Dark Victory - eARC (22 page)

An Excerpt From the Journal of Randall Knox

Dad late last night for dinner. No phone calls, no message from a runner, nothing. So I kept supper warm the best I could—potato soup with a side of old bread from the dining facility—and when he showed up, he sat down at the dinner table, slumped, and didn’t say a word as he slurped the soup and ate the bread. I thought he might go to sleep right after that and I didn’t like that idea. Usually when he works late and goes to sleep, that’s when the nightmares start. Lots of moaning, trembling, and harsh whispers of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I screwed up. And I know he’s dreaming about Mom, because he’s got some guilt about how the two of them got separated when the war started.

But tonight Dad surprised me when he said, dessert? Sure, I said, and I grabbed a salvaged can of Hershey’s chocolate syrup, that I split with dad, both of us spooning out the syrup after I cut open the top. Tasted okay but a bit stale. When we were done Dad sighed, stretched out his legs and said, you know, Uncle Malcolm can be a jerk in so many ways, but sometimes, he knows his duty.

Really, I asked. Dad said, I’ll tell you, but between us, all right? Sure, I said.

Another sigh from Dad. He took off his glasses, the pair with the tape holding one of the arms, and he said, your uncle got an urgent phone call from both the governor and the mayor of Concord. Protestors were marching on the Capitol building. They were worried the protests would get out of hand. Wanted your uncle to send over a platoon or two to keep order. He refused. Said he would only deploy them if there was immediate danger of a riot breaking out, people getting hurt or killed. Mayor and governor are P.O.’d, but colonel held firm. If the protests were peaceful, troops would stay on post. Gotta give him credit for that.

Dad just sat there as I cleaned up, and I said, what were they protesting about?

Dad said, martial law, upcoming elections, that sort of thing. Politics.

I laughed. Politics. Don’t give a crap about politics.

Dad’s mood changed. You know your history? And I said, c’mon, Dad, got an A last term. And the term before that. Dad said, you know about Trotsky? Sure, I said. One of the leaders of the Bolshevik Revolution. Head of the Red Army. Worked with Lenin and Stalin. And Stalin later had him murdered in Mexico when he was in exile.

Dad nodded. Not bad. But Trotsky’s known for a famous quote about war. Somebody said to Trotsky that they weren’t interested in war, and Trotsky said, well, war is interested in you.

His voice got sharp. You might not be interested in politics, Randy, but politics is definitely interested in you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I’m put in a nearby hotel that was once a Hyatt and is now called Capitol Arms, and this place is apparently not a priority, since I have to walk up four flights of stairs to get to my room. A sweaty boy of about ten or eleven, wearing a baggy dark blue uniform, insists on carrying my pack up all four flights of stairs. In my room, he points out the bathroom, the television— “Works fine,” he says. “Gets three channels. Can you believe that? That’s why this is one of the best places in the Capitol”—and then he picks up a telephone by the bed.

“This works, too,” he says proudly. “You can call down to the front desk, and some hours, you can actually order room service.”

“What do you mean, room service?”

The kid goes to the door, and I give him two pre-war quarters. “You can call the kitchen and you get food brought up to your room. Costly, though.”

“Thanks,” I say, and after he leaves, I go to my bathroom and wash my hands and face. The water is nice and hot. I come back to my assault pack and look at the television. A real television that works, all for me.

I sigh. No time for entertainment.

From my assault pack, I take out my Beretta, strap it to my waist and go down the four flights of stairs, taking two steps at a time.

After spending a few minutes at the front desk, I’m outside of the hotel, watching the traffic go by. There are bicycles and horses, but still, I’ve never seen so many gasoline-powered vehicles moving around in one place. All of them pre-war, but most in good shape, with repaired bumpers or fenders or side panels. Fords, Cadillacs, Chevrolets. My dad once went to the Capitol for an intelligence briefing with the Joint Chiefs and when he came back, he said seeing all the pre-war cars was like taking a time machine back to his childhood. The sidewalks are crowded, the most well-dressed and well-fed population I’ve ever seen, but the place sure is hilly.

A boxy yellow car comes up, pre-war and gasoline powered, with a black and white checked pattern along the sides and a B ration sticker on the windshield. The driver rolls the window down and calls out, “Sergeant Knox?”

I go to the rear door, open it up. “That’s me.”

Then I hear laughter, a familiar voice. I turn and three men are exiting the hotel, bulky, large, scarred here and there but still in good humor. They’re wearing civvies but it takes less than a second to realize they’re military, and it’s not because of their bearing and haircuts.

It’s because the lead soldier is Captain Ramon Diaz; the Special Forces officer I met on the train.

I run after them, but the crowd blocks me; and when I get to the corner, they’re gone. I look up and down the streets, clench my fists, and then race back to the hotel. Think about going inside and back to the front desk, ask the clerk about Captain Diaz. Was he staying there? Did the hotel know him? Did—

A horn blares out. It’s the driver of the taxi cab, who’s got on a light yellow cap with a brass shield in the center. He says, “Are you coming or what?”

