Project - 16 (7 page)

“
Yeah. About 160, 170 miles.” She nodded and her hair swayed
with the motion. The black hat she was wearing had a logo on the
front and back, some kind of cross-hair in red stitching. We passed
a platoon of troops in fatigues being drilled around the perimeter
and Riley nodded to one of them.

“
He know you?” I asked.

“
Served in Syria together,” she replied. “I hope they've got
some steak on. I could eat a steak.”

We marched between a row of smaller buildings made of
corrugated sheeting that'd been daubed with paint and scrim
netting. On the other side was a small courtyard lined with narrow
accommodation huts that had doors facing inwards to a tent that
took up most of the area. A stainless steel chimney poked out of
the top, belching scorched meat and burning wood smells out into
the cold air.

“
The grill's on,” she said with sudden animation. “We might be
in luck.”

We followed two or three others walking towards the line,
taking our place in it as the aromas made a full frontal assault on
my senses. Even my eyes were stinging from the thought of some
fresh food. I'd been out in the boonies for long enough eating only
dried or cured food and a 'home' cooked meal was exactly what I
needed.

“
How do you like your steak?” she asked, arms folded across
her chest as we waited in the queue.

“
Medium-rare. You?”

“
Still fucking bleeding. I like it as fresh as possible which
is probably asking too much of these guys. I remember what the chow
used to be like only too well.”

“
What was your job?” I asked.

“
Marksman instructor. That's when I wasn't out on the front
lines. Out there I was a Sniper. Had a great spotter, a guy named
Wakowski. That guy had eyes like a fucking hawk, man. Could see a
kill before they guy even showed up, he was that good.”

“
Sounds like you enjoyed it.”

“
I did. It was a hell of a time to be out there. You know, we
saw more combat than most Vets did in the last 100 years. Go figure
that fucker out.”

“
Why'd you retire?”

“
Not worth dying for. I had a chance to make some money going
private so I did. No regrets.”

The line shuffled forward a little and we shuffled with it. I
was close enough to an orange juice dispenser and so I poured
myself a plastic cup and downed it in one long gulp. I poured two
more and passed one to Riley.

“
I loved being an instructor in the Rangers,” she continued.
“But after a while they stopped sending me out into the field. They
wanted me teaching the guys. What's the point in teaching it if
you're not pulling your own weight? These guys were coming back in
body bags and there I was, droning on in a class room. I asked to
be put on active duty and they refused, so I left.”

“
How did private life work out for you?” I asked. We shuffled
again. The smells were getting stronger and I could see a fat guy
in a white apron flipping burgers on a fiery grill.

“
I was back in the field for a while. We had people in Turkey,
Iran, even Georgia until the Reds pushed back with their T-18s.
Then they learned about me being an instructor from some G.I and I
was back in the class room three days out of seven. So I quit that
too which was just as well because
that
day I got the phone call from
my sister.”

“
Is she okay with you being out here?”

“
She just wants her son back in one piece. I don't think I
figure into the equation when it comes to her boy.”

We reached the front of the line and Riley began talking to
the guy in the apron like they were old pals. He asked her how she
wanted her steak and she repeated her culinary instructions with a
little more colour than she'd told me. He took a thick piece of cow
from a stack, flopped it onto the grill and waited five seconds or
so before flipping it with his greasy spatula. After another brief
pause he flipped it again, grabbed a plate already loaded with
roasted veg and gravy and threw the bloody slab on top of it. Riley
gave the cook the devil horns with her free hand and grabbed the
plate with the other.

“
Well?” The cook asked me.

“
A little less blood thanks,” I said.

“
Hey!” he cried. “You're an Aussie. You're a bit far from
home, buddy.”

“
You think?” I replied as he threw his cow meat onto the
grill. It sizzled as he leaned the flat of his spatula onto it like
it might cook quicker that way. All I saw was the flavour being
lost to the flames.

“
Wow. I met an Arab last week. Now an Aussie. How's things
down under?”

“
Bonza,” I said. “Bloody brilliant. I'd rather be on a bloody
beach right now, sinking a few beers with the boys over a barby.”
The cook was in stitches as he flipped over my steak. It looked a
bit more dead than the one he'd served Riley.

“
There ya go buddy,” he said, slamming it onto the plate.
“Enjoy a bit of US hospitality, pal.”

“
Cor,” I said, “Bloody nice of you, mate.”

“
Don't mention it.”

I wormed my way through the benches to where Riley sat with
six beefy looking guys in battle dress and already she was chatting
to them. I took the empty space opposite her and watched as she
talked and chewed at the same time.

“
Oh man, Iran was a shit-storm, dude,” she shouted, cutting
into her steak like it was a cadaver. Blood oozed from the wound.
“You guys were there?”

I admit to having zoned out for a bit. I was more concerned
with enjoying the piece of meat in front of me. Despite his bad
geography skills, the guy in the apron knew how to grill. The meat
was fantastic and even the roasted vegetables tasted like they'd
come from my own garden. Half-way through I got up to get another
drink and, noticing her cup was empty, I took it with me. When I
returned her steak was gone and she was stabbing the potatoes with
her fork as if she wanted to get through to the other side of the
plate. I passed her the cup. The guys in battle dress had
gone.

“
What happened to your mates?” I asked.

“
Those shit heads? If they were in Iran then I'm a fucking
goat herder.”

“
Sorry?”

“
We never put tanks on the ground in Iran, especially not the
ones they were driving. I should know, I was fucking there,
man.”

“
Why would they lie?”

