Once again it was from Robert Baray’s journal that they had found this new site. Located only a mile from camp, on the other side of the foothills that separated the parking lot from the beach itself, this spot was supposedly a Chumash fishing village. A preliminary excavation had showed it to be promising, and all too soon the students had been ready to abandon Tranquillon and see what treasures awaited them at the new site.
Though a month’s worth of work couldn’t be so easily walked away from, Miriam had somewhat reluctantly given this new project her blessings. Anxious to be working in such a close proximity to the beach, the kids had gone to the site this morning in better spirits than she had seen them in weeks. Since they had to be kept busy doing something of value, she looked upon this whole excavation as a mere diversionary project. The Air Force couldn’t keep Tranquillon off limits forever. Hopefully, the ban would be lifted soon, and she could proceed with the effort her instincts told her would produce the most treasures.
Conscious of the varied collection of relics that cluttered the picnic tables before her, Miriam sat back and put down the arrowheads that she had been sorting through. Aware again of the unusual density of the morning’s fog, she rubbed her raw hands together. Her relative physical inactivity had allowed a moist chill to settle in her limbs. Not even the hot mug of coffee that she had been sipping was able to alleviate it.
Her coworker, Margaret, didn’t seem in the least bit effected by the cold. Dressed in a thick, woolen turtleneck, the sophomore honors student was carefully measuring each of the arrowheads, then labeling and registering them in a ledger. She was seemingly lost in her work and Miriam hated to bother her, yet she did so anyway.
“Hey, Margaret, do you mind holding down the fort on your own for a while? It’s time for me to get the old blood circulating.”
Jerking her head upward, as if emerging from a trance, the student archeologist smiled.
“Go for it, Miss Rodgers. I’ve got plenty here to keep me out of trouble.”
Certain of the legitimacy of these words, Miriam stood.
“Thanks, Margaret. I think I’ll mosey on down the beach and see what the rest of the crew has come up with. See you at lunch.”
“Don’t get lost in the fog,” said the straight-faced student, who was already turning her attention back to her work.
Not desiring to disturb Margaret any further, Miriam did her best to leave the campsite as quietly as possible. Hastily she left the semicircle of trailers and crossed the parking lot. As she began her way down the sandy trail that followed the southern bank of the Santa Ynez River downstream, she found herself disappearing in a solid wall of swirling fog. Already, the trailers were no longer visible behind her. To ward off the moist chill, she pulled up the zipper of her quilted vest and significantly lengthened her stride.
This action barely neutralized the icy current of offshore air that struck her as she rounded the bend leading toward the trestle of the elevated railroad tracks. Constructed there to convey the train safely over the river bed, the wooden trestle had a walkway cut beneath it. Miriam followed the narrow path that led under the bridge and passed a series of sand dunes.
The wind died down, to be replaced by a strange, hushed stillness. In the distance rose the constant muted tones of crashing surf. Above her, still veiled by the fog, a lonely gull cried out. Since her travels would now turn southward, she decided to follow the Santa Ynez down to the sea itself. There the firmer sand would be easier to tread upon and allow her quicker progress.
The smell of the estuary was ripe with life as she followed a mussel-lined path down to the ocean. Only able to see a few inches before her, Miriam halted when she arrived at the surf line. A clear morning would have afforded her an excellent view of Vandenberg’s northern coastline at this spot. Situated there were the base’s Minutemen launch silos, where the Air Force trained its ICBM crews.
With the sound of the crashing surf all-prevalent, she turned in the opposite direction and began her way southward. The path she now followed was determined by the tide. Careful to keep out of the water whenever possible, she walked briskly down a beach littered with all sorts of flotsam and jetsam. Because the portion of beach immediately in front of her step was the only thing that she could see, she spotted an assortment of shells, rocks, and bits of coral. Interspersed between them were thick, green, bulbous strands of freshly deposited kelp. As was the case on most beaches, evidence of man was present also. Softdrink bottles and beer cans lay beside pieces of smashed Styrofoam and cut wooden planks of all sizes. Sharp, jagged slivers of rusted metal pointed upward out of the sand like awaiting snares. Keeping as far from them as possible, she settled into a steady, brisk pace.
The chill that had bothered her earlier was no longer noticeable. With the fresh supply of blood that pumped through her veins, Miriam was even beginning to feel a bit warm. To compensate for this, she unzipped her vest.
To properly monitor her progress so that she would be able to determine the right spot to turn inland, Miriam checked her watch. She decided that a hike of ten minutes should put her where she desired.
Otherwise, unable to spot a familiar landmark, she could find herself walking all the way down to Point Arguello.
The muted cry of a foghorn was audible far in the distance, and the archaeologist found her thoughts returning to the excavation they had been recently asked to relinquish. How very frustrating it was to again ponder their predicament, yet Miriam couldn’t help but be aware of the great potential the site at Tranquillon Ridge promised. After only a month’s work, it had already produced a variety of priceless treasures. Surely, they had yet to even sample the artifacts that lay beneath the sandy soil there. Perhaps if the next afternoon’s meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Lansford went well, they could return to the Ridge without further delay.
She had to admit that she was somewhat surprised when the note inviting her to the base headquarters had arrived the previous evening. Prior to that, Lansford had been completely unresponsive to her queries.
Of course, she understood now the reason they had been ordered out of the foothills overlooking Space Launch Complexes 5 and 6. They had come close enough to breathing the toxic fumes falling in the failed Titan’s wake as it was. There was no telling what type of debris had descended upon Tranquillon, which was less than a mile from the missile’s launch site.
What disturbed Miriam the most was the abrupt manner in which they had been originally ordered to leave the Ridge. At the very least, Lansford could have shared with her the reason for this hasty resettlement.
As it turned out, they had to learn of the Titan launch from the lips of a newscaster only minutes before the missile actually sped skyward.
Then there was the manner in which the lieutenant colonel had ignored her subsequent phone calls. She had responsibilities just as he did. At the very least he could have given her a mere minute of his precious time.
The previous day’s decision to begin work at the alternative dig site had done much to release some of the tensions that were beginning to build up at camp.
For a while there, she had even been seriously considering cancelling the rest of the summer’s work. After fighting for three long years to get funding for this project, it was not an easy decision to come by, yet what else could she do?