Saving Time

Chapter 2

Murphy’s Laws of Combat #14

“If you’re lost, you will find the enemy.”

Melissa strained to concentrate through the red haze of pain, to understand what had just happened. A man seemed to materialize out of the smoke. He was a large man—if he was a man at all, and not some spirit, an earth dryad or giant bogle. Dressed all in speckled beige from his collar to boots, shiny black spectacles hiding his eyes.

When the tall man ordered the French monsters to leave in Spanish, she’d despaired, believing him some native fool, unarmed, challenging four soldiers. Then he fired the black thing in his hand, twice, the sharp blasts nearly invisible. The fiend holding her wrist had let go, a blessed relief. After a moment, everyone moved at once. The stranger shot the devil behind her and two others. She’d stared astonished as the survivors fled over the rise and down the slope.

In the silence that followed, she found the beige giant kneeling before the body of the one he killed. She stared at him, unsure of what she faced now. His ritual over, he stood and holstered his miraculous black weapon. Turning toward her, he froze, his expression hidden by the mirror-like spectacles. Shivers shook her, from fear and his strangeness, as much as the frigid air. In her stupor, she’d forgotten her nakedness and tried to cover herself with her good arm—a useless gesture if he meant to attack her too. His size and black bug eyes made him appear inhuman. Lord, make it quick.

When she sat up to cover her breasts, his mouth hardened. He swore, shaking his head. It sounded like he muttered, “Focus, Starke, focus.”

He unbuckled a belt, dropped his huge pack and harness, then took off his hooded coat. He approached her, almost crouching, holding the heavy tan coat out in front of him. “Ya está bien, se?orita, estas segura,” he said in a low voice.

Still panting, she continued to stare at him, unable to do anything else. It required too much effort to speak. She suddenly needed to see his eyes, not her reflection in those frightening black eyeglasses. Was he human?

“Can you speak?” he asked in French. Kneeling in front of her, he held up the coat to cover her chest. She didn’t grasp it with her good arm. He ended up holding the coat in place. His body seemed to block out the world and she began to shiver violently.

He took off the glasses and tucked them in his shirt pocket. “?Habla usted espa?ol?” he whispered, meeting her gaze.

Just as she thought, the brown eyes of an elemental. Earthy, they were hard as mahogany, but held soft flecks of bronze. Had Nana’s pendant called him up from the land? Was he Ly Erg, the Scottish spirit dressed as a soldier who waylaid and killed travelers?

“Fran?ais?” he asked, but she ignored his words, intent on discovering his nature.

No, she was being foolish. His eyes held the cool surety of a soldier, a man, not some spirit. She also saw concern in his mesmerizing expression. She licked her lips and tasted blood, absently wondering why.

The beige man frowned when she said nothing. He slung his coat over her shoulders. Deliciously warm, the coat held a clean, grassy scent. She pulled it close with her good arm. He went to his huge pack, fishing out a strange silver material and then another sheet, shiny like oil cloth. The same spotted beige of his clothes, the sheet crackled when he unfolded it, and he spread the stiff material on the ground, as though he was laying out a picnic blanket. She blinked at her glaikit imaginings, struggling to think through the lancing pain. Any movement was agony, the world a haze. How could she feel so numb yet hurt so much?

Last, he took out some clothes and piled them on the cover. He returned and took her good elbow, then awkwardly moved his other hand around her, taking hold of her naked waist from behind. She froze at the intimate touch, ready to claw his face.

He did nothing but speak in a gentle tone—in English, thank the Powers. “Miss, let’s get you off this wet grass and over to the ground cloth.”

Her one arm hung in useless torment, but she gripped his sleeve with her other hand. With surprising ease, he lifted her to her feet, but her limbs were boneless. He practically carried her over to the ground cloth. His warm hand gripping her bare waist ignited more shivers, every step jolting her shoulder, bright lightning strikes of pain.

The coat kept slipping off. Each time he would stop and quickly cover her again. His behavior was reassuring while his hand on bare skin threatened to panic her. Awash in goose bumps, dazed by the battling sensations, she let him coax her to sit down on his trampoline. He had to pry her hand free from his sleeve.

“Okay, miss, I have to reset your shoulder. It must be done now. I’ll make it quick.”

She didn’t know what he meant. All she knew were the hot needles torturing her shoulder, the pain in her head, and the calm depth of his eyes. She watched him through the tendrils of her hair as he made a pillow of a discarded French coat, and indicated she should lay down. She squinted at him, curling her lip.

