A Dance of Devils
WarGate Operator is pleased to provide this expanded preview of A Dance of Devils by Mark Sibley.
Text © 2023 by Mark Sibley.
ONE
MV Shark, Western Atlantic
Saturday
His hands were sticky with blood.
The blood wasn’t his. It was never his. But it was always there. Sometimes a congealed rust color and other times dripping bright red.
Tavis Kinley stood in the dirt street of a small village in Afghanistan on one of their unit’s patrols. He was alone this time. On other occasions there were vehicles and villagers here with him, and once in a while his wife, Moira, was right next to him as he tried to explain to her what they were doing here.
A growl sounded from the side of the road, where a dog was tugging at something. He didn’t look; he already knew what it was. He looked instead at his hands, which now held his rifle, a C8 SFW 5.56mm, made in Canada by Colt for the British Special Forces—specifically the British Special Boat Service (SBS), the sister service to the famed SAS.
He raised the rifle, sealed his cheek to the stock, and looked through the scope, acquiring his target. He hesitated—as he always did. It was just him, the growling, tugging dog, and the small body the dog was tugging at. No matter who or what else was here, the small boy’s body was always here, half eaten by the packs of dogs that roamed the countryside.
He slid his right index finger to the trigger.
Boom!
Tavis opened one eye, then the other. The rusting, baby-blue ceiling of the room pulled him from the dream. It wasn’t a nightmare any longer. Not every time, at least. Just a routine of sorts.
He felt a hand on his chest.
“Okay, Tav?” Moira’s sleepy voice drifted over him.
His brother, Tanner, had pushed together two cots for him and Moira. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than the floor in this joke of a stateroom. He noted with some surprise that they weren’t rolling this morning. The Shark hadn’t stopped rolling since they’d left Scotland. But the boat hummed and vibrated, so they were still underway.
“Aye, okay, love. Same dream. Happy New Year.”
He stretched his still weak legs. Not long ago he had been in orbit on the International Space Station—before he, Pasha, and Joey had been forced to evacuate. Their rough landing in Kazakhstan was the start of a desperate journey across Asia, then Europe, and now hopefully somewhere south of Bermuda, floating on this rusting, leaking, and squeaking tub his brother called a boat.
“The new year was a week ago,” Moira said. “You’re addled. Perhaps I could help you put that dream out of your mind.” She snuggled her body up next to him and purred like a cat.
“Gross,” came the voice of their fifteen-year-old daughter, Maighen. Apparently she was awake on her thin mattress on the floor.
“Shit,” Moira said softly.
Tavis gave a low laugh. “Mornin’, Meg. How’s the seasickness?”
“Mornin’, Daddy. Better this morning. Mother.” She said the last word flatly.
“This is what I put up with,” Moira said. “Wrapped around her pinky, you are, but she’s nothin’ but snark for me.”
Tavis tried to steer the conversation in another direction. “Where’re your brothers?”
“Double D are up on deck with Uncle Tanner.”
“What did I say about that term, Meg?” Moira snapped.
“You’re the two geniuses who named them Dougal and Duncan, not me. This is my hill, and I’ll be dyin’ on it.”
The door opened, and Duncan, one half of the seventeen-year-old twins, stuck his head in. “You awake, Da?”
“Single D,” Maighen whispered from the floor.
“Maighen!” Moira barked.
“Shut ya hole, Meg,” said Duncan. “Da, Uncle Tanner needs you on deck. He said he wants you to look at something and that we may have a situation. He also said to get your ass up.”
Moira snapped again. “Language, Duncan! I swear to Christ, I don’t care if the world’s at war, you kids will keep your tongues clean, or I’ll take ’em out.”
“Tell your uncle I’m on the way,” Tavis said. Then to his ladies: “You two, cease fire.”
As Duncan shut the door, Tavis swung his legs off the edge of the cot. He pulled on pants and a heavy jacket over his white T-shirt, then added his Merrell hiking boots and a tiger-stripe camo bucket hat before grabbing the L1A1 rifle that was propped in the corner. He’d gotten the rifle from Alfie before they’d left Scotland. The weapons were illegal in Great Britain, but the old man and his partner in crime, Owen, had had several weapons of this sort stashed away. Being lawbreakers didn’t seem to bother the old fools.
