The effort had called upon all her cold-weather training and experience in the military. Going uphill in snow was battling a vicious combination of gravity and the elements. But she was finally here. In a flat piece of terrain, about a hundred meters from where the plane wreckage had been there was a stone pile with a makeshift iron cross. Pieces of the wreckage were also mixed with the stones. Most of the wreckage of Uruguayan Flight 571 was gone, burned by a search party that had buried the human remains. The remains of the people from the plane. Moms was here for someone else. She read the inscription on a metal plaque, automatically translating the Spanish: The World to its Uruguayan brothers. Close, oh God, to you. Appropriate, Moms thought. She moved two hundred meters away to a large boulder. She pulled out her snow shovel, unfolded it, and began to dig into a drift piled against the rock. It took a while. How long, Moms didn’t care. What was time after all? A variable. Until you ran out of it.
What do You think about Ides Of March (Time Patrol)?
