Szabla pulled off her shirt and lifted her tags over her head, winding them around her hand. Probably hated sleeping with anything around her neck. Her undershirt was tight enough that Savage could make out the exact lines of her body. Szabla didn't have large breasts; hers were more like plates rising solidly off her chest. Cameron had the only real pair of knocks on the squad.
Voices murmured within Tank's tent. Cameron and Derek's lamp faded, then turned off. Savage watched Szabla bend to remove her shoes, then she took off her pants, wriggling as she pulled them over her hips. She tossed them in the corner where they landed silently on the sand. He adjusted himself in his pants, wondering if she knew he was watching her. He bet she did. He looked out across the ocean, trying to ignore the silhouette to his left. The waves rolled in, easing up the shore and fizzing as the foam smoothed over. When he looked back at Szabla's tent, the lamp was off.
He paced around the small ring of tents a few times, then walked back to the camp and straddled a cruise box. He glanced over and someone was sitting right next to him. He jerked back, sliding off the cruise box, the Death Wind out of the sheath before he realized that it was Szabla. She laughed quietly, her teeth flashing in the darkness.
"You better be grateful you didn't swing that thing at me, boy, or you'd be wearing it right about now." She was wearing ripped camo shorts and a white undershirt. Her clavicle showed above the collar of her shirt, an elegant line beside the hard curve of her deltoid. Her skin was wet with the ocean mist, humidity, and sweat.
Savage couldn't help glancing down at her hard body, though he tried not to. He thought she might have noticed because she smiled. He scratched his head, lowering his eyes. "I should put a cowbell around your neck," he said.
"I'll try not to read too much into that," she said. He laughed. "Couldn't sleep," she added. "Just wanted to come out and say hey."
"Hey."
Her lips pressed together, betraying her amusement. "Hey."
He was trying to look everywhere except at her eyes, but it finally got too awkward, so he raised his head. She was looking straight at him. Szabla wasn't a flincher; she had no qualms about staring right through him. They stared at each other for a few moments, not touching, not knowing what to say.
Szabla started to speak, but then Justin stumbled sleepily from Tank's tent, massaging his neck with one hand and yawning. He froze when he saw them. Szabla looked at him with wide eyes, like a deer caught in headlights, and then he shook his head, just once, and walked to his and Szabla's tent.
When Szabla looked back at Savage, her eyes were different. He didn't drop his stare even as she turned, trailing a hand on the cruise box, and headed back to her tent.
Chapter 26
27 DEC 07 MISSION DAY 3
The morning came fast and glorious, breaking over the distant arc of the ocean and turning the water to a dappled sheet of orange and yel-low. A scattering of cirrus clouds textured the sky. Derek sat on one of the cruise boxes, the toe of his boot stirring the sand. Again, he'd been unable to sleep. Finally, thoughts of Jacqueline had driven him from the tent into the open, where he could breathe better.
From beneath heavy lids, he watched the beach around him take shape with the light. Quickly, even the cliff walls of Punta Berlanga were visible. Sailors had painted or chiseled the names of their ships on the lava in a kind of antiquated graffiti--1836 Gabbiano, St. George, Wander-lure. Juan's grave sat sadly unadorned. It was like all the other recently formed mounds, except hidden in its rocky wash was a bloody corpse.
Twenty yards off, a bull sea lion wallowed ashore on muscular flip-pers. He barked, shuddered so his fat rolled heavily around his body, and bellied down into the sand to draw some warmth from the sun. His coarse whiskers sloped down, waving in the breeze and matching the wiggle of the small nubs of his ears. He pushed his flippers flat against his side where his blubber was thinnest and lazed over to one side, turning a deep brown eye in Derek's direction.
Closer to Derek, a female waddled ashore, her pup struggling to keep up with her. She stopped a few feet from Derek, keeping her distance from the male. A yellow warbler lit on her head, hopping and pecking at flies.
The tents rustled with the sounds of morning. The soldiers' internal clocks were nearly impeccable; they rose at first light, regardless of time zone.
Szabla stumbled over something and cursed.
