Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “Greetings, Specialist Kaikane. Don’t bother attempting to respond on the com line. This transmission was recorded and implanted in your helmet five days ago. By now, your wife and I are far, far from radio range. Please listen closely as I have instructions.

  “First, let me assure you that I will let no harm come to your opinionated, conspiracy-minded wife. What you see as abduction is actually a journey of absolute necessity. Once our excursion is complete, if she desires, I will return Dr. Duarte to your arms.

  “By now you understand the futility of searching for us. Even if you had exact directions to where we’re headed, you would require teams of horses or a modern air car to catch up. Maria and I will be traveling far and fast, much farther than the great run I treated my son Salvatore to in Doggerland. She’ll thank me in the end.

  “Now pay attention, for this is the important bit. While we’re gone, we need you and Leonglauix to focus on restoring the canoe. Make the Leilani seaworthy enough to cross the Atlantic. This is your mission. You have the tools and raw materials required. Now the incentive: In four and a half months, that’s exactly 135 days, I will deliver Maria Duarte to the westernmost shore of the Nile River Delta. There is an old camp high on the riverbank, one kilometer inland from the sea. You’ll know it by the flagstone fireplace which seems modern and out of place. Meet us there in 135 days.

  “Don’t be tardy. For if you are, on Day 136 I will take her on another run and perhaps another and another until you learn to show up on time. Have fun with your tar while I have fun with your wife.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  I was scraping barnacles off the left hull around sundown when my helmet dinged with an incoming transmission. Wishing with all my heart to hear Maria’s voice, I instead got a recording from shithead Hunter saying he had “instructions” for me. What a dick.

  The short story is he did take her. He promises to keep Maria safe and give her back after we do all the work on the canoe and then somehow find a way to launch and sail it to Egypt with only two guys. Son of a bitch, I’m going to wring his neck.

  Gray Beard made me explain the words three times before wandering over to a thorny bush to squat in its shade and think. A few minutes later, he stood up and shouted a perfect imitation of Jones when he’s royally pissed off.

  “That fucking fucker is fucked!”

  I can’t agree more. We’ve been going crazy with worry. Every daylight moment that we haven’t been searching on land, we’ve been paddling up and down the coast looking for signs. It’s been murder trying to not go over the different possibilities of what could’ve happened, to not let my imagination run wild. Even now, though I know Hunter and Maria are wearing their armor, I still can’t stop thinking about crap like sharks, lions, sinking sands, landslides and all the other crazy shit that can go down in this world.

  Typical Hunter. It ticks me off there was no apology or explanation. Are we supposed to think everything’s hunky-fucking-dory just because Maria’s kidnapper left a fucking audio note promising to return her unharmed? Does he expect us to just hunker down and go to work? Stop worrying?

  That son of a bitch has been mooning over my wife since we left Italy. Now he’s got her alone and completely under his thumb. Damn right I’m worried.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “This mountain breeze feels divine, does it not?”

  Jones: “Ya say so.”

  Bolzano: “Are you expecting an airbus?”

  Jones: “Huh?”

  Bolzano: “What are you looking for, my friend?”

  Jones: “Nothin.’”

  Bolzano: “Nothing? You’ve been stealing glances into the dark for the past half hour. What is out there?”

  Jones: “Red wolf.”

  Bolzano: “Where?”

  Jones: “Dead oak about 30 yards out, left side of trail. Under that.”

  Bolzano: “So close? We need to stoke this fire. Will he attack?”

  Jones: “Sal, he wanted your throat he’d have it already.”

  Bolzano: “What do you mean?”

  Jones: “I mean, he beds down by us almost every other night. By dawn he’s gonna be within 30 feet.”

  Bolzano: “And you never said a word to me about it?”

  Jones: “Sal, ya ain’t blind. Tracks are plain to see if ya bother to look.”

  Bolzano: “That’s your job. Wait, before you fly off the handle, may I please express, yet once again, my sincere appreciation of your diligence. What do you think he’s doing?”

  Jones: “Probably thanking his lucky fucking stars he don’t have to listen to you yammer.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Humped my fourth and last load of Cpl. Bolzano’s artifacts up to cave today. I’m done hauling skulls and femurs no matter what he says. How many flint points and adzes does The Team need?

  There’s still a pile of stuff in Lupercal the Queen Bee wants to bury. Way past time to get prepping the cave. Duarte’ll shit herself if she shows up and we haven’t at least fucking started. Sal and his damn dig, I should’ve pulled the plug on all the archeology shit a month ago.

  After a half-dozen round trips, we’ve made a regular highway up the ridgeline. Always come to the hills from a different angle, but once we hit the narrow ridge can’t help but make a path. Nowhere to walk but the crest. So far, only one to find us is the red wolf. He scoots ahead and waters before we arrive. Sal’s always too busy complaining when we get here, dropping his heavy pack and diving for the spring to notice the tracks.

