Copyrighted 2006 - All rights reserved.
_
"It just ain't right," a voice said around the night fire. "I ain't too partial to taking orders from a woman, but taking orders from Negro"
"Don't they have a squadron of their own?" someone else asked.
Finch and Johnson hung back from the fire and listened. It had been a week since their arrival. The Skinnies either never caught on to their arrival, or they just didn't care. As it was, they were having enough difficulties fitting in with the all-white, all-male group. Finch was tolerated, but just. Johnson was another story. The campfire talk was more than enough evidence of that.
"Since when did they let the colored folk in with the whites?" a third voice said. "It just ain't natural."
"Ain't natural, my ass," Johnson muttered and turned away angrily.
Finch waited just a second more then also disappeared into the night.
The next morning was gray and overcast. It was the first such morning since Finch and Johnson had arrived. The air was heavy with humidity. With low ceilings and low visibility, it was the perfect day to go scouting. Pearson and Cabala met with their modern-day counterparts to plan the excursion.
"General, I want to make use of this weather and send a reconnaissance mission out," Pearson said. "With your permission, I would like Captain Johnson to lead it."
"Sounds good," Finch replied. "Who else were you thinking of?"
"My navigator Billy Michaels is a first-class map maker," Pearson said and introduced the officer.
"There is a lot of stuff going on in the Skinnies' encampment that we just don't understand," Cabala said to Johnson and Michaels. "We're hoping that the two of you can make some sense of what is going on."
"I'll see what I can find out," Johnson said. "We're going to need a couple of people to watch our backs."
"I have just the pair," Pearson said. "But you have the right to refuse them."
"Briggs! Williams!" Cabala shouted. "Get your sorry butts over here!"
Finch and Johnson turned and saw two enlisted men approach. The two officers immediately recognized them as the racists from last night's fire. Johnson struggled not to clench his teeth in anger at seeing the two men.
Briggs and Williams came forward and snapped to attention. Pearson walked up and glowered at the two of them. Finch watched them wither under their commander's stare.
"Order. Arms." Pearson finally said.
Finch worked hard at not smiling. Pearson's command was a broad insult telling the two men that they were not worthy of receiving military courtesy, but they had better give it.
"You two men have just been volunteered," Pearson continued. "Captain Johnson is leading a reconnaissance party out, and you two are going to watch his back. You will follow his orders without question or comment. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Two things," Pearson continued quietly. "First, this racist crap stops now, or you will walk so much guard duty you'll think you were back in basic training. Second. If anything, and I mean anything happens to either Captain Johnson or Lieutenant Michaels, I will personally feed you to the Skinnies. And you know I'll do it. Got it?"
"YES, SIR!"
Pearson turned and addressed Johnson.
"Captain, I give you the two sorriest excuses for soldiers to ever to have been inducted into this man's army," he said. "They are racist bigots. They have done nothing but spread hate ever since you arrived. However, they are the best shots here. If you need someone with a good eye, then I offer these two. If you don't want them, there are other men that can do the job."
Johnson stepped forward and slowly inspected the two men. The anger and hatred in the men's eyes was palatable, but Johnson was past caring.
"Colonel, if these are your two best gunners, I'll take them," Johnson said. He turned towards Briggs and Williams and said, "Go grab your gear and seven days worth of supplies. Meet me in front of the Independence in fifteen minutes. MOVE!"
The officers watched the Williams and Briggs head off in a run.
"If they give you any trouble," Pearson said. "Shoot 'em."
"With pleasure, Colonel."
Fourteen minutes and thirty seconds later, Williams and Briggs met up with Johnson and Michaels in front of the B-2. The men had small, improvised bags filled with supplies and their aircraft commander's .45's. Johnson had his pack and an M-105 slung on his shoulder.
"You've trained with the M-1, correct?" Johnson asked.
The three agreed. Johnson reached up into the plane and puled out three more weapons.
"This is the M-16," he said. "It handles a lot like the M-1 but it's a lot lighter."
Johnson spent the next few minutes outlining how the weapon works.
"The plan is this. We're going to get as close as we can to the Skinnies' camp and have a look-see," Johnson said. "We go, observe and report back. I want us in place before sunset tomorrow."
"But, sir, that's almost twenty miles one way!" Briggs protested.
