One moment, Bo had been in 1992, leaving Somalia on a UH-60 Blackhawk after having accused a Turkish general officer of cowardice. The next, he was waking in a sterile room next to a bored medical technician who told him that it was 2125, that he was light years from home, that there was intelligent life in the galaxy, and that some of it wanted him and the rest of humanity dead.
After awakening six weeks ago with other “lost soldiers” hijacked from various wars in the twentieth century, Bo did spend some time wondering about Sharron’s reaction when she’d received the news that the Blackhawk had crashed with no sign of survivors. For a few seconds, he thought about the money she would have received from the Servicemembers’ Group Life Insurance policy he’d arranged: a cool $400,000. Because divorce proceedings hadn’t even started, there was little doubt she’d taken that check and smiled all the way to the bank.
What was it Sergeant First Class Gleason had always said? Nothing moves as fast as a cavalryman’s paycheck in the hands of his spouse?
Or was it to never, ever, let a woman fuck up your life?
Bo snorted and rolled off the heavy, green sleeping bag and stretched before straightening his bunk. There was no one to inspect his quarters; no one would have seen him leave the bunk unmade. Still, it was a habit to make his bed and be sure that at least one thing would go right that day: finding his bed made at the end of it.
He reached down and worked the leather straps of his roughed-out tanker boots through their buckles and tightened them. They weren’t his original boots, but they were reasonable facsimiles and just as comfortable to wear. In fact, almost everything seemed a bit more comfortable. For having slept over a hundred years, his body felt better than ever. But still: a hundred and thirty-three years and a whole life, lost in an eyeblink.
Solace came in odd places, in simple things. Familiar boots. A squared away bunk. Divorce papers he’d never have to sign. A body mysteriously devoid of the nagging injuries he’d acquired living the life of a soldier. With a sigh, he reached for his uniform blouse out of habit. As he did, his left thumb rubbed the smoothed skin where his wedding band had been just a few short weeks—and more than a hundred years—before. He winced at the realization for the hundredth time, with a similar result.
Fuck me.
He pushed through the flaps of the Vietnam-era tent (General Purpose, Medium) and into the calm, cool morning of the desert tableland. The storms overnight had cleared, and the sky blazed with starlight. Given the mission underway, the small forward operating base was quiet, even at 0300. He moved down the slight incline toward the headquarters tent at the center of the small, oblong compound. Concealed by alien scrub brush, the base was tucked into the shadows of a shallow, rocky bowl, surrounded by low slopes that were eerily similar to those of eastern Africa. On the other hand, the air was totally without the humidity and stench of the cities that seemed to permeate miles in every direction. At its core, the small base reminded him of the UN compound outside Mogadishu. But instead of being filled with ineffective bureaucrats playing soldier in comical uniforms, there were actual soldiers around him for the first time in years. Uprooted from their own times, each had been believed killed or missing in action. But now they found themselves being moved about as pawns in a conflict much larger than themselves. What mattered were their shared experiences—past wars and present homelessness—and the mission at hand. All they had was each other, and to survive, they would have to stand together.
Given that Murphy had already had their first mission roughed out by the time Bo awakened, there had been little for him to do except to observe, learn, and deploy from a hidden spaceside facility to the surface of R’Bak.
The operation was almost unthinkable. Their own transportation assets were few. The supplies of POL products—petroleum, oil, and lubricants—were critical to maintain and ration. They used their few trucks and other vehicles sparingly to maintain stocks in case of some emergency or combat action. However, as if nature had decided to compensate for all the man-made shortages, they had plenty of local pack animals—whinaalani—which were able to serve in multiple roles. Bo tried not to think of them as lizards, but they looked like something out of the reptile display at the Iuka Mall back home, except about twenty times the size of their counterparts on Earth.
