Part 33 (1/2)
”About time you got here, Fenstermacher!” MacArthur shouted, setting the rifle on the ground. ”We got work to do. Get that raft secured and let's get the ramp up.”
”Up yours, Mac!” the feisty boatswain shouted. ”I'm early, and you know it. And don't go yelling at me. I'm officially a hero. I chased that buzzard away while these fis.h.i.+es were flopping around in the water.” He turned back and bent over the side. ”Gunner, I ain't never going to let you live this down.”
Honey bawled as the dripping swimmers pulled themselves from the river. Chastain and Fenstermacher brought the raft broadside to the bank and secured it fore and aft. Buccari, soaking wet, started up the path winding toward MacArthur' s position. Goldberg gradually soothed Honey to a hiccoughing calm as the members of the foraging party sat on the river rocks, letting the dappling sunlight warm their wet bodies. Insults flew fast and furious, and soon everyone was laughing too hard to speak.
As Buccari arrived at MacArthur' s vantage point, X.O. and Tonto hopped from the woods. The hunters craned their necks as they waddled from beneath the tree cover, searching the skies. Satisfied that the threat had disappeared, they hopped up on boulders and watched the humans with great interest. MacArthur gave them hand signs that meant, ”Death close,” and pointed to the sky. The cliff dwellers chirped animatedly, and X.O. signed back, ”Death always close.”
The hunters turned and bowed to Buccari. The little creatures treated MacArthur and Buccari differently from other humans, showing each of them peculiar forms of respect. To Buccari they were formal and deferential; whenever she moved or spoke they took note and adjusted to her position as if she were a local sun and they were her planets. To MacArthur they demonstrated a jolly camaraderie, and they invariably followed him whenever they were around. It was with MacArthur and, to a lesser degree, Buccari that they attempted to communicate. To all other humans they were remarkably indifferent.
”A bunch of clowns,” MacArthur said, looking down on the dripping hilarity.
”Laughter's great,” Buccari commented, removing her dripping pistol belt and hanging it on a convenient branch. ”I don't hear you laughing,” he said.
She looked up without humor. ”I have other things on my mind, Corporal. Like getting you guys back on the other side to do some work.”
”Okay, okay,” he said. ”Point's made! But we're the least of your worries. These horses are going to make a big difference.”
Buccari felt his steady look and her eyes were drawn to his. She lowered her gaze to the river.
”Hey, Chief! Move everyone down the bank,” MacArthur shouted. ”The fewer distractions the better.”
Wilson waved, and the foraging patrol made their way upriver.
Buccari turned from the river and, once again, found herself staring into MacArthur' s gray eyes. Neither spoke. The spell was broken by the chirping of the cliff dwellers; the alert creatures gawked curiously into the woods. Buccari detected the sounds of approaching animals. Soon Shannon and O'Toole hove into view, descending the steep path that dropped from the cliff tops. They led two horses loaded with butchered segments of buffalo into the small clearing. The meat, wrapped in skins, was unfastened and dumped on the gra.s.s. Tiny insects buzzed about the bloodied skins.
”We're waiting, Winfried,” MacArthur sang out. ”How're you doing?”
”Ready here!” Fenstermacher shouted back. He and Chastain brought the raft against the bank and positioned the st.u.r.dy ramp. The height and steepness of the bank made the incline of the gangplank negligible.
”Okay, Terry. Let's do it!” MacArthur grabbed the reins of one of the horses, leading it down the last section of steep path. O'Toole followed leading a second horse, leaving Shannon to hold the other two. Buccari stood on the edge of the clearing and watched.
”Lieutenant?” Shannon asked. ”Sir, would you watch the horses?”
”Sure, Sarge,” she responded, walking over and taking the reins. Shannon bent down, grunted a parcel of buffalo meat over his shoulder, and trotted down the trail. The horses, sniffing and snorting, nervously accepted Buccari as their caretaker.
Loading proceeded without incident. The first two horses, eyes covered, were carefully led onto the raft. The st.u.r.dy craft accommodated their great weight, but Fenstermacher wisely interrupted the loading to reposition the raft out from the sh.o.r.e so that it would not be held aground by the increased draft. MacArthur crooned as he secured the horses to the raft, each with three lines. While MacArthur and Shannon were securing the horses, O'Toole and Chastain climbed back up the path and retrieved the butchered buffalo. Everything made fast, MacArthur looked up at Buccari.
”Lieutenant,” he said, ”would you mind staying with the horses? We'll send O'Toole off on the other side and get back for the second trip that much sooner.”
”I could help with the oars,” she replied. ”O'Toole could watch the horses.”
”Nah!” he replied. ”The raft is sitting low. The more muscle the better, and the horses are behaving. Let 'em graze. You okay with that?”
Buccari looked from MacArthur to the horses and back. ”Hurry up!” she shouted.
MacArthur jumped into the water and helped Chastain stow the ramp on the crowded raft. Shannon and O'Toole stood by the nervous horses. The raft was fended away and propelled toward the opposite sh.o.r.e, a cliff dweller perched on each forward corner- bizarre figureheads.
Alone with the horses, Buccari explored the small clearing, suddenly quiet and peaceful. In the stillness she listened to the muted buzzing of insects and the gentle gurgle of the river. In thedistance Honey continued to complain. The sun's rays cleared the wooded high ground close behind her, the warmth a welcome change from the chilly shade. She was still wet.