Seeing her expression, he sighed. “You’re safe. Now relax.”

At his insistence, she laid her head on the makeshift pillow as he covered her with the silvery sheet. Now supine, she felt close to fainting. He sat down beside her, indicating she put her foot on his thigh. He picked up her useless arm at the wrist and elbow, the lancing pain making her groan. She opened her mouth to swear at him but before she could protest his liberties, he began steadily pulling on her arm. Spasms of pain exploded all along her body, a jolting snap, a white-hot flash of agony giving way to blackness.

~ ~ ~

Rig let out a ragged breath. It had been a posterior dislocation. He’d felt—and heard—the humerus pop back into the rotator cuff. Typical with Rangers, he’d been cross-trained in several skill sets, including as a field medic. Over a year ago, he’d treated a teammate who’d dislocated his shoulder on a night parachute jump, but the wet pop still left him wanting to gag. He felt her shoulder but didn’t find knots of torn or detached tendons. She was well-muscled and fit, which helped limit the damage.

Thank God she’s unconscious. It made things much easier all around. He grabbed his thermal shirt from the pile of clothes and lifted her up. He slipped the long-sleeved shirt over her head, unreasonably embarrassed when he had to tug the knit material over her breasts. He couldn’t ignore them. They were spectacular, firm, not too large, not too small.

You idiot. Square up, Ranger.

His spare camo shirt covered her smaller torso with a lot left over. He rolled up the sleeves, got socks on her feet, and then rifled one of the French packs, finding what he was looking for, a ‘fairly’ clean shirt. He cut it up and immobilized her arm in a sling, securing it across her upper body with strips of cloth. It was like dressing a rag doll. He finished by easing her good arm into his coat, zipping it up, and laying the space blanket around her shoulders.

Before he forgot, he found two syringes from the med kit, one for the pain, the other for infection. He pulled up her coat and shirt and quickly administered both in her hip.

An ugly cut on her temple had bled down the side of her face. Still holding her in a sitting position with his knee, he tried to examine it, but the woman had lots of sun-streaked amber hair, which curled in every direction and stuck to her bloody cheek. He grabbed the leftover shirtsleeve and tucked her long hair through it, tying it all into a ponytail reaching to her waist.

The woman came to as he cleaned her face. She snarled in surprise and struck his hands away. “Ye pawkie deel!” She closed her eyes with a grimace and muttered more strange words, hand to her head.

Rig knew better than to react to whatever language she’d spouted, and calmly remained sitting as she sat up and blinked at him, and then anxiously inspected her arm sling and the new clothes. The silver space blanket, paper-thin and crinkly, seemed to fascinate her.

Watching her, he could see signs of shock. Her hands were trembling, and she seemed to have trouble concentrating. Finally, her gaze returned to him.

He pointed to her head. “Miss, I need to close up that wound.” She felt her temple and then stared at the blood on her fingers. Moving to face her, Rig checked her pupil dilation. Nope. She tracked his finger just fine, so hopefully no more than a mild concussion.

Her eyes were gray-green, almond-shaped under dark brows. They suggested intelligence and depth, even pain glazed as they were. She remained tense while he finished cleaning her head wound, her eyes never leaving his.

He closed the head wound with a couple of butterfly strips and then covered it in a gauze wrap. As he ran an antiseptic wipe over her cheek, cleaning up the blood, she wrinkled her nose and leaned away. He raised a questioning eyebrow. “You don’t want to go into town with a dirty face, do you?” She blinked at his words, but remained still while he finished up, which made him suspect she understood at least some English.

When done, he couldn’t help grinning. With the gauze bandana, her long, unruly hair, the gray thermal shirt, camo, and space blanket, she looked like an urban camper. Even the purple bruise growing around her head bandage added to the homeless image.

He was reassured to see his patient had calmed down, but there was no smile in return. “We need to get you to a hospital, and me to the Guardia Civil pronto,” he said, gesturing north over the rise, “before those scumbags start telling stories.”

He got up and packed away the med kit. He was thankful he hadn’t left the kit in Kandahar.

What to do next? With that skirt, she must be a participant in the Frenchmen’s reenactment, or was she a movie extra? Where were her friends?

She was maybe twenty-two years old now that he’d gotten a closer look. She sat, knees up, wrapped in silver, staring off into space. She continued to shiver, which didn’t surprise him between the shock and the bitter cold. It was a crazy change in weather, even for Spain.