"Then we better get a move on."
Johnson turned and headed off into the grass. Michaels was close on his heels. Williams and Briggs shrugged their shoulders and started running after him.
"I'd like to apologize for them, Lisa," Pearson said watching the team get underway. "I thought my men were better trained than that."
"It's not your fault, Bob," she replied quietly. "The military hasn't been integrated in your time yet. Hate is hard to stop, even in my time. Think about your attitude towards me when we first arrived."
"You're right," he admitted. "And I'm sorry about that as well. It was beneath me as both an officer and a gentleman."
"Apology accepted," she said with a smile. "You know, if Williams and Briggs do give Frank any trouble, he will shoot them."
"Good."
They were about five miles from the field when Johnson called for a rest stop to double-check their location. Michaels pointed out the local features on a map he had drawn to Johnson. According to the map, there should be a stream up ahead. On the far side of the bank was a line of trees marking the perimeter to the Skinnies' encampment.
"Briggs, go up ahead and scout the stream," Johnson ordered. "If you see any of the Skinnies, return immediately. Don't make contact. Got it?"
Briggs acknowledged the order and set off.
"The Skinnies have some sort of protective barrier," Michaels said, pointing out the feature on the map. "There is a gap in the field about three miles upstream. The ground rises and the river has cut a channel through the rock."
"Really?" Johnson said. "How wide is the channel?"
"About two hundred yards," Williams said. "Call it about thirty feet or so of embankment on either side. Maybe twenty feet."
"We need to check this out," Johnson said. "Where the hell is Briggs?"
"Right here, sir," Briggs answered as he pushed through the tall grass. "There are a couple of water buffaloes up ahead, grazing by the river."
"Water buffaloes?" Johnson asked.
"It's what we call 'em," Briggs replied. "They're a little larger than a cow, stay by the river and have sharp teeth. It's the only animal the Skinnies will let us hunt."
"They're herbivores that don't mind taking a bite out of a threatening animal, Captain," Michaels added. "If we swing upstream a couple hundred yards, they should leave us alone."
"It's also a good sign that there aren't any crocs around," Williams said. "The water's safe to cross."
"First water buffalo and now crocodiles," Johnson said. "Any other animal I need to know about?"
"Coyotes," Briggs said, relishing the moment. "About the size of a German Shepherd. Nasty critter. Saw a pack of them rip apart a water buffalo in no time flat."
"Lovely," Johnson said, unfazed by the news. "I don't know who taught you how to brief someone, but you could have done a helluva lot better job. We're going to cross here. Briggs, take the point and hold up when we get to the river," Johnson ordered. "Williams, bring up the rear. Let's move out."
The band quietly moved upstream and to the river. As ordered, Briggs stopped at the stream channel. Johnson pulled out a pair of binoculars from his rucksack and scanned the area. There, just as Briggs had reported, were a half dozen large animals grazing by the water. There was no sign of any other animal life or electronic surveillance of the area.
"All you need now is a camera," Michaels whispered.
"I've got one right here," Johnson said, showing the first hint of a smile since they had left. "It's built into the binoculars."
Briggs and Williams gathered around the two officers. Johnson pointed out the display screen on the binoculars and showed the images he had taken through the lenses.
"I'll be damned," Michaels whispered. "That sure beats the hell outta my Kodak Brownie!"
"I wouldn't get rid of that Brownie quite yet," Johnson replied. "Is it safe to cross here?"
"It's about as safe as it gets," Williams said. "The river gets deeper further upstream."
"The river is about knee-high," Briggs added. "Some of the rocks are slippery, so you gotta watch your step."
"It sounds like here is the best place to cross," Johnson said, securing the binoculars. "Williams and I will cross first. Once we're on the other side, you'll cross. First Briggs and then Michaels."
The group made it across the river moving as quietly as they could. The water buffaloes watched them carefully, but made no move towards the group.
Once across, Williams motioned everyone to silence. He pointed to a box hanging on a tree. Johnson pulled out a separate camera and took a photo, then the group moved out as quietly as possible. Once they were away, Johnson asked what it was they saw.
"We're not completely sure what they are," Michaels whispered. "We know that there is a microphone in it 'cause the Skinnies show up if they hear you. Don't know about anything else in the box."
