Line Abreast – Containment Protocol-Part 33
Chaos in their wake. Fiction. 2100 words, 11-minute read.
Bedrock Patrol faces another challenge.
The rest of the Containment Protocol saga can be found here: https://raytabler.substack.com/s/containment-protocol-serial
Part 1 (the beginning), ... Part 32 (last episode), Part 34 (coming soon)
Line Abreast – Containment Protocol-Part 33
By Ray Tabler
“I thought you were supposed to be riding herd on the refugees.” Booker asked as Muñoz led the remnant of Vinzi’s clan shuffled past.
The shell-shocked and hollowed-eyed locals clung to the backs of swahldets and rode atop the two Bradleys, legs dangling over the sides and the front hulls of the infantry fighting vehicles. Muñoz guided his swahldet over to stand beside Fred. Booker’s tank was parked to one side of the exit of the tunnel through Bedrock’s caldera wall, while the rest of the platoon lined up to pass through. Wilma led the march while Fred provided overwatch.
“I assume you’re referring to Nohfa’s escapade.” Muñoz asked dryly.
Pebbles rumbled past, Bunzo’s severed head swinging from the Bradley’s bent chain gun barrel, tied there by long, gray hair. Handley, Pebbles’ driver, wisely concentrated on steering his vehicle, instead of the grisly trophy dangling a couple of feet from his head. Cooper watched his Bradley from Fred’s loader hatch, shaking his head at the mess dripping onto the hull.
“There’s thirty-some refugees I’m responsible for. And Nohfa wouldn’t have listened to me, even if I’d noticed her slip away.” Muñoz explained.
Booker sighed, knowing it was the truth. “Where’s she now?”
“Back inside Pebbles, looking after Zunta.”
“How’s he doing?”
“I think he’ll pull through. But he needs to see a doctor, soon.” Muñoz ran a hand through his hair. “Heck of a trip through that tunnel.”
“Yeah.” Booker remembered the wet sound as piles of bodies squeezed out to either side on the stone floor under Fred’s tracks. “Keep ‘em movin’.”
“Yes sir.” Muñoz tossed an impudent salute, and hurried to catch up with the refugees.
Barney exited the tunnel, tail end Charlie the column. The tank’s turret was rotated to point the main gun rearward.
“You want me to collapse that tunnel with a few HE rounds?” Mulroney asked, plainly itching to do so. “Just in case they change their minds about lettin’ us leave.”
Booker considered the suggestion. “Nah. We’ve worn out our welcome around here. No sense in leaving more chaos behind than necessary. Even if Bunzo’s crowd did bring this on themselves.”
“Might wanna get used to it, el-tee.” Mulroney hooked a thumb at the destruction. “That’s Uncle Sam’s playbook. Go somewhere. Try to do the right thing, but end up backing the loosin’ side. Then offer them a free ride out when things go to hell.”
Booker wanted to argue the point, but Mulroney had history on his side. He keyed his mic. “Move out, Rusty. Put us at the head of the column.”
Back in the lead, Booker watched as the column slowly approached the dino weed barrier and the stalled klesuf migration beyond. The triceratops carpeted the landscape as far as the eye could see. Booker imagined they numbered in the hundreds of thousands, if not millions. He recalled images in history books of the enormous bison herds of the old west, before industrialized hunting nearly drove them to extinction.
The way back to the gate site, the way they needed to go, led through a broad valley, scattered clumps of trees and bushes along the valley floor and straggling up the gentle slopes. When last Booker had seen this view, the klesuf had almost blended into the green grass. The klesuf were still the same pale green. The valley was tawny, grazed bare by the migrating dinos.
Logically, the klesuf should’ve moved on, in search of food. But they hadn’t. Instead, the beasts milled about, for what must’ve been days on end, rooting for scarcer and scarcer fodder. That probably didn’t improve their mood much. If Ralna was to be believed, the migration was here early, and tarrying specifically to prevent he and his men from reaching the gate site. Could Ralna be believed? Booker decided it didn’t matter. The dinos were in the way, whether influenced by some mysterious mechanism or not. A way around or through them must be found.
“Booker to Olmer... Booker to Olmer.”
The radio emitted static for nearly a minute. Then, “Olmer here.”
“Good to hear from you Olmer. The platoon is clear of Bedrock.”
“That’s great news, el-tee! We thought we heard some fireworks, but weren’t sure if it was thunder, a volcanic eruption, or canon fire.”
“That was old Fred’s one-twenty, paving the way.” The literal truth of the words didn’t occur to Booker until they were already out of his mouth. “What’s your location?”
“We’re high on a hill above those rusted out old tanks, as directed.”
“Status.”
“All present and accounted for. Ready to move out when the time comes.”
“Outstanding.” Booker paused, gauging the distance to the barrier. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll send a signal for them to open the gate. Get there. Get through. Colonel Shaylton will decide what to do after that.”
Booker intentionally didn’t mention his suspicion that Shaylton wouldn’t be able to reopen the gate, much as he might want to. Ralna might very well wall off Earth from trans-dimensional travel as soon as Pinsky and his video transited. Which would maroon Bedrock Patrol, the refugees, and him on the wrong side of that wall. But Booker saw his duty clearly, as unpleasant as it might be. The information had to get back, whether he was with it or not.
“Understood, el-tee.”
“Booker, over and out.”
After a few seconds Booker switched to the platoon channel. “All tracks, assume the planned formation.”
Rusty swerved Fred to the left, and slowed down to allow the other vehicles to catch up. The platoon rearranged to travel side by side, with only a few yards between the right-hand track of one tank to the left-hand track of the next. From his hatch in Fred’s turret, Booker sighted along the rank to confirm the alignment he wanted. Wilma rolled next to Fred. Next, were Pebbles and Bam Bam, the refugees inside, on top, and following on swahldets, Muñoz in the lead. Then, Betty rumbled along, with Barney on the far end, Mulroney watching the right flank and glancing back at Bedrock to make sure nobody was pursuing.
