McKenna shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah. I thought it wouldn't be that hard to track them. I grew up on a farm, but it wasn't like this." He hefted the bayonet-tipped spear.
Jerry eyed the weapon a bit skeptically. After they'd lost Odysseus, the two paratroopers had taken the time to make themselves spears of sorts. What the paratroopers called the 550 cord in their rucks was no longer nylon parachute cord. It was . . . something else. But, whatever it was, it did an adequate job of binding their bayonets to longer shafts than their useless M16s provided. But Jerry was dubious that the bayonet-tipped former branches were going to be of much use in any real fracas.
Still—they were soldiers, and he wasn't. And, at the moment, he deeply envied their superb physical condition. Neither Cruz nor McKenna exhibited a trace of Jerry's own feeling of semi-exhaustion.
The path had led out to a tableland of mixed forest, oaks and beech trees, trackless and silent—except for the cicadas, who made up for the absence of other sounds in spades. The trouble was that it was all alike. Jerry had no idea any longer which direction they'd even come from. His ankle was so damned sore and he was really, really hungry as well as tired. They needed to take some kind of action. Decisive action.
Liz hesitated. "I'm not much of a tracker. We always had trackers on the farm, and my brother learned a lot from them. But I never really bothered. But there is a lot of game here."
Jim McKenna looked startled. "I haven't seen anything. I thought you were a marine biologist."
"I've seen several buck, sign that looks like bushpigs and some squirrels. And everybody grew up somewhere. I grew up near Hoedspruit. Next to Kruger Park. On a game farm," she added.
"Where's that?"
"Northern Transvaal. They call it 'Northern Province' these days." Nobody looked any the wiser. "South Africa." She looked at them, clearly embarrassed. Particularly, she looked at Lamont. "I never asked to get born there. And it is a democratic country these days."
Jerry suddenly understood why she insulted everybody except Lamont. He hadn't really been aware of how she pussyfooted around him—until this moment. Lamont was an even worse punster than he was, but Jerry always took the rap from her.
"Look. I can't help where I come from. I've got several black friends from university. I don't have a problem with it."
"Never said you did," said Lamont easily. "Come on. We've got to get moving." He pushed forward into a mass of dogwood.
And found he was sharing it with a large animal. A large animal that hadn't liked having its slumber disturbed. Broad-spaced, angry little eyes peered shortsightedly at the intruder. The black snout wrinkled and a short, angry grunt emerged. Liz was just behind Lamont. She grabbed his shoulder and yelled: "RUUUN!"
The boar was a monster. Not quite the black beast of Thessaly. Not quite—but still very damn big. Cruz and McKenna and their makeshift spears looked very small. Those tusks would gut a man in a single jerk. Fortunately, the beast was obviously shortsighted. It paused. Sniffed and then pawed earth.
"Don't be idiots!" yelled Liz, now trying to help the frantically hobbling Jerry. "Climb a tree!"
The boar decided on McKenna. A toothpick would have had more effect than the spear. It was ripped out of his hands. Only luck and fast reflexes saved his life. Cruz's attempt to throw his makeshift spear was not successful either. It stuck, briefly, in the flank of the boar before the pig turned again. Cruz pulled McKenna to his feet and they ran. Behind them the boar nosed the air, foam on its muzzle.
Cruz, moving like a quarterback on the charge, grabbed Jerry and continued to run. McKenna tried to do the same with Liz. She fended him off, nearly sending him to ground in front of the snorting piggy from hell.
Somehow, they scrambled up the oak tree just in time.
"You know," said Cruz, from the branch where he sat looking down at the boar, "you were right, Ms. South Africa. There is plenty of game here." The monster pig was rooting angrily around the dropped jackets, spears and M16s, but had as yet not found Lamont's precious boombox, thrust in a fork of the tree a few yards up.
Jerry felt his ankle. It had not enjoyed the walk up to here, and it had enjoyed the last run even less. "Yeah. Only trouble is that no one explained to the 'game' that we aren't the 'game.' "
Smoke was almost curling out of Liz's ears. She was nearly incandescently angry. "Listen to me, you two. You. Sergeant. And especially you, Corporal. If I say run, I mean fucking run."
