Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  Sgt. Barnes: “She did, huh? How much shit you got in here, corporal?”

  Bolzano: “I brought food and water, my computer, tools for digging, rope, a blanket.”

  Sgt. Barnes: “A blanket? How long you expecting to stay? A week? You’re on a five-hour recon, not a safari.”

  Bolzano: “I, I don’t….”

  Sgt. Barnes: “Too late now, they’re getting out ahead of you. Make sure you bring it all back, or it’s your ass.”

  Bolzano: “Yes, sir.”

  Sgt. Barnes: “Another thing, I catch you listening to music on patrol, I will seriously fuck you up. Understood?”

  Bolzano: “Understood, sir.”

  Sgt. Barnes: “Off you go.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Five hours never sped by so quickly. My four escorts and I rest atop a series of flat rocks in the shade of a tall oak which overhangs the end of a broad white-sand beach. We share tubers, nuts and berries gathered on our two-mile sweep inland. When the river scouts return, we will join them in paddling out to the ship.

  It is my opinion there is plenty of food to sustain the crew. Especially fresh meat. Game of every sort is abundant. Abundant beyond belief. Herds of deer, gazelle and bison stretch to the horizon. Lumbering above the crowd are megafauna such as mammoth, auroch, hairy rhino and hippopotamus. Rabbit and fowl tend nests under nearly every bush we pass.

  Predators big and small are also present in extensive numbers. They will pose safety challenges, and will compete with us for food, but there is more than enough meat to go around.

  Wolves are the top hunters we have encountered. Our closest call came in several heart-pounding seconds as a pack of 27, with a mottled gray alpha female in the lead, passed within a yard of where we stood. We had been walking a game trail, cutting across a tall meadow of assorted prairie grasses up to 12 feet in height when my personal guard, Cpl. Jones, spotted them coming our way. “Company, halt,” he barked over the com line. “Step to the left, two paces. Move! Off the trail.” We had seconds to divert into the sedge before the wolves loped by in a single-file line. Our jumpsuits rendered us invisible and without scent, though I swear the old female looked me right in the eye as she passed.

  It was fortunate Jones saw them, for I don’t think we would have heard their approach amid the all-pervasive racket. I never expected so much noise from such an undeveloped land. Paris and New York combined would still be more quiet. I must continually turn my audio receptor down to keep from going deaf or mad.

  The noise starts in the sky and treetops with the calls of hundreds of thousands of crows, eagles, ducks, owl, swan, geese, starlings and uncountable other bird species new to our eyes. It then echoes outward and upward from the fields and forests. Barks, snarls, roars and howls of predators exhort prey into greater fits of snorting, lowing and bawling. Mammoths trumpet, aurochs bawl and eight-foot-tall woolly rhinos vibrate the ground as they crash through the brush. Insects by the billion buzz, frogs croak, fish splash, snakes slither and rodents squeak when you step on them.

  There’s no need to pinch ourselves to prove it, we are really here.

  If we weren’t sure, the smell would certainly convince us. Decaying carcasses and piles of excrement lie everywhere. Even with our jumpsuits and helmets tightly sealed, the odors assail our olfactory systems in waves. Fortunately, not all the smells are bad. To cleanse our palates there are lake-sized flower patches, sweet meadows, and the tang of kelp in the sea air.

  I will admit, initially, I was nearly too stunned to enter the forest. The savagery we experienced upon making landfall set my nerves on edge. I don’t think I was the only one with my mouth hanging open.

  Screams and snarls focused our attention to the far end of the beach as we pulled the kayaks to a hiding spot along the tree line. One hundred yards distant, a pride of wild cats swarmed atop a dying sea lion to halt its retreat to the sea. The moment the pitched battle was won, more than two dozen wolves trotted from the forest to form a loose circle around the cats. The huge canines arrived intent on battle. With slashing runs they harried the beige cats away from the kill. The felines, about 45 pounds each, arched their backs and managed to hold their ground against the much bigger wolves for several minutes. Swiping with razor-sharp claws, they buried teeth in snouts and raked wolf bellies with thrusts from their long, powerful back legs.