More precisely, the whinaalani resembled a mixture of an iguana and a Komodo dragon. From the tip of their tail to the rounded nose at the front of their triangular head, a typical whinaalani body was about three and half meters long and stood just over a meter tall at the saddle point between their four muscular legs. Wide, clawed feet gave them great traction for both climbing and digging. A long, strong tail gave them grace and balance. They’d evolved to suit peculiar weather cycles and climatic shifts and appeared to survive the periodic Sears by going far underground. They were the largest of the natural fauna observed in their area and they’d responded very well to the Lost Soldiers.
Saddling them and riding them came even easier, much to Bo’s surprise. Raised on a farm in northeastern Mississippi, he’d ridden horses his entire life and discovered that the whinaalani not only took to being ridden more quickly and with less agitation than horses or mules, they seemed to enjoy carrying a rider on their strong backs. Still, without Bo’s accidental discovery of their other abilities, the whinnies would have been nothing more than a work-around for their transportation shortages, rather than an increasingly vital part of his unit’s table of organization and equipment.
A herd of wild whinaalani always seemed to be near them. While they seemed every bit as disinterested in Bo’s indigenous allies as the whinnies already broken to the yoke, the untamed ones were genuinely curious about the Lost Soldiers. They often followed dismounted patrols at a distance and occasionally ran alongside any of the vehicles out for their short, routine maintenance rides.
So when one of them followed Bo on a scouting hike a month before, he’d not given it much thought. He’d started hiking to clear his mind and try to make peace with Sharron for her decision, but before long, his interest had shifted to assessing the available supply of water. With the Sear approaching and ambient temperatures rising, the nearby lakes and streams were already starting to shrink and recede. He’d tried to locate signs of an aquifer or some persistent, potable water, but Murphy’s orders were not to leave an area five kilometers from the base without security. Carrying a weapon wasn’t enough. There was far too much about their surrounding environment they didn’t know.
Bo had climbed a rocky embankment to peer across the waves of rolling terrain to the south and west of the base. Near the top of the exposed stone, a flash of movement caught his eye and he’d recoiled. His mind told him it was an angry snake, and Bo raced down the rocks, not expecting the slithering, black and green thing to chase him at a frightening speed. He looked over his shoulder, saw the creature racing toward him with a single bright white fang glinting in the sunlight—and ran into the leathery hide of a whinnie. It looked at him curiously and Bo’s mind raced to figure out why it seemed different, until he realized the whinnie had knelt.
Knelt.
He’d scrambled onto the back of the whinaalani as the slithering thing closed to strike. Bo kicked a leg over the whinnie’s back as naturally as he’d done on a horse. The whinnie pivoted, let out a throaty cry, and stomped down with one rear leg repeatedly until the snakelike thing lay trampled in the sandy ground.
“Holy shit,” Bo had sighed as he patted the whinnie’s neck. It seemed natural, and the whinaalani seemed to like it. When the whinnie didn’t buck him off, Bo rode bareback for nearly two hours before heading home. He’d ridden into the compound that day to the shocked stares of his compadres.
He got a similar, if more understated reaction, from Murphy during his brief uplink later that day. The major replied to Bo’s report with an unexpected, albeit thin, smile. “Seems like we’ve found something for you to do, Captain Moorefield,” Murphy had said. They identified a half-dozen of the
Lost Soldiers with experience on horseback and found them mounts. One moment, Bo had nothing but daily hikes to clear his mind, and the next he had a squad of mounted soldiers. His very own cavalry.
The whinaalani enabled longer searches for water sources and the local medicinal flora Murphy identified as a commander’s critical intelligence requirement. They hadn’t located any of the pharma plants, but they did come across several potable springs in the desiccating landscape as their search area widened. As the Sear approached, having a constant, reliable source of water morphed from a want to a critical need. Water, though, was only one of the unit’s problems.
Bo glanced up at the clear night sky as he walked and tried to remember where Murphy told them to look for Earth. Nothing about the sky seemed correct. He knew it was a product of distance and perspective, but it made his mind swim in confusion.
You always said you would be there for me, Bo. But you were there for the Army instead.
