“But isn’t this already classified way beyond anything, ever?”
“Yes, but we’re not going to tell them when.”
Exasperated, he said, “But aurochs are extinct, so you can’t even give them those numbers. Pardon me, sir, but this is the most retarded fucking thing ever I’ve heard.”
The man just stared at him. Rich couldn’t tell if he agreed about the stupidity, but had a job to do, or felt personally affronted.
The silence continued, so Rich said, “I don’t know, sir. Assuming two years and two months at three goats a week, you get three hundred and thirty goats. The rest I’ll have to think about.”
Ahrends said, “Do so, and get me the best numbers you can. Oh, I wouldn’t mention aurochs being extinct. EPA might have a shit fit. Just say feral cows.”
At least the man realized how completely stupid this was. It was just a job.
“Were there any fuel spills? Please tell me no.”
“We didn’t use any fuel except in transit. None was available to spill.”
“What about toxins or medications encountered?”
How many local plants counted as drugs? What had Doc used on them for wounds and pain and such? What berries were in Spencer’s wine? What had they smoked?
“I have no idea, sir. Nothing I took or was exposed to voluntarily. I’d ask Sergeant Devereaux about medications.”
“Thank you. Next question . . . ”
That afternoon, he met with another scientist. He’d never paid much attention to the huge variety there were. He’d talked to archeologists, paleontologists, anthropologists, botanists, petrologists, linguists, though most of those went straight to Oglesby, epidemiologists, others he couldn’t remember.
This one introduced himself as “Van Caster. I’m an engineering anthropologist.”
“You study old buildings?”
“And construction methods, yes.”
“Okay. Do you want to know about our buildings or theirs? And which theirs?”
“All.”
“You really want to talk to the lieutenant, Sergeant Spencer, and Sergeant Alexander, since she took photos.”
Caster said, “I have and will again. I just want a summary of what you thought and saw, anything that jumped out.”
“They seem awfully small, dark and low at first. Then you realize in winter that’s a good thing. They have larger ones for winter and for visitors. That’s the Urushu, the Paleolithic people we lived near.”
“I have the photos. I can’t really tell much from this about the inside.” He pulled up an image on his laptop. It was a shot into the dark inside, in surprisingly good detail. Alexander was one hell of a photographer.
“Oh. Raised beds on cut limbs with moss and grass as padding under animal hides. They were reasonably comfortable for camping.”
“What’s at the end here?”
“That was a latrine. A dug hole lined with a hide they tied up and took out every morning.”
“That’s interesting.” The man made notes.
“They used hide for everything. Mattresses, blankets, clothes, doorways.”
Caster said, “And covering the structures.” He had another image up.
“Oh, yes, this was the winter lodge. They had a lining, too.”
“Great. Insulation, then.”
“Yes.”
“How did they shape the support poles?”
“I think they were soaked and heated.”
“They were set in a rock base.”
“Yes, just river stones piled up. Same for the walls. They weren’t actually built, just stacked.”
At least it was less annoying than questions about killing food, or relations with native women.
Jenny Caswellwas managing to stay calm. She felt safer back here, but it was less satisfying. She was a troop on base, one of many, not someone who could feed and educate a unit in the wilderness.
They met in the briefing room several times a week for updates on the process. That evening, she walked in with the escort she always had, took a seat, and waited.
General McClare came in with the three other officers. He’d given a standing order to not come to attention.
“Evening,” he offered.
“Good evening, sir,” she said, along with everyone else.
McClare said, “We’re in the conclusive phase of this now.”
“Meaning? Sir?”
“It means I believe you’re telling the truth, the scientists believe you’re telling the truth, and someone far up at the Pentagon believes it, too.” He held up one of the blankets the Urushu had gifted them with. “The scientists tell me that hide is some sort of Asian camel. Extinct since just after the Ice Age. I don’t fucking believe it, but I’m forced to believe it.” He rolled it up and put it on the table.
“Since there’s no additional data available at the present, we’re going to return you to duty.”
She felt a rush ripple through her spine.
“Home?” she accidentally said aloud.
“For most of you, yes, home. Most of your units have rotated CONUS.”
Colonel Findlay said, “I’ll be working on the arrangements. Part of the delay was in developing a cover story as to your whereabouts. I’ve printed a summary here,” he said, holding up a binder, then handing the stack to Elliott to distribute. “It says you were hijacked and taken into the remote mountains. The natives seized your equipment and held you prisoner, but you were not mistreated. They spent several months trying to manipulate both Kabul and the Taliban into ransoming you. We knew you were alive and kept silent for your safety. We negotiated your return by securing their province. We did secure it.”
Bob Barker asked, “But how did we disappear so close to the FOB?”
“Mid range IED, to damage the road but not the vehicles, and a dozen hijackers in waiting. I even have some ‘captured’ video to prove that, shot by some role players. They were ‘reenacting’ your capture based on ‘your’ reports. Then we had another group replay them. If anyone comments, we’ll say the press got the wrong video. If they even play it. Things have changed in those months. We’re pulling out steadily, and no one cares about the war after the election.”
He continued, “We’ll coach each of you through an affidavit mostly consistent with the video, and your recovery is deemed not for public release. If anyone asks, you don’t talk about it.”
Spencer said, “So we don’t get to sell a book.”