"That's a new box," Williams added. "Otherwise we would have taken a different route."
"It happens," Johnson said, felling a little frustrated at yet another surprise. "Keep your eyes and ears open. If the Skinnies have listening posts, they probably have observation posts as well. If you see anything, point it out. Let's be as quiet as we can. Lieutenant, which way now?"
Michaels pointed out the best path to the river gorge. The group headed into the forest staggering about twenty yards apart from each other. Briggs and Williams were okay walking quietly, but Michaels seems to be like a bull in a china shop. Johnson cringed every time he heard a branch snap or brush being moved.
They stopped mid afternoon to eat. As they sat, the skies opened up and it started to rain. The rain was warm and steady. Johnson saw it as an opportunity to make time. He roused the men and they set off at a trot up the river. The pitter-patter of the rain let them move quickly without worry of being heard.
By time it started to get dark they were in sight of the river gorge. The size was everything Johnson was told it would be, and then some. What caught his eye, though was the rain seemed to be sheeting off of something above the gorge. Every raindrop seemed to be causing a spark as it struck some sort of energy barrier. More important was that the sparks did not continue into the gorge.
"Okay, we're going to camp here in the trees for the night." Johnson said. "Is it safe to have a fire, or will the Skinnies home in on it?"
"The Skinnies don't seem to like the rain," Michaels offered. "We should be alright if we keep the fire small. Just big enough to heat some rations."
"Fair enough," Johnson said. "We'll eat, get a few hours rest, and, if the moon comes out, we'll push on. "I'll take the first watch. Williams, the second. Michaels and then Briggs. If anything should happen, wake me immediately."
It only took a few minutes to get a small fire going. Any meal, even C-rations and MRE's, taste better hot. No one spoke much as they ate. It wasn't a testament to the quality of the military ready-to-eat meals as it was their hunger. As the might drew in, they banked the fire low. Johnson took the first watch and let everyone else grab an extra hour of sleep before waking Williams. The warmth of the fire felt good in the evening air. Johnson was asleep in only seconds.
The next thing Johnson felt was a hand being firmly placed on his mouth. In the same instant, he had his service .45 out, cocked and pointed in the face of whoever had him pinned.
"Quiet, Captain." It was Michaels voice. "We've got company coming."
Johnson nodded his head to acknowledge the information. He secured his weapon and silently sat up. The fire was out and a partial moon lit the landscape. That was when he heard the sound of not too distant footsteps coming their way. Ever so carefully, Johnson pulled out his binoculars, switched them to star-scope mode and surveyed the area.
Through the night vision equipment, the moon lit the scene as if it were day. He turned to where he heard a branch snap and froze. Ever so slowly, raised his weapon aimed and let a three round burst fly.
"What the hell was that?" Briggs and Williams both shouted.
"Shhh," Johnson said. "That was the end of a coyote that was tracking us."
"You shot a coyote?" Williams said. "The Skinnies will be all over us for that!"
"You're welcome," Johnson said sarcastically.
"Captain, I know you did what you had to do," Michaels said. "But the sound of your weapon was probably picked up on every microphone for at least a couple miles."
"Yup," Johnson said, getting to his feet. "We need to get going. The moon is giving us enough light to see by. Let's see how far we can make it up the gorge. I'll take the point. Briggs, bring up the rear. Let's get going."
It took less than five minutes to get their gear ready. Johnson and Michaels disappeared into the night.
"I told you Negroes panic quick," Briggs quietly said to Williams.
Something lashed out and sent Briggs flying. He sat up rubbing his jaw.
"Another comment like that, and you won't have to worry about the Skinnies," Johnson said. "For the record, that coyote was about to pounce on you."
The day broke overcast, but the clouds were slowly lifting. Finch climbed out of her plane and stretched. She sniffed the air and there was a definite aroma of frying something. Whatever it was, it smelled good.
She followed her nose to the fire. There she found groups of men gathered around something roasting on the coals. It was about the size of a cow.
"Ten-HUT!" someone shouted out. Two hundred men suddenly turned and saluted. Finch was surprised, but very pleased and she returned the salute.
"Carry on!" she said with a smile on her face. "Who's the chef?"
"I am, ma'am," a young enlisted man said. "Corporal Dobson. I'm the tail gunner on the Marilyn."