  What a saphead.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Wonder what the girls are eatin’ tonight.”

  Bolzano: “I imagine there is still plenty of the salted deer we left for them.”

  Jones: “Wouldn’t be surprised if Flower scares up something fresh. She’s handy like that.”

  Bolzano: “You genuinely miss her don’t you?”

  Jones: “Yep.”

  Bolzano: “I have been thinking about Summer Wind as well. I do hope they are safe and content this evening.”

  Jones: “Should be OK. Long as they stay by the cave, keep fires goin.’ Know what bothers me?”

  Bolzano: “Just about everything?”

  Jones: “Fuck you, Sal. Seriously, not sure I can leave her behind.”

  Bolzano: “You love her that much do you?”

  Jones: “Reckon so.”

  Bolzano: “You are correct, this is a problem. Are you implying you may remain in Europe rather than sail to North America?”

  Jones: “Thinkin’ about it?”

  Bolzano: “I wonder if Duarte would let–”

  Jones: “Not in a million years.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  Sometimes I amaze myself.

  I’ll leave it to Team Scholars to determine where my Roman Neanderthal Dig ranks in the pantheon of anthropological discovery, but the series of reports I completed this evening may just buy Salvatore Bolzano a seat at the table with the likes of Claude Levi-Strauss, Franz Boas and the great Renato Biasutti. Levi-Strauss’ notion of the “savage mind,” the image of Neanderthal as ignorant, uncultured caveman, has been put to rest forever. By me.

  This brand of success is more what I expected from an expedition to the Stone Age. The only difference is, in pre-jump fantasies my epic reports were composed in the Einstein III’s comfortable salon and not while seated on the dusty floor of a cave with my computer propped upon a stack of wobbly stones.

  I envisioned friendly banter with my fellow anthropologists and archeologists. The once-distant men and women, having recognized my brilliance, could not help but welcome me into their sphere. I dreamed of having college buildings and boulevards named in honor of my accomplishments. The Salvatore Bolzano College of Anthr
opology in Milano has a ring does it not?

  Every person indulges in hopes and wishes. These ditties got me through pre-jump training. My insinuation into The Team’s scientific community was planned in detail through push-ups, forced marches and after hours alone in my bunk.

  The elaborate schemes proved to be a colossal waste of time when a pair of thunderous tsunamis cleared the decks of all opposition.In a matter of 15 minutes, I became The Team’s entire anthropology and archeology staff. Duarte, bless her heart, tries to help me study mankind, but as a botanist her focus will always gravitate toward the plants of this world.

  I admit to delivering a rather patchwork performance through recent years. Like the rest of my pampered and somewhat checkered life, there have been few high points and many lulls. I apologize that my computer is primarily used as an entertainment device. Salvatore Bolzano has rarely been mistaken for a hard worker.

  Perhaps it was fate and not coincidence that brought me to the burial site during my latest stab at alcohol rehabilitation. My increased energy, clarity and sense of purpose have elevated the quality of my research and the keenness of my conclusions.

  I am shameless. No matter how hard I attempt to hog the spotlight, the true star of the show is the site itself. Oh, how I wish I had rotating crews and 20 years to excavate the dig properly. What I first hypothesized was a collection of graves dug around 50,000 B.C. actually appears to be a succession of ritual burials ranging in date from 45,000 B.C. to as old as 150,000 B.C.

  Reports SB-RN-1 through SB-RN-22 were written throughout the dig and lay my findings out in great detail. They catalog all of the artifacts uncovered in the graves and also give an overall layout of the site. The summary I wrapped up this afternoon is quite possibly my best work ever. Although there are questions left unanswered, I’ve poured my heart and soul into weaving the data together.

  I cannot say if the occupants of the graves were kings, shamans or storytellers, but believe the dozen Neanderthal I unearthed must have held very high status.

  Two died from blunt force trauma to the head and nearly all showed signs of broken bones that had mended, some knitting well and others not. The skeletons ranged widely in age and height. Judging by the pelvises, three of the 12 were women. All had healthy teeth, with signs of v-shaped wear in the front from being used as the third hand.

  Every Neanderthal was buried face-up, with his or her head aimed due east. Flat shale rocks line the graves on the sides, bottoms and tops. Freshwater oyster shells are the primary fill. Occupants were laid to rest in a very specific manner, all with their arms across their chest left over right. Legs were always out straight, toes up, knees tight together.

  As far as I could ascertain, each was wrapped in a single flensed leather skin before being placed inside the three-foot-deep hole and covered with oyster shells. What I first surmised was a random collection of tools and trinkets in each grave turned out to be a very specific inventory. The list was repeated in every grave.