“I want to go into the hotel for a couple of minutes. I need to check on—

He interrupts. “Sorry, soldier. I’ve got a schedule to maintain. I got a dozen fares lined up for the rest of the day and I’m already behind. So step in or walk away, your choice.”

My dad. I just saw the captain who knows where my dad is and what kind of trouble he’s in, leaving my hotel.

But I had something else important to do. I got into the rear of the cab, which smells slightly perfumed, and the cabbie starts driving even before I close the door.

* * *

It’s only a ten-minute drive, which is great, because my eyes widen at seeing little plastic numerals flip by on the dashboard, indicating the increasing fare, and thank God, we get to our destination before the numerals outnumber what I have in my pocket. I pay and remember my dad saying something about taxi drivers being tipped, and I take care of him, and he takes care of me by giving me an active military discount.

In a few minutes, I’m in the back of a building that’s filled with the smell of urine, fear and medicines, and there’s lots of barking nearby. I’m in an empty room with tile flooring and three plastic molded chairs, and I stare at my feet. And wait. And wait.

The door pops open and a gaunt old woman in light green surgical scrubs come in, but actually she’s being dragged, and tears come to my eyes as I see who’s doing the dragging. It’s my Thor, my good old Thor, and I fall to my knees. He yelps and the veterinarian unsnaps the leash and Thor stumbles over. He has a green cast on his right front leg, fur around his head and ears have been burnt off, the left side of his torso has been shaved off and he has a wide bandage wrapped around his midsection.

I grab him and gently hug him, bury my face in the side of his head. “Oh, you stupid brave, dummy,” I whisper into him, trying to speak through the tears. “When are you ever going to listen? Hunh? When are you ever going to listen?”

Thor licks at the side of my face and with a sweet old lady voice, the vet gives me a run down of his injuries: broken front right leg, burn injuries, and severe lacerations on his side.

I lift up my head. “Can I take him now? Can I?”

The vet smiles and gently shakes her head. “Too soon, Sergeant. He needs a week of care, at least.”

I scratch at Thor’s head and he licks and licks my hand and then my face. “Okay . . . I just . . . I just miss him, that’s all.”

She kneels down on the dirty floor, scratches him as well. “Of course you do. You’re a dog person. I can tell. Just like me. Just like so many others. Can’t imagine what it’s like to be without a dog. Has he been yours for a while?”

“Two years, since I got to Recon Rangers,” I say, noting Thor’s brown eyes seemed filmy, from the painkillers, I’m sure. “When the training started there were six of us . . . we had six dogs to choose from, and Thor . . . he chose me. Funny, hunh? He looked at me and came running right over. We’ve been together ever since, training and missions, and in between, lots of swimming and ball tossing.”

She smiles, keeps on gently stroking my boy’s fur. “Dogs . . . in some ways, they’re a mystery, in how their ancestors bonded with ours. But in other ways, they’re so transparent. They’re pure innocence. They want to be loved, to be rewarded, to be part of the family . . . or pack. All they ask in return is to be fed, watered, taken care of, and when the time comes . . . to let them go peacefully and without pain. That’s our duty, you know. To take care of them to the very end, to make sure they’re not afraid and alone.”

Her words strike something inside of me, as Thor’s brown eyes stare at me, his face showing joy. My throat refused to move. She says, “And how do we repay them? We train them, we send them into battle, to be cut, stomped or charred. Poor creatures. And when they die on our behalf, we quickly find another one to take their place.”

I kiss the top of Thor’s head. “Nobody can ever take Thor’s place,” I manage to stammer out. “He’s one of a kind. He’ll . . . he’ll play with kids, jump into bed with me, and when he smells a Creeper, he goes all out to protect me.”

I look over at the veterinarian. “You take good care of him, all right? You take good care of my Thor.”

The vet pauses for a long, long moment, and she starts talking again, her voice no longer sweet. She says, “Ten years ago, I was a volunteer at an animal shelter in Pompton, small town on the Hudson River. The war had just started and it was all so confusing. No power, no TV, no Internet. I could see smoke where West Point was burning. The Creepers had hit that right away from space, along with Annapolis and Colorado Springs, and so many other military targets. Didn’t know much of what was going on. Then one of the low-powered AM radio stations that was still broadcasting reported on the tidal wave that had hit Manhattan.”

I’m still rubbing Thor’s head and I stay quiet. She falters, goes on. “We all knew that the wave that hit Manhattan was coming up the Hudson River. We didn’t have much time. I could have gone with my husband and kids . . . but I went to the animal shelter instead. Using a bicycle, of course. No cars were running. No one was there. They had all left. Who could blame them? I did, at the time . . . but later, who could blame them? It was cold, raining. The river was rising fast and I didn’t have much time. I opened up the cages and tried to get the cats and dogs out, so they could make a run for it. Some did, but the water came up so fast we were cut off. Luckily the shelter had a flat roof. I got the dogs and cats that were left up on the roof . . . got bitten and scratched plenty of times. But I got them up there, by God, I did. The water eventually came up to my ankles but I kept it together. Took a couple of days for the water to drop enough so I could scrounge some food from the shelter . . . that’s what we all lived on, for week, soggy cat food and dog food.”

