“Or she’s part of a harem,” Renzi said. “She’s somebody’s bitch by now.”
“And if that’s keeping her alive, then that’s a good thing,” Jimbo said.
“Easy for you to say,” Renzi answered with a bitter laugh. “You’re not playing house with one of those ugly motherfuckers.”
“That’s all between her and her therapist,” Dwayne said. “Our problem is to get her home no matter what condition she’s in. Me and Jimbo will keep post on the situation until you guys get back.”
“And if things jump off before the cavalry gets here?” Chaz said.
“We’ll deal with that when it gets here,” Dwayne said. Chaz started to respond, but Dwayne held a hand up. “Yeah, as a plan it sucks cock. But this whole job’s sucked from Day One, and I blame myself. We went in on someone else’s mission parameters and rules of engagement. We agreed to shit gear and shit intel, and it’s my fault we’re in the spot we’re in. Now the game changes, and it’s our call on ordnance, rules, and how the job gets done.”
“What do you need from me?” Chaz asked.
“You’ll have forty-eight hours after you get back. You get the Iranians to drive Ricky to the nearest hospital. They can say he fell while hiking. It covers all his injuries. Then you trade favors, reach out to friends, and work your contacts to get us some serious firepower and get your ass back to us as soon as you can.”
“So, we’re going to war,” Chaz said.
“Yeah.”
“We’ll need Hammond,” Chaz said.
Dwayne drew triangles in the dirt.
“He has the contacts and the juice,” Chaz said. “He can smooth the bumps. And he’s good in corners like this. You know that, Dwayne.”
Dwayne drew a couple more triangles in the dirt. He tossed the stick aside and stood.
“Call him when you get there,” Dwayne said.
9
Caroline Tauber
The guttering fire threw dancing shadows up the walls of the cave interior. An old, old, toothless woman crouched dozing in the glow, a stick decorated with feathers and small bones held loose in her hand. Furs and skins lay in messy piles about the fire where, most nights, the usual inhabitants of the cave slept and coupled in varying combinations. But the old crone had chased them all away to stand watch over Caroline by herself.
Caroline sat against the back wall of the cave with wrists bound tight behind her back with strips of leather. Her ankles were secured to a heavy length of log in the same way. She tugged at her bonds, but they only cut her skin. Her wrists and ankles were already torn and raw from the rough sinew thongs. She was weak from hunger and anxiety. Her body was one throbbing ache from the rough treatment at the hands of her captors, but she had no crippling injuries other than fatigue and, she strongly suspected, shock.
She rested her head back against the wall and twisted to one side to take the weight off her wrists and make herself as comfortable as was possible. She could see nothing past the fire and Old Mother fitfully napping there in the smoky gloom. But she could hear the sounds from outside. The tribe was wailing and screaming, and the unmistakable cries of the dying and wounded mixed with the grieving echoed into the cave.
The men who came for her from her own time punished the tribe harshly. The explosions that rocked the cave after they dragged her back inside told her that. She didn’t know who the men were or how many. She could only surmise that her brother had sent them. She only caught a glimpse of men, men in some kind of military dress, moving in the uncertain light of the bonfire. Then the aborigines dragged her back in here and re-tied her wrists and bound down her ankles to the log. They left Old Mother behind to keep an eye on her. In fact, Old Mother hustled them out of the cave, spitting and waving her totem stick.
Caroline heard Miles Kemp’s continuing cries for mercy, followed by the satisfied humming from the tribe. Then came the explosions and shouts, some of them in clear English. She heard the hunting horns being blown and shivered at the sound. The flickering light and stink of wood smoke told her that the village was burning, or much of it, anyway.
Old Mother looked frightened with wide eyes and spoke to Caroline in a wheedling, pleading tone. She clutched at Caroline, pawing at her lime-painted skin. The ancient hag knew the men were of the same type as her captive. Was she begging Caroline to call them off? Maybe she thought they were demons summoned by the newcomers for the purposes of bloody revenge. Caroline could make no sense of the mewling streaming from Old Mother’s spittle-flecked lips. She only wished the stinking old crone would leave her alone.
The explosions and screams died down until the world beyond the cave mouth grew silent before the tribe’s sorrow and rage found its voice. Caroline lay against the wall, her cheek pressed to the cool stone, and waited for whatever came next and thought about how she and Miles and Phillip came to be here.
A hunting party of men found them as they made their way down the slope away from the misty field of the Tube and toward the inland sea.
Was that really only this afternoon?
The first sign that they were not the only humanoids in the region were the horns. They heard the bleats sounding from the trees, bleats answered in kind from all around. Kemp was the first to suggest that they weren’t animal noises but purposeful sounds made by artificial means. Caroline began to text about them when the strange, stout men stepped from the dark of the trees.
At first, the aborigines were an unexpected, but not unwelcome, surprise. The clutch of little dark men
