Dark Victory - eARC (9 page)
Read Dark Victory - eARC Online
Authors: Brendan Dubois
Tags: #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #Military, #Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic, #Action & Adventure
She picks up her pencil. “Perhaps, but that’s enough for this morning. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And what’s that?”
I say, “Could you write me a note for Mister Tierney. I’m afraid I’ve missed today’s geometry class.”
Captain Allard takes a piece of paper. “Very well, Randy.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
CHAPTER TEN
Ah, yes classes. After the dreadful first years of the war, when casualties were so very high, the only way the surviving Congress would allow a change in enlistment laws were to tie them into continued schooling. So even though I enlisted on my twelfth birthday, I still had to go to school at my different postings. Between training, deployments and missions, I still had to find time for geometry, U.S. history, military history, English, Creeper physiology and tactics, and other standard high school courses.
But no driver’s ed. Not many running cars left out there.
This afternoon my class in English Composition is over and I get up from the desk, thinking ahead to the Ranger Ball this early evening, when my instructor, Mister Lewis, motions me over to his corner of the classroom. Mister Lewis is an old, wrinkled man with loose flaps of flesh around his cheeks and neck. He is one of a handful of teachers from St. Paul’s who stayed behind when the war began and I once saw a black and white photo of him back in the day, when it looked like he weighed nearly three hundred pounds. He lost a lot of weight during the famine years and has never put it back on.
He smiles cheerfully at me. His eyebrows are white and bushy, and look like old brushes that have been working way too long. He says, “Randy, that last essay you wrote, about when you salvaged that house in Rockport when you were in the Boy Scouts, was spectacular.”
I feel warm and safe all of a sudden. “Uh, thanks, Professor Lewis.”
“No, I mean it,” he says. “The descriptions . . . the smell of dried mud, of old seaweed in the yard, of the torn wallpaper. The feeling that you were trespassing as you searched through the cupboards, looking for canned goods . . . and the ending, when you wished that you could go back there someday, when things were better, and apologize to the family that lived there when they moved back. Very moving. Randy, you keep that kind of work up, and you’ll be on track for getting an ‘A’ at the end of this term. If you talk to your fellow classmates and soldiers, you’ll know I don’t hand out ‘A’s very often.”
My face feels even warmer. “Thanks again, professor,” and I make to leave, and he says, “Not so fast, Randy. Pull up a chair.”
I sit next to him, look at the clutter on his desk, the dusty books and framed etchings of writers like Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Longfellow, and shoved in one corner, a dead computer terminal. He has on an old suit that’s shiny along the sleeves, and a red bowtie that’s almost hidden by the folds of skin.
He says, “You’ve got a real talent for writing, Randy, and I hope you develop it. What were you thinking of doing after you’re discharged?”
Now I don’t feel so warm and safe. He’s asking questions I’ve been avoiding. “Discharged? What have you heard?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing official, of course, but the President’s said the war is over, correct? Eventually the Creepers and their bases here will be destroyed, the killer stealth satellites in orbit will be hunted down and disabled . . . you’ve been in service for quite some time, have seen plenty of combat. If other wars in the past can be used as an example, I’d say you’ll be eligible to return to civilian life at some point. When that blessed day occurs, Randy, instead of going to the Army’s War College, I would hope you’d go to one of the universities that are still open. A talent like yours shouldn’t go to waste.”
I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Professor, I don’t know how to be a civilian.”
Back in my room, checking my class assignments for tomorrow, thinking about what Professor Lewis had just said. Go back into civilian life? What the hell was he talking about? My early memories, before the war, are all a jumble of images, tastes and shapes. Riding in a car. Riding in a boat. On my mother’s lap, as she shows me a funny cartoon on a laptop computer or tablet. Looking out a window, nice and warm and dry, watching the snow fall, wondering if Santa has gotten my e-mail.
After that, it’s even more of a jumble. Dad and Mom looking serious. The television on all the time, mostly showing white static. Phone ringing. Melissa crying in her bedroom. Me and Dad, driving in his Volkswagen. The car dying. No lights. Living in a tent in a high school football field somewhere. Dad silently weeping in the corner of a smelly canvas tent. Eating dandelion greens, old stale cheese, sour apples.
I push all those memories away. Long ago I learned that when a Creeper can attack at any time, memories like that just get in the way of doing your job, and living one more day.
Beside, it’s time to get ready for the Ranger Ball.
