sheathed, and empty weapons. I don’t want any NDs, any trigger play, any accidents. I’ll tell you when to load. Two mags each is plenty.”
“Hooah. What about wolves, sir?” Ortiz asked.
“Yeah, if you see an approaching threat, say something and load up. But we’re not here to fight, we’re exploring and trying to be friendly.”
The man definitely sounded more in control today. A little shaky, but that was to be expected. At least he was giving some kind of orders, and they made sense.
Twenty minutes later, Martin had to snap, “Move!” Everyone was reluctant to leave the vehicles. Well, so was he, but they couldn’t use them for this.
The LT locked Charlie Nine, Barker locked Charlie Eight. The machine guns were inside, bolts pulled, and should be safe from anyone in the Stone Age.
“Everyone has food, water, weapon with two magazines, knife, armor including eyepro, sanitary supplies, bedroll and clothes.”
“Hooah.” “Yes, Sergeant.” They had quite light rucks, probably under fifty pounds. Even with armor and helmet, that wasn’t bad.
“Got this, too,” Barker said, holding up the empty drum cooler. “We can get five gallons of water additional.” He could carry it easily in one hand. It would be heavy when full, though. They could probably lash it to sticks and sling it, however.
“Good idea. We walk. North to the river, but it’s a straighter route down that way, so that’s what I suggest.”
He waited for the LT, who nodded assent, and started walking.
“Close interval,” he said. “We’re not worried about gunfire, just wolves and angry men with spears.”
He didn’t hear anything.
He whipped around, and staggered when the ruck kept going. Everyone was behind him, adjusting their interval.
“Christ, don’t be silent, I thought you’d got magicked home. Keep talking.”
Barker called, “So these ten soldiers walked into the Stone Age.”
Oglesby replied, “And one of them says, ‘that’s not the stoning I wanted.’”
They kept chattering, and he felt better, but after only a few minutes, he stepped aside, ostensibly to count people, and let Barker take point. He really wanted to be in the crowd, not out front. Shameful, but he couldn’t do it.
He moved into third place, behind the LT. He should probably be last, but that was as frightening.
It was ridiculous. Nothing was going to send them home, or it would have already. Or it would know somehow they were out of whack, and send them no matter where they were. Or it would be random in the formation, and anywhere was as likely.
He was panicking; it was unprofessional, and he couldn’t stop it.
Or maybe he’d read more sci fi than the others and knew just enough to be scared.
He sipped some water, looked around again, and forced himself to drop back two more slots. Everyone deserved a turn, and he should cover the rear.
It took four hours to reach a ridge overlooking the river valley. A mile and a quarter an hour. Not much faster than they’d done guiding the trucks.
“Stream over there,” Ortiz said. “Looks pretty fresh.”
Martin said, “Okay, fill up. Expect to have intestinal distress.”
Trinidad asked, “Is that the polite name for what you call the screaming shits?”
“That’s exactly what it is.”
The stream was a trickle with lush growth along both sides, but they found a mostly bare spot of rock, covered in moss, where they could bend over to plunge Camelbak bladders and bottles into the splashing flow.
He risked a taste.
“Tastes clean,” he said. “Faintly musty. Good. We’ll want to mark this.”
“Got it,” Dalton said. He had a pocket compass and was writing on a notepad, presumably azimuths. The compass looked to be halfway decent—not a professional one, but it would be good enough for this. And, it was probably all they had. GPS was useless.
From atop the rock, Barker said, “Sir, there are obvious settlements ahead, along the river bank.”
“That’s good
“Hooah. What about wolves, sir?” Ortiz asked.
“Yeah, if you see an approaching threat, say something and load up. But we’re not here to fight, we’re exploring and trying to be friendly.”
The man definitely sounded more in control today. A little shaky, but that was to be expected. At least he was giving some kind of orders, and they made sense.
Twenty minutes later, Martin had to snap, “Move!” Everyone was reluctant to leave the vehicles. Well, so was he, but they couldn’t use them for this.
The LT locked Charlie Nine, Barker locked Charlie Eight. The machine guns were inside, bolts pulled, and should be safe from anyone in the Stone Age.
“Everyone has food, water, weapon with two magazines, knife, armor including eyepro, sanitary supplies, bedroll and clothes.”
“Hooah.” “Yes, Sergeant.” They had quite light rucks, probably under fifty pounds. Even with armor and helmet, that wasn’t bad.
“Got this, too,” Barker said, holding up the empty drum cooler. “We can get five gallons of water additional.” He could carry it easily in one hand. It would be heavy when full, though. They could probably lash it to sticks and sling it, however.
“Good idea. We walk. North to the river, but it’s a straighter route down that way, so that’s what I suggest.”
He waited for the LT, who nodded assent, and started walking.
“Close interval,” he said. “We’re not worried about gunfire, just wolves and angry men with spears.”
He didn’t hear anything.
He whipped around, and staggered when the ruck kept going. Everyone was behind him, adjusting their interval.
“Christ, don’t be silent, I thought you’d got magicked home. Keep talking.”
Barker called, “So these ten soldiers walked into the Stone Age.”
Oglesby replied, “And one of them says, ‘that’s not the stoning I wanted.’”
They kept chattering, and he felt better, but after only a few minutes, he stepped aside, ostensibly to count people, and let Barker take point. He really wanted to be in the crowd, not out front. Shameful, but he couldn’t do it.
He moved into third place, behind the LT. He should probably be last, but that was as frightening.
It was ridiculous. Nothing was going to send them home, or it would have already. Or it would know somehow they were out of whack, and send them no matter where they were. Or it would be random in the formation, and anywhere was as likely.
He was panicking; it was unprofessional, and he couldn’t stop it.
Or maybe he’d read more sci fi than the others and knew just enough to be scared.
He sipped some water, looked around again, and forced himself to drop back two more slots. Everyone deserved a turn, and he should cover the rear.
It took four hours to reach a ridge overlooking the river valley. A mile and a quarter an hour. Not much faster than they’d done guiding the trucks.
“Stream over there,” Ortiz said. “Looks pretty fresh.”
Martin said, “Okay, fill up. Expect to have intestinal distress.”
Trinidad asked, “Is that the polite name for what you call the screaming shits?”
“That’s exactly what it is.”
The stream was a trickle with lush growth along both sides, but they found a mostly bare spot of rock, covered in moss, where they could bend over to plunge Camelbak bladders and bottles into the splashing flow.
He risked a taste.
“Tastes clean,” he said. “Faintly musty. Good. We’ll want to mark this.”
“Got it,” Dalton said. He had a pocket compass and was writing on a notepad, presumably azimuths. The compass looked to be halfway decent—not a professional one, but it would be good enough for this. And, it was probably all they had. GPS was useless.
From atop the rock, Barker said, “Sir, there are obvious settlements ahead, along the river bank.”
“That’s good
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