The hunter untied a leather pouch from around his waist and spread it on the ground to reveal a selection of stone skinning and cutting tools–long flakes of flint that must have been super sharp. He dressed the pig in quick time. Cutting four squares of hide, he filled each with choice cuts of meat and fat. Clucking to himself quietly as he worked, he heaped one square with the heart, liver and other bloody bits of gut. A few swift raps with a moss-covered rock loosened the foot-long tusks from the boar’s lower jaw. The tusks were tossed in with the organs. Less than 20 minutes after the kill, the men gathered up their hairy packs and bloody spears and scurried off into the brush.
TRANSMISSION:
DePalma: “The Gray Beard looks like your brother.”
Hackett: “Phillip?”
DePalma: “No, David.”
Hackett: “Maybe, a little. Ah, there’s his tool kit. Had it tied around his waist. Chang, are you getting this shot?”
Chang: “Camera quit working, sir.”
Hackett: “Damn! Drink it all in, gentlemen. See how the leather’s stitched on his footwear? Wonderful. Look at those tools. Wonder where he harvested the flint.”
DePalma: “Why don’t you go ask him?”
Hackett: “Be serious.”
DePalma: “You’re right, but it’s difficult. Hell, I’m so excited my cock is hard. We’ve done it.”
Hackett: “Yes, this is a great moment, so why screw it up with jokes?”
DePalma: “Sorry, sir.”
Hackett: “Chang, how much do you think their pig weighs?”
Chang: “Half a ton, maybe 900 pounds.”
Hackett: “Every bit of that. Think about it. We just saw four men with spears dispatch a 1,000-pound boar in what, a minute of actual combat? Amazing. Will our soldiers fare as well if their guns stop firing?”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
The hunt gave us plenty to think about as we paddled upstream. The anthropologists and archeologist talked up a storm. First they broke down the hunters’ methods, and then they argued about whether we should try to follow those killers to see where they mined the stone for their tools.
I listened while keeping my boat to the port side of Staff Sgt. Barnes to make sure he didn’t shoot me instead of the turtles and frogs he was plugging with his silenced rifle. We rounded a pretty little bend in the river, swinging close to a shallow point choked with white birch and willow trees, when every bird and beast let out a holler and took off as one.
In a flick of a million tails, it became a stampede. Prey and predator sprinted side by side, headed for the hills. Barnes had his visor up and he wore a “did I do that?” look as the ruckus faded. For a dick, Barnes could be a funny guy. I was watching to see what he would do next, listening to the scientists try to make sense out of it all, when his goofy face went white. “Wave!” he croaked. Letting his gun clatter overboard, he grabbed for his paddle. The com line erupted.
Jerking my head around, I saw a wall of brown foam charging upstream at high speed. It was at least 15 feet tall and spread all the way across the half-mile-wide river. Trees along the banks were being mowed down like matchsticks.
I turned and dug for deeper water. The wave caught up with a roaring punch that spit my kayak upriver like a flat stone across a pond. Skipping down a world turned vertical, heading straight for a grove of pine, I jammed on the rudder and leaned as far left as I dared. The kayak bit hard. Cutting back toward the middle of the river, forest shattering behind me, I surfed into the rumbling wave’s shadow. Into the fury of a jet engine on take-off.
The water was choked with debris. Swinging low to dodge a drowned bull, I looked up to see Barnes and his kayak pitched from the top of the wave like little toys. Flapping his arms in freefall, the sergeant was headed straight for me. I braced for impact, but he jackknifed his body at the last instant to sail over my head with no more than an inch to spare. “Go, you bastard!” His words were swallowed by the river. I never saw Barnes come up. His kayak was submerged for just a second or two before it shot out of the water like an arrow right beside me.
A tsunami? What else pushes a giant wave upstream? Weaving though a slalom course of trees and tangles of grape vines, dead and doomed animals, I angled the kayak so it carved a path halfway up the face of the powerful surge. Past bug-eyed bears hanging onto big clumps of grape vines, dead rhinos and dying mammoth. Bouncing at the front of the tangled mess were six empty boats and one with Master Sgt. Leonard still aboard.
Leonard was doing his best to maintain a line in front of me, and making a pretty good show of it. I swung in behind to coach him on the com line, help look ahead for hang-ups. The surge was losing steam and I really expected the tough dude to make it. Out of nowhere, a thick tree root whipped up to catch the Master Sergeant across the gut and unseat him. His jumpsuit was hung up on the root when it carried him under. I kept the tree in my view as long as I could, but never did see Leonard surface.
I don’t know how far the wave pushed me upstream before it petered out against the current and deeper water. At least a mile. I surfed across the full width of the river four times. Each crossing had fewer trees and limbs and dead animals to navigate around. My mind was spinning. I knew I should come up with a search and rescue plan, but how? For who? Was I the only one from The Team left? What about the ship? They should have been anchored in deep enough water, far enough offshore, but why hadn’t they radioed a warning? I never felt so alone.