Cameron stepped from her tent and stretched, scratching her hair. Behind her, she heard Rex emerge from his tent. He went down to the water's edge immediately, filled a jar from a reddish patch of water, and held it up to note its tint. In the distance, a wave slapped the lava shore, sending a row of spouts up through the blowholes.
The others emerged and gathered around Cameron, watching the sea lion and her pup. Tank was on his feet, but he grimaced as he lifted his foot to rest it on a cruise box.
"Shit, LT," Szabla said. "You get any sleep? You look like hell."
Derek looked up at the green humps of the highlands in the distance. "I slept fine."
A tiny wasp flew near Cameron, and she swatted it, ducking. It flew in a mad circle and came back at her head. "Bahia Avispa," she said with a grimace. "Wasp Bay."
The wasp buzzed near Szabla and she shot out her hand, catching it. She shook her fist, threw the dazed insect down, and ground it into the sand with her boot.
Justin walked down to the ocean and splashed water over his face. On his way back, he looked down at the loose laces of his boot. He turned to sit on a nearby rock to tie them when the rock erupted in a flurry of barks. He leapt up just as the male sea lion spun around, snapping jaws inches from his ass. Justin sprinted back to the group, losing his boot along the way. The sea lion waddled after him a few furious steps, his bumped head bouncing on his thick neck, barking his displeasure.
Justin pressed his hand to his chest, ignoring the others' laughter. The male sea lion slowed, turning a nasty glare in Justin's direction. He slid down onto his belly, emitting a few more barks for good measure. Szabla tried to imitate Justin's startled expression but deteriorated into more laughter. Savage flipped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a quick flash of his lighter.
Justin pulled his boot back on, hopping on one leg. "Jesus, that got my clock going," he said, his face still red.
"Don't mind him," Diego said, his lips pressed together in a smile. "He's just more territorial because he's not part of a colony." He glanced up the empty beach. "I wonder where the rest of the colony is. There weren't very many sea lions out on the tuff cones."
"Do you keep track of that?" Szabla asked. "I thought you were a her-petologist."
"Galapagos inclines everyone to pursue avocational interest across the beams."
"Boards," Cameron corrected with a smile.
"Ah, yes. Across the boards. When my turtles were hatching at Punta Cormorant, there were at least four botanists trying to muscle in on the action." Diego smiled good-naturedly. "No one wanted to miss out on the fun."
The female sea lion rolled onto her back, nearly squashing Cameron's foot. She sidestepped and walked to the nearby sea lion pup, leaning over to pet it. Its head was slick against her palm.
Diego cursed at her sharply, and Cameron straightened up. "What?" she asked.
Rex looked away with irritation. "You can't touch them."
"I don't see why... "
The pup moved toward its mother, but the mother rolled away from it. She barked at it a few times, then waddled to the water, leaving her pup behind.
"The scent. You can't..." Diego stopped, exasperated and upset. "You left your scent on it. The mother won't care for it now."
Cameron's eyes widened. "I didn't know," she said.
"Then ask," Rex said. "Or keep your goddamn hands in your pock-ets."
"It was a mistake," Justin said. "Back the fuck off."
"A few rules," Diego said, trying to keep the anger from his voice. "Don't touch or feed any of the animals. When you go anywhere, walk single-file t
o reduce the chance of disrupting mating grounds or buried eggs. Do not, under any circumstances, go up to the active caldera. Don't take any souvenirs, and don't leave anything behind."
Savage sucked hard on the cigarette, dropped the butt, and heeled it into the sand. Diego walked over and picked up the cigarette butt, holding it up for the others to see. "Not anything," he said. "If just one tobacco plant springs up, there's nothing in the island's ecology to stop it from spreading everywhere. It's a risk we don't take."
The pup rolled onto its stomach, its head rotating back and forth as it searched for its mother. They all did their best to ignore it.
Derek rubbed sleep from one of his eyes. "Me and Cameron--" His head had been turned toward his shoulder, causing Cameron's transmit-ter to vibrate, but she whispered a command to still it. "Me and Cam'll head up and scout stable locations for a base camp."
"The edge of the Scalesia forest is probably the safest region of the island," Diego said. "The fields near the village."
"How many live in the village?" Derek asked.