In my closet I pull out a nice salvaged pair of Levi’s, a bit long and floppy around my feet, but looking nearly brand new. I also have pair of Nike sneakers that I only take out for special occasions, and I’m trying to decide if I can get away with a Hawaiian shirt that has a rip on the back, but which has been expertly stitched together, or a plain green T-shirt that’s brand new, when there’s a knock at the door.
I open it up and Mike Millett comes in, a Specialist in my squad. He’s squat, muscular, with tiny eyes under strong wide eyebrows, but he has a booming laugh and an almost uncanny ability to find a Creeper in pitch darkness.
“Sergeant, can you help a brother out?” he asks, his booming voice nearly shy.
Warily, I say, “Depends.”
He sits down heavily on my bunk, making the springs squeak. “Thing is, I got a date tonight, for the dance. Doris, who works in the dining facility.”
I turn my desk’s chair around and sit down, resting my forearms on the back. Doris is a quiet girl, works in the dishwashing area. A contract civilian who walks with a limp, because of a broken foot years ago that never healed quite right. “Good for you, Mike. How can I help?”
He kicks off his shoes, sticks his feet out. Big toes pop out from holes in each olive drab sock. “That’s how all of my socks look like. See? Can you lend me a pair?”
I say, “You expecting to show Doris your feet tonight?”
“Don’t you remember, last dance?”
“No, I don’t,” I say. “Didn’t go. Pulled guard duty that night.”
“Oh,” he says. “Well, they were playing some of that 1950’s music, real fun stuff and the guy spinning the records, said that back then, dances were called sock hops, so we all had to kick our shoes off. Suppose he does the same thing tonight? I don’t want to look ridiculous in front of Doris.”
I say, “You promise not to tear them with those big feet of yours?”
“Promise,” he says.
“And you’ll wash and dry them before you bring them back?”
“Hell, yeah, Sergeant,” he says. “You can count on me.”
I get up from my chair, go to my bureau and open the top drawer. Pull out a pair of socks, toss them to Mike, who catches them with one hand.
Grinning, he gets up. “Thanks, Sergeant. Owe you one. Hey, how did your provost general meeting go?”
I close the drawer. “Fair enough,” I say. “Funny how civilians get ticked off when you shoot them for not listening to reason.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he says. “Hey, just so you know, services are on for tomorrow for Ruiz. Ten hundred hours.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Hey, before you leave?”
He’s by the door. “Sure, Sergeant.”
“About Ruiz . . . I heard some in the squad think I should have intervened. Shouldn’t have let him go out on his first Recon Ranger op by himself.”
Millett looks solemn, no longer the happy fellow ranger, coming in to cage a pair of clean socks off his sergeant. “Was it Zane?” I ask.
He stays quiet, and then Millett juggles his new pair of socks in one beefy hand. “Thing is, Ruiz had a sister. Celeste. Real cutie. Word I heard, Zane was sweet on her. Was becoming close buds with Ruiz, hoping to make way with Celeste.” Mike shrugs. “Not your fault, Sergeant. The Ell-Tee thought he was ready, you thought he was ready . . . we had a job to do.”
“I guess so.”
“Yeah, well, not sure if you heard the other news.”
“What’s that?”
Millett opens the door. “County militia tracked down the Coastie gang that ambushed Ruiz and his K-9. Two guys and two girls, from Baltimore. God only knows how in hell they kept alive so long and found their way up here.”
“I’ll be damned,” I say.
“You?” he says. “Maybe so, but those four . . . oh yeah, they’re damned. The militia found some of Ruiz’s gear on them and they had a quick trial. Boom.”
“Shot?”
“No, hung from that covered bridge Ruiz had been dropped off at,” Millett says, going down the hallway. “Figured they wanted to save ammunition.”
With Mike Millett gone, I decide I’m going to be colorful tonight and choose the Hawaiian shirt, but Professor Lewis’s words are still nagging me, because what will I do if I do get discharged? Or would I want to go career? That was one hell of a thought, for like everybody else in my squad, platoon, company, battalion and probably the entire armed forces of the United States, I bitched and moaned about the food, about the officers, about the President and Congress and the war and how the damn civvies are always screwing things up . . .
But with no more war, what could I do?
What would I do?
Another knock on the door. Damn, I thought, must be my night to be commissary for the entire squad.
But when I open the door, it’s my platoon leader, Lieutenant David May.
