They were on a plateau, higher than they’d been before. Until now they'd been eking their way along the cusp of the natural ridge, above the afternoon heat haze settling like living, moving gossamer over the lowlands at their feet, warming themselves and drying their wet things.
The sun, vast and red as it sank toward the horizon, was playing hide and seek between the spindle trunks and fern, setting upon the world and the wild lands of Solomon. In the distance, in the direction they assumed to be south, the flanks of the mountains were chalked a vivid pink, their peaks surrounded by salmon halos of cloud.
Kingdom was standing with his back to the company, squinting at his compass while Barb fiddled with the radio gear. "S'no good. Just static," he adjusted the bulky headphones and frowned, twisted fussily with the controls then listened again. "Hang on. Getting something." Armen hunkered down beside the thin figure of Barb and leaned close toward the headphones.
"What is that?"
A look of intense concentration creased Barb's features. He seemed to pale, mouth opening slightly. "The fuck?"
"Give me those," Armen pulled one headphone out on its hinge and turned it to his own ear.
"...aiders... regiment are... ulling out. I repeat pulling out. By order... Commander Brock... Nautilus. In the bay. ETA.... I repeat, ETA twelve..."
The radio screamed and both Armen and Barb yanked the headphones from their ears. "Sweet Jesus," Barb glowered at the radio.
The others were staring at them. "Well?" Stone quirked the buzz-cut of his square head to one side.
"Sounded like the Major's voice," Armen blinked at Kingdom, a silhouette against the deep blue gradient of the sky as he stood over them, watching and waiting. "Something about pulling out and an ETA. Orders of Commander Brock Nautilus. Make any sense to you Colonel?"
"Aye," Kingdom tucked the compass into the loop of his belt. "How long was the ETA?"
"Twelve... just twelve. The radio died."
"Fuckin' radio died?" Barb rubbed his ear, "sounded like the radio exploded at their end."
"Not entirely implausible," Frenchy bit down on the stem of his pipe.
"Le's hope it's twelve hours. Long enough fer us to yomp it back to the beach-head."
"You think we're pulling out of Makin? Off the job?" Barb looked hopeful.
Kingdom nodded, "Nautilus is a sub, not a person. Commander Bill Brockman Junior was her skipper last I knew. Looks like a full retreat."
"Twelve hours and we're off this godforsaken rock forever? Shit," Bierman shuffled uncomfortably on the lichen covered perch he'd chosen as his rest-stop. "Can we make it in twelve hours?"
"Given we don't have a fuckin' clue where we are," Rompus growled, staring at Kingdom with a mutinous eye, "I'd say that's unlikely."
"Can't even see the ocean from here," Red Rag, sitting next to his wartime partner in crime, agreed with Rompus as he always did. The pair were inseperable as twins, unlikely a match as Stalin and Churchill. Rompus, acid-tongued and ashen faced was always quick to point out the faults of others or leap on their mistakes to cover his own. He was the perfect bolster to Red Rag's temper and careless fist.
"That's enough," Armen shot Rompus a warning eye.
"Ye've a point though Rompus, ye scrawny assed bastard." Kingdom winked, conveying good humour and dire warning in one. "Compass is fecked, radio's down. Ah've studied maps of this place for months but ah dinnae recognize a single damn part of this ridge."
