The memory of boys of fourteen or fifteen years of age, all of them carrying rifles, sitting their horses and staring impassively, could not safely be ignored, although the adults were impressive in their own way. All that self-reliance, he supposed. Hopefully cooler heads would prevail.
“What?”
The man took a deep breath.
“There’s a helicopter at the field in Capital City…it’s a small one, or so I hear, but…”
He was going on to talk about the distance, and the range, but Newton Shapiro was one step ahead of him as he grabbed his field notes and started looking for the tower frequency.
If the river was overflowing at the first location, it was likely to be overflowing at any other location nearby, whether up or downstream.
But there were clearings, plenty of them, some of them big enough to take a small chopper, all over the place.
***
The helicopter was crewed by a pilot and co-pilot, and to Newton’s eternal gratitude there was a doctor and nurse aboard. With Oscar safely loaded, that would leave two seats.
He did some quick thinking.
“Beth?” She came over as they watched the medical people expertly lift Oscar in his alloy stretcher and strap him down, with Trooper Wilson holding the IV bottle high up and well clear.
The nurse took the bottle and said something, patting Wilson on the arm.
“Yes, sir?”
“Should we pick two bodies and send them home?”
She shook her head quickly.
“No. We need them, for tree-clearing, God…bridge-building.”
He snorted in agreement.
“Yes. If things get bad enough, why, even I might have to pitch in.” He grinned in relief. “Winston Churchill.”
That was bullshit, but she might not know any better.
She gave him an appreciative glance, laughing and slapping her thigh.
“It’s lonely at the top!”
“Roger that.” He grinned. “At least we’re not in such a hurry anymore.”
The fact that they still hadn’t made contact with the ship, with a full three days gone by and no word from above, was worrying enough. His major responsibility was here. Sooner or later, someone was bound to ask him about the ship, and he had no idea of how to handle that.
The pilot looked out at him with a panel of the side windows cranked down.
An unfamiliar male voice came in his ears.
“All aboard?”
Shapiro nodded vigorously and waved. The side door was shut carefully by one of his people, and the handle turned and locked into place. Everyone stood clear, some with hands over their ears. The revs built and the noise thundered. The machine lifted carefully, lifting straight up for a hundred metres before moving off, accelerating and climbing rapidly until it was soon lost to sight among dark rain clouds and the lowering eastern horizon. The last sight of Oscar’s pale face would haunt Newton for a long time.
There was that crackling in the ear-pieces again. It was becoming incredibly irritating.
The river must be nearby. He could hear it over the sound of desultory talk coming from troopers and senior staff alike. They hadn’t even noticed it yet.
He keyed to the command over-ride frequency.
“All right, people. Let’s find that river-crossing.” The odds were it would be ten feet deep in the middle and they would have to wait.
The shadows were lengthening and the sun was low down to the west.
Mounting Unit Two, where Roy sat placidly and Hank Beveridge huddled alone in his seat, Newton Shapiro took out the master control device and unlatched the restraints on their prisoner.
Rubbing his wrists in contemplative fashion, Hank looked up at him with a question in his eyes.
“They say he’s got a very good chance. Anyway, I guess you’ve earned it.” Newton had seen the chopper sitting there on arrival, what seemed like a long time ago, and in the intervening time he had completely forgotten about it.
“Hank.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Beveridge just nodded.
Not remembering the helicopter was a serious error, hopefully one that would not cost Oscar his life or even just the leg.
Lately, deep down inside, it felt like every little thing was his own damned fault.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Water Had Dropped
The water had dropped perceptibly over the last six hours. Trooper Hatcher had the foresight to jam a long dry stick into the edge of the stream right where the lapping waves hit the crumbling turf. The water had moved back a couple of metres. While the ground under the water might have a gentle slope, there must be a regular channel out there somewhere.
With Trooper Wilson volunteering to get wet, they tested the waters.
Stripping down to nothing but undershorts, undershirt and his thick wooly socks, they tied a rope on him. Wilson wrapped a wide waterproof pouch about his waist, making it very tight on his body, and then he waded out into the dark and curling waters, pushing upstream as he went.
Even from shore, it was possible to see the rows of goose-bumps going all up and down him. He got fifteen metres in and then stopped, gasping as the cold water hit his kidneys.
He put his arms up and waved them back and forth. He stood there for a moment, craning his neck to look back.
“Get ready!”
The four soldiers holding the rope looked at each other, planted their feet and took a good grip on the rope.
Wilson, Mark was his name, stepped forward and then obviously slipped on mud and went right in, with a big splash and an audible gasp even at this distance. When he came up, he was clearly to the left and moving along quite rapidly, but he struck out strongly, angling upstream for the opposite bank.
They watched in awe as the soldiers fed him more line, and he suddenly found the ground again, standing up about waist deep and thrashing around and tripping again as he turned and faced them.