  I was beginning to wonder if I was overlooking something when I opened a tomb on an opposite corner of the site and found it to be considerably older. The shells appeared to have congealed into something that may have once been hard but had since turned to crumbly powder. The bones had become completely fossilized, hard as stone and easily shattered.

  Ironically, it was in this ancient grave that I encountered my first intact scepter. Its round head of white marble was still firmly affixed to the yew shaft by resin glue. Realizing I had removed similar balls from previous graves, I did an inventory and found every grave pile contained one matching white stone. After a bit of digging and backtracking, I turned up all but three of the shafts.

  The final four graves were of a variety of ages, but each contained a stone-headed scepter, flint tools, a carved stone horse, ivory needles and a cache of rough gemstones.

  Who were these people? Were the burials private affairs or scenes of great mourning? Such questions are never far from my mind. As Duarte so often says, “All I want to know is the who, what, why, where, when and how.” It fascinates me to try to connect the dots even if I draw my lines with nothing more than imagination and educated guesses.

  If I were to put all my findings and theories into one wild conjecture, I would guess the graves are some sort of Neanderthal Hall of Honor. They do not belong to villains and it is not possible that they are a resting place for common folk. Only once every thousand years or so did someone qualify to be buried here.

  How special would you need to be to garner that sort of honor? Who knows, maybe these folks were the early incarnations of the Dalai Lama or Buddha. It will be interesting for Team researchers to run the DNA from each subject to see if they are related to each other–or anybody spiritual or famous in the future.

  How could a race without culture or language maintain that type of consistency over a span of 100,000 years? The answer is plain and simple. They could not. Neanderthals are obviously brighter than they get credit for.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “My goodness, will the forest ever rebound from this drought? The poor trees seem ready to dry up and blow away.”

  Jones: “Reminds me of first time I was here.”

  Bolzano: “Your first time? Seven years ago? We endured a monsoon that first season.”

  Jones: “Nah, this was pre-jump. Pre-Team for me.”

  Bolzano: “Captain Jones, you and I have been friends for 10 years and you have never mentioned visiting my home country.”

  Jones: “Never came up.”

  Bolzano: “Oh no? I distinctly remember asking if you had ever visited the Eternal City.”

  Jones: “Shanghai?”

  Bolzano: “Rome, and you know it! Oh, never mind. We have a long trek ahead of us, you can tell me now. Did you visit the Pantheon?”

  Jones: “We were kinda busy for sightseeing.”

  Bolzano: “We? Did you travel with a woman? How romantic.”

  Jones: “Nah, just me and a few guys.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Sal’s got me thinking about my first real mission with the Army. Green, gung-ho, straight out of West Point in 2224, I was posted to a search and rescue squad outside Toronto. My unit’s primary duty was battlefield support–moving out the wounded, reinforcing bogged-down troops, covering units in retreat.

  I’d been there a week and was still learning names when orders came down to grab our gear and double-time it to the air deck. In a piece-of-shit mission briefing over the Atlantic, general on the screen said the wife of a U.S. diplomat in Italy had been kidnapped, along with her three kids. Satellites had a fix on them, but bad guys had been moving them around and brass expected another move within a few hours. The general told us it was our job was to “bring that family home.”

  I give our senior officer, Capt. Feinstein, credit for pointing out to the general how fucked up the mission was. Didn’t put it that way, just noted this was specialized urban business and we were trained for different duty. None of us spoke Italian.

  General said he didn’t give a shit. So much was going down there was nobody else to send. Cutting Feinstein off before he could give him any more lip, the general said our orders and individual mission plans had been uploaded to our personal devices. We were to be dropped from 60,000 feet in less than two hours. “Better get studying.”

  This was my first lesson in how expendable we were. Seven of us sat in our seats reading the orders and studying the maps and ground plans of the estate’s two buildings. Everybody’s task was laid out. Me and a guy named Yamagawa were to secure and hold the second building. Satellite geeks said the flat-topped garage was probably empty, but spy drones were being held back to keep from spooking anybody. We were up against people with good equipment, they said.

  A second team, out of Maine, was already in Rome, waiting to fly us back to the embassy or a friendly airfield.

  Feinstein and the rest of the guys were to
land, short-circuit the defenses, enter through a dormer window, neutralize any resistance (there shouldn’t be any), grab the wife, kids and nanny (not heavily guarded) and rally at the garage where Squad 2 would already have the perimeter sealed and be waiting to fly everybody out.

  It all seemed doable and straightforward to me. What the fuck did I know? Feinstein said it best when we grouped around his computer. “We’re fucked.”

  Give the captain credit. He did his best to plug the holes in the general’s plan. Like ordering me and Yamagawa to secure alternate transport.

  Half an hour was all we had to battle-plan before it was time to climb into the personal wingsuits and fly. Air Force weenies loaded us into the flying coffins, spit us out into the stratosphere and probably never gave another thought about us.