rhino hunt, the Cogi and their gear, and their time. He wasn’t sure any of it was believed. It just went on and on.
The next question was, “You mentioned casualties in a firefight. You administered to them?”
“Yes, sir. I logged it here.”
“All four men with gutshots died before you could treat them?”
“They were skinny guys and hit pretty hard. I expect psychological impact added to shock and trauma.” No, motherfucker, I will not rat my commander out for mercifully cutting their throats.
“You provided substantial medical aid to the native population.”
“Whatever I could do without using o
ur own resources. They accepted instruction in washing and basic sanitary practices. They understood suturing and bone setting and a few other basic skills.”
“What ethnicity were they?”
“It’s difficult to say. They looked a bit like South Asians, only with long curly hair, not straight. Dark skin and eyes. Height from six foot to six and a half.”
“Why did you build your own camp instead of remaining with them?”
“We used our tools a lot, didn’t want to share and didn’t want to have to explain, or risk messing up their culture and our past. The capt—lieutenant and Sergeant Spencer insisted, and it made sense. We also wanted to avoid fraternization. That was my recommendation, because we had no idea what disease vectors might exist that each group wouldn’t have any natural immunity to.”
“How does that work?”
“Diseases adapt to the local population, and immunity adapts back. Just as smallpox wiped out a lot of Native Americans, we didn’t want to catch or spread something mundane that could be disastrous.”
“Did you learn their language?”
“A pidgin form. Specialist Oglesby knows it well.”
They seemed to take him seriously, but kept staring at each other.
Felix Trinidad sat in the tent, bored and worried. He wasn’t sure how this would play out, but he thought there was a good chance their careers were over. They’d been gone six months and had an unbelievable story.
It might have been better to remain with the Cogi, but he understood why people with close families wanted to be home. He’d like to see his, after this much time.
The tent door rustled and opened. The major who came in wore Medical branch insignia. Caswell and Alexander were with him.
“Good evening, men.” The man was barrel chested but seemed friendly, not intimidating. He seemed relaxed and was smiling.
“Evening, sir.”