  Once the wolves were organized, however, the felines didn’t have a chance. They tightened the circle, backed the cats into a tight ball, then charged as one. The sounds are still with me. Carnage. Ferocity. Bloodlust. They tore the cats to shreds. When the last was slaughtered, the wolves immediately set upon the sea lion. Covering it completely, they fought their brothers and sisters for openings to bury fangs in the hard-won kill.

  The spectacle set the tone for the first portion of our excursion. I saw wolves and wild cats behind every tree. I must admit, the soldiers and their automatic weapons provide more peace of mind than I ever expected when we planned this mission.

  I drifted inland for more than a mile, in a sort of sensory overload. Shock and awe. A botanist could spend an entire career studying one square mile of this place and never finish. We have the whole world to explore. The old saying “a kid in a candy store” comes to mind.

  I realized, finally, that I was behaving more like a tourist than a scientist on an important mission. I relegated sounds and scents, fears and botanical urges, to the back of my mind, and focused on my assigned task–cataloging food sources.

  Gathering was made more difficult by the effects of such intense grazing, but it was certainly not impossible. My four escorts were generally more intent on guarding (watching) me than helping dig roots and scoop nuts from the forest floor. Even so, we were able to fill three rucksacks with an assortment of nourishing food during perhaps an hour’s effort total. Nuts, young nettles, berries, mushrooms, onions, a few cloves of garlic, and little dried plum-like fruits plucked from the top limbs of a dying tree by Cpl. Jones.

  Most varieties of fruit were left behind. They are not yet ripe. Particularly promising are tiny grapes and a strange breed of melon that will probably be ready to harvest early this fall. The melon vine grows abundantly in patchy shade along the edge of the forest. The vines sport numerous baby yellow fruits. Although bitter now, the fruits may be wonderfully sweet in about three months. My field tests detect zero toxins.

  Grape vines hang from many trees, some choking the life out of juvenile oak and beech. It appears creepers enjoy an advantage in this Interstadial environment. Meadows are full of flowering vines which twist symbiotically up the stalks of robust grasses, grains and reeds.

  The dense forest has gained its strongest foothold in the high grounds, where trees hundreds of years old grow tall. They are all thick in green summer leaf, a canopy to block out the sun. Most ground plants that might exist in the shade below never make it through the thick loam of needles and decaying leaves. The forests consist mostly of pine and oak, but also yew, hazelnut and at least a dozen other species of nut-bearing trees I do not recognize.

  The lowlands are marshy tangles dominated by white birch and willow, thickets of berries, ponds full of cattails and reeds. Tall grass meadows may encompass a space as small as one square acre, or stretch all the way to the horizon. Most of the long fields do not follow the topography, but extend inland, over hill and dale, in the same direction as today’s light winds. I voiced an hypothesis they were cut by fires, and earned general agreement from my odd little crew. Three Italians and Cpl. Jones, who is as American as they come.

  Dr. Gomez has asked me to file an assessment of these men. My observations will not be based entirely on today’s impressions, as I have had previous interactions with each soldier.

  Cpl. Andre Amacapane is the easiest, so I’ll start with him. The man is not fit for latrine duty. I do not understand how he survived the vetting process. He is rude, lazy, contrary and ignorant. I expect nothing but proble
ms from this man. He appears to suffer from a short man’s complex.

  Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano shows more promise. Judging by his comments today, his education certainly surpasses what one would expect from a firefighter. He’s not shy about sharing his knowledge, trying so hard today to impress me his countrymen started giving him a hard time in Italian. “Teacher’s pet,” or something like that. The man is preoccupied with Neanderthal. He cannot hide his disappointment that we have encountered no hominids today. I will suggest Dr. Hew consider taking Cpl. Bolzano under his wing.

  Sgt. Lorenzo Martinelli plays his cards close to the vest indeed. As suggested by Dr. Gomez, I attempted to learn the sergeant’s views on the new captain, Team priorities, even religion. I approached the topics in an offhand manner to no effect. Eventually, I put them to him point blank. Slippery, this one. He answered my questions with questions of his own.

  Affronted by his evasiveness, I reminded him I was his superior officer. This drew guffaws from Amacapane and Bolzano, who were no doubt enjoying their sergeant’s discomfort.

