cliff, looking for a path to the summit.
Richter and his men headed 200 meters down the shoreline and took
an easier path up onto a ridge that paralleled the shoreline.
On the ridge they found Henckel with an
arrow in his throat. They stood in a semi-circle looking down at
him. They’d never seen a man killed by an arrow before.
“Let’s go,” Richter said. “We’ll attend to
him later.”
Richter and his men continued north along
the ridge. They hadn’t gone fifty meters before they found Schmidt.
A deep stomach wound had soaked his pants with blood. His neck,
mutilated by several massive wounds, had been chopped halfway
through.
They continued to the headland where Meyer
and his men stood around the ashes of a small fire. Beside it lay
Hoffmann, his glasses still on, in a black pool of blood.
The whirling anemometer of the weather unit
made a humming sound. Richter walked to the cliff. From here he
could see Voormann’s body in the dinghy and Krause’s further up the
beach. Richter switched on his field radio and cleared his
throat.
“Osprey to Shark. Come in.”
Wolff’s voice was harsh but distinct. “Shark
here. What’s the situation?”
“Hoffmann and all four shore crew dead.”
“What? All five? How?”
“It’s primitive. Arrow, hatchet, spear…”
“And the installation?”
“Fine. For whatever reason, they didn’t
tamper with it.”
“Maybe they really are savages.”
“What now, sir?”
“Our rendezvous is twenty-four hours away.
I’ll give you two hours for recon. Search and destroy. You
understand?”
“What about our men, sir? Bury them?”
“No. For all we know, those savages are
cannibals. Bring them back aboard and we’ll bury them at sea.”
Richter left four men at the headland to
watch over the installation and the dinghies. He led the others in
a recon a kilometer down the shore where they came upon a small
cove with a tent and a boat.
They noticed the cairn. One of the men
uncovered the bodies and drew back. “Natives. A woman and two
kids.”
Richter felt nauseous and turned away. He
coughed and spat to get the taste of it from his mouth.
They went another kilometer down the shore
and saw no one. Whoever had killed Krause and his crew were gone.
Since they couldn’t kill the natives, they destroyed their camp.
They tore the tent apart and broke up the boat. They made a fire
and burned what they could, and stomped the shit out of everything
else.
They headed back along the ridge, picked up
their dead and returned to the dinghies.
~~~
After the men had gone, Agatak and Shogan
returned to their campsite. They beached well south of it and went
inland, creeping on hands and knees below the skyline of crag and
rock. They lay flattened like seal skins on the shoreline
ridge.
Their tent hung in shreds from its wooden
frame, a skeleton that had shed its skin. Their family boat, the
uniak, lay crippled on its side, spine and ribs broken. Huge rents
in the oiled sealskin gaped like open mouths that could only drink
the ocean.
Everything lay in a smoldering heap: boots
and hats and mittens, the two bearskins under which they’d all
slept, the baby’s basket of seal-rib and fox fur. Pots and pans,
tin cups and plates were scattered, flattened or folded in
defeat.
A low growl clawed its way from Agatak’s
throat as he descended the slope to the beach. He ran a hand across
the slashed skins of his tent, feeling the pain of an animal that’d
died twice. He stumbled to the wrecked boat and fingered its broken
ribs, gauging his skill to mend this battered hulk. He looked
around the campsite at all their things burned and scattered. His
heart too was shattered, lurching in stricken steps through the
memory of his years, seeing Nuna mother each baby...
He picked up the baby’s rag doll, turned it
in his hands. He laid it on his shoulder, cradled it against his
neck. He patted its back, rubbed his nose against its face. Tears
glinted in the corners of his
Richter and his men headed 200 meters down the shoreline and took
an easier path up onto a ridge that paralleled the shoreline.
On the ridge they found Henckel with an
arrow in his throat. They stood in a semi-circle looking down at
him. They’d never seen a man killed by an arrow before.
“Let’s go,” Richter said. “We’ll attend to
him later.”
Richter and his men continued north along
the ridge. They hadn’t gone fifty meters before they found Schmidt.
A deep stomach wound had soaked his pants with blood. His neck,
mutilated by several massive wounds, had been chopped halfway
through.
They continued to the headland where Meyer
and his men stood around the ashes of a small fire. Beside it lay
Hoffmann, his glasses still on, in a black pool of blood.
The whirling anemometer of the weather unit
made a humming sound. Richter walked to the cliff. From here he
could see Voormann’s body in the dinghy and Krause’s further up the
beach. Richter switched on his field radio and cleared his
throat.
“Osprey to Shark. Come in.”
Wolff’s voice was harsh but distinct. “Shark
here. What’s the situation?”
“Hoffmann and all four shore crew dead.”
“What? All five? How?”
“It’s primitive. Arrow, hatchet, spear…”
“And the installation?”
“Fine. For whatever reason, they didn’t
tamper with it.”
“Maybe they really are savages.”
“What now, sir?”
“Our rendezvous is twenty-four hours away.
I’ll give you two hours for recon. Search and destroy. You
understand?”
“What about our men, sir? Bury them?”
“No. For all we know, those savages are
cannibals. Bring them back aboard and we’ll bury them at sea.”
Richter left four men at the headland to
watch over the installation and the dinghies. He led the others in
a recon a kilometer down the shore where they came upon a small
cove with a tent and a boat.
They noticed the cairn. One of the men
uncovered the bodies and drew back. “Natives. A woman and two
kids.”
Richter felt nauseous and turned away. He
coughed and spat to get the taste of it from his mouth.
They went another kilometer down the shore
and saw no one. Whoever had killed Krause and his crew were gone.
Since they couldn’t kill the natives, they destroyed their camp.
They tore the tent apart and broke up the boat. They made a fire
and burned what they could, and stomped the shit out of everything
else.
They headed back along the ridge, picked up
their dead and returned to the dinghies.
~~~
After the men had gone, Agatak and Shogan
returned to their campsite. They beached well south of it and went
inland, creeping on hands and knees below the skyline of crag and
rock. They lay flattened like seal skins on the shoreline
ridge.
Their tent hung in shreds from its wooden
frame, a skeleton that had shed its skin. Their family boat, the
uniak, lay crippled on its side, spine and ribs broken. Huge rents
in the oiled sealskin gaped like open mouths that could only drink
the ocean.
Everything lay in a smoldering heap: boots
and hats and mittens, the two bearskins under which they’d all
slept, the baby’s basket of seal-rib and fox fur. Pots and pans,
tin cups and plates were scattered, flattened or folded in
defeat.
A low growl clawed its way from Agatak’s
throat as he descended the slope to the beach. He ran a hand across
the slashed skins of his tent, feeling the pain of an animal that’d
died twice. He stumbled to the wrecked boat and fingered its broken
ribs, gauging his skill to mend this battered hulk. He looked
around the campsite at all their things burned and scattered. His
heart too was shattered, lurching in stricken steps through the
memory of his years, seeing Nuna mother each baby...
He picked up the baby’s rag doll, turned it
in his hands. He laid it on his shoulder, cradled it against his
neck. He patted its back, rubbed his nose against its face. Tears
glinted in the corners of his
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