"Smells wonderful!" Finch said encouragingly. "Where did you learn to cook?"
"My daddy has a restaurant up near Saint Louis," the boy said proudly. "He has the best grill and barbecue in the Midwest! I've spent a lot of time helping him cook the meats."
"Dobson is cooking up what we call a water buffalo," Cabala said as he stepped out of the crowd. "The Skinnies usually let us bag two a week. Dobson here uses some herbs he's found around the area to season the meat. Does a right fine job of it, General."
"I'd be honored if the General would try a bite," Dobson said with gusto. "I guarantee it's the best grilled meat in the area!"
"I'd love to!" she replied. "Feed the men first. Just save me a well-done slice."
Finch moved to the end of the line and noticed smiles on the faces around her. She wasn't sure what brought the change in attitude, but it certainly made the day a lot more pleasant.
"I think you just won them over, General."
She turned and saw Pearson and Cabala getting in line with her.
"Usually the brass hats will cut in line and take the best for themselves," Pearson continued. "You won the men over by showing you are not looking for special treatment."
"You would be surprised at the number of wing commanders who come through and take the best for themselves," Cabala added. "You've done what I've stressed in my officers to do. Namely, let the enlisted go first so they have first pick. Makes a difference to them."
The line went surprisingly fast, as did the meat. Finch made sure that she was last to receive her share. There, off to the side, Dobson had saved her a well-done piece. She thanked him and went to sit with the crews. They moved aside so she could join them. Someone would invariably ask Finch about her plane and her missions. Mostly she sat and listened to the bull session that was in progress.
About mid-morning, the clouds cleared and the day became hot. She moved under the wing of Independence. The sun was high in the sky and most of the crews sought shade under their planes. Pearson came by a while later and joined her. It was too hot to talk, but Finch was glad for the company.
"How do the Skinnies make contact with you, Bob?" Finch finally asked.
"It's hard to explain," Pearson said slowly. "Every so often, someone shows up and I can hear them speak. It's here in my head, as plane as day. Then I answer back out loud and they seem to understand."
"Can anyone else hear them when they speak?"
"Sometimes others can hear," Pearson replied. "Usually they speak just to me, and I pass on instructions to the crews."
Pearson was quiet for a while before he spoke again. "I never thought being a prisoner-of-war would be like this. No barbed wire. No guards. We're just trapped who the hell knows where. Or when, for that matter."
They were quiet for a while. The sun had long passed midday and was closing in on the horizon.
"Any chance I could get an aerial tour of the area?" Finch asked. "Maybe in one of the Lightnings?"
Pearson looked to the west before answering. "It's not that long until sunset. How about early tomorrow? That's assuming that the Skinnies don't have a ship arriving."
"Why is that?" she asked.
"The Skinnies have made it very clear that we are fair game if we're airborne during one of their arrivals," Pearson replied. "But if it's clear, we'll get you up."
"Great! Make sure I have a wingman." With that, Finch headed back towards her plane. On the way, she saw Cabala. A quick look showed that Pearson was looking the other direction. She grabbed his arm and pulled him aside.
"Something I can do for you, ma'am?" he asked in a somewhat startled voice.
"Yes, there is," she said quietly. "Tomorrow, we're sending up a flight of two Lightnings. I'll be in one with a pilot and the other will fly wing. Make sure both are armed."
"Sounds like you're expecting trouble," Cabala said.
"I like to be prepared," Finch replied. "This is what I need you to do with the other four planes"
Finch outlined what she wanted. Cabala let out a small whistle.
"I can get it done," he replied. "But the Colonel"
"Can't know anything about this," she finished for him. "If the Skinnies come to talk with Colonel Pearson, they will know what is going on. We can't afford that."
"You've got a point," Cabala agreed. "I'll get it done early tonight."
Johnson's reconnaissance team made it through the ravine before first light. The air was filled with the grumbling of animals that didn't want the team there. A few crocodile-like creatures snapped their jaws hungrily at the four men. Johnson ignored the animals as much as he safely could. From there, it was an hour's walk through the woods to the Skinnies' encampment.
Every footstep was watched now. Even Michaels had finally learned how to walk quietly. Weapons were set on single shot and the safety was on. This would prevent someone pulling the trigger because they were startled.