  “I refuse,” Martinelli said. “Aboard ship your rank may exceed mine, however, I am in charge of this patrol. My word is final on the matter. I will share my opinions when the time comes.”

  “When the time comes? What does that mean?”

  “It means nothing. My English fails me at times.”

  He walked away. I let him go.

  Cpl. Juniper Jones watched the entire affair without a word. He, too, keeps to himself, takes everything in. He confirmed he is a former West Point captain who accepted demotion to make the trip. I asked if I could expect him to be more experienced and competent than your average corporal. He said it was a fair assumption.

  His height, physique and reputation make him an intimidating presence. Martinelli deferred to Jones when it came time to lead the way into the brush. Jones did not shy away from the responsibility. Dr. Gomez is right, Jones is steady.

  That’s enough for now. I promised cook I would bring something special back for dinner. The tide pools are calling.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Sgt. Barnes: “Stay in tight, Harding, pull even with Kaikane.”

  Cpl. Harding: “Is that a rhino? Swimming across the river over there.”

  Sgt. Barnes: “I see it.”

  Cpl. Harding: “Did ya see those sharks trailing the shore patrol to the beach?”

  Sgt. Barnes: “I did.”

  Cpl. Harding: “How about the one following us?”

  Sgt. Barnes: “I counted four.”

  Cpl. Harding: “Holy shit, we’ve got a long paddle back to the ship. This is fucking crazy.”

  Sgt. Barnes: “I read that.”

  Cpl. Harding: “Seriously, Sarge, what do ya make of it all?”

  Sgt. Barnes: “I think Master Sergeant Leonard will have your head if you don’t shut your pie hole.”

  Cpl. Harding. “No, really, I need to know.”

  Sgt. Barnes: “For real? It’s typical Army. The more complicated the mission, the more fucked up it is. I think it’ll be a miracle if more’n half of us survive the first year. Hell, we’ll be lucky to make it through the first month.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  The first wave hit as we paddled our kayaks along the south shore of a river packed with ten times more wildlife than I ever thought possible. We were about a mile and a half upriver, a long way from where Master Sgt. Leonard had ordered a halt to all chatter on the open com line. Someone had the poor sense to shout "Wow, look at that!" for the 50th time in less than five minutes and the Texan just about snapped.

  "Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!" He shouted it about five times, then flipped up his helmet’s visor to give us his “don’t make me paddle over there and slap your head” look. Two years of training together, we all had a pretty good idea how far we could push the Master Sergeant. Time to button it up.

  The three scientists outranked Leonard. They kept up a steady commentary on their separate channel. Listening in, I thought they sounded like play-by-play announcers at a football game. All the jabbering about plants, animals, soil types and weather was educational, and even funny at times. Those guys were just as blown away by the scene as we grunts were. One said there was more nature packed in a mile of river coastline than there was in the entire world we left behind. This wasn’t the warm fuzzy nature I remembered from history books. We paddled through a war zone, a screeching, snarling brawl to survive.

  For every herd of deer or covey of quail, there was usually a pack of wolves or solo panther angling to bring them down. If one of us was stupid enough to take a swim, the bloodbath would have started as soon we left the ship. The ocean waters were ripe with shark. Grays and hammerheads surfaced all over the place. We paddled like mad for the coast, then paralleled a forested shoreline north for a couple hundred yards before turning upriver.

  Rounding into the river mouth, we passed within spitting distance of a pride of lions swarming a walrus up on the beach, fighting like hell to kill the giant brown blob before it could wriggle back into the water. Brutal.

  It wasn’t long before we spotted our first mammoth herd. There were about a dozen of them wallowing in the shallows, and a couple on land reaching up with their trunks to tear limbs and vines from trees. They weren’t very woolly. The science guys claimed they were in summer molt. Most of their coats had sloughed away to leave beige under-fur and dark gray skin. They looked like bus-sized lambs or tall, fuzzy elephants. A few had patches of long, wiry brown hair along their spines, straggly ponytails of last year’s growth.

  We saw some hippo and rhino too. Everything’s bigger than we ever imagined.

