Kraken Mare (2 page)

I also needed a secure radio because I was also fairly certain that there would not be anybody on the side of the angels waiting for me at the extraction point. Not after this long.

I sighed and looked back at the pulped and mashed bodies. I shuddered. The jungle air was already growing thick from the heat and humidity, and the planet's version of mosquitoes were beginning to come out in full force. I tried to talk myself out of it, but I really didn't have a choice in the matter. What if one of them had a personal comm link of some sort? It could potentially save me a lot of hassle. I took a deep breath and headed back into my kill zone. Would a personal comm even work this far out?

There was only one way to find out and it was probably going to give me nightmares for months.

Chapter Two

“The biggest problem was the politicians knew nothing about fighting a war.”

–R. Lee Ermey

I scooped up what could only be identified as green mush with meaty bits and inspected it. Normally, chow on a naval base was top notch, since the demand for high-quality food amongst personnel is what drove people to enlist in the Navy. Chef was an actual, honest to God specialty in the Navy, and they liked to brag about how much better their food was than the other services.

However, when on deployment to a newly colonized alien world and fighting against a murderous local warlord intent on burning everything in the name of his ideology, the culinary arts were oftentimes the first casualty of war. I told the argumentative voices in my head to shut up and shoved the loaded spoon into my mouth. I did my best to ignore the horrid screams of protest from my gut and began the chew earnestly.

The rescue op had gone rather smoothly, considering everyone had written me off over a week before after the rebels had bragged publicly about their massacring a special ops platoon deep behind their lines. The company commander had been the least surprised by my return from the dead, but that hadn't mattered. The mission debrief had been horrible as psychologists and intelligence officers took turns bombarding me with questions about my whereabouts, the enemy's location, my subsequent and seemingly impossible escape and miraculous survival, and even my final stand. It had seemed too unbelievable for most but, given the lack of evidence arguing the contrary, there had been little choice for them to accept my story.

They had not liked it, though, not one damn bit. They made certain that I knew it as well by giving me a medical discharge and sent me back to the main base, safely away from the forward operating base and the remnants of my unit. The FOB, while a crappy little hellhole tucked away next to a desolate mountain range, was still more welcoming that the sterile and cold environment of the long-established Soma Bay Naval Station.

At Soma Bay, I was nothing more than a man to be prodded and poked, second-guessed and questioned repeatedly, my integrity and honor doubted by people who had probably never seen combat before. I had patiently given my statement again, been threatened with charges stemming from my eradication of the rebel pursuers amid accusations of war profiteering, and suffered through low-level harassment until a compromise had been made. They did not have enough on me to justify a dishonorable discharge, so one day a medical discharge proposal had arrived. Truth was, my patience had been exhausted by the strange turn of events at this point and had accepted it. All the harassment, everything had stopped after that and I was left alone, waiting until the last of the paperwork had been taken care of and I could finally go home.

Two months of my life gone as shrinks tried to crack me open so they could declare that I was insane and command could wash their hands of any responsibility for me and my team's work behind enemy lines. While we had done some troubling stuff while out in the field, none of it warranted the treatment I was getting. We hadn’t broken any of the Rules of Engagement we’d been given during our pre-mission brief, and they knew it. So they attacked. They pushed, doing whatever they could to ruin my dead comrades’ reputations in order to cover their own butts. I ground my teeth together at the memory of their accusations and my grip tightened on the spoon in hand. While I knew I wasn't insane, I would be the first to admit that I was extremely pissed off.

I felt a pair of strange eyes upon me. It's a second nature thing one picks up after years of running around backwater hellholes, the sensation that you're being watched. I paused, looking up from my plate. A man who clearly thought highly of himself and his abilities stood across the table from me. It was obvious that he was trying not to stare, but it's hard when there was only one person at the table.

Slightly older than I was, shaved head, with a muscular build obvious in his pin-striped overcoat. The suit beneath it looked expensive and he held a small PDA in his left hand. His right remained free, which confirmed for me that he was prior service. He carried himself well, though with a hint of haughty and arrogance that reminded me of Marines who had gone into the corporate world once their hitch was up. He definitely didn't look like any of the psychologists who had been nagging at me, in any case. I glanced around the crowded cafeteria but nobody else seemed to be staring. I looked back at the stranger in front of me and cocked an eyebrow.

“Can I help you?” I asked, trying not to sound rude. I had a feeling that I was doing a poor job of it.

“Are you Sergeant John Manning? The Marine sniper?”

“Aw, shit,” I muttered in a low tone. I didn’t have the time or patience for any sort of investigative journalist right now. They were like leeches, sucking the blood out of unsuspecting creatures for their own benefit. Plus, no matter what you said, they’d spin it to make you sound like you had a bloodlust for killing babies or something. I gave him my best angry face. “You some kind of reporter? I have no comments to any actions that may or may not have occurred in the field.”

“Huh? No, no reporter. Far from it actually.” The man gave me a smile that wasn't quite patronizing. No reporter could have managed that.
Spook
, my mind whispered in warning. The man continued to talk, unawares. “Mind if I join you for a few minutes?”

I shrugged. “Sure, can't stop you. So long as you keep away from any reporter-type questions, I'll refrain from stabbing you with a spoon.”

“I can do that,” he laughed politely, then grew somber. “You seem awfully bitter from someone who came back from the dead. One would think that after what you went through – excuse me, allegedly went through – you would be thrilled to be eating Navy-issue green mush again.”

“Them's the breaks,” I said through another mouthful of horrid organic material. At least it was supposed to be loaded with protein and carbs, something I had sorely lacked while out in the field. No matter how much it tasted like rat shit. “At least I can get real beer again soon.”

