Fuzzy Bones (v1.1) by William Tuning (v1.1) (html)

Author:William Tuning (v1.1) (html)
Language: eng
Format: epub

Chapter Twenty-Eight

It was that indeterminate time when it is neither night nor dawn. There was only enough light to discern that light was coming. The dark, gray, humpbacked shapes of Marine vehicles and inflatable tentage were just visible in the paler gray light that was slowly brightening in the east. Lights were on in the kitchen scow, where the mess sergeant and his crew had already been working for about an hour. Lights were on in the communications center, where the duty NCO stood in the aft hatchway, watching the light grow, and scratching himself. Then he yawned and stretched, turned, and went back to his monitor screens.

O ‘Bannon was pulling on his left sock when his communication screen chimed softly, indicating a routine transmission.

It’s starting already, O’Bannon thought. He reached over and tapped the key. When the image cleared, he said, very simply, “O’Bannon.”

The face in the screen was that of an anxious young man. He was wearing field greens, a single bar, and a worried look. “Sir, “he said nervously. “Lieutenant Crocker reporting.”

There was a pause.

O’Bannon rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Well, then, Crocker,” he said. “Report.”

“Yes, sir,” Crocker said. “The intruder we logged yesterday morning still hasn’t turned up. I think they’ve gone to ground someplace inside the reservation.”

O’Bannon grimaced. “Well, then, they’d be sitting still, wouldn’t they? If you’re on the move and they’re sitting still, it shouldn’t be too hard to spot them, should it, Lieutenant?”

Lieutenant Crocker looked uncomfortable. “No, sir—no, sir; it shouldn’t. I’m certain we’ll turn them up. In any case, I’ve taken steps to make sure they don’t get out of the area.”

“I think that’s an excellent approach, Crocker,” O’Bannon said, with just the right tone of cynicism in his voice, “because if they do, I think we can find you a somewhat less sensitive job—on Nifflheim, or, perhaps, Yggsdrasil.”

The muscles around Crocker’s eyes were beginning to tighten. “I understand, Colonel,” he said.

“Have you run an inbound spiral search?” O’Bannon asked.

“Uh—no, sir,” Crocker said. “We’ve been doing standard grid.”

O ‘Bannon softened his expression. Already scared the kid to death, he thought. Time now to prop him up a bit. “Try running an inbound spiral. Five cars. Slideback formation. That should flush ‘em if they’re down in the brush someplace.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Crocker said.

“Okay, son,” O’Bannon replied. “Report back before evening chow.”

Jack Holloway and Gerd van Riebeek missed breakfast by a mile, but they arrived at Fuzzy Valley in time for the mid-morning coffee-break.

Sergeant Beltrán motioned them aside. “You guys don’t look like you ate yet today,” he said. “Huh?”

They both shook their heads.

Beltrán nodded in approval of his own sagacity. “Come on over to the kitchen scow. I’ll fix you something up. You can’t get by till lunch on coffee and pastry.”

When they emerged from the kitchen scow, well-fed and still marveling at the meal which Beltrán had whipped up on the spur of the moment—using odds and ends—an enormous closed cargo scow was just settling out of the sky.

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