Diego shrugged. "A few, maybe none. Last I heard, Ramoncito's par-ents were still here. The island has been less than hospitable, especially these past few months."
"I believe Frank set his camp near the village," Rex said. "I'll take a look through it. See what he left behind."
"I'll join you," Diego said. "I'd like to check if anyone's here, make sure the livestock are secure."
Derek glanced at his watch. "That's fine. When we get back, we'll set the first GPS unit and scout locations. The rest of you wait here. We'll muster at 0800." He gazed up at the white smudge of the sun. "And make sure you hydrate heavily," he added. "It's gonna be a hot fucker."
The sea lion pup waddled a few feet toward the surf. Tilting its head back, it brayed softly in the direction its mother had disappeared. It took all Cameron had to turn her back on it and follow Derek off the beach.
Chapter 27
Samantha practiced Tae Bo in the corner of the slammer, supple-menting her roundhouses and side kicks with late-night-movie sound effects. In reality, she had no idea what she was doing, but on
many a sleepless night, she'd watched the Tae Bo infomercial with a per-verse interest. Given that she had no better options while she waited for Tom Straussman to return with the electron micrographs, she figured the least she could do was practice her grunting. Plus it helped her keep her mind off her test results, which would be in any moment. She'd spent the night fidgeting, praying the antiserum would be approved for the pilot and flight attendant, and that their viremia hadn't progressed extensively.
There was a knocking on the window, and Samantha glanced over, one foot extended awkwardly before her. Colonel Douglas Strickland, Fort Detrick Base Commander, stood rigid in the hallway, watching her with something like disdain. Samantha lowered her foot and snapped off a crisp salute. Her hair had fallen forward in her face, and Kiera's NVME T-shirt was damp with sweat.
She walked over to the window. "Sir," she said.
Strickland watched her for a moment before speaking, his jaw shifting slowly to one side, then back again. Samantha wondered how he could stand like that--shoulders back, chest forward, beret tucked neatly beneath one elbow and pressed to his side. She made a note to work on Iggy's posture.
"Dr. Everett," he said. His nose bunched like a rabbit's, then loosened.
"Yes, sir."
"I'd imagine you're quite impressed with yourself, having backed us into a corner with this media stunt."
"Well, it--" He raised a hand and Samantha stopped short. When Colonel Douglas Strickland raised his hand, people generally stopped short.
"Allow me to proffer a bit of advice. I am not in the mood to field even the slightest amount of horseshit from you. I am here to speak, not to listen, and you are here to listen, not to speak. Is that clear?"
Samantha opened her mouth. Closed it. Nodded.
"Your viral load has continued to decrease, and we've cleared the anti-serum to be used on the pilot and stewardess."
Samantha began to smile but stopped when she read his expression.
He continued, his face betraying little emotion. "We've sent this case through for internal review. A JAG officer has already been assigned to the investigation. I am going to do everything I personally can to see that you're shitcanned. You may have the chops for science, darling, but an army major you're not. That said, I hope this ploy of yours is successful, that you might have something positive to remember during your early retirement."
He turned sharply on heel and began walking away. Samantha raised her fist to the glass and knocked once. He turned around.
"Sir," she said.
He raised his eyebrows, ever so slightly.
"I'm a Wellesley graduate with an M.D. from Hopkins, a Ph.D. in microbiology from the NIH, extensive clinical training at the EIS, and field experience on six of the seven continents. I ran the Viral Special Pathogens Branch at the CDC and, for the time being, I'm the Chief of the Disease Assessment Division here." She pushed an errant strand of hair off her cheek. "Don't call me darling. It just makes you look like an ass."
Colonel Douglas Strickland stared at her for a long, hard time. His mouth twitched once--Samantha wasn't sure if it was in anger, or the beginnings of a smile--and then smoothed back into his impenetrable face.
"Very well," he said. "Dr. Everett."
Chapter 28
Rex hiked up the small trail cut into the cliff walls at Punta Berlanga, Derek, Cameron, and Diego following quietly. Above the cliffs, the ground was all rock, covered with low, scrubby saltbushes resembling haystacks. Rex let Diego navigate through the masked booby mating grounds. They crested a small rise, and dozens of the birds spread before them, spaced evenly across the lava.