“
They see a girl in camo and think they can impress her with
bullshit. It only takes a couple of questions to catch them out,
you see. Troop movements, where who was with what thingy. Man,
that's really got to me. Such bull shit.”

I left her double-tapping her peas and finished my meal. The
kitchen tent was a swirling mass of people all trying to eat or
talk or both. Some engineers in overalls came and sat at our table.
Riley didn't even notice them.

“
I'm going to find a bunk and read these letters,” I said,
getting up.

“
Sure,” she replied, still looking down at her plate. She
suddenly heard something, a voice at the other side of the tent and
spun round, looking for its source. “Was that Benny?”

“
Benny who?”

She stood up and walked off calling out to 'Benny' who was
stood talking to a bunch of other guys in DPM. I could see the
engineers looking after her and nodding their approval to each
other.

“
Hey fellas,” I asked. “Who do I see about the digs? The
Colonel offered one for the night.”

“
The big guy over there, pal. Say, when did the Canadians get
here?” he asked. I shook my head, gathered our dirty plates and
hoped the room was soundproofed.

It wasn't. I sat there on the narrow cot listening to the
sounds of the cook tent dishing out the beer and the roars of
laughter as the G.Is got quickly hammered. It was one of their last
few nights on the base and they intended to leave it with a
hangover.

The room was plain, cold and bare with only a stumpy table
and a gas lamp to mark it as a living space. Once I'd sorted out
the room I'd gone back to my Land Rover to get my pack and found
that the remains of the kids had been taken away and the back of
the 'Rover scrubbed clean with disinfectant. I'd taken a quick look
around to make sure nothing was missing and as I'd stuck my head
under the seats I'd seen something glimmer in the halogen lights.
It was a 'Hello Kitty' fob that had somehow broken off Rebecca's
rucksack. I held it for a moment, looking at it and remembering
before heading to the bin to dispose of it. As I got there I found
I couldn't part with it and attached it to my own pack instead.
Figure that one out.

In my room I led on the cot with my back against the wall and
moved the table to shine the lamp on the letters I had on my lap.
They were all made from a similar paper - this recycled stuff that
was thick in some places and thin in others like a badly made pie
crust. They smelled of pie too, like they'd been made out of food
packaging or something. I held each one up to the lamp and turned
it around and over and side to side in the poor light but I could
see nothing particularly interesting. When I was satisfied I could
get nothing from the paper itself, I turned to the characters
instead.

They'd been left in date order which saved me the task of
rearranging them. Each letter was written in a feminine script,
some in ink, some in pencil and each one had been dated at the top
right hand corner. I read the small talk, the 'hi, how are you?'
flow of the text for that first letter and most of the next. For
example:

My dearest Alex, I miss you so. Today I spent my hours in the
Electronic books you gave me making copious notes and feeling that
I'm all that closer to success. Though the works are dated they
will suit my needs perfectly and I'm sure that the next time you
see me we will be even closer to our dreams...

At first I assumed the author was studying for an exam,
grateful for the help the text books gave her, but it dawned on me
that she was referring to an electrical problem she had. It was a
poor example of code but I suppose if you aren't looking for it
then the sentences themselves don't really say anything obvious.
Riley had mentioned a bunker. It would have to have been built
before the Panic so the mechanisms for the door would be old. Dated
text books would help and it seemed like they had.

I read on. The letters became less covert and more open
perhaps as a result of their success in sending them through the
mail system. She'd gotten relaxed after the first few, eager to
share her findings with Alex more easily.

When you come try to bring as many type 5B fuses as you can.
They may be hard to get but I think the old SeaSharks still use
them in their circuits. A lot of the main systems are still offline
and I can't get them back up without the fuses. I suspect the item
is in the lower levels but I can't get down there until you arrive.
Bring the books I asked for as well as the tools and the water
purifier. My source dried up last week - I'm glad I went to the
effort of bottling it now. I have enough to keep me going until you
come but hurry - I won't last long without it and we're so close
now.

When I'd finished reading I put them bag in the bag and sat
there turning the facts over in my mind whilst the G.Is carried on
getting louder and louder. I suddenly fancied a beer but I couldn't
face a crowd like that. I hadn't realised how much time I'd spent
on my own and how I'd gotten used to the silence. Now it was like
the racket was personal, that it was aimed at me. I knew it wasn't,
but it felt like it was and I wanted to get out of
there.

I led out flat on the cot and put my hands behind my head
trying to find a thought to concentrate on. I'd need a map of all
the bunkers the US knew of which might not be that extensive. How
much information had been shared towards those last few days? How
much did they already know? The leaders hadn't made it to some
underground bunker when the missiles rained. Why not?

I thought about my Dad and his library of notebooks. Perhaps
there'd be something in those hand-written volumes I could use. I
decided that in the morning I'd set off home after speaking to the
Colonel.

I dimmed the lamp and tried to sleep. My mind was scattered
and fragmented and I let my thoughts flit from memory to fiction to
fantasy and back again. Ideas tumbled down a never-ending spiral,
grasping at others, making strange connections until I was shocked
awake by one of those weird falling dreams.

Dad's library. He'd filled a few shelves with notes about his
life in the wilds after the Panic. Notes on growing veg, on smoking
meat, storing food for winter, brewing alcohol, trees, shrubs,
plants, geography, small maps of key areas, danger spots. The list
went on. How many had I read? Not as many as I should have done.
There were bound to be maps of the bunkers, surely?

I dozed a little but before I knew it I was awake again
though this time I didn't need a lamp. Light was streaming in from
under the door and there was a loud knocking on it.