“Wind’s out of the northeast at twelve knots,” Kenneth said, holding the handheld anemometer up by the cab door.

“Sand is blowing fast across the dune ridge.”

Two hundred yards down the slope, a rusted iron cylinder jutted out of the dune at a steep angle, half hidden by sea oats.

I unrolled fifty yards of heavy yellow caution tape, walking the perimeter and staking the boundary markers into the damp sand.

“Base command wants an update by nine fifteen,” Kenneth called, unhooking the portable radio pack from the truck rig.

I knelt next to the iron shell and brushed a layer of wet gray sand off the collar ring.