  Paddling upriver, I think we all wondered what kind of lives we could carve out of such a wilderness. Any plans we had about landing in a peaceful utopia were spilled like the walrus guts on that rocky beach. A few times, we had to pull up and wait as a thousand or more bison crossed the river headed north. Strong swimmers, every one had a set of wicked-looking horns about eight feet across. You could tell by the voices on the com lines, guys were wondering what the hell they had gotten themselves into.

  Even the Master Sergeant was stealing regular glances to the sky, paying close attention to the eagles and hawks swooping in from every direction to pluck trout, frogs, snakes and turtles out of the river. Everyone was a little jumpy after a soldier from Boston almost had his head knocked off by a brown eagle. Guy was two boats ahead of me when I heard a sound like a rifle shot. I swung my eyes in time to catch his helmet clouded by feathers. The kid fell sideways out of his kayak and bobbed facedown for a second or two before sputtering to life.

  "I'm hit, I'm hit,” he said, wide-eyed and expecting one of us to do something. Jump in and save him, I suppose. The Master Sergeant circled back and ordered Boston to hang on the front of his boat while I was sent to fetch the runaway kayak from where the current carried it downstream. Passing the eagle’s carcass, I saw it had attracted a circle of hungry fish, plucking and pulling at it until something much bigger surfaced to quietly take it down in one bite.

  The dark-haired soldier was still draped across the bow of master sarge’s kayak when I got back. Leonard was kidding him like a cop trying to talk a jumper off a ledge–a cop who didn’t really give a shit if the guy jumped or not. The boy had his visor up and looked about ready to crap himself.

  “You’re the first asshole I’ve ever seen shot down by an eagle,” Leonard drawled. “What caliber of bird do you think it was? Joey, here’s your boat. Why not haul yourself up before them snakes eat you?”

  Boston turned to a 10-foot-long water snake leading a v-shaped swarm of babies straight toward him. Two of us held his boat steady as he scrambled aboard in record time. Sitting there, dripping muddy water and rubbing his head, he made a little “o” with his mouth as the snakes bumped into his boat on their way past.

  “You’ll be OK,” Sarge said, handing him back his paddle. “All you gu
ys, keep your eyes moving, stay alert.”

  About a half mile farther inland, we had our first look at Modern Man, Cro-Magnon. One of the scientists spotted them. Four men hunting. We kept pace against the current as they stalked a boar along the riverbank.

  Our visual scramblers allowed us to swing close as they brought the hairy thing down in a sun-filled clearing in the pines. Shouting, banging their spears on the ground, they herded the pig against a stone bluff. Using words and hand signals to communicate, they formed a semi-circle to cut it off from the river.

  Once cornered, the boar stood for a while, grinding its lower tusks on upper teeth to sharpen them to razor edges. Tiny black eyes studied the bearded men as they slowly closed in. In a flash, the pig attacked. Squealing, snapping its head back and forth, it did its damnedest to skewer the oldest-looking guy.

  Hooting, the gray-bearded hunter skipped backwards, just out of range, as his pals charged in to drive a pair of flint-tipped spears through the pig’s sides. They folded themselves away from the slashing tusks as the old man charged the animal head-on, jamming his spear in its throat. Grunting, gritting their teeth, the men on the flanks prodded for spots between the ribs, levering the hafts of wood to work through hide and belly.

  The combined weight of those four hunters probably didn’t add up to much more than half the pig’s, but in less than a handful of seconds they managed to push the spears through the rib cage to open a pair of sucking wounds. The men waged a little standoff with the boar, kind of held it in place for a minute or two, until, with a groan, the beast dropped to its knees. I expected a celebration, or at least a little bragging as hunters are apt to do, but the Cro-Magnons were all business.

  Three took positions to guard the kill while the tall man sat on his haunches and waited for the animal’s lifeblood to bubble away.

  The anthropologists nicknamed him Gray Beard. His long salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back, tied into a ponytail with a leather string knotted with seashells. A necklace around his muscular neck spoke of many other successful hunts. It alternated animal teeth, claws and ivory beads. The loincloth he wore looked like a green and beige kilt. One of the scientists said it was woven from reeds and pounded bark.