And he doesn’t look happy.
“Randy,” he says. “You’ve got a problem.”
An Excerpt From the Journal of Randall Knox
Perimeter guard duty last night, made even more fun when I was assigned the newbie in our platoon, sturdy girl named Pittman from the upper reaches of Maine. Complained to the lieutenant about having to babysit a newbie, but the Ell-Tee reminded me of the last two times I was late for P.E., and did I want to babysit newbies for the next quarter in addition, so I shut my mouth and off I went.
Pittman, like all newbies, is eager to get at it, maybe even get a chance to chase a Creeper. Said she was the best shot in her family, always kept the smokehouse filled with venison. Told her to relax, our job was to poop and snoop along the outside perimeter of the fort, keep watch for two-legged marauders, not eight-legged. Cool cloudy night, kept an eye on Pittman. She was nervous but hid it well. Wanted to hear war stories from me and I had to tell her to shut up, to focus on the mission, however routine it seemed.
About a half hour in, at the northwest corner, Pittman found a break in the fence line, saw a wooden pole with some slats nailed to it, used as a ladder. We unslung weapons, moved in slow. Pittman whispered if we should call for back-up, and I told her to quiet it down. Heard noises, got a good idea of what we’d find, but I wanted to see how Pittman reacted. About ten minutes in, came to the Rockford Dining Facility. Told Pittman to back me up. Flashed on light and caught three young kids rummaging around in the waste bins out back. Pittman wanted to get to one of the comm shacks, get word out to the post Provost Marshal to get the kids arrested. Told her to relax. Kids shaking with fear, even though one real young kid—girl or boy, couldn’t tell—wouldn’t stop chewing on a chicken bone. Tossed them over my night field ration pack, told ’em to get the hell out. They ran like squirrels being chased by Thor, though the youngest one still had a hand on the chewed chicken bone.
Pittman seemed P.O.’d. Asked me why I let them go. Told her I joined up to fight Creepers, not bust kids who are starving.
Rest of tour went quiet, signed out, sent message to Facilities to get fence line fixed. Pittman seemed to learn a good lesson. We’ll see.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“May I come in?” he asks, and I step aside, mind whirling, guts churning, thinking all right, maybe
this
time Staff Sergeant Muller filed a complaint. The lieutenant comes in, sees one chair, and sits on the edge of my bunk.
“Have a seat, Randy,” he says.
I take my chair and he sits there, West Point graduate in a nice clean uniform and almost new boots. His hooked prosthetic arm sticks out to one side. “Here’s the deal,” he says. “The colonel wants to see you.”
“Me?” I ask. “What for, sir?”
The lieutenant goes on. “He has something in mind for you. I suggest you listen to him and if you don’t like it, refuse.”
“Refuse, sir? How can I do that?”
He stares right at me. “You’re a smart one, Randy. Skirting the rules. Using your hurt ear for your own advantage. Getting what you want. I think if you want to, you can say no to the colonel without any problem, by using your . . . creative skills. But be careful. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“I think so, sir. I think so.”
“Good.” He steps up and I ask, “When does he want to see me?”
He glances at the watch on his sole arm. “Just under an hour. At six p.m.”
Something heavy and cold sinks in my chest. “But that’s when the Ranger Ball starts, boss.”
The lieutenant walks to the door. “So ask the colonel to go with you to the dance if you’d like. But don’t make him wait.”
Almost an hour later, ticked off that I’m out of civvie clothes and back into uniform, I’m walking to the colonel’s offices, which used to house the school’s headmaster. From the distance and with my good ear, I hear the disk jockey warming up for the dance, playing a rock and roll tune from the Sixties. The damn music nearly tugs me over to the base gym, which has been cleared out for the dance. No wonder the Sixities was such a screwy decade; that music made you want to move, to reach out, to rebel, to do everything differently.
At the headmaster’s building, a nice construct of old wood and brick, I trot up the stairs and go to the outer office, where the colonel’s administrative aide sits, an older woman named Bouchard who was once in the Air Force and re-upped into the only unit that would take her after the war began. She has a thin face and prominent nose, and while she’s now a lieutenant in the Guard, rumor has it that she was a full colonel in the Air Force before retiring.
I stand at attention and announce myself. “Sergeant Randy Knox, reporting to Colonel Malcolm Hunter, ma’am.”