She finally looks at me one more time, talks again, her voice thick. “Never did see my husband and kids again, but I saved those strays. So yes, Sergeant, you can count on me to take care of your dog.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, ashamed. “I guess I can.”

After a few more minutes of tugging and tussling with Thor, I promise him another visit, real soon, I go outside and hitch a ride back to the hotel. I’m lucky enough to get a ride with a grocer’s wagon, bringing in deliveries to one of the Price-Chopper supermarkets in the Capitol. At the hotel I go into the lobby, head straight for the front desk, and Riley gets up from an upholstered chair and blocks me.

“Sergeant, glad to see you’re here,” he says. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Out visiting a friend,” I say. “And if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the front desk.”

I move to go around him but he steps in front of me, puts a large hand on my shoulder. He leans in and says, “You got the drop on me back at the hospital room, I’ll give you that. But that was at the hospital, with docs and nurses around. Here, you’re in my element, Sergeant. Don’t push me. When I was younger I was chasing Taliban up and down mountains in Afghanistan, and when I rotated out, they sent me to chase hajis in Iraq. So don’t get ahead of yourself.”

His hand is gentle on my shoulder but I can feel the strength in it. “All right, what do you want?”

Riley pulls his hand away, smiles. “Good job. Look, Sergeant—see, I’m not calling you kid, am I—we can get along just fine. Here’s the deal. Tess Conroy requests your presence in just under an hour, and you need to be gussied up. In your room is a full-dress uniform for you, because the good lady is going to put you on display.”

“What the hell for?”

Riley grins wider. “You’re the most famous soldier in the East Coast, you knucklehead. How many other soldiers are out there who’ve killed a Creeper with their frigging bare hands?”

“I had a knife.”

“Yeah, in your hands. Tess Conroy wants to put you on display, so be a good sergeant and run upstairs and get dressed, and I’ll take you there.”

I look past his bulky shoulders to the front desk. “Where am I going?”

He tries to act surprised. “You don’t know? You really don’t know?”

“That’s right,” I say. “I have no idea.”

Riley gently grasps my upper arm, sends me in the direction of the stairs.

“You’re off to the New White House, my young friend,” he says. “To see the President.”

In my hotel room I move around slowly, like I’ve just woken up and I’m not sure where I am and what’s going on. Sounds funny, but sure, I know where I am—the Capitol Arms Hotel—but I sure as hell don’t know what’s going on. I’m off to see the President . . . me? Randy Knox, from Ranger Recon? Randy Knox, who was nearly orphaned at six, has gone cold, starved, been wounded and injured and lives most days with dirt under his fingernails and with his stomach grumbling from not having enough to eat?

That Randy Knox is going to see the President?

I start getting the shakes, like I’m out on a Creeper mission, and I sit down on my carefully made bed. Like Riley had promised, a perfect-looking Class A uniform is laid out, with all unit badges, ribbons and medals in proper fashion. I run my hand across the uniform, feel so out of place, so much like an imposter. The shaking eases and I jump when the phone rings. I reach over and pick it up.

“Knox,” I say.

“Sergeant, it’s Tess Conroy,” comes the sharp, confident voice. “I do hope you’re not wasting my time up there, so be a good boy, get showered, dressed and get down to the lobby as soon as you can.”

I can’t think of anything to say, so I hang up the phone, and strip and go take a shower.

The shower is clean white tile and has a fresh bar of soap in the dish. I unwrap the soap and breathe deeply of the scent, and then turn on the water. It comes out nice and hot and fierce, and I can’t help myself, I giggle. Plenty of hot water, no timing chit, fresh soap, and best of all, I can shower by myself. I go in and despite the orders from the Chief of Staff, I take my time, and I wince as I soap around the burn wound on my shoulder. The water also stings my face, hands and the back of my neck, but I’m used to those kinds of burns.

The water goes on and on until my fingers get wrinkly, and after I get out and towel dry, I carefully remove the still-wet bar of soap, pat it dry and then re-wrap it in the paper wrapper it came in. I then go out to my room and slide it into one of my pack pockets.

I finish drying off with a towel—and I have a temptation of larceny, wondering if the hotel would miss one of these towels—and the television catches my attention. I go over to the stand and turn it on, and it hums for a moment, and then the screen snaps into focus, a black-and-white picture. I sit down on the bed, the blankets turned down, and start watching an episode of something called
I Love Lucy
. There’s a scene of a woman with big eyes and thick lipsticked lips, and she and a friend are working on some sort of assembly line, trying to keep up with a fast-moving belt containing lots of candies. I laugh out loud as I see her and her friend stuff the candies into their mouths.

I reach over, switch a channel. I get something called C-Span, focusing on some sort of Congressional debate. I turn another channel, and it’s a test pattern. So I go back to the
I Love Lucy
episode and get dressed, looking around the room.