The horses grazed contentedly. Sunlight slanted down and warmed her. She picked up the field gla.s.ses. The raft, a speck in the distance, had reached the far bank, and the Marines were moving the horses ash.o.r.e. Two down and two to go. She laid the binoculars on MacArthur' s gear, next to the a.s.sault rifle, and leaned back in the gra.s.s. A cloud drifted overhead. Buccari imagined it to be a rabbit. She yawned.
The pastoral quiet was shredded by a blood-curdling scream- Goldberg's. Explosive reports of a rifle punctuated the plaintive wail, and booming echoes reverberated along the river valley, accompaniment for Goldberg's mournful keening. Buccari instinctively realized what was happening. She searched the skies. The dark, sweeping form of a great eagle soared along the riverbank, the susurrant sound of beating wings distinctly audible. Suspended from the raptor's talons was the tragic and unmistakable figure of a human baby. Its pitiful screams pierced Buccari's soul.
She dove for the rifle and rolled to a kneeling position. Pulling the weapon to her shoulder, she released the safety and selected full automatic. The eagle, baby writhing frantically in its talons, was slightly higher and abreast Buccari' s position. Putting the sights on the eagle's neck, Buccari held her breath, aimed with calculated deliberation, and squeezed off a burst. The eagle's head blew sideways with the impact of the heavy slugs, and the great bird tumbled about the axis of its wings, losing its grip on the tiny victim. Both creatures flailed the air.
Buccari dropped the rifle and sprinted down the winding path, watching the infant splash into the slow-moving river. She dove into the cold current and swam hard. Nothing-she saw nothing. She kicked to the surface, pulling her head high out of the water; she scanned the surface for signs-any sign! The eagle's carca.s.s floated slowly downstream, and she stroked toward it.
Bubbles! Small bubbles only meters to her right. Buccari porpoised forward and stroked downward, staring with open eyes into the green water. Like sun rays streaming through cathedral windows, shafts of sunlight angled into the depths. Far below something glowed, faintly reflecting the prism-shattered light. A thin trail of bubbles danced and wiggled upward from its vicinity. Buccari crawled with desperate energy toward the fuzzy whiteness, stroking and frog-kicking, fighting the buoyant forces. At last she touched it-the yielding smoothness of skin.
Buccari grabbed hold of a limb-a leg-and pulled for the surface, lungs bursting but panic held in check by the exhilaration of reaching the child. An eternity lapsed. Panic dominated her senses just as her frantic hands clawed from the resisting liquid and into the warmer emptiness. She exploded from the river, spewing water from mouth and nose. Coughing and kicking convulsively, she held the child out of the water with both hands. Honey's eyes were rolled back in her head; angry bruises contrasted against fish-white skin; blood trickled from her nose. Buccari held the limp form close and tried to orient herself. Shouts attracted her attention. She glimpsed Tatum and Schmidt running along the bank. Further upstream, Wilson a.s.sisted the screaming mother.
Holding the baby's head above water, Buccari rolled over and side-stroked sh.o.r.eward with her free arm. Tatum, distraught, panting and gasping, met her neck deep in the water and relieved her of the lifeless child. He stumbled from the water, his single arm holding his baby high in the air. Buccari swam several more strokes before she touched bottom, and then she struggled to drag her exhausted body from the frigid water. Still knee-deep, she collapsed, spent. She vomited.
On the bank, Tatum held Honey upside down by her leg. With his one good arm he shook the child in spasmodic jerks. Water poured from the child's tiny mouth.
”Beppo! Slap her!” he shouted. Schmidt followed orders, the technician's face contorted with tragic concern. ”Harder!” Tatum shouted, his deep voice grown shrill, the frustration at having only one arm written across his countenance. Nothing! Just the pitiful claps of a strong hand against the small frame of an infant.
”Hold her head up!” Tatum bellowed. Schmidt brought the small face upward, and Tatum covered it with his own. Desperately holding his strong lungs in check, he blew softly into Honey's bloodied nose and mouth. On his third breath she burped; her small hands jerked and her eyes opened. Honey coughed, regurgitated water, and coughed again. And then she screamed, a strong scream, a mixed scream-a scream of pain, but more importantly, a scream of anger-a healthy scream of anger. Tatum roared in ecstasy, holding the child to his trembling breast.
”She's alive, Lieutenant!” He sat down in shallow water next to Buccari, the bruised and battered child bellowing in his lap. ”You saved my baby's life!”
Buccari, still awash in the river, looked up and smiled at the overwhelming affection shown by the tall Marine. She reached up to pat Tatum's knee, and Tatum grabbed her hand, kissing it and holding it to his tear-streaked cheek.
”The horses,” she gasped. ”Where are the horses?” She raised her head and was relieved to see the horses standing where they had been left, staring down from their vantage point, grinding mouthfuls of gra.s.s. She had not wanted to disappoint MacArthur.
Chapter 36.
Scars ”You old fool! What more do you know of this matter?” Jook thundered.
Et Kala.s.s's facile mind searched through his alternatives and their consequences. He decided to hold to plan. It was the closest to the truth.
”My concern for Et Avian overcame good judgment, Exalted One,” the minister said. ”I promised on his father's deathbed that no harm would come to him.”
Jook looked down from his throne, fuming darkly. ”Ah! No harm ever? A foolish promise, Minister. So another case of the n.o.bility and their children! How tender!” Jook simpered.
Et Kala.s.s dared to speak, ”Et Avian' s discoveries-”
”General Gorruk would have your head!” spit the Emperor-General. ”I should give it to him! Using boosters without authority-a gross a.s.sumption of power!”
Since the rout at Penc the war had gone badly. Gorruk was consumed with fending off vicious counterattacks. Missiles had resumed falling on northern territories.