CHAPTER 296

Howard King was twelve feet from the back of the Chinook. He had just placed a large solid case at his feet. It was one of only a few pieces of minor cargo they had brought along with them.

Howard squatted in the grass and sprang the latches on the case. With one hand he opened the lid. With the other he reached in and removed a sturdy collapsable tripod.

"What are you doing?" Smith circled him with narrow eyes. His fingers were working the toothpick at his teeth.

Howard did not answer. He quickly set up the tripod and went back to the case. What he pulled out next looked like a futuristic gun. Working with swift hands he mounted the three foot cannon-like device on the tripod.

"What the hell is that?" Smith leaned over the equipment and rubbed his curly hair.

Howard pushed him back. Smith gave an insulted sneer, but stepped away.

"It's designed to deter hazardous wildlife using high intensity sound waves." Howard explained dryly.

Smith looked around at the nearby trees. "You mean like tigers and shit?"

Howard kept assembling the device without speaking.

Two others joined Smith. They were the pilots from the other Chinook.

"What's that?" the woman asked Smith.

Howard glanced up briefly. The woman was in her mid thirties, wearing sunglasses, and had an unkempt ponytail that was coming undone. Howard noted that she and Smith were both dressed like they only went shopping for clothes at the Army Navy Store. The other pilot with the woman was a different story.

Smith snorted, "he says it's for crocodiles or something."

"Bullshit."

"Shit whatever. I don't know." Smith realized that he'd chewed his toothpick to splinters. He spit it in the grass and pulled a small plastic cylinder from his pocket. Shaking it by his ear with a satisfying rattle he popped the rubber stopper, plucked another toothpick, and stowed the container. "Reuben! Stop worrying about the time. Quit obsessing over that watch."

The other pilot looked up from a cupped pair of hands. His eyes shot at Smith. His lips were tight, his eyes bulging and round. He was a stick-like man, and somehow his face resembled something from a bygone era, like he was a character cut out of a black and white photograph. When he spoke it was quick and dynamic like an old motion picture. There was practically a rhythm to it.

"We're already taking too long." Reuben snapped the watch shut.

Smith spat, "how do you figure?"

"I don't like the look of it."

"Did your watch tell you that?"

"Well."

"Well what? Staring at that watch made you crazy in the head. You've been looking at it so much your eyes are all turning around in their sockets. You're hearing voices and shit."

The female pilot said, "Smith, shut up."

Reuben pointed a finger at Smith. "My grandfather gave me that watch, you prick, and it's enchanted with his spirit. Also it's lucky, damn lucky. It was lucky for him, and it's lucky for me. And it tells the time on a dime!"

Smith pointed his toothpick back at Reuben. "What the fffu- That's not even an expression, you antique son-of-a-bitch."

"It's a figure of speech if I say it is."

"Smith, shut the hell up," the female pilot cut in again.

Smith turned his toothpick on her. "Sparrow," he stopped. "Whatever. I don't want to talk to Reuben anyway. The man is still wearing suspenders. He looks like he's straight out of The Newsies. I'll just go back to helping the HAL 9000 with his crocodile cannon."

"He doesn't need your damn help." Sparrow brushed her hair back through her fingers, re-did her ponytail, and adjusted her aviators.

King muttered after her in Smith's direction, "I don't need your help."

Smith jammed the toothpick in his mouth, turned, and walked off mumbling, "Crazy son-of-a-bitch, Reuben and his god damned haunted watch."