The guard/observer roles alternated every hour, one team on the hour and the other on the half hour, and always carefully to minimize the lost observation time. The observers were lying on a thin mat placed on the branch, which would've reduced the discomfort considerably. They had food and drink in their bags, and the trash was kept. They appeared to be four very capable professionals. I was surprised when they didn't piss into a bottle. Apparently pissing into the woods was professionally acceptable. I could've gotten a sample from each of them (cupping a few drops with an NP-bowl, putting a lid on it, then flying it rapidly away), and I could even have fetched some bottles out of the house to store the samples in, but I had no hopes that we could get access to the DNA database of our country's professional spies, or whatever these guys were.Their clothes had no names or serial numbers on them, so the only ways I could think of getting information from them were:Violence. Knock them. On the first page was written. ‘I bequeath this diary to whomever may find or want it. It is the story of my darker days.’ Even though the diary was pretty new, there were small water stains on some of the pages. Jim paused for a moment, remembering the old man. He had only been assigned to the old man’s ward a couple of days ago and the old man was in pretty bad shape, barely able to speak. Yet, they hit it off. It was like they had known each other all along. The old man always had a smile or some small joke for Jim when he came into the room. He liked that old man and he even missed him now that he was gone. Of course old is a relative term. To Jim he was old. The ‘old’ man was probably only about 50 or so, but was so weak, pale, and frail from the radiation treatments and the hard life that he obviously led, that he could have easily passed for 70. Jim took a few more bites, another swig from his bottle, and turned to the next page. The diary continued. … It all started when I.
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