Eventually a squad of marines from the Eighty-second MEU, pounding the soft sand on an early-morning run, discovered the corpses. Sergeant Clifford Hardy, jogging a few feet in front of his men, was the first to notice the dark shapes at the water’s edge a couple of hundred meters down the beach. Like the others who’d seen the bodies from a distance he immediately assumed them to be a couple flaked out after a long night. They were entwined closely enough to be lovers. Bouncing along, five kilometers into an eight-kilometer run, with sweat in his eyes, he caught just a glimpse at first, a watery blur, and was inclined to ignore the sight. If anything, he was slightly pissed at the prospect of having to detour around them, but when a stronger line of shore break closed out just a few feet from the couple and washed right over the top of them, he knew straightaway they were corpses. The bodies rolled with the white water. One of them, a much darker one, he realized then, flipped right over with the lifeless heft of the dead.

Sergeant Hardy was a twenty-year man. He was well acquainted with the dead.

“Yo! Hold up!” he yelled.

The line of marines, deep in the trance of a long-distance run, stumbled over each other at the unexpected halt.

“S’up Sarge?” cried Warlow. “Your ticker giving out. You need your pills?”

“Shut up, Warlow,” Hardy said quietly, his stillness silencing the men.

They all switched instantly to a watchful keenness. They were dressed for PT, not combat. None carried weapons. One man rubbed the tips of his fingers together. Another cracked knuckles within a closed fist. All of them shifted on the balls of their feet, turning outward, scanning for threats.

The morning was warm and fresh. A small, half-meter swell broke on the soft crescent of sand in regular sets of three waves at a time. A light onshore breeze ruffled the men’s hair and cooled the sweat that slicked their bodies.

“Warlow, run up that big dune there and have a look around,” said Hardy. “See if we got any company.”

The marine took off with a stealthy lope. All of the backchat and sass were gone from him.

“They dead, Sarge?” asked a giant rifleman.

“What do you think, butthead?” said Hardy, his eyes traversing like gun barrels.

“Looks like,” said Private Bukowski.

“They ours?” another man asked.

Hardy turned around. It was Snellgrove.

“What makes you think that, Smelly?”

The marine, a raven-haired boy from Kansas, inclined his head toward the bodies. Another wave washed over them.

“Looks like a mixed couple. And you can see their implant scars, I reckon.”

Warlow yelled down from the heights of the dune. “All clear, Sarge!”