He scooped up one of the heavy, long coats the Frenchmen had left, but immediately dropped it. It stank of smoke, bad cheese, and sweat. He hunted up the least-offending coat of the three. In spite of her glare, he took his coat from her, and tucked the long, gray coat over the space blanket.

She sniffed once and yanked off the coat with an angry “Och, boggin ‘ing,” throwing it away one-handed and then returning to shiver again.

What language had she spoken? He zipped up his camo coat around her and covered it with the space blanket—again. She seemed satisfied, but without his coat, he was freezing. The cold stabbed through his fatigues like needles. It had to be at least ten degrees colder than this morning.

He retrieved the discarded gray coat. Once on, the long French coat proved bulky enough and covered him down below his knees. Tight through the shoulders, it fit his six-foot-three frame, except for the sleeves—inches too short. He always packed his floppy ‘boonie hat,’ so he pulled it out of his rucksack along with his wool cap and tugged both on to keep his head warm.

His watch told him it had been about thirty minutes since he’d driven off the men. He glanced at the still form of the Frenchman spread-eagled on the ground only a few meters away. Hell’s bells. He should throw something over the body.

The girl didn’t seem to pay any attention to the corpse, which was odd unless she’d seen the dead before. Filled with a useless rage over the stupidity of it all, Rig glared at the wrecked face of the sergeant staring one-eyed at the sky. “Well, bozo, this reenactment realistic enough for you?”

Rig noticed the man had a pocket watch and chain in his vest and leaned over to pull it out. Flipping it open, Rig saw the time was off. It showed a little after two o’clock when it was only nine-thirty in the morning. The inside cover was inscribed in French, To Emile, Love Monique, January 1808. He tossed it on the body. “Yeah, don’t you just love those little historical details?”

Rig covered the body with the ‘stench coat,’ and then looked up the brown slope, north the way the Frenchmen had retreated. Smoke continued to blow over the rise and past him. Listening, he didn’t hear anything. Her three attackers must have kept running. He trotted to the top of the rise bordering the little depression they were in. He couldn’t see much downhill through the smoke.

He knotted his brow. He’d used several smoke grenades, as had the Spaniards at the building’s exit, but that smoke couldn’t reach this far. Nothing made sense.He tried his cell phone. No bars, and the GPS wasn’t working.

Walking back, he pocketed his phone and swore. No telling what those French bastards would say if they got to the authorities first. He felt angry and antsy. He briefly imagined going after the three and finishing the job— double tap them all.

Wishful thinking. They needed to get moving. He glanced at the sun. It was too low. Maybe three hours of daylight left. His soldier’s intuition flared, suddenly on high alert. He surveyed the grass-covered depression he stood in and then the sky. Black, massive thunderheads roiled toward him. The distant snow-covered mountains were just visible above the rise, far whiter than he remembered. He trotted up the rise to the south, looking back the way he’d come. Through the whisps of smoke in this direction, he saw trees. As far as Rig could see, a kilometer distant, there was nothing, no buildings, or any sign of the Spanish company.

He couldn’t have run an entire klick. Had the explosion stunned him? The world had turned alien, cold and unrecognizable, leaving him bewildered, aprickly panic prodding his consciousness. Should he head downhill after the miscreants or wait for the Spanish Army, wherever they may be?

The girl stood unsteadily, and after a moment, faced him. “We hae ta gang.”

Rig leaned away, surprised by the warm Scottish lilt to her barely intelligible words, but glad she was talking. “Oh, she speaks, and it’s English—sort of.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “Get aff.” Her free hand went to her head and she grimaced. “Ta talk pains me heid.” She began dumping the contents of French packs on the ground cover.

Rig eyed her. “Can you speak English?”

After a pause, she said, eyes closed, “Oh, tis English ye desire, ye with your Sassenach cant.” She glared at him, and in a clean British accent said, “We must leave.” Her hand went to her forehead again.

Surprised, Rig raised one eyebrow at her shifting between English and what he thought was a Scots brogue. “Very articulate,” he said, a corner of his mouth pulled up. “While you were unconscious, I gave you something for the pain. It should ease soon.”

She studied him through squinted eyes but came to some decision and with an obvious effort to concentrate said, “Who do I thank for my-my rescue?” She blushed and couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Ah, right. I’m Captain Richard Starke, U.S. Army.” He pointed to his name patch over his shirt pocket then gestured to the coat she wore and the U.S. flag on the sleeve. When she frowned at this, he said, “And you are?”