Tavis left the tiny room and navigated the narrow passageway. Their quarters were in the fo’c’sle, in the bow of the Shark with the crew quarters. His brother had better quarters, just below the bridge in the squat superstructure aft, but it was his boat, after all. As Tavis emerged onto the deck, his breath curled in the cold January air. The morning sun hit his eyes, and he cursed at his forgotten sunglasses.
The Shark was a rear-loading roll-on/roll-off vehicle carrier, smallish by today’s standards and Soviet-built in the 1980s. Tanner had acquired her a decade ago and had done a full refit. She had a nice symmetry to her. A wide beam, or width, with the vehicles loaded aft and driven under the high superstructure where the bridge was onto the vehicle deck. There were currently three British Warrior infantry fighting vehicles on the deck, arranged for maximum stability—one under the superstructure and one on either side in front of the superstructure, leaving a large empty area that could easily fit several more. All were fueled and ready to go, though they had no ammunition for their thirty-millimeter cannons.
Tanner and his twins were standing in the open area between the two vehicles. As Tavis joined them, his brother handed him a steaming cup of black coffee.
“’Bout time you were up.”
“I’d have more reason if you had creamer for this mud you drink.” Tavis sipped the black liquid. It was bitter, but he knew the caffeine would help. He’d been drinking this mud his whole military career. It was standard on deployment, including the several times he was on a submarine for coastal operations in the Gulf or Med.
“Soft is what you’ve become.” Tanner blew cigar smoke at Tavis, but it drifted away on the cold breeze.
“Aye, you’re not wrong. Now, why am I up? Sitrep? What’s all this now?” Tavis gestured to his twins. Dougal had what looked like controls for a drone in his hands, and they were both focused on an iPad that Duncan held.
“I thought I’d teach the lads here to fly my drone. Got it to help with various situations in dicey parts of the world. Not much use now, but figured the lads would have some fun with it all the same. High-resolution camera on it and other capabilities.”
“You woke me up for this?” Tavis said.
“Not precisely, no. There’s something in the water I want you to check out with your own eyes. See if we agree. We’re in pretty calm seas, which is odd for this time of year, but we are in the Bermuda Triangle, so, stranger things, I ’spose. The water’s pretty clear. Dougal has the drone with its camera directly above us, about two hundred feet at altitude.”
“We’ve got company, Da. At least that’s what we think,” Duncan said, his voice filled with excitement.
“Really? Lemme look.” Tavis took the iPad from his son and sat on the deck so he could put his mug of mud down.
“Here. Put this over you to shield the glare of the morning sun.” Duncan draped his jacket over Tavis and the iPad. That was better.
“What does that look like to you just to starboard?” Tanner asked.
“I can’t really make it out, but… I guess there does seem to be a shadow or something there,” Tavis replied.
“Duncan, switch to the thermal camera,” Tanner said. “This is where it gets fun.”
Duncan must have hit a switch on his controls, because the view on the iPad changed.
“Bloody ’ell!” Tavis said. “That’s a sub. Just about periscope depth, though no periscope is up. There’s an overall silhouette. I suppose just a tad warmer than the water. That screw churning confirms it.”
“Aye.”
“What they doin’, Da?” the twins asked in unison.
“Duncan, level out the camera, switch back from thermal, and do a full scan of the horizon,” Tavis said.
It took Duncan a minute to get it leveled, then he started to rotate the camera.
“Stop!” Tavis said. “Hold it right there. Tanner, get under here and tell me what that looks like.”
Tavis and Tanner switched positions.
“Can you zoom the camera right there a bit, Duncan?” Tanner asked.
Duncan once again manipulated the controls.
Tanner gave a low whistle. “Those are two Russian warships. Frigates probably, but I can’t fully make ’em out.”
Tavis looked at his twins. “You asked me what that sub’s doing? It’s hiding, lads.”
Sammy yelled down from the flybridge. “Captain, air contact to port. Helicopter!”
“Bloody ’ell!” said Tavis. “Duncan, land that drone here on the deck and secure it. Let’s go, Tanner.”
Tavis followed his brother up the exterior stairs, through a hatch, and up into the bridge. Sammy handed his binoculars to Tanner, Tavis grabbed an extra set from the instrument console, and they both went out on the port flybridge, scanning the area Sammy was pointing at, low on the horizon.