The wave was a two-foot roller as I neared shore. I pulled up short when the muddy beach filled with natives and barking dogs. Men, women and children all charged toward the river, shouting and pointing. Pointing at me. At least I thought they were pointing at me. It was all so confusing, I must have figured the stealth apparatus on the kayak or my jumpsuit had failed. I turned and started digging for the opposite shore.
Less than halfway across, the surge turned like a freight train heading back to the sea.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Specialist Kaikane calling mother ship. Do you read me, over?”
Kaikane: “This is Specialist Kaikane calling the mother ship. Do you read me?”
Kaikane: “Anybody there?”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
At the end of a five-hour preliminary inspection of local fauna, I was wading in an ocean tide pool collecting mollusks, urchins and assorted other shellfish for the cook’s pot when the level of the sea began to recede at an alarming rate. We were waiting for the last crew, the river unit, to return when the waters pulled back so drastically scores of fish were left flapping on the exposed ocean floor. Recognizing a tsunami was likely, I alerted my four escorts and pointed to the high ground we had explored earlier in the day. I believe I said, “Run!”
Sgt. Martinelli attempted to hail the ship as he led the way. Its communication system was still down. My personal guard, Cpl. Jones, showed more bravery than sense by grabbing the lines of our two kayaks and dragging them as he followed us up a game trail that traversed to the top of a rise measuring 148 feet above sea level. Although no one stopped to help, Jones and the boats were not far behind when the surge struck.
As a scientist, I am loathe to admit I was too occupied saving my skin to carefully watch and record the event. As a sensory experience, however, I can say it was filled with sound and pure fear, a liquid roar of water and grinding stones and trees cracking in half. At the height of the awful noise, I looked back to see Jones fighting to keep the kayaks from being pulled away by the receding water. I stopped to help. The tidal surge crested at 109 feet.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Leave them, leave them behind.”
Jones: “No! Keep running! Italians useless.”
Duarte: “It’s closer…here it…here it is….”
Jones: “Keep going. Damn.”
Duarte: “Jones! Jones! Oh my, oh my. Take my hand.”
Jones: “Keep goi
ng.”
Duarte: “Bull crap! Take my hand.”
Jones: “Got it. The tree. Grab the tree.”
Duarte: “Hold on!”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
The Italians wore embarrassed faces when we joined them soaking wet at the hilltop. Flipping down my visor and activating magnifiers, I could see that although the ship had survived the wave, it looked to have snapped its anchor lines. Zooming in, I witnessed a frantic crew attempting to raise the carbon fiber sails by hand. I assume the solar electric power was still not operating. The engines were not in use. Chaotic, sub-waves rocked the bay, creating a bathtub effect similar to the Hilo Tsunami of 1960.
The Italian sergeant suggested another wave was possible and stoically determined the hill provided the safest location available. We each picked a sturdy tree to climb if necessary. Jones secured the kayaks to an oak and pulled a pair of semaphore flags from one of the hatches. He signaled the ship to no avail. They were having a hard time in the turbulent seas. The shimmering, 150-foot-long trimaran rolled in the surf as its main sail slowly unfurled. What little wind there was blew onshore.
The river swelled as another roar grew to fill the valley. A wall of roiling brown water, millions upon billions of gallons, thundered back to the sea. My attention was drawn to a member of the stone-gathering crew bobbing amid the white water. Dwarfed by the wave, he slalomed his way through debris.
Several other empty kayaks were being pushed and pounded at the front of a wave I can only describe as a plateau. There was a front and a top, but no back, just a valley full of water emptying into the sea. The lone kayaker performed cutback maneuvers to weave across the debris-filled river like a surfer. Turning abruptly, he plunged over the front edge of the wave to streak straight down its sheer, muddy green wall.
As the surge swept safely below us, one of the Italians shouted a warning and scrambled up a stout pine.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Tsunami!”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
I managed a couple glances toward the ship when I hit the bay, and could tell they were in deep trouble. The engines must have died. They had the sail halfway up and were trying to turn into the wind. Making a real mess of it. She was bobbing like a cork and drifting sideways toward shore. I was angled for the ship when I saw the second wave rising up behind her.
Bombing the kayak down the face of that river wave, I dug my paddle in and stroked hard. The ride down the valley had been a cross between skiing an avalanche, surfing Waimea Bay and white water rafting through Hell’s Gate, all challenges I had handled in my life, but never at the same time.
I knew the only way to conquer death is to face it head-on.
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “Turn, you fools! Why don’t they raise the damn sail and turn?”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
The soldiers later described in great detail how the ship which could not sink was caught between the two waves and driven straight to the bottom. The craft went down in one piece and surfaced in a million. All aboard were killed. Colleagues, friends and acquaintances wiped away in one stunning instant.
My eyes had been on the kayaker. He hit the second wave fast enough to be propelled up its face and about 50 feet into the air. Though I expected him to eject or be jettisoned, he stayed with the narrow craft in a long arc as the two powerful swells collided beneath him in a thunderous explosion. The kayaker returned to the water like a fishing pelican, tucking low and knifing through the surface with hardly a splash. The man hit so close to the watery collision, and was under for so long, I was sure the powerful currents had swept him away. After what seemed like an eternity, he popped up, paddle in hand, and stroked calmly for the open sea.
