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the LT gave him a thumb. He took a few moments to view all around. Yes, that low line of trees was likely the river, right where it was supposed to be.
    Not reassuring. They really were in the fucking Stone Age. Were there any Paleolithic people around here yet? And were they Cro-Magnon, Neanderthal, or something older? If Devereaux was right, anyone here should be modern humans. That helped. Then he wasn’t sure if he’d rather meet other people or not.
    There were little herds of goats or such dotting the ridges. He saw something that looked like large, ugly antelope in a small family group. A hare darted through grass ahead of him. Startled, he looked around and up.
    Then he realized they’d barely moved a half mile. That was two point five percent of the trip. If that held true, this was only a two-day trip. But even then, he’d be gibbering nuts.
    Caswell was getting too close.
    “Move back left,” he reluctantly ordered.
    “Yes, Sergeant.” She didn’t argue, but looked uncomfortable moving away. He understood that.
    Ahead there were more goats. At least they’d have plenty to eat, and those didn’t taste too bad. But they had to find salt, and edible vegetables, and he’d need chalk.
    His stomach hurt like hell, but he had to ration out the ranitidine as long as he could. Once it was gone, he might manage on chalk added to all his food. Or he might start dying slowly and painfully. Or he might start puking in agony until he put a bullet through his brain.
    Fifteen years ago, he’d been a physically textbook Soldier. Now . . .
    This dip was likely too deep for the undercarriage.
    He called, “Caswell, direct them your way.”
    “Roger.”
    He pointed, she waved, the LT stuck a hand out, and the vehicles angled west.
    He took the same course, and waved Dalton to do the same.
    He made a point of drinking. It wasn’t hot, but he could still dehydrate if not careful. The sun was getting high.
    A double rev of the engine sounded. He turned and the LT waved him back. Had it been two hours?
    The ache in his legs said it had been. He started to stumble back, but the LT drove forward to his position. It made sense.
    Barker dug a hasty hole behind Charlie Nine, they took care of draining in turn, and shoveled the dirt back in.
    Climbing into Charlie Nine was a relief. It was warm, dry, and sounded like the twenty-first century. And now he was terrified that whatever brought them here would take the ground guides back. He swallowed. It was PTSD, and he’d get over it eventually. They all had it, and there was nothing to be done about it.
    The LT, Alexander and Barker moved out front to guide. He took the wheel.

    Gina Alexander shook. She could take photos under fire, but this was terrifying. Her head floated above her feet, not feeling anything. Stone Age. Stranded. She had Blake, Dylan and Aislinn at home, and knew she’d never see them again.
    She knew it was a panic attack, but they weren’t supposed to last three days. She hadn’t slept beyond nausea-filled naps, even more than she had trouble sleeping anyway. Medication . . . but when it ran out, she knew what awaited her.
    She choked back a sob. Something had to take them home. Please.
    She stepped in a dip and her ankle twisted. She winced, but it wasn’t crippling. She limped for a bit, but kept on. That, too. She wasn’t physically fit enough for this. She was a middle-aged Guardsman, on loan, for publicity photos. She could handle an occasional combat sortie. But this . . . no.
    She heard the growl, twisted and fumbled, and fell. Then it jumped on her.
    “Gaaah!”
    It was a dog, a wolf, several of them. Something was stuck on her boot, and something chewed at her knee pad. She smelled rotten breath and felt it blow wet on her head, as jaws crunched at her helmet. Claws scraped and dragged through her shirt sleeve. Hot, wet drool splashed on her face.
    She squealed again, jammed her carbine into something and pulled the trigger. The animal yowled,