He gave them a wave and then, taking a firm grip on the rope, he waded strongly up and out of the water, dancing around on shore like a mad thing, slapping his arms around his body and shaking his head. He tore off the pouch.
In a moment, his voice came over the headset.
“All right, this thing’s wet. Can you hear me?”
“Roger that. How deep is it in the middle?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t touch bottom, but the channel is only about ten metres across.”
“Roger that.”
Wilson got out of the knotted rope, still dancing and prancing about, and then he seized on one particular tree, growing right at the base of the slope, his form appearing oddly pale after days of travel in the muck and the filth of the lowlands.
“Are you okay?”
“We’re all secured. Fuck, Lieutenant. “I’m fucking dying over here—and I still got to go back.”
“Your efforts are greatly appreciated, Trooper Wilson. Thank you, Mark.”
There was no response over the link, but they could hear his moaning and cursing in the normal fashion, as he stumbled back into the water, leaving the headset on, and holding the rope with both hands as the water swept up to his chest and neck. Finally he set out, strongly kicking and holding onto the rope for dear life as the current fought and struggled to carry him away.
The soldiers on land began yelling for all they were worth.
“Come on, boy! Come on!” Spaulding and Faber, all the troops, were shouting and egging him on.
“Get those blankets ready.” They needed no telling.
Wilson was their hero and half of them stepped into the water as the exhausted swimmer fell face-flat in a half metre of water, coming up with the most tormented look on his face and then almost going down again.
“Get him up here!”
Figures surrounded Wilson and they scuttled up to the open door of Unit One. Wilson, one sock missing and bare legs covered in oozing black mud, was half-lifted and h
alf-pushed up the ladder where willing hands were waiting to receive him.
A voice came in his ears. It was Hatcher, now back inside Unit One.
“He says it’s about two metres deep in the middle.”
Newton’s shoulders slumped.
“Thank you.”
He found himself staring into a grinning Semanko’s eyes.
“What?”
“Give that man a fucking medal!”
Newton grinned crookedly. He had no course but to agree. But at least now they had a line across, and with a bit of work, they would put a thick wire rope over there and with the winch on the front adding its power to the drive wheels they’d have a fifty-fifty chance of making it across.
Two metres. They would camp overnight and see if the water rose or fell.
You couldn’t ask for much better than that.
Lieutenant Shapiro keyed up the command frequency for all concerned. Hank Beveridge stood right there at his shoulder, saying nothing but looking a bit better now that he was eating once in a while.
“All right, people, listen up.”
***
So relieved at Oscar being safely in the hospital, for ground communications were working just fine and they had been notified immediately on his arrival at the small but professional Capital City Hospital, Newton had the troops set up camp after smashing down the underbrush by linking arms and marching around in a circle. Silly as it seemed, it was effective enough and the mood lightened considerably.
Out of sight, out of mind, but the prognosis for Oscar was good according to the report.
He remembered the hospital from their patrols.
They set up three big tents with the doors all facing inwards, and after soaking the ground with water from the swollen river, they dragged in heaps of deadfall branches and cut some fresh logs for a fire.
The odds of a forest fire seemed rather slim these days, but it was standard procedure.
Newton pulled out his big bottle of scotch, and shared that around, gratified to see them loosen up around him, and at the same time, enjoying the relaxation, the camaraderie of the troops. It was with a sheepish look that someone else—it might have been Cornell, dragged out another small bottle when Newton’s ran dry.
Shapiro made a big joke about how his bottle had shrunk into ‘this itty-bitty little one,’ and he had the feeling his stock had risen considerably. With nothing to do but wait, they had quite a little party going for a while, with Wilson enjoying his new hero status to the max.
The next morning dawned bright and clear. In spite of the fact they’d had a tough day the day before, and a long evening, and a night tormented by cold and flying, biting insects that seemed as tough as anything anyone had ever heard of, the soldiers were relatively easy to get moving.
Ensign Spaulding stood front and centre and spoke to them.
“All right. The river is falling.”
“Yay!”
“Shut up. As you know, we have a line across. I need two volunteers.”
There was much muttering and much groaning, and sidelong looks at Newton, standing with arms crossed well off to one side. It was her shift, and he hadn’t been to bed yet. Taking the night shift and making sure the sentries didn’t fall asleep was all part of the job, and he took his turn in regular rotation just like the other senior staff.
Wilson stuck his hand up.
“No, not you. You’re off the hook for today.”
Wilson grinned, and high-fived the soldier standing next to him, as the fellow suddenly withered under Spaulding’s glare.
“Ah. Mister Hatcher. We haven’t heard quite enough from you lately.”
“Uh, oh.” The comment came from the back, and the crew broke up, including Spaulding.
Newton glanced at Hank Beveridge, who still looked very tired, and Faber and Jackson were standing right there with amused looks. They had the cable all ready to go, they just wanted a warm body to carry it.
“Mister Hatcher, pick a partner. Then get this wire across.”