Findlay shook his head. “Afraid not, Sergeant. You get a POW medal, a CAB, and an MSM. You don’t want to talk about your experiences, but you’re glad to be home. I went to a lot of effort demanding that you all be allowed a medical retirement if you wish, or return to duty. I’d recommend not granting any interviews, and if asked, just say there isn’t much to tell, you were kept in a remote village in primitive living conditions, and were recovered by a Marine contingent once we found you.”
Ramon said, “That’s true, as far as it goes.”
“Exactly. And on the positive side, you may get called later to consult, at a healthy rate of pay. The scientists want to know more.”
Trinidad said, “But I can’t lie.”
“Neither can I,” she said. Yes, there were clever evasions, but that was still lying.
Findlay said, “You don’t have to lie. Just don’t talk about it.” He put a foot up on a desk and leaned forward. “Let me give this to you straight: No one would believe this. Hell, we’re not sure we believe it. There’s not enough hard evidence for most people, and it would be a circus in the press. You’d be hounded by every conspiracy nut, new ager, sci fi geek, tabloid reporter and freak on the planet, as well as all the legitimate scientists all bent on disproving you, in addition to the ones we’re bringing in who do know it’s real and will treat you with respect. You really want to limit it to discussions with them. Because if you go public, we’ll deny it.”
“And humiliate me in public?” she asked.
“
No, ignore you totally and let the public do the humiliating.”
She was silent.
“It may come out, gradually, as it’s studied. In the meantime, you get a decent deal. I’d take it.”
Next to her, Alexander said, “We’re home. I want to see my family. Please don’t fight this.”
She wrote what they told her to write, in her own words. It didn’t say much, and was vague enough to fit the real events, or the fictionalized account.
EPILOGUE—HOMECOMING
Sean Elliott looked at his gear. It was most of the same stuff he arrived with, though his knives were worn down from heavy use. He had an authorization letter to get them through the Naval Customs Unit.
They were all flying to Kuwait, to Leipzig, to Baltimore, and from there to their home stations.
“So, everyone has contact info, right?” he asked.
“We all do,” Gina said. “I’ll be in touch. E-mail, probably. I don’t trust FB.”
Trinidad said, “Yeah, we can’t put anything down as text.”
“We can have a reunion,” Barker said.
“Hell, we’re not even home yet.”
“Oh, I want a reunion!” Caswell said. “In a year. We should be settled by then.”
Elliott said, “I’ve got names here for the therapists they mentioned.”
They each had a specialist they could talk to, read into the secret. He wondered how long this secret would remain secret. Ten of them, four officers, medical and dental officers, a chaplain, several intel people and now therapists. Add all that together and it was amazing it wasn’t tabloid web already.
Spencer said, “They can help us with the media whores, conspiracy nuts, and general retards we’ll have to deal with.”
“Here we are,” Dalton said.
He looked ahead. That was a crowd of about three hundred, all rotating stateside. As they entered, he tensed up. It was too many people too close.
They sat together. As with most rotations, troops clustered in cliques and tended not to talk much. Some gregarious specialist tried to engage him. He just nodded, grunted and pretended to doze off.
The whole tedious briefing and process took hours. Check weapons. Check classified material. Be informed that no war trophies were allowed, no porn, no body parts, no personal weapons without command authorization. No cuffs or batons unless MP. No Cuban cigars. No more than two copies of bootleg media.
The briefing NCO said, “Personal pleasure devices . . . these are not prohibited.” There were cheers, jeers and catcalls. “Just be sure to tell your inspector so they can be discreet.”
It was so ridiculous, then Spencer burst out with, “What, so I can have a blowup doll but no handcuffs? What’s the point?”
Three hundred troops howled with laughter, and next to him, Jenny Caswell fell out of her chair, choking.
Tedious hours later, after a stretch in Germany, they landed in Baltimore and staggered down the jetway. Ahead was luggage, thirty days leave, and then?
They all shook hands and hugged. Spencer, Barker, Alexander, Trinidad, Ortiz, Devereaux, Caswell, Dalton, Oglesby. They were a family.
It was the first time he’d touched either of the women.
“We have to stay in touch, for our own sanity,” he said. “That’s an order.”
“Hooah.” “Yes, sir.” “Aye aye.”
They stood nervously, looking at phones for time, but unlike everyone else, not texting. They all took a long look at each other, then mumbled and teared up and started drifting away. It was time to break from a bond no one else on the planet could ever have, even other combat vets. He waited for the others to disperse, though none of them were going too far yet, just to get boarding passes. He and Spencer were on the same leg.
“What do you think, Martin?” he asked.
“I think I may retire, sir. I dunno. I’m taking the sixty days leave and will consider. We all did more than anyone could anticipate. I feel heroic enough to call it quits while most of me still works.”
“Yeah. How are your guts?”
“Good enough. I wonder if they’ll go out of whack again, but they’re fine for now.”
“Glad to hear it.” The man had seemed old the last year in the past. Now he seemed a lot more lively.
As he grabbed his bags and headed for ticketing, he heard Caswell shout, “Sergeant Spencer!”
“Yes?”
She ran up and hugged the NCO in a tackle.
“Thank you for being a gentleman,” she said. “I . . . misjudged you.”
He smiled. “Not entirely. No hard feelings.”
Sean wasn’t entirely sure what went down there.
He realized the three of them were on camera, and pointed. There were a half dozen reporters waiting for them.
She gave a half snarl, half smile at Spencer, then at him, and said, “I got your back, gentlemen.”
END
A Long Time Until Now - eARC Page 70