They reached the tent and Welch ushered him inside. The canvas flapped violently in the wind and the rain hitting the sides sounded like grease popping in a hot skillet.
Dakota collapsed onto one of the chairs in sullen silence. Welch lit a lantern similar to the one Chip had and turned the light low enough that shadows wouldn’t fall on the fabric walls. He dug into the trunk underneath the table and produced a bottle with a brown liquid and two small plastic glasses.
“There would be a mutiny if anyone found out I had this,” he said, setting them down on the table.
“Whiskey?” Dakota studied the bottle’s faded label.
“Single malt scotch,” the colonel said with obvious pride. He poured them each a shot. “Here’s to the next age of man.” They tapped their cups together and took a sip. Dako
