Chapter 2: Envoy from the Clouds
November drifted down from the heavens, landing on the side of a large mountain with a thud. For a few hours, he sat, unconscious, then awoke to find himself on the side of the reddish, sandy ridge. Then the captain awakened from his 'slumber' and looked to the sky.
The skirmish was over. The airspace was clear again; and it couldn't bode well to know what had happened. November unstrapped himself from the ejector seat which perched itself at an awkward angle, half embedded in the sandy dirt. A buzzard wheeled in the sky overhead, the sun beating down on the area. November continued to inch his way awkwardly across the sand when he saw a faint glimmer, far off in the distance, possibly on the next mountain. At least a full day's journey. Without a doubt in the world, November wouldn't be up to the task, at least until he had rested up a bit.
The captain made his way back to the ejector seat and looked around at his surroundings. A few scraggly, dry bushes grew in the sand, just barely eking out an existence in the arid, deserted mountains. November sighed, and said a brief memento to himself.
"I'll have to find food and water within three days, or I'll starve." November thought as hard as he could, and remembered seeing a small patch of green on his descent to earth. It wasn't far away, probably somewhere near the summit- at most an hour journey, two if he really wanted to push his limit.
"No time like the present," Avery repeated to himself, and trudged up the mountain. The whole way, the glimmer on the far off peak poked at his conscience, and at least once he lost his footing and tripped, eventually his face meeting the red dirt on the ground. His blonde/brown hair became a dusty red/brown, but eventually he crested the hilltop.
A small spring bubbled contentedly from the ground, fuelling a small patch of grass that petered off into the dry, arid ground around it. The spring water looked inviting, and November dipped his hands into it. The water came back, reflecting his dusty, dirty, red face. The captain sloshed the water onto his face, and small rivulets caked with ruddy dirt ran down his neck and off his chin, dotting the ground below. He sighed contentedly and sat down on a patch of grass near the edge and dozed, his flight suit reflecting the light.
He awoke about two hours later to the sound of shuffling footsteps, about four, five yards down the hill from his position. November laid ramrod stiff, rolling his head over toward the sound. At the edge of the grass stood a wild boar, about waist high, its scarred visage reflected across the pool even at that distance. November caught his breath and slipped a hand to the grip of his Beretta, then thought against it and drew his hand away again. To waste bullets on a target as tough as that would be signing his own death warrant; and to run out of ammo behind enemy lines with little chance of rescue would be the dumbest move he could make in B7R.
Instead, November rolled into a crouch and steadily moved around to the opposite side of the spring and laid down behind a small partition of chaparral and watched. The boar moved to the edge of the spring, and nosed the water. It grunted in a low, grainy voice (typical boar) and drank from the spring, then walked away from the spring and out of sight. November, who hadn't realized he was holding his breath, released his breath and stood up, circling through a depression in the chaparral.
He took another drink of the spring water and poked around. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, Captain November found a small bush of wild strawberries.
"Strawberries, thank God. Just as long as I have some whipped cream." He laughed, a short and humorless guffaw. He gathered up a few of the small, red berries and pocketed them. Then he looked out towards the glimmer.
"No time like the present…" November popped a couple of the small berries into his mouth and stepped away from the spring, moving across the small mountain peak and out to the east.
MEANWHILE…
The small glint in the distance gave away the position of a wrecked Osean F-14 Tomcat. The sound of static could be heard from within the wreckage. Nearby, several footprints circle the wreck, showing a fallen man. He is stocky, his flight suit sticky with sweat. Higgins rolls over, his bloody and shaded face laid bare to the elements. He sat up, and coughed some sand out of his throat.
From his perspective, a few vague figures could be seen moving across the desert. If one looked hard enough, they could see a Belkan insignia on a truck they were traveling with…