“There it is,” Tavis said. “Coming in pretty fast. Looks like an MH60 Knighthawk. Probably American. What’s on radar?”
“Sammy, go fire up the radar. We aren’t running it full-time, Tav. Only check it every couple of hours so we stay as invisible as possible. That may have been a mistake.”
The helicopter approached the Shark off the port side, slowed, oriented the cockpit to face the flybridge, and moved sideways to keep speed with the Shark. They were only about thirty yards out, spraying salt water everywhere. Tavis relaxed a bit after seeing the US flag on the side of the bird. He also noticed they were carrying two MK-52 torpedoes, one on either side, just underneath the cabin.
The pilot held up two fingers and then pointed repeatedly off to their starboard. Tavis gave a thumbs-up. “Radar up yet?” he yelled back into the bridge.
“It’s up! Two surface contacts bearing one-two-zero at just over fifteen nautical miles and closing. One surface contact bearing two-three-zero at ten nautical miles, also closing fast,” Sammy yelled back.
Tanner let his binoculars drop to his chest and moved instead to a set of really big binoculars, known as big eyes to some, mounted on a pole on the flybridge. After a moment, he turned back to his brother.
“Two Russian frigates, as I thought, still unsure of class. And Russian for sure, from their masts.”
“Not good. That helo is surely from an American ship off the other direction. Helo is using us to hide from the Russians,” Tavis said.
Two voices spoke from behind them.
“Fookin’ brilliant!”
“Totally wicked!”
Tavis turned to see his twins standing on the port flybridge, staring in awe at the shadowing helicopter. He yelled at them over the rotor noise.
“You two go get your mum and sister and get your life jackets on!”
They went quick, knowing their father’s tone.
“Looks like everyone is using my fookin’ boat ta fookin’ hide,” Tanner said.
The noise from the helicopter grew somehow even louder as it lifted and flew directly over them, picking up speed fast. Once it was away from the Shark, it began to deploy flares rapidly from both sides of the fuselage.
Sammy shouted another report. “Multiple air contacts moving fast from the Russian ships bearing to the other contact at two-three-zero.” His voice rose as he spoke. “Russians are maneuvering now. Change in bearings. More air contacts from the other contact!”
“The other contact is an American ship, Sammy. This should be interesting,” Tavis said. “Look!”
He pointed aft, where multiple anti-ship missiles from all three ships, some rising high and others skimming the waves, passed each other in the air. Even though the Russians were way out on their starboard, they were firing missiles at the American ship which was sort of on their port but way aft, so all the action was behind them, except for the helo.
A moment later he turned at the sound of an explosion way off the starboard bow. A Russian anti-aircraft missile had been destroyed in the web of flares the helo had laid down behind it as it flew toward the Russians. The helo was just a dot out on the horizon at this point, but Tavis could see it drop both torpedoes as it flew low over the surface of the calm sea. Tavis was getting whiplash by all the action in different directions.
No more than thirty seconds after that, several more explosions rumbled over the water. All from the direction of the American ship.
“Shit! American is hit!”
Then explosions in the other direction. By the time Tavis got his glass to the Russians, there was only one vessel afloat.
“Got damn!” Tanner yelled. “The other one is still in the fight. Still turning, trying to lose those helo torps.”
“They should have hit by now. I wonder…” Tavis said as he watched through the glasses. The Russian frigate turned this way and that until it lifted up out of the water so violently the keel broke in half in the air. It was then rocked by a second blast.
“Sammy, what’s on radar?” Tanner yelled into the bridge.
“Air contact is the only contact. No surface contacts. No Russian ships and no American ship. That was bloody fast.”
“Tanner, get me a wrench or hammer and meet me down on deck,” Tavis said. He started down the stairs.
“What ya doin’?”
“I wanna know who’s down there in that sub. That last Russian was hit by torpedoes, and not from the helo.”
Moments later Tavis was banging Morse code on the side of the Shark with a metal hammer. He kept at it until Tanner yelled down from the flybridge. “Submarine on the starboard side! Surfacing!”
At the same moment, the American Knighthawk screamed overhead, heading to where the American ship should have been.
Tavis climbed back up to the flybridge and watched in awe as a submarine surfaced just enough for the conning tower to exit the water, and sailors appeared.
Tavis gestured to the large empty space in front of the vehicles. “That helo doesn’t have anywhere to land since there are no other surface contacts. How big’s your deck here?”