“What is the U.S. Army?”

He raised an eyebrow. Very weird. “You’ve heard of the United States?”

“An American? Why are ye haring aboot in Spain?”

“That’s a long story. Who are you?”

Still frowning at him, she did a wobbly little curtsy and said, “Miss Melissa Graham.”

Playacting at this point? It annoyed him. “Are you part of a re-enactment or some movie?”

“A what?

“So, you’re not part of a movie production company?”

Looking askance at him, she huffed. “Nae company or squadron. I’m the niece of the Laird Colonel Thomas Graham.”

“A colonel? In the Spanish Army?” That might be a help with this disaster.

“Don’t be an eejit. The British Army, of course.”

“What? Here? Is your uncle working with the Spanish military too?”

She gave him a hard look and, ignoring his question, piled the white canvas haversacks together one-handed. Grabbing one of the other packs, she also dumped its contents on the ground cloth. She called out over her shoulder, “Captain, we must be away,” waving off to the west.

He scowled at her performance. “Look, Miss, this is serious. You need a doctor.” Gesturing at the dead body, he said, “And I need to report this to the authorities.” Rig pointed north. “Castro Gonzalo is probably the closest, maybe a couple of kilometers away.”

“Nae!” She anxiously waved her hand back and forth.

“No? Where then?”

“Benavente.”

“What? That’s at least six klicks further away.”

“Klicks? What are ye rantin’ aboot? It’s neigh-on two Spanish leagues.” The girl gave him an arched look that said his biscuits weren’t quite baked. Some of the smoke blew over the rise and passed between them like a screen. When it moved on, so had the girl.

Several meters away, she unceremoniously dumped the last cowhide pack on the ground cloth. She began spreading the contents out with her foot and throwing things back into one of the now empty packs. He watched her, hands on hips, perplexed. She’d been beaten and nearly raped, yet she was bustling around, rifling the re-enactors’ packs, apparently set on stealing what she could. Did she think she was going to carry the pack in her condition? He certainly wasn’t going to help her.

She glanced up at him, an anxious twist to her mouth, and waved to the north. “We must needs go, ‘fore those minkers return.”

“Who? With two wounded, those three won’t be back,” he said. “The police might show up here, but not those bastards.” What would they say about her stealing the Frenchmen’s gear? Not good. She was his only witness to this fiasco. He needed to keep her close and crime free.

She frowned at him. “Ye poor, mad daffy. Tis the French army we must haud away frae.” Her hand went to her head for a moment, and then with a grimace in his direction, she continued picking through the contents of the reenactors’ packs and canvas haversacks.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And how many French are we talking about?”

For a moment she paused, eyes closed. Then she bent and dumped out the last white haversack, throwing it away by its strap. It contained several oil-cloth bags. Her eyes on her newly created pile, she waved her hand toward the north. “Thousands.”

Rig waited for an explanation, but other than one more disgusted squint, the girl ignored him and busied herself with scavenging. “Miss, you’re in no shape to be wandering around. Leave that stuff. Let’s head for town and medical help.”

She stood, swaying a bit and placed a trembling hand on the sling. “We may have need of this stuff.” She picked shirts, socks, and bags out of the pile and threw them in one pack and began filling another. “We must try for Benavente.”

He shrugged at her strange behavior and syntax, concerned she would soon exhaust herself. Why Benavente? Now that the smoke was clearing to the north, he climbed out of the hollow to get his bearings. The police might be on their way up already. She wasn’t making sense, particularly when peppering her comments with Scottish jargon. He just hoped the beating she’d endured hadn’t scrambled her brains completely.

Before he reached the top, he could see the bell tower, and then the pink tile roofs of Benavente covering the slopes far to the west. He rubbed his face. It looked too small, only a fraction of the built-up area he remembered seeing this morning. It was hard to tell as billowing plumes of smoke hid much of the town.

What the hell?

He raced to the top of the rise and looked down on the valley. To the west, a wide ribbon of gray water sparkled, the Rio Esla. Reassured, he surveyed the flat valley floor. Like Benavente, the village of Castro Gonzalo burned in several places, flames darting among the billowing clouds of smoke, the same clouds rolling up the hills past him. What’s going on?

What looked like thousands of people filled the main road though Castro Gonzalo, east toward the town of San Esteban. But it couldn’t be Highway A-6 down there. He saw no cars or even pavement. Marching hordes crowded a muddy roadway. Even from more than three klicks away, he could see the sun reflecting off puddles the horses splashed through, many dragging wagons behind them.

