Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  The botanist’s body language said she was ready to snap a piece of driftwood over his thick skull, but her tone turned civil. “What do you suggest, sergeant?”

  Ignoring her, Martinelli turned to me. “Any other survivors from the river crew?”

  “Don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so, sir. The wave caught us in a bad place. Everyone wiped out.”

  “Wiped out?”

  “Tipped over.”

  “Who led your unit?”

  “Master Sergeant Leonard, sir.”

  “And he didn’t make it, you are sure?”

  I remembered the scared look on Leonard’s face, his suit caught up in the tree root as it rolled him into the mess. “No, sir, he didn’t make it.”

  “How about his boat? Did you locate it? Is it one of these?”

  “Not sure sir. Most of the empties were pushed ahead of the wave. I lost track when the river turned. Leonard was the last one to roll over.”

  “Rest his soul,” Martinelli said. He waited a respectful beat, then clapped me on the shoulder. “That must have been some ride, surfer boy. Good job gathering these boats. I cannot imagine how they continue to float.”

  The kayaks, like the jumpsuits, are new. The supply sergeant who signed out my gear said each boat was outfitted with basic tools, survival gear and a first-aid kit.

  “It’s like the things are indestructible,” I agreed. “I saw at least two more swept down the coast by the current. And the main sail, or what’s left of it, is about 300 yards offshore, floating just below the surface. I thought about diving down to see what’s left of the ship, but it’s real sharky out there.”

  As we looked out to the bay, a trio of large black dorsal fins cruised not 35 yards offshore. Trailing wakes through muddy water flat in the windless afternoon, they navigated a sea of broken trees, dead animals and a valley’s worth of other crap.

  “Kaikane, you and Miss Botanist each take a boat and help Jones search for bodies. When the bay is clear, go after those kayaks. And see what else you can find. We’ll stage everything we don’t want to burn to the top of the hill. In case we get another wave. We’re going to have one hell of a fire on the beach tonight.” He pointed to the bodies, “Science turds will go up like Vikings.”

  His soldiers dragged another of the ship’s crew, her naked body torn and pale gray, to the pile. Laying her down gently, they turned back toward where Jones towed a string of bodies to shore.

  “You’re not afraid of sharks, are you?” the sergeant mocked as he walked past the botanist.

  She grabbed his arm. “Look, Martinelli, what kind of fire do you think you can make to cremate all these people? There’s plenty of wood, granted, but most of it is green and all of it is wet. Even if you do get a giant bonfire going, you’ll just be cooking them for the animals to eat–calling in every carnivore for miles around. Native man is sure to be attracted by fire.”

  He tried to slip her armlock, but she held tight.

  “This is a hard business, for certain. I loved many of these people. They were my friends! My family! I know in my heart, they would want us to carry on the mission!

  “We need to put our future, our survival first. And we can’t forget the protocols, the rules, like ‘no killing natives,’ you stupid dumbshit.”

  The way his head snapped forward, I could tell she got his attention with that one.

  “Sorry, that was uncalled for. But really, by nightfall, this beach is going to be swarming with scavengers and predators. Look at all of the dead seals and porpoise. Heck, there’s a humpback whale beached down by the river mouth. How big of a fire can you build?

  “We’ll strip off the clothes and personal effects and burn what we don’t want. We can use one of the phosphorous grenades to set the fire before we leave. We must leave the bodies for the carrion, or offer them to the sharks. It’s nature.”

  “My men will not be left to the beasts,” Martinelli growled as he yanked his arm free.

  “You called them turds.”

  “Not the science geeks! My men! I will not leave my men. This is the science division’s fault! The bugs and wolves are welcome to you. My brothers will be properly buried.”

  She pointed to the ridge on the far side of the river. “Speaking of wolves, we already have a couple dozen sniffing around. With all of this flesh heating up we don’t have much time. You saw what this place was like today. Cats, bears, predators of all sorts.”

  “Let them come!”