She purses her thin lips, makes a notation on a piece of paper with a pencil, and says, “Nice to see you on time, Sergeant, but the colonel has a visitor. You may take a seat.”
I look up at the wall clock. Six p.m. The Ranger Ball is starting and Corporal Abby Monroe is stepping out on the dance floor, looking for her promised first date, and here I am, cooling my heels outside the C.O.’s office. Damn. If I had been smarter, I would have sent her a note or something, to explain why I’m not there on time.
Had no time to be smart. At my side are a couple of newspapers. I pick up the latest copy of
Stars & Stripes
, only a week old. Sorry to say for its writers and editors, I skip most of the stories. They are mostly tales of fellow brave soldiers, fighting Creepers, rescuing civilians, and doing good in the community. Lots of heroics. Despite what Captain Allard tried to do a few hours back, I ain’t no hero, and don’t want to be. Heroes get their charcoaled remains buried and get speeches said over them. That’s not for me.
I’m not saying the tales in the newspaper are made-up, it’s just that I’m tired of reading them.
Instead I look for the cool nuggets here and there, like the headline
SECDEF PROMISES MORE DETAILS ON ORBITAL RAID
, which is about the entire story, that the current Secretary of Defense promises that one of these days, more information would be revealed about last month’s attack on the Creepers’ orbiting base. Operational security and all that, and no, he wouldn’t say if the Air Force crews involved had seen a certain movie about star wars before launch. I smile at an old memory, from a few years ago, when dad was reading
Stars & Stripes
in our post apartment and he burst out laughing. I asked him what was so funny, and he pointed to a story about how what was left of LucasFilms was filing suit against anyone using the copyrighted term “Death Star” in describing the Creepers’ orbital base. Then dad laughed again and said, “Randy, when I was your age, when we worried a lot about the Russians, there was an old joke that after World War III, the only creatures still thriving would be cockroaches and lawyers. Glad to see the joke still works.”
Maybe so, but even knowing what I know about the history of Russia, I still admire them since they have a pretty good method of destroying Creeper bases. Once a base has been extensively surveyed and plotted, they send in squads of three men, each one carrying a component of a ten-kiloton nuclear device. The squads move low and slow, sometimes taking a week to cover just a few hundred meters, and once they get up next to a base, they assemble the nuclear device and set it off.
Oh, and they set it off by hand, so as not to be detected by the Creepers, who are experts at detecting and destroying most electronic devices. One of the girls in my platoon, named Lopez, shook her head once at an intelligence briefing describing this kind of attack and said, “Man, that’s freakin’ hardcore.”
Can’t argue with that.
I flip through the pages, seeking other nuggets.
SEIGE OF DENVER CONTINUES.
Ouch, those poor folks in the mile-high city. There’s been stories of sieges going on at other cities across the world—Brasilia in Brazil, a couple in Africa, Lyons in France, Kiev in Ukraine—but only Denver has gotten the attention of the Creepers here in the States. They set up their exoskeletons around the city and because of the lack of tree cover and other hiding areas, they scorch anything and everything trying to get in or out of Denver. There’s a constant pitched battle to thin out the exoskeletons, but their killer stealth satellites do pinpoint strikes on the forces trying to break in, or at least take in food supplies.
Food supplies. I’ve heard rumors about classified attempts to bring in food, from using old sewage tunnels and even hot-air balloons, but it’s hard to feed hundreds of thousands of people with such meager resources. The story is grim and it says the Mile-High Stadium has been closed to further burials.
A turn of the page.
ALASKAN, HAWAIIAN DELEGATIONS ARRIVE TO ADDRESS CONCERNS.
The story is written with vague words of compromise and mutual respect, but I know the real story: after ten years of constant war and near isolation, the states of Hawaii and Alaska aren’t particularly happy about being governed by steamship and telegraph by a President who can’t even address the nation by radio or television.
One more story, in the back, the tiniest one but the most intriguing:
CONTACT MADE WITH SOME MIDEAST UNITS
. Now that’s a story I wish was longer, for it touches on one of the spookiest stories coming out of the Creeper war. Once the war began, communications were cut off, meaning tens of thousands of American troops stationed overseas in Europe, Asia, Africa and the Middle East lost contact with the National Command Authority. Ten years is a long time, and some of the overseas units set themselves up as mini-empires in the country where they were stationed, while others hired themselves out as mercenary units to whatever governments managed to survive, and still others simply collapsed from desertion or death. My Roman history instructor last term, Shapiro, said it was like the ten thousand survivors of the famed Ninth Legion of Rome, defeated in 36 B.C. in Turkey, the prisoners taken east never to be heard from again, except for stories that they worked as mercenaries for the ancient Chinese and intermarried into the local population.