By mid-morning, they had much of the camp in view. The Skinnies went about their business, either unaware uncaring that they were being watched. Johnson pulled out his binoculars and started surveying the area while Michaels added details to the map. Williams and Briggs were hardly breathing as they listened carefully for any approaching company.
The buildings were all circular. Michaels estimated they were at least a quarter mile in diameter and two hundred yards tall. Large hanger-like doors were open on several of them. A few were empty. Some held the small escort ships that guided the heavy bombers to their landing site.
Slowly and carefully, they made their way down the tree line. Every hundred yards they would stop and detail what was happening. Johnson trained his binoculars on an open hanger door and let out a curse.
"Damn!" Johnson whispered under his breath, then caught himself.
A moment later, one of the Skinnies walked by. The being stopped, turned and looked at where the group was hiding, then moved on. Everyone froze, not even daring to breathe. They waited a long ten minutes before daring to move. The group pulled away from the tree line and started making their way back to the ravine.
"I thought we were dead for sure," Briggs whispered. "It's a good thing that Skinny didn't see us."
"Are you stupid or something?" Williams slashed back. "They knew we were there! And they didn't care!"
"Exactly!" Michaels agreed. "We're no more than a water buffalo to them."
They walked on for a few minutes before Johnson spoke.
"How many of those scout ships did you see when your squadron got sucked in here?"
"We counted a dozen," Michaels replied. "Since then, we've never seen more than four in the air at a time."
Johnson handed over the binoculars to Michaels and pointed to the open building. Michaels took a look and counted.
"I see four torn apart for maintenance and another eight seem ready to go," Michaels said.
"Did you take any potshots at them?" Johnson asked. "Have you ever seen their shields fail?"
"I did," Briggs said. "Windstorm blew over a tree on top of one of their ships. It sparked for a couple of minutes before the tree finally crashed onto the ship."
"That explains the banged up ship I saw in the hanger," Johnson said. "We might be able to make use of that."
"Are we going to make camp, Captain?" Williams asked.
Johnson looked up and saw the almost full Moon. The light it cast kept the Earth in twilight. There was plenty of visibility to see and avoid the crocs. On the other hand, they had been moving almost nonstop since before dawn.
"The trees where we camped last night are about a mile away," Johnson replied. "We'll rest there and get a couple of hours sleep."
Good as his word, the trees were just a few minutes ahead. They worked their way into the woods and found their camp. They made a small fire, just large enough to warm some food and keep the animals away. Before Johnson could assign watches, the four of them fell fast asleep.
Johnson opened his eyes and saw that it was just shy of dawn. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and woke the other three. Before they had time to stretch, Johnson was packed and ready to move out.
"What the hell is your rushCaptain?" Briggs asked. "It's not like we're leaving this place!"
"You're missing men, yes?"
"Yeah. What of it?" Briggs said.
"I found them," Johnson replied.
He pulled out binoculars and played back some of the images he took. There, in several frames, were glass-like pods. In them were the missing men.
"We need to get back to the field and report," Johnson said.
"But we just can't leave 'em!" Williams protested. "That's just being a coward!"
"And just how do you propose we get them out?" Johnson replied, matching the tone. "You just can't break the glass. It could kill them! Do you know how to read the Skinnies' language? If we don't work the controls exactly right, they will die!"
They stood in silence for a moment. Johnson made sense, but the idea of leaving the ten men behind was abhorrent to them.
"Listen," Johnson said quietly. "It's gonna take more than the four of us to break them free. Let the Colonel make the call. Besides, it looked like there were a couple of hundred empty canisters waiting to be filled."
"With what?" Briggs asked.
"With us," Michaels answered. "That's what the Skinnies have planned for us."
"I don't want to end up in a specimen bottle," Johnson said quietly. "It's why we gotta get back and report."
They set off without another word or argument. The woods were strangely quiet. Either a large predator was in the area, or something else had scared them off. Given the options, they were hoping for a predator.
They were approaching the edge of the trees. Briggs had the point with the other three staggered behind him. He held his hand up and the procession stopped. Slowly he crouched down and everyone else followed suit. Johnson pulled out his binoculars to see what had stopped them.
"Crap" he whispered. He reached into this pocket and pulled out a small handheld radio.