“It’ll be tight,” Tanner answered as he came out of the bridge with a bullhorn.
They watched the activity on the top of the smooth conning tower only thirty yards off the starboard beam as someone who could only be the captain with an officer’s cover on raised his own bullhorn.
“This is Commander Blackstone, captain of the HMS Vengeance. Who are you, and where are you heading?”
“Brits!” Tanner said happily.
“Bollocks,” Tavis replied.
“What, Tav? What’s wrong? They’re British,” Tanner said, clearly confused.
“I was on Blackstone’s sub during my last deployment. We had a… disagreement.”
“What sort of disagreement, Tav?”
“I told him to have sexual relations with a sheep.”
“Well, I suppose that was less cordial than he’d be used to,” Tanner said, rolling his eyes.
“Tell him who we are and let’s get this over with,” Tavis said.
“This is Tanner Kinley, captain of the merchant vessel Shark. Heading to the Outer Banks for safe harbor.” He lowered the bullhorn.
Commander Blackstone’s reply didn’t sound friendly. “Is that Staff Sergeant Tavis Kinley standing next to you, Captain Kinley?”
Tavis grabbed the bullhorn from his brother and contemplated his words carefully. Blackstone was a rigid, by-the-book sort.
“Top of the mornin’ to you, Bobby! Good to see you again. Exciting morning,” Tavis said, voice booming across the water.
“If I had known you were on board, I’d have blown you out of the water earlier,” Blackstone replied.
Tavis didn’t like his use of the word “earlier.”
TWO
West Virginia
Saturday
An scanned the paper map in the flat, somewhat vertical map holder in front of him in the commander’s hatch. They were rolling along a side road that paralleled Route 48 in eastern West Virginia, driving west toward Kentucky, and the sun was on its midmorning rise just behind them as they drove, but it provided little warmth to counter the frigid, biting wind that assaulted his face. At least the snow had mostly melted here, at least off the blacktop roads, so they moved at a good speed.
“My ass is asleep. This seat is worthless,” An said to no one in particular. The seat in the LAV-25 [LAM1] was even more uncomfortable than his seat in the Abrams.
He and Sergeant Nelson had switched places for this. Nelson was now Alice’s commander—Nelson was prior armor and felt comfortable taking charge of the Abrams main battle tank—and An got Nelson’s clown car. Sergeant Buford—or Cueball, as the guys had started calling him after dispatching those meth-head clowns on their escape from Kentucky—sat in the gunner’s hatch to An’s left, his sniper rifle stowed below, his M-4 resting across the hatch. In the back, An had three of his Marines with him, aside from the driver and Buford. He heard loud voices from the passenger compartment, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
“Hey, Gunny?” came a voice from below.
“What?”
“We in West Virginia now? These my people, Gunny.” It was Lance Corporal Francois. They all just called him Frenchie. He was full-on hillbilly and quite excited to be back in his environment. He’d been asking “are we there yet” ever since leaving the Humvee with Sergeant Simmons and Gale Washington at the entrance to Mount Weather a couple hours earlier. Hopefully they would be able to get into the complex, see whoever was in charge, and relay their intel. That was An’s first mission. Complete. Now he was on his own mission.
“Yeah, Frenchie. We’re in West Virginia now,” An said.
“Nice!” came the reply, and then the singing—badly—of “Country Roads” drifted up from the troop compartment. Of course. The others soon joined in.
An looked over at Buford, who didn’t look at him but was smiling.
Then Buford joined in on the chorus.
“Fucking hate you!” An barked. He shook his head and took a long pull from the water bottle he kept close. He was still pretty dehydrated from his rough patch with the flu a few days ago. Many of the people in their little neighborhood had gotten it to one degree or another.
They were doing about thirty-five miles an hour on this two-lane road, which wound around this hill and that. Trees grew right on the edge of the blacktop, then a field would appear, then right back to trees again. They hadn’t seen a soul for a good twenty minutes.
Another field appeared, this one with an older man on a horse walking through it. The man waved at An, and An waved back as they moved on past. They didn’t stop to talk with people, although they’d need to stop soon to refuel. There were plenty of gas stations, but many were deserted.
“Sergeant,” he said to Buford, and pointed.