"Sorry, sir," growled McKenna. "We make our own decisions." He inspected the slashed fabric of his trousers. The tusk had been that sharp and that close.
Her voice would have cut glass. "Listen, Corporal. I was dealing with meathead he-man parabats—those are our paratroopers—when you were still sitting on your mummy's knee. Get this straight. You're a soldier in the service of your country. Your job is to protect its interests and its citizens. And to do that, shit-for-brains, you have to stay alive. Wasting your life stupidly is not going to help anyone. We need you to keep Jerry and . . . and Lamont and even keep me alive."
She shook her head angrily. "I grew up on a farm adjoining one of the largest wildlife reserves in Africa. I don't think I'm the great African hunter, but I know a fuck of a lot more about it than you could have learned on a couple of weeks' worth of survival course. I am not inclined to panic. I'm not going to tell you to do something just for fun. I'm not going to tell you how to fight men. That's your call. You say 'jump' then, and we'll jump. But when it comes down to dealing with wildlife or ships you're nothing but a goddamn boot. And I don't care how many 'training' sessions they sent you on. They were still training. This, just in case you hadn't noticed, isn't. We've got to work together or we'll all die."
She pointed at Jerry. "You've particularly got to look after him. Because, in case you haven't worked it out, Dr. Lukacs is the only one who knows this mythology stuff. If anyone can work out a way home, he can. Or don't you want to get back?"
The pig at the foot of the tree snorted.
"The pig seems to think you're right," said Lamont dryly.
McKenna shook his head. "Look, we were trying to provide you with cover to get away . . . "
"She's right, Mac," Cruz rumbled. "If that pig had taken you out, that would have left me to try and look after these guys. We've got to get our mindset into 'run first and fight when we haven't any damn choice.' It's different 'cause we're dealing with civilians."
"And if that pig had mauled you, we'd have been worse off," said Liz quietly. "Look, I lost my cool. But seriously, try listening to me, okay?"
McKenna took a deep breath. The pig stood on its hind legs and snorted at the tree. That helped to format his reply. "Yes, ma'am."
She grinned. It transformed her face, making her look like the kind of trouble she'd undoubtedly been at fifteen. Jailbait. "That's a good boy," she cooed.
The pig squinted up at her and snorted again. As if, again, it thought she was right.
Jerry took a deep breath. He hated telling anyone what to do. But somebody had to. "We need some sort of plan of campaign. Circe's 'castle of dressed stone' is in here . . . somewhere. If I remember rightly, there was also a crag, but most of the island is low-lying. Odysseus caught sight of the smoke from her castle from the top of the crag."
"So we need to find the crag," said Cruz.
"Which is virtually impossible from down here in the forest," grumbled Liz.
"Well, maybe we could see it from the top of a tree," suggested McKenna.
Liz smiled nastily. "Up you go then, Corporal. We've got lots of time to kill until Mister Piggy loses interest in us after the little holes you made in his hide."
Salinas spoke his phrase of Classical Greek. Odysseus seemed . . . surprised. John Salinas said it again, smiling and patting his chest. The Achaeans seemed amazed. He was reassured. He felt sure that he'd made the right decision, although it would have been pleasant to have that long-haired translator around to confirm it.
At least the Achaeans knew where they were going. This forest was confusing. He was nearly exhausted when, at last, they came out in front of a fortresslike building of painstakingly fitted dry stone. It was set in a soft meadow—and guarded by wild beasts.
Salinas nearly turned and ran. That . . . that must be a wolf. And a leopard . . . And lions. They were coming forward. His bowels turned to jelly, as the creatures ran up to Odysseus. For a moment he was too terrified to even run. Then the prince cuffed them aside, and beckoned to Salinas. Warily, the police lieutenant followed as Odysseus pounded on the polished metal doors.
The doors were flung open. A woman with lustrous hip-length hair stood in the doorway. She looked anything but delighted to see them. John Salinas decided it was time to try his Greek phrase again. After all, they'd be glad to have him. He could show them such a lot.
He was quite right. She was obviously pleased. She sat him down on a settee and then brought him food and a bowl of wine. It was a weird sort of porridge-like stuff, but he was starving. And the red wine, if sweet, was really nicer than the Cabernet Sauvignon he pretended to like for social purposes.
He made a bit of a pig of himself.