Jaw clenched, Bo looked down at his feet as he made his way to the headquarters area. There was movement in the darkness off to his right and he turned that way to see a whinnie watching him intently. He smiled.
“Hey, Scout. Hey, boy.”
The whinnie padded toward him, strangely silent for something so large. Scout was the largest of the males in the herd which had now attached itself to the Lost Soldiers. As with terrestrial fauna, the female whinnies were slightly smaller, but no less exceptional. Most of his riders rode female mounts because each herd resembled a pride of lions with many females and only a few males. Bo reached up and patted its warm neck affectionately and smelled the big animal’s unique scent, like a slightly sweeter version of a burning tire. The odor never ceased to take his mind back to Somalia for a brief moment before he shook away the past. Except when he could not.
“Always taking care of me, huh?” He ran a hand over the warm, rough skin.
They stood there for a moment, and Bo felt an immense sense of pride and love for the big animal. From their appearance, he’d assumed them to be a reptile, but they were warm-blooded and exceptionally intelligent.
Bo patted the whinnie’s neck again. “Get some rest, big guy. We’ll ride this morning.”
Scout made a sound that was something between a purr and a growl and silently walked away. While he always enjoyed the company of friends, Bo felt better about being marooned in this perilous future because of his mount. He couldn’t explain it to anyone who’d never owned a horse, but those who had understood. The bond was something unspoken and true.
He looked up into the strange, clear sky and drew a long, deep breath of the cool air to clear his mind. He looked forward to the daily mounted patrols, and the whinnies seemed to enjoy the exercise, too. This morning would be different. With a mission against hostile R’Bakuu forces to the north underway, his commander’s plan to lure them out relied not only on his mounted cavalry, but on Bo himself. He wanted to think he was ready.
Bo walked down the gentle slope toward the headquarters enclosure. There were soft red lights on the exterior and Bo knew the staff manning the command post would set watches outside each of the entrances. Murphy wasn’t the type to let security get lax just because there appeared to be no close, imminent threat. Since he’d roused out of cold sleep, they’d been working with and sometimes against the local populations in their area. The pursuit of resources as the Searing approached presently defined life on R’Bak. The indigs’ enemies on Kulsis were preparing for wholesale rapine and their local allies were grabbing whatever they could scavenge. Stopping them was the only prayer the Lost Soldiers had of going home.
Home. Bo shook his head. What’s that quote? You can’t go home again?
At the west entrance to the headquarters, the two Lost Soldiers standing guard held their rifles at the low ready. In the darkness, they appeared almost the same, and yet Bo was certain that, back in their own world and time, neither one of them had ever learned to hold a rifle at the low ready, muzzle pointed at the ground and firing hand hugging the weapon’s grip tight to their stomach. Much had changed between the time when they’d been hijacked to when Bo himself was disappeared.
But some things were timeless. He couldn’t help but smile as he heard the whispered conversation: “No. You’re talking about Chicago-style pizza, man. That’s called deep dish. No way. Too much bread. Give me a big New York thin crust with cheese and extra pepperoni any day. Nothing else. No salad on it. No fruit either. Cheese and pepperoni only, as the pizza gods ordained.”
The other soldier grunted in a Russian accent. “Cheese and tomato sauce on cardboard is what you are describing, Devolo.”
Bo chuckled as he walked around the corner. “Make mine thin crust, too, when you find it.”
“Captain Moorefield.” The soldier on the left drawled with a sleepy New York accent. “Good morning. See? The captain has good taste.”
Bo grinned. “Devolo? You staying awake out here?”
“Too pretty a sky to fall asleep, sir. I’ve been telling Orlovski here all about Vietnam.”
The Russian grunted. “I have listened to the same stories twice and now we argue about food. I am eager to end this watch and get some sleep.”
Bo couldn’t hold back the laugh in his throat. “We all agree with you, Orlovski. Just wait until he tells you about that one special prostitute in Saigon.”