Buford followed his finger out to a spot in the sky just above the trees. “What is—oh, that’s some bullshit. Can a brother ever get away from fucking clowns? Goddamn West Virginia hillbilly mother…”
An laughed, then put on his game face. Clearly there was someone around the next bend in the road, because that red balloon floating above the trees hadn’t just popped into existence all on its own.
“Driver! Slow down here. There’s some weird shit up ahead.”
The LAV slowed to about fifteen miles per hour as they rounded the bend, where the sides opened up into fields and a three-way stop sign. Buford was aiming his M-4, searching for threats, targets, and clowns. The road straightened after the bend. An didn’t have to tell the driver to stop.
“What in the farmer’s fuck is this shit?” Buford said.
An took in the scene as he pulled his own M-4 up out of the hatch.
Frenchie called up from the troop compartment. “Why y’all badmouthin’ my kin? What’s goin’ on up there?”
“Well, Frenchie,” An replied, “there’s about a hundred cows, sheep, goats, even a random pig out here. They’re blocking the road and all over a field to the right. Get ready.”
Buford pointed to the right. “There’s the balloon launcher.”
“No clowns this time. Just an old dude with some kids,” An said.
The old man was out front of an old gas station convenience store, with five young kids all running around him with colored balloons. The old man filled up another one from an air tank, tied it off, and handed it to the only little boy without a balloon.
“Y’all miss a turn or somethin’?” A middle-aged man with an AK-47 cinched up tight to his chest by a sling appeared out of the woods just beside the gas station. A hog walked in front of him.
“Yeah, they lost,” a woman said, stepping out of the gas station’s swinging glass door, followed by two other women and several men. All were armed in one fashion or another, and all were dressed pretty much as An would expect farmers to be dressed. Boots, jeans, flannel shirts, coats.
An turned to the man with the AK. “How y’all doing?” An didn’t think he’d ever said “y’all” before in his life, but for some reason, he wanted to fit in right now. Then he whispered down into the hatch: “Frenchie, get out here and talk to your people for us.”
The rear doors of the LAV opened, and Frenchie popped out onto the blacktop as more men walked out of the tree line, all similarly armed. They looked more curious than menacing. As Frenchie walked around the LAV, Buford adjusted his M-4.
“Easy!” The man beside the gas station quickly pointed his AK-47 at Buford.
“Whoa! It’s okay. We’re no threat,” An said. He laid a hand on Buford’s right arm, and Buford lowered his M-4 back to where it was.
“Stop!” a raspy but booming voice. An saw the old balloon man was now standing half way between the gas station and the LAV.
“That’s Frenchie there,” An shouted back. “He’s from these parts—or at least West Virginia.”
Frenchie walked up to the old man and held out his hand.
“Y’all Marines?” the old man asked, shaking Frenchie’s hand.
“Yes, sir! I’m Gunnery Sergeant Nguyen, and these are my Marines.”
“I was at Chosin,” the old man said.
“Oorah, sir!”
The old man waved dismissively at An’s attempt at respect. “Y’all know what’s happened? We haven’t had any information since the power cut and cars died.”
“I’ll tell you what we know. Easier if I come down there.”
“Well, come on then, Gunny. Anything y’all need?”
“We could use some fuel, if you have any.”
“Let’s chat, and my boys will fix y’all up with that. Call me Wrench.”
Ten minutes later, the Marines were all out stretching their legs, and the LAV was nearly done being topped off with fuel. An and Buford sat in plastic chairs near the balloon-filling air canister, relaying what information they had while the children climbed all over the LAV under the supervision of Frenchie and some of the women, who had to repeatedly tell the kids not to touch stuff. Wrench told them a bit about Korea and how his name was given to him there, where he was a mechanic but always a Marine. Then An filled the old man in on everything they knew about the current situation.
“Fucking’ Chicoms!” Wrench spat when An was finished. “And what’s your mission in all this, Gunny?”
“A large group of these Russian and Iranian infiltrators hit Fort Knox while I was there on Christmas Eve. Attacked our convoy. We were the only ones that made it out. We’re on our way back to find my brother, also a Marine, and one of our neighbors’ kids. Going to bring them back with us or die trying.”
“Sounds like Marine shit to me. Anything else you need?”
“No, sir. You’ve been more helpful than we could have hoped for. We may pass back this way. Care if we stop to refuel when we do?”