Newton nodded approvingly. That would teach the little sucker. But he was surprised by what came next.
“I’ll take you, ma’am.”
Even Beveridge haw-hawed at that one, as a hoot went up from the assembled troops.
She turned, face flaming red, as if to seek comfort from Newton and the rest.
Newton elaborately shrugged and the look she gave him was definitely chilly but otherwise unreadable.
She turned back.
“All right, soldier. You’re on.”
With Hatcher and the other troops staring in complete shock, Ensign Beth Spaulding turned, went to the door of Unit One, and began stripping off her armour, handing it up to a rather bug-eyed Billsom who was waiting with blankets for the unlucky troopers who would make the crossing.
All eyes turned to Hatcher. Now it was his turn to blush beet red. With a stoic air about him, his expression showing that he understood just how completely he had blown it, he moved with alacrity to the side of the truck and began stripping off in total embarrassment, facing in the exact opposite direction from her.
Laughter rippled through the troops.
Newton stared the people down menacingly, with the result that comments and talk were kept to a minimum. Even so, when he turned and saw Beth in her socks, bra and panties, he was sorely tempted to say something. Even a dummy like him knew this was the wrong time.
“Okay, soldier.”
Hatcher reluctantly turned, trying earnestly to make eye contact and avoid the peripherals.
“Where’s that cable?” Her voice sang out cheerfully enough.
“In Hatcher’s pants!” A ripple of laugher and jokes went through the group, as Newton held up his hand and tried not to laugh.
“That’s enough, people.” Faber looked deadly serious and they quit.
He looked at Newton.
“We need four bodies to help support the cable. We need two people on each rope.”
“Hernandez, Kane, Marlowe, and…you. Yeah, you.” He pointed. “You follow them out into the water.”
He had to give explicit instructions. That was his job. He picked four more.
“You guys hang onto those ropes and don’t let go. Feed it out slowly.”
There was a rumble and a few gasps. Hernandez was muttering questions and he didn’t have time to listen.
“The cable is heavy. You’ll have to help support it. We have a bag tied on, and some water containers, that will help it float. But these two are going to need all the help they can get. I suggest you disrobe, but that’s your choice.”
With looks of disgust, they quickly removed their equipment, and lifting the cable, followed Spaulding and Hatcher out into the swiftly-flowing stream. The waded in deeper and deeper.
Hatcher, in the lead, went under.
He floundered around, and then found solid ground again. Beth plucked at his shoulder.
He yelled back.
“I think it’s less than two metres deep.”
Newton waved and nodded.
Hatcher, soaked to the skin, regaining his feet and having nothing to lose, looked at Ensign Spaulding.
“Sorry about all this, Ensign. Ready to go.”
On her signal, the pair set off across the channel, not being so much affected by the current this time as the weight of the wire rope dragged them down and they were practically walking across on the bottom, although visibility was nil with the greenish water and the silt and mud it carried.
The pair struggled onwards, sometimes only the tops of their heads showing.
There was a lot of shouting and cursing, and then cheers when Hatcher and Spaulding mounted the far side and began dragging the cable up the incline to where a stout tree trunk beckoned.
They were spitting and cursing like the bejeebers.
Seeing they needed help, Roy and another soldier stroked across on their own initiative. Without ropes, Newton’s heart skipped a beat or two but they were strong
boys and they made it. The pair grabbed the heavy wire rope and the four of them practically ran it up the hill.
Suddenly the first one was turning and racing back down the slope towards the river again. Beth dropped to her knees to check the clamps.
Ten minutes later, the bunch of them were packed into the cabs. Those so far untried by the cold water stood around and looked at their handiwork, studying the lay of the land on the far side and wondering if there were any real alternatives.
One way or another, they had to get back to town. Abandoning the vehicles was an option, as they could all fly out in a few trips with the chopper. Civilians could conceivably recover the vehicles later, but the mission was every thing. It would be costly and embarrassing. It would be better if they could get across the river.
Two more days and then he could wash his hands of the whole mess.
Much to everyone’s surprise the actual crossing took less than ten minutes. First, it was Unit One, with the cable winch on the front bumper slowly winding away, and the vehicle in low gear. Cornell judged the throttle nicely, going slowly down-slope and then hammering it, with the vehicle falling forward into the channel on its own momentum, water foamed up and over the cab, and then there was a big lurch when the cable tightened again and the front wheels found the opposite bank. The deep treads bit and the machine drove up out of the water, as triumphantly as an inanimate machine could be, to the sounds of cheers and commentary on the radio.
The airwaves crackled.
“Simple as pie.”
“Thank you, Trooper Cornell.”
“Use about fifteen hundred revs, sirs.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you.” Faber looked over from the left side and grinned.
One of the questions was how many people to put in the first machine in case of disaster. Cornell took the minimum across, himself and three others strapped in the cab. The anticlimactic outcome only underlined Newton’s problem.
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