  We were carrying the last spare kayak up the beach when I noticed the bodies were separated into groups. Ten men and a couple women, almost all senior military, were laid apart. They had crosses made from sticks on their chests. Capt. Miller, the man who replaced the chief officer after he arrived DOA, had the biggest cross of all.

  “We will bury them in the sand,” Martinelli said, turning his back with a finality that brooked no room for compromise. The botanist registered the crosses about the same time I did. You could almost see the gears turning under her helmet as she looked back and forth from the bodies to Martinelli. She hefted a chunk of wood, and I thought for a second she really would bash his brains in, but Martinelli slipped out of range. Striding down the beach, he stopped as the botanist called out.

  “Jones is assigned to me,” she yelled. “When we leave, he goes with us.”

  “Sì. Whatever.”

  The three of us spent more than an hour combing those shark-infested waters, retrieving bodies and towing them to shore. Booms of rifle fire carried across the water as the Italians scared off curious wolves and other nasty critters. They had removed their silencers and the shots echoed like thunder up the valley.

  Jones and I pulled more than a dozen torn-up bodies off the rocks. A few were friends; one guy liked to listen to Hawaiian music. Mostly people I knew by face, but not by name. We tried to do our best by those people, but even so, the sharks worked them over as we towed them to shore. Tiger sharks were the most bold, trailing us right up to the beach. One guy I recognized as Gomez, the head man, was so chewed up when we brought him to shore I thought the doc might faint. She slumped down in the sand at his side. Looked like she would cry, though she didn’t, just carried on a hushed, one-sided conversation with what was left of the man.

  Jones and I stood nearby. Trying not to eavesdrop, we kept our eyes on the wolves and Italians.

  With a sigh, the botanist stood. “That’s it, that’s all of them,” she called to Martinelli. “We’ll help strip the bodies and collect flotsam while you start digging graves for your men.”

  “We don’t need your help. Take these two and go find those kayaks. Leave your grenades. You’re right about the wolves, they’re everywhere. We’ll quickly complete this business and meet you a couple kilometers down the coast. Find a safe base camp, cook some food and we’ll be there before sunset.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “I thought I was the only one left. Saw the ship go down and…alone.”

  Duarte: “Numbing. So many people lost. My friends. Gone. ”

  Kaikane: “We’re it. Six of us.”

  Duarte: “And already fighting between ourselves. What did you make of that exchange with Sergeant Martinelli on the beach?”

  Kaikane: “I’ve trained with Lorenzo for nearly two years. Not a big fan. I can–kind of–see his point. Treat the dead with respect.”

  Duarte: “Why didn’t you speak up?”

  Kaikane: “Saw your side too. Wolves closing in. I’ll never forget the tugs of the sharks as we pulled the bodies to shore. What was the point? Would any of them be less dead? I guess it came down to this, I don’t trust Martinelli and neither does Jones. Bolzano’s OK. Amacapane is a complaining little prick.”

  Duarte: “All three have tried to put the moves on me at one time or another. Vain jerks. Out of all the people from The Team to be stranded with.”

  Kaikane: “No choices. This world hits you at full speed. Beauty and viol
ence and death. Are there always tsunamis?”

  Duarte: “Coastline had plenty of medium-growth trees. You saw it. Forest thick right down to the high-water mark, but in hindsight, no giants, no big trees. Perhaps there are wave events every generation. Impossible to predict. Can’t blame anybody there. Bad luck?”

  Kaikane: “That would make us the lucky ones. What do we do?”

  Duarte: “Move forward. Keep moving forward. Let me think for a while.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  My chest felt as if it would collapse as we paddled from the bay. So many brilliant, dedicated people left behind. Swirling, heartbreaking emotions. Self-doubt. Did Martinelli’s compassion for the dead have more merit than my cold assessment? What kind of person leaves her friends to the vultures? Heartless? Overly practical?