“They’re dead, they’re dead, oh my God, they are all dead!” screamed Cpl. Bolzano from his perch 10 feet up a pine. Wailing, first in Italian, then in English. “The ship! It is smashed!”
I swiveled my head to see the boat truly was gone. We scanned the frothy bay for survivors and found none. Thermal images of cooling bodies floated among a sea of debris. Those people had been my family. We had planned to spend the rest of our lives working together. My legs wobbled. I took a seat in the loamy soil. The reality just took my legs right out from underneath me.
I sat there, searching for friends, idly watching the kayaker paddle through the turbulent mess to coast to a stop well outside the bay. He didn’t respond to Sgt. Martinelli’s transmissions, just sat there, probably thinking he was the last one alive. When Jones caught his attention with the semaphore flags, the kayaker waved back so effusively he nearly tipped over. The sergeant ordered Jones to signal him to stay put.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Sergeant, how many crews were ashore at the time of the waves?”
Martinelli: “Two. The river crew and us. All other units had returned to the ship. Heaven help their souls.”
Duarte: “The kayak guy must be from the river crew. Do you think anyone else from that unit survived?”
Martinelli: “How would I know?”
Duarte: “You’re the one who claimed to be in charge. What do we do now?”
Martinelli: “I’m not sure.”
Duarte: “Jones?”
Jones: “Manual would say to organize a search and rescue. Secure the area. Help the wounded. Gather equipment which is still operational.”
Martinelli: “No one could survive that.”
Duarte: “Jones?”
Jones: “He’s right. I see no warm bodies. River crew could’ve survived. Mighta been on a hike inland or something. If so, they’ll know to work their way back to the bay. We should probably just wait for them, maybe take a paddle upstream when things settle down.”
Duarte: “We need a plan.”
From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Ship destroyed by tidal waves on Day 13. 48 personnel confirmed dead, 39 missing and assumed dead. 80 went down aboard ship, 7 killed on river by tsunami’s surge. With 4 senior officers DOA from jump, that leaves 6 alive from The Team’s original 97.
Survivors are: Sgt. Lorenzo Martinelli, Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones, Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano, Cpl. Andre Amacapane, Chief Botanist Maria Duarte, civilian recreation specialist, Paul Kaikane. No physical injuries to report.
Limited ammunition and scant intel in hostile environment. This crew needs to grow up quick.
TRANSMISSION:
Amacapane: “Didn’t take long for the vultures and gulls to return, did it?”
Bolzano: “This cannot be happening. This cannot be.”
Martinelli: “It has happened. You must compose yourself, corporal. Rise up off your fat ass and help Andre as he collects the bodies.”
Bolzano: “We are alone in this place.”
Martinelli: “You’re not alone, Salvatore, you have Corporal Amacapane and me to keep you company, as well as the beautiful doctor and two other Americans. One woman for five men. I wonder how long it will be before that fact crosses her mind.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
The ocean kept rocking all day. No more big waves, just lazy surges about every half hour. I couldn’t feel them out in deep water, but near shore they were impossible to miss. The sea would pull back at least a hundred yards in the shallows, and then, after a few minutes, flood back in, flowing over the rocks like a river below a dam whose gates slowly opened.
I beached at the height of an incoming surge, right in the middle of a shouting match between the Chief Botanist and Sgt. Martinelli. With three kayaks tied end-to-end off the back of my boat, I guess I expected some sort of “welcome back” or “good to see you made it.” They were going at it too hard to stop, screaming back and forth even as they helped me pull the kayaks up beyond the high water mark. The sandy beach was littered w
ith sadness–drowned friends, drowned animals, chunks from the Einstein III’s hull.
“And all I’m saying is, you did not need to kill those women and children,” the botanist yelled. I couldn’t see the face behind her helmet’s visor, but she sounded plenty mad.
“They’re going to be extinct anyway,” the Italian sergeant said in a way that made his crew snicker as they walked by. Cpl. Bolzano and Cpl. Amacapane were hauling pieces of the ship to a pile on the beach. Next to that was a line of bodies. I recognized most of them, ship’s crew, soldiers and other personnel, all face-up in the sand. Off to the side was a tangle of dead natives, gunshot and leaking blood.
“Who gives a shit about five dead monkeys? You are the one who said we didn’t dare let any of our modern technology fall into their hands.”
“What technology?” she asked with heat. “Boards, scraps of fiber? There’s nothing here of value. We should have just scared them away. We do not need enemies, we’re all alone in their land!”
Martinelli sighed as if he was talking to an idiot. The sergeant is one of a handful of foreign soldiers and ship’s crew to earn spots on the time travel team. An expert mountaineer, he has an alpinist’s superior attitude. The curly-haired son of a bitch has always rubbed me the wrong way. I was pulling for the botanist.
“What’s done is already done.” He stabbed his finger toward her visor. “Look at this situation from my perspective as senior officer. We have a beach full of dead. We owe them respect and a proper burial. There’s much work to do before more nosey cavemen arrive. Please shut up and stay out of the way.”
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