Now with steamships and telegraph stations returning, some of these ghost units have been heard from, and like Alaska and Hawaii, times and circumstances have changed. Do they stay where they are, or do they re-pledge their loyalty to an unelected President most of them have never heard of?
A light flashes on Lieutenant Bouchard’s desk. “You can go in, now,” she says crisply.
I get up and stroll to a polished wooden door with a painted plaque stating, COL. MALCOM HUNTER, COMMANDANT, FORT ST. PAUL. I knock once, wait, hear a voice from the other side call out, “Enter!”
I open the door, close it behind me, stride in, stand at attention in front of the colonel’s desk. I don’t salute. My cover is in my hand and salutes are only exchanged when both parties are wearing their hats. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen old films during movie night, especially the black and white ones after World War II, that show salutes being tossed around like they were part of some secret lodge or something. You’d think the vets after the last Big One would know better, but they were no doubt busy building houses, getting married and producing babies.
There’s a civilian sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, but I only note him from the corner of my eye. The colonel is in his fifties, face tired, wrinkles around his forehead and eyes, nearly bald, black hair a rim at the rear of his head. His uniform is clean and neat, as are the piles of papers and folders on his desk. The office is wood paneling, Oriental carpeting, and bay windows that overlook the fort’s grounds.
He says, “Sergeant, I’d like you to meet Ezra Manson. Mister Manson is an executive assistant to the governor.”
I turn, see the civilian look up at me with distaste, like he hadn’t enjoyed his salvaged ten-year-old can of Dinty Moore beef stew for lunch. “Sir,” I say, but he doesn’t get up, and doesn’t offer his hand. He looks to be in his thirties, wearing a dark gray suit that looks pretty good. Perhaps it’s even recently made. His hair is dark brown, neatly trimmed, matching a neatly trimmed beard. I look down at his hands. His fingernails are short and clean. I’m sure he’s never had to worry about getting a ten-minute chit for a hot shower.
Colonel Hunter says, “Have a seat, Sergeant.”
“Sir,” I say, and take the chair to the right of Mister Manson.
The colonel leans back in his leather chair. There’s a muffled squeak. “I’ll get right to it. Mister Manson will be departing the capitol tomorrow as a special courier from the Governor to the President. We’ve been asked to provide an armed escort. That will be you.”
It’s like the room is slowly being sent back to December, for I feel chilled. “Me, sir? To see the President?”
The colonel comes forward in his chair. Another muffled squeak. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him, am I correct?”
I’m embarrassed in front of the civilian. I don’t like the feeling. “Yes, sir. I have.”
“You’ll receive the necessary orders and paperwork from Lieutenant Bouchard before you leave. But in a nutshell, you’re going to be Mister Manson’s new best friend. You’re not to leave his side. You’re to ensure that he and his dispatch case reach the capital and the President . . . or at least his Chief of Staff, Tess Conroy. Once he and his dispatch case have arrived in the good company of Miss Conroy, you’ll be free to return. Questions?”
About a half-ton or so of questions, but Mister Manson beats me to it. “Him? Colonel? Are you serious? He’s just a teenager.”
Colonel Hunter frowns. “He’s a sergeant in the National Guard, attached to the U.S. Army . . . and nowadays, there’s not much difference between the two. Most National Guard units like us use our original designations for pride’s sake, and the Army wisely allows us.”
“I don’t care if he’s in the airborne, he’s just a kid!”
Colonel Hunter says, “The governor asked for an armed escort. I’m giving you one of my best, no matter his age. Complain all you want. This is the soldier you’re getting.”
Manson looks trapped and I feel something out of the ordinary: respect for Colonel Hunter. He stands up and says, “Fine. Your call. To give me a boy to ride with me on a vital mission to the capitol. Just make sure he’s not late.”
“He’ll be on time,” the colonel says.
Manson leaves, but as he’s going through the door, the colonel calls out. “Oh, Mister Manson. If I may.”
“Yeah?”
“Just so we’re clear, I’m assigning Sergeant Knox to provide you with security on your trip to the capitol. I’m not giving you a damn thing.”
Manson slams the door pretty hard on his way out.