The platoon approached the restive sea of hungry klesuf on the far side of the dino weed barrier in line abreast, churning crops beneath their treads.
Booker licked a finger and raised his hand into the air. The result was satisfactory. He checked to make sure Muñoz and the refugees had finished their preparations. “Okay, everybody. Wind’s right. Cross your fingers and pray this works.”
The sound of Rusty slamming his driver’s hatch shut clanged from the front of Fred’s hull. The same sound resonated from the other vehicles. Booker reached down and grabbed a rag he’d shoved into a cranny, and tied it around his lower face. He could’ve retreated down into Fred’s turret, shutting his hatch. But decided maintaining a clear view of events was more important than his comfort. On the far end of the line, Mulroney was also remaining outside Barney’s turret, holding hands with Loonza.
Six armored prows plowed into the dino weed barrier at better than twenty miles an hour. The immediate effect was a bloom of rusty red pollen kicked up into a spreading cloud. On the platoon’s previous trip through the hedge, the vehicles had followed a twisting path through the barrier, only brushing against the brambles in the tight turns. That careful transit resulted in an irritating veil which coated the platoon and tracks with a fine layer of particles.
This trip was different. The Abrams and Bradleys bowled straight into the barrier, intentionally beating as much pollen loose as possible. Once airborne, the irritating powder drifted up, swirling in the wind. The weather had been dry for days, wicking moisture from the brambles and the pollen. That made the particles light, and easily carried by the slightest breeze. Booker couldn’t have asked for better conditions.
A sullen, rusty plume spread out before the tanks, borne by the wind and reaching from ground level to dozens of yards in the sky. It swirled and danced, dimming the sun with a lurid shade. A steady draft carried the pollen cloud straight into the klesuf herd.
A number of triceratopses nipped at sparse grass, driven closer to dino weed than they normally would dare by gnawing hunger. One snorted, shaking its massive head, coughing and sneezing. It eyes watered and mucus poured from nostrils. It gulped for air, which only drew in more pollen.
Another klesuf fell victim to the dust, rubbing its broad face on the ground in frustration. Several more began coughing and wheezing. The effect spread with the wind. Almost as a unit, the dinos nearest the barrier spun ponderously and trotted away, remnant of green grass and hunger momentarily forgotten. The fleeing klesuf picked up speed and involuntarily trumpeted a mournful call. The sound signified “Get out of my way. Threat behind me.” The threat warning wasn’t specific, like those for predator or forest fire. Intentionally irritating dino weed wasn’t encountered often enough for the klesuf to have evolved a call for it. The nonspecific nature of the call invoked the default response of all herd animals. Run!
As the pollen-stricken individuals blundered farther into the mass of the herd, they knocked others aside and kept fleeing. That alone spread panic quicker and more effectively than the expanding pollen cloud. Which followed the swelling turmoil, drafted along by the wind of the massive, fleeing beasts. It was a case of devil take the hindmost. Fear spread through the packed animals and dispersing dino weed pollen motivated any who weren’t moving to get moving.
Through the murky swirls of rusty dust, Booker witnessed the stampede born of irritating pollen and panic. It rolled before them like a receding wave of dino flesh rolling through the bulk of the herd. The earth rumbled with the thunder of millions of tree-trunk-sized legs pummeling the valley floor in blind flight.
“Hot damn! It’s working!” Booker shouted into his mic.
“Yee-haw!” Mulroney screamed back.
“Keep moving.” Booker ordered. “Don’t let ’em slow down.”
Whatever mysterious influence had anchored the klesuf to the valley crumbled under the weight of the stampede. The aggressive mood which drove family groups of the beasts to defend grazing area during the migration evaporated in an every-dino-for-itself hurry to put distance between the herd and the perceived threat. In a matter of a few minutes, the entire miles-wide mass of bus-sized creatures was running full-out down the valley, flattening everything in their broad path.
After half a mile, the cloud of pollen thinned to the point that Booker could pulled the rag from his face and breath with only occasional coughing. The tail end of the stampede kept moving ahead of them. He watched the panicked beasts, nothing but trodden earth in their wake. It was twenty minutes before he allowed himself to hope that they would make it out of there after all.
A guilty conscious made Booker look back at Bedrock. A broad, ragged gap in the dino weed barrier laid the caldera’s croplands open for any wandering dinos. Once the pollen kicked up by the tanks settled or blew away, there would be no way to keep the beasts out of the fields. At least until the barrier could be repaired. And who was going to supervise that effort with both Vinzi and Bunzo out of the picture? How many tribespeople would starve because of what he’d done?
It wasn’t a line of thought Booker wanted to pursue. Fortunately, he had more pressing matters at hand. Like making it to the gate site, and collecting Olmer and the others along the way. They weren’t home yet. And there might be more dirty work to do before they got there. If they did. Plenty of time for doubts and self-recrimination once they were safe. Ruthless determination was the order of the day until then.
“Let’s pick up the pace. Keep driving them. Don’t give them an excuse to calm down.”
“Should we toss some shells after ‘em?” Mulroney suggested. “Keep ‘em stirred up?”
Booker considered that. “Only if we have to. Might have the opposite effect. Piss ‘em off, and make the bulls turn around, charge us.”
“Yes sir.”
Booker wiped his forehead with the rag, and rode Fred like a ship on a troubled sea.
END.
Tune in next episode for part 34, Stampede!
The rest of the Containment Protocol saga can be found here: https://raytabler.substack.com/s/containment-protocol-serial
Part 1 (the beginning), ... Part 32 (last episode), Part 34 (Coming soon)
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