  As we floated over the ship’s wreckage, the tattered sail glinted below the muddy surface just as Kaikane said. Lubricant of some sort bubbled to the surface to mark the spot, creating a rainbow-colored slick which trailed off with the current to the southeast. Man’s first oil spill. We paddled a few circles around the wreck, hoping for a miracle I suppose, then headed for deeper water.

  The recreation specialist has a keen eye. He proves himself quite able in his duties. It was he who spotted and retrieved two additional kayaks from where they had washed ashore. His one drawback seems to be a tendency to talk too much. I let him babble for nearly an hour, thinking it was probably a coping mechanism on a stressful day, but finally told him to shut up.

  Although we cruised about 500 yards from the wave-ravaged shore, the water was still choked with drifting wood and debris. Slow going, even in the calm seas. Gentle tidal surges continued to buffet the coast at roughly 30-minute intervals through the afternoon, slowly draining water from bays and then filling them back to high-water marks as the Atlantic Ocean rocked back and forth. We had no trouble with sharks or any other marine life as we paddled. The kayaks are as good as advertised.

  Sorting priorities, casting about for a plan, I struggled to think over the roll call of dead friends and co-workers echoing through my brain. Their faces flashed by in an endless loop. Gone. All gone.

  Cpl. Jones paddled close and pointed to shore.

  “Looks like a good place to shelter,” he said. “Be dark in less than two hours.”

  “Lead the way.”

  We turned to paddle through the narrow mouth of a small bay lined by steep, wooded cliffs. The shoreline inside the bay had been saved from most of the tsunamis’ wrath by a rocky spit of land, a natural breakwall which had borne the brunt of both powerful waves. The peninsula’s arm reached a height of 55 feet. This morning it had probably been covered with a canopy of tall trees and thick loamy soil. It is now flensed down to bedrock.

  We paddled past a thick mass of logs pinned by currents in the lee of the arm. The rest of the bay was already clearing, muddy waters being carried away by the tidal surges and the flow of a clear-running stream which cascaded to the beach in a 110-foot waterfall.

  “It’ll be easy to defend,” Jones said. “Fresh water. There’s plenty of firewood.”

  Cliffs 95 to 146 feet tall ring the bay. Shaped like an amphitheater, they form a natural barrier which may or may not protect us from man and beast for the night. We scanned the area visually and thermally for signs of life and found the place more or less deserted. Gulls and ravens, a few rodents scurrying about.

  Jones pointed out a dry area that looked big enough to accommodate our needs. Staging our kayaks up the steep, pebbled beach proved harder than expected. It was a real climb to reach the ledge. Kaikane scaled up and assured us it was worth it.

  He and Jones went to work digging makeshift stairs with shovels from the holds of the kayaks. Although the clay soil wasn’t particularly unyielding, three shovels broke in the process. The equipment fails at an accelerating rate.

  In the twilight, I gathered a pouch full of mollusks, seaweed and two fat lobsters from a tide pool. The Italians did not join us for dinner.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “I see a big one over there, by the rock.”

  Duarte: “That really narrows it down. Which rock?”

  Kaikane: “The green one with the lobster on it. See where I’m pointing? Just past the clump of red seaweed. Wait, stop, he’s coming toward you. Right there.”

  Duarte: “Damn it, Kaikane, you scared him. Go away. I have this under control. Please continue collecting razor clams for the evening meal.”

  Kaikane: “I still think we should build a fire, get out of these jumpsuits.”

  Duarte: “Mosquitoes would eat us alive.”

  Kaikane: “Another reason to have a fire. Smoke keeps the bugs away.”

  Duarte: “Corporal Jones says no fire. That’s good enough for me.”

  Kaikane: “Jones is usually right. He’s a good soldier. Another piece of luck for you. We’re lucky to have him along.”

  Duarte: “And yet you wish to challenge his recommendation?”

  Kaikane: “I suppose we can live without a fire for one night. It’s a nice sunset. So peaceful, like nothing happened.”

  Duarte: “In the grand scheme of things, nothing did happen. Our great tragedy doesn’t even register in geologic time. The earth keeps spinning and will continue spinning long after mankind is dead and gone.”