Orlovski turned his head to Devolo. The smaller American’s face screwed up in discomfort. “You haven’t told me this story, Devolo.”
Devolo shook his head. “Rude, sir. Just rude.”
“You’re the one who shared it, Devolo.” Bo glanced at his G-Shock. “Besides, I’m guessing you still have about an hour on your watch. That story should help pass the time and keep pizza off your mind.”
“I am very interested now, Devolo.” Orlovski nodded at Bo. “Thank you, sir. I trust Devolo does not like this story?”
“Not at all.” Bo grinned. “Just try not to laugh too loud, okay?”
Bo stepped through the tent flap and into the headquarters, hearing Devolo sigh and utter the words familiar to every soldier when a great story is starting: “No shit, there I was…”
As his eyes adjusted to the red lights, Bo saw Staff Sergeant Yarbrough standing at a crude mapboard. Topographical maps were the backbone of ground operations, and while they had nothing precise regarding the ground they occupied and operated on, the renderings were good enough to show relative distance, key terrain features, and other points of interest. Next to him was a satellite communications terminal unlike anything Bo had known in his time. He was equally sure Sergeant Yarbrough had no clue what it was. The Vietnam veteran, like so many of the others in Bo’s little command, had a special term for the advanced technology they used alongside their more familiar weapons and gear: PFM.
Pure fucking magic.
“Home Plate, Oscar Papa One. Negative contact. Out.”
Bo heard Yarbrough sigh before the older non-commissioned officer nodded at one of the few indig radio operators on the base. He spoke a mixture of English and other words from a local dialect that Bo did not understand. The indig RTO, radio telephone operator, did not reply but busily scribbled the time and message in a green, bound logbook.
“Keeping records?” Bo asked as he approached from behind the sergeant’s right shoulder. “For posterity’s sake or to pass the time?”
Yarbrough snorted. “A bit of both, sir. What are you doing up at this hour?”
Bo shrugged. “The usual. There’s a mission underway. Even if they aren’t mine, I can’t sleep. You know how it is.”
Yarbrough looked him over for a long moment and then turned to the map. “OP One should be tucking back in soon. The other forward observation posts haven’t seen anything yet. Soon as we have comms with them, we’ll update the board.”
Bo studied the map. “The OPs won’t see anything for a while. Even from the top of the pass, there’s too much rolling terrain in the way. We could move OP One down to the
bottom of the pass on the far side, but that puts them at risk if anything is out there.”
The older sergeant frowned. “The real risk is if they are still out there come daylight. No matter how well planned or supported they are, something always goes wrong with night raids.”
Bo didn’t say a thing. He’d learned as a second lieutenant when not to say anything. There was more behind Yarbrough’s comments than the sergeant let on, and while Bo suspected he knew the source of the veteran’s worries, he didn’t want to assume anything. Even though the sinking feeling in his own stomach said everything.
Yarbrough turned to the PFM radio set and looked at his watch. “Glass Palace should be overhead in about two minutes, now. The window will be about a hundred seconds.”
Bo nodded and kept his face as straight as possible. Either Major Murphy had already signaled a desire to talk to him directly, or Staff Sergeant Yarbrough, his operations NCO, thought it would be best for Bo and Murphy to speak at the earliest opportunity. Time to find out which. “Anything happen on their last orbit and comm check?”
Yarbrough shook his head. “The mission team talked to Lieutenant Tapper after comm check with us. Just before Tapper initiated his final raid.”
Bo took a deep breath. Too much could happen in ninety minutes.
A minute and a half later, the PFM radio squawked to life.
“Starkpatch, this is Glass Palace, over.”
Bo had to smile. Mississippi State University, his alma mater, was located in Starkville, Mississippi. The students had a myriad of names for the quaint, quiet town that dwindled in population when the semesters ended. He’d named their forward operating base Camp Stark, for other reasons, and the radio callsign worked well and brought some daily levity to his world.
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