“We’ll be here, Gunny. Doin’ just fine, like before ’lectricity died. But just in case, we’ll call the Billy in from the hollers yonder. No Chicoms gonna get up in these parts.”
“The Billy?” Buford asked.
“Hillbillies, Sergeant. What you see ’round here’s just the tip. We’re spread out. Here’s a red balloon for ya.” Wrench inflated another balloon and handed it to Buford.
Buford took it uneasily. “What’s this for?”
“To go with y’all’s clown car there.”
Buford looked at the LAV in confusion.
An laughed. “You didn’t even notice, Sergeant. Check the front.”
Buford walked back to the LAV and squatted down, looking at the diagonal armor that came up from the bottom to meet the top front armor at a forty-five-degree angle. “What the blueberry fuck! That girl. Who put her up to this shit?”
An and the rest of the Marines laughed their asses off. There on the armor plating was a skeletal face with red eyes, rosy cheeks, orange hair, and a mouth showing rotting teeth in an evil smile. Scrawled beneath were the words Semper Fi.
“I hate you all,” Buford said.
“Got a problem with clowns, do ya, Sergeant?” Wrench asked.
“I had an incident,” Buford replied.
“More than one,” said An. “We call him Cueball, sir. For Clown Eradication Unit, but with the letters arranged different.” To Buford he added: “You’ll have to take it up with Sergeant Simmons when we get back.”
“Yep, this the Marine shit I remember,” said Wrench. “Does an old Marine good. If y’all need anything on your way back, you come here. We got you.”
It was then that a horse and rider appeared at the top of the hill. As he sauntered his mount down to the gas station, An stared, dumbstruck. The man who dismounted was tall, thin, and wore a United States Air Force flight suit. His short red hair was covered by a hat with the rank of captain displayed on it, and the leather holster strapped to the front of his flight suit had what looked like a 1911 in it.
“You lose your ride, sir?” An asked as the man approached.
They shook hands. “It’s right where I left it, Sergeant. Name’s Voodoo,” the captain replied.
“I gotta say, pretty surreal seeing you ride up like that. What’s your situation? We’re going to Fort Knox to collect a couple folks and bring them back to Northern Virginia.”
Voodoo laughed. “It’s pretty surreal doing it, Sergeant. I’m with the 75th out of Moody Air Force Base in Georgia. Took a week or so for the crews to get a couple A-10s operational again after the EMP. Mine was one of them. I parked it thataway.” He thumbed over his shoulder the way he rode in. “Got a couple of kin collecting jet fuel from the local airstrip. I’ve got a full combat load. Didn’t know what I’d need, so they put a bit of everything on the points. Bombs, Mavericks, rockets, Sidewinders. Just don’t have any targets yet.”
“Well hopefully we’ll be back this way with our people in a day or so. We had some excitement at Knox and then also back in Northern Virginia. I’m sure there’s gonna be targets for you. Maybe we’ll vector you in for some when we come back through. What brings you this way?”
Voodoo tilted his head toward the old man. “Family.”
“He’s my grandson,” Wrench said. “I don’t give him too much grief for joining the Air Force. Hell, Warthog drivers are basically infantry anyway.” Voodoo barked a laugh. “It scared the hell out of us when he landed on the road over the hill with no warning. Just appeared like a ghost.”
“The Ghost of Appalatcha!” Frenchie blurted out.
“I like it. I like it very much,” Voodoo replied. He looked at the LAV and its painted-on mascot. “Nice clown car you got there.”
“Shit’s never gonna end,” Buford muttered, pulling out his Ka-Bar knife to pop the balloon.
“You hold that balloon, Sergeant! Mount up!” An snapped.
Wrench nearly fell over in laughter.
The women got all the kids off the LAV, and An and the rest mounted up.
“We’ll be here if you pass this way again,” the man with the AK said. He slapped the side of the clown car, then ushered the hogs out of the way.
“Bring targets, Sergeant,” Voodoo added. “I’ve got a lot of hate that needs to be sent.”
“Roger that, Captain. Thank you, and good luck.” An turned to Buford and said quietly, “And you hold that balloon high and proud until we’re out of earshot.”
“Shit’s not right, Gunny. Some bullshit…”
But despite his grumbling, Buford held the red balloon waving in the breeze as the LAV rolled down the road.
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