  Kaikane: “What a happy thought.”

  Duarte: “This is no time for happiness.”

  Kaikane: “You shouldn’t beat yourself up about that stuff back at the beach.”

  Duarte: “Stuff?”

  Kaikane: “You were willing to make a tough decision. Leaving the bodies to the sharks and wolves. What Martinelli said about you was wrong. If it was possible for you to do better by those folks, you would have. I know it.”

  Duarte: “Thanks.”

  From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Raw lobster’s not bad as it sounds. Not when you are starving hungry. Kaikane fought us a little on whether or not to start a fire. Dr. Duarte and I won out. He argued for comfort and safety from wild animals. Tried to say a fire would act as a beacon for Martinelli and his men. We all knew that with their visors they would be able to see us and our kayaks clear as day.

  Wanted to keep my night vision sharp.

  Doc made a sea salad. We ate while watching the moon rise. She briefed us for over an hour, put it all on the table. Still hashing things out when a storm squall eased in from the west about midnight. Three of us, too amped up to sleep, way too tired to sit and talk in a driving rain. I took first watch. They crawled under tarps from the kayaks to toss and turn.

  Expected to have to rouse Kaikane for his shift. He showed up 10 minutes early.

  I rolled up in my tarp and slept the sleep of the dead.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Was that a bat?”

  Kaikane: “I thought it was a moth.”

  Jones: “Bat.”

  Duarte: “There seems to be all manner of nocturnal animals flying about.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Dinner reminded me of Aunty Momi’s tako poke of octopus and seaweed. This was sweeter with the lobster. Eating raw was no problem, but I really wanted a fire. It’s hard to explain, I just thought it would help us after the day we had. Stare at the fire and talk about the friends we lost. This doctor is full speed ahead.

  We spread blankets over the ferns and hustled to get chow finished before our bowls disintegrated. It was a losing battle. I put my finger through one bowl and Jones’ dinner fell in his lap when his cracked in half. Stupid things were turning to dust. Same for the spoons, knives and forks. We ended up using clam shells to dice everything on a flat stone. Scooping the goop to our mouths with our hands, careful not to bite down on any pebbles, we sat on the ledge and watched the ocean turn silver in the light of the rising moon. When the food was gone, we wer
e still hungry, but too tired to do anything about it. Small talk turned into a briefing by Duarte that was full of bad news. Things are a lot more screwed up than I thought.

  She ran down politics and conspiracies–said our mission should never have been launched in the first place.

  During our two years of training, they told us we were the first-ever time travel science mission. Turns out we were at least the third, and the previous two had apparently crashed and burned. No treasure, no notes sealed against time, nothing left in dry caves around the world. Both ships were sent back and no evidence was ever found they survived the jump.

  “There was a growing thought the equipment itself was failing, the metals and polymers aging too quickly,” Duarte said. “But then came the big push to launch this mission as soon as possible.”

  “What was the hurry?”

  “The whole program was in danger of being shut down.”

  While Jones and me, and the rest of the grunts, were training in the world’s remote regions, forbidden contact with anyone not on The Team, there had been different rules for the scientists. Duarte had been free to move among society, and claims to have attended two high-level meetings where the viability of the trip back had been hashed out.

  “The military and investors were all pushing hard to launch,” she said. “Data supporting structural problems was starting to pile up, however, so they agreed to wait until the ship and equipment could be replaced or outfitted with new, tougher materials.

  “About six months later–you guys were training up in Manitoba–the proverbial shit hit the fan. A junior senator hired an assassin to jump back in time to kill his brother. Usual family drama–wanted to cut him out of daddy’s will. Unfortunately for him, and us, the greedy kook hired an undercover federal agent to make the hit. They sweat the guy a while and he cops a plea deal, says he knows other people who have sent killers back in time. Big fish, he says. He agrees to trade names for a new identity. Later the same day, guy’s found dead in a bathroom at the Federal Building.