Rig removed the Leica from his belt and used the pocket rangefinder as binoculars. He scanned the length of the road to the horizon but couldn’t grasp what he was seeing. Tens of thousands of people snaked along the road. Most wore gray coats or uniforms of various colors. Red, blue, and white lozenge flags bobbed and fluttered everywhere.

Clouds overhead created flitting shadow patterns of light and dark across the miles of humanity on the yellow-brown plain below. The undulating column sparkled as metal badges, weapons, and bridles caught the sunlight. He made a quick calculation in his head. There were more than twenty thousand people and hundreds of horses visible down there.

He’d never heard of such a large gathering of re-enactors, even when he’d attended a Waterloo reenactment three years ago. Was someone making a movie? Could it explain the fires? Where were all the houses, cars, and paved roads? Had film crews cleared them out, or was he lost and looking at some elaborate set built in the middle of open country?

The clink of hundreds of horse bridles and caisson chains drifted up to him faint on the frigid breezes. Underneath the rattling metal sounds pulsed a low thrum of tens of thousands of marching feet. He watched the spectacle for a long time, his reason numbed. The scene was incomprehensible.

“What the hell’s going on?” It took three tries to stuff the Leica back into its belt pouch. Think, Starke! How could the Spanish Army have overlooked such a massive operation so close to their field exercises? It had taken weeks to clear the exercise with the civilian authorities, but no mention of this crowd? Or had the Spanish Army again been hired for a movie? It made no sense. The two of them would have to hike downhill to find some explanations.

As he turned to retrieve the girl, three horsemen rode out of a fold in the ground downhill, wearing the gaudiest uniforms he’d ever seen.

They were dressed in short red jackets, save one who had the red jacket tied over his shoulder revealing a green coat underneath. Each coat was covered with rows of yellow cording across the front, the red coats sporting brown fur edging on the cuffs and collar. The same dark yellow cording trimmed their tan breeches and black boots. All three wore ridiculously large fur hats topped with long, bouncing red and green plumes. He assumed they were French too.

Could the day get any weirder?

They came to a halt, looking him over. Even more than one hundred meters away, he could see they sported long mustaches and earrings like the girl’s attackers. This looked bad, but he waved to them just in case they weren’t as psychotic as the last group of renegades.

No such luck.

The horseman with the red coat strung over his shoulder leveled his carbine and fired, the snick-pop loud. The shot kicked up sod a meter away.

Damn it to hell!

The riders whistled and yelled, pushing their mounts into a gallop uphill. The ground began to tremble with their pounding charge.

They’d announced their intentions. More killing. Rig turned and sprinted over the top of the rise, the long coat flapping around his legs. He motioned to the girl to get down and then he ran parallel to the slope. The horsemen couldn’t see him and would assume he’d run in a straight line away from them. He whipped out his pistol and flipped off the safety. Rig took a balanced stance, both hands on the Beretta just as the group surged over the rise and raced down the other side.

They pulled up when they didn’t spot him ahead but did notice the girl lying flat on the ground near to the covered body of the sergeant. One of them said something and they all laughed. The laughter died away when they found him behind them. The three turned their horses to face him.

They sat calmly, the long green saddle blankets waving with the horses’ restless prancing. Each rider held a wicked-looking saber, the blades resting against their shoulders as they studied him. One leaned over to the others and said in a stage whisper, “C’est lui, That’s him.”

Rig frowned. These men must have talked to the three who ran. Terrific, now it was personal. He waved the Beretta at them and yelled in his best French that he wouldn’t shoot them if they left now.

The riders grinned but didn’t move. They were waiting for something. He watched them, wondering what these crazy civilians were up to?

No, not civilians. Regardless of the silly outfits, they acted like soldiers. Or at least accomplished brigands—using the crowds of extras for the epic being filmed as cover for their rape and pillaging? It made some sense. Then he saw the girl frantically pointing up the slope behind him.

Rig realized she was signaling, what the horsemen were waiting for. Just sound tactics, you blockhead. One or more flankers were coming up behind him.

He leaped to one side just as a horse burst over the rise and the rider fired a pistol. The shot smacked into the dirt beside him.

The flanker whipped his horse around, hooves throwing up a shower of mud and grass. The horseman unsheathed his sword, the metal singing, and pointed it at Rig, who still lay where he’d landed. With a nasty smile, the rider kicked his horse forward, straight at him.