One booby took a few halting steps and sky-pointed, angling its neck straight so its beak shot upward toward the sun. A bright white bird-- save jet-black markings at the wing tips; a stout, yellow-orange beak; and a dark ring circling its beak and narrow-set eyes--the booby was odd-looking. It lowered its beak, panting, vibrating its wattle to shed heat. Most of the other boobies sat with their heads turned backward, accessing oil from glands on their rumps and brushing it through their feathers. Somewhere, a male sang a hollow, rustling whistle of a mating call.
A chick stumbled awkwardly out onto the path, and Diego halted, let-ting it cross. A fluffy white creature that resembled a little snowman, the chick leaned forward into the breeze, spreading its wings to practice flap-ping. Its white downy coat was patchy, its neck thin and fragile. Diego crouched, patiently waiting for the booby to cross. Cameron started to step around, but Diego raised a hand, snapping his fingers sharply, and she froze.
"Do not walk through the nesting grounds," he said.
Another masked booby chick stumbled ahead of them, its feathers ripped from the right side of its head. Darkened blood had crusted down its neck, and it wobbled unsurely on its feet. "What happened?" Derek asked.
Diego pointed to a nearby nest. "The females lay two eggs, but they only care for one offspring. The runt is murdered by its sibling, cast out to die of starvation or exposure, or attacked by its parents and killed."
Derek shook his head. "Christ," he said.
Rex shrugged. "Limited resources."
The chick fell over and struggled to rise, its eyes flickering in the sock-ets. Its wings pulsed twice, then stilled. Diego stepped over it and sig-naled the others ahead. They passed a group of male frigate birds in a tree ballooning their bright red gular sacs to draw the attention of females flying overhead.
Once they passed the aeries, Rex was glad to reclaim the lead. The steepness of the island's east side allowed them to pass through the vege-tation zones quickly. Palo santos dominated the arid zone, their forked, skeletal branches overgrown with wispy vines. From a burrow hidden beneath a flourish of saltwort, a land iguana watched them pass, not even bothering to lift its head. A distinct dusty yellow, the land iguana had a smaller
crest than its marine counterparts, and its tail was shorter, not needed for swimming.
The underbrush thickened and grew more lush as they hiked up into the higher-altitude transition zone. Pega pegas--short-stemmed trees with spread branches and coarse, lichen-covered bark--sprouted virtu-ally everywhere, set off by the occasional mango tree. The higher reaches were infiltrated by introduced species, plants that the farmers had imported from the continents--avocado and mango trees, cedrelas, and balsas. These plants had proved aggressive in their active dispersal, invading the fragile vegetation with a predatory ease. Citrus sprang up like weeds wherever their seedlings had blown.
Clearly the main coastal thoroughfare, the trail climbed patiently upward before widening into a brief dirt road graded by the farmers. Rex pulled to a stop at the base of the road, which was split with a wooden tower rising fifty feet into the air. A structure built of weathered planks and crisscrossing boards, the tower supported a splintery ladder up one side, leading to a crow's nest of sorts, a precarious shack perched like a belfry. A makeshift widow's walk, it usually afforded the inhabi-tants a clear view out to the horizon, so they could anticipate the arrival of supply ships and the return of local fishermen.
The wind made a loud rushing noise as it whisked through the top of the watchtower. Leaning an arm against the structure, Rex paused. The road continued on, stretching a little more than two hundred yards between and past the farmhouses before fading into the Scalesia forest. Slender groves of towering balsas crowded the road. On either side of the tree-lined road sat crop fields and expanses of cleared pasture.
Most of the village houses were nestled among the balsas, but a few sat farther back, situated in the middle of plantain or yuca fields and angled to face the shadowy mass of the Scalesia forest. At its maximum, the island's population was twenty-three, but it had been rapidly drop-ping since the first quakes. The houses had seemingly been abandoned, and the fields had become overgrown with shrubs and scattered domes-tic plants. Big grassy wastelands, the fields would take decades to be reclaimed by the native forest.
Minutes to Burn (2001) Page 17