“Real beer? What, you leaving this fine establishment of culinary opus?”

I chuckled darkly and decided that I liked this man, despite his probably being some sort of spy. I had heard that many intelligence agencies preferred us special op boys and oftentimes recruited them directly from active duty for clandestine operations. The pay was amazing but the travel was oftentimes sheer brutality. “Pretty much. I'm getting shipped home.”

“Rotation's up?”

“Medical.”

“That's pretty shitty,” the man grunted. “Sorry. I know how crappy that can make a man feel.”

“
They
say I’m medically unfit for active duty,” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice.  “
They
say I failed the psyche eval after I took an unwanted field trip through hostile territory.
They
say I've got some sort of PTSD so they handed me my walking papers.” I shoveled another spoonful of food into my mouth, chewed and swallowed. “It's all bullshit but whatever. I'm processing out this week, and heading home. Wherever that is now.”

“Do you?” the man asked. He waved his hand a little. The confusion must have been shown on my face. “PTSD, I mean. Do you have it?”

His tone was curious and not accusing in any way. It was the only reason that I decided to answer.

“Yes,” came my reply. “But what soldier doesn't?”

“Do you think the PTSD affects your performance in the field?” the man pressed. I stopped eating and looked at him, a furrow creasing my brow. Something was definitely up.

“You mean, will I curl up into a ball and start to cry if I get stuck out in some godforsaken forest again?”

“Something like that,” the man nodded.

“Hell no.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“Of course I'm sure. I love my job,” I took a calming breath before I explained. “Loved. No, I was right the first time. Love it. It's hard to explain.”

“Give it a whirl.”

I pursed my lips thoughtfully as I framed the right response in my head. How does one explain the inner workings of the irrational, anyway? I took a breath and began.

“You look at me and see just another weirdo with a gun, some kind of sociopath who gets off on killing people. That's not who I am, or what I do. I'm a professional soldier, defending my nation, following lawful orders, and when it all hits the fan, I do what I was trained to do. Whether it's from two miles or two feet, nothing changes the fact that my job means that I have to take lives at times. Why is it so fucking difficult for people to understand? An infantryman gets into a firefight and kills twenty poor schmucks during a pitched battle in door-to-door fighting and he's regarded as a hero. I kill the bastard who sent those poor schmucks into battle with a rifle from a mile away before the battle even begins and I'm a sociopath suffering from PTSD? Fuck that. I'm just more efficient at doing my job than the supposed hero.”

“Interesting.”

“So would you mind telling me what this is all about?” My heart rate was up and my breathing was a little ragged. Anger is not always a good thing, but sometimes you just need to get it out of your system. “You didn't pick me out at random, and you’ve probably guessed that I don't swing that way. I'm pretty sure you're not a reporter, since you're not preening at.

“Yes,” he said, “I was looking for you. No, I don't swing that way either. And you're right, not a reporter. What I really wanted to know is... how would you like a job?”

“Huh?” I asked.

“I'd like to offer you a job.”

I stared at the man, earlier suspicions confirmed. He was a spook, all right. 

“Who are you?”

“My name is Piotr Mierzejewski, and I'm a recruiter from Xanadu Securities,” the man said, sticking out his hand. I shook it warily. “A buddy of mine-- who may or may not work in out-processing--talked to my boss a few weeks ago. Mentioned that you were getting shafted for being a bloody hero in a politically difficult war. We’re looking for young talent with combat experience, with a good head on their shoulders. Our firm specializes in contractual work for the government – more specifically, the Navy. There are some things that they can't do but need done, so they hire us. We provide our services…for a price.”

“Great. Mercenaries,” I said, shaking my head.

I had been wrong. Not a spook, but a soldier of fortune. I'd heard good and bad things about mercenaries, most of it bad. Piotr brought his hands up defensively.

“Completely the opposite, in fact,” the recruiter said. “We're closer to security contractors. Quite frankly, we don't work for just anybody. Our security clearances and contractual obligations dictate what jobs we can take. And, since we're at the top of the heap, so to speak, we only work for one nation. In return, we get the best contracts, the juiciest ones that make everyone else green with envy. We protect diplomats who have to go into hellhole on third worlds and try to negotiate a peace.” He leaned in, lowering his voice slightly. “We protect... more interesting stuff as well.”

“My mistake.  Not hookers. More like high-class call girls.”

“I like that better than mercenaries,” Piotr admitted with a wry smile. “We don't want just dumb grunts. We want specialists, operators like you who can think on their feet and react to anything and everything. Our company used to deal less with veterans, but our CEO has seen the error of his ways and is now looking to find the brightest of the Armed Forces. Quite frankly, you surviving in that hellish forest after four weeks of almost no food and in the midst of a civil war is remarkable. The fact that you completed your mission is simply amazing. You should be getting the Navy Cross for your actions at the very least, not drummed out of the Corps. Let me put it this way: our standard recruiting method is sending a message via public comms. My boss sent me to talk face to face. You made that much of an impression on him.” He sat back, studying my face, before continuing, “We'd like to bring you in and interview you more fully, one of those meet and greet kind of things, and probably offer you a job.”

“Huh,” I grunted. He pressed onward, undeterred.

“Think about it. A six-figure job standing around, babysitting some functionary, and with company provided tools. You like the .50 cal as a round? A bit old fashioned, but doable. How'd you like a bullpup version of it with a thirty-round magazine that weighs less than what the Marines forced you to drag around while in the field? We work closely with a certain firearms manufacturer’s R&D department…all I can really say is wow. Plus, it's a hell of a lot of money. Good money. Easy money.”

“There's no such thing as easy money,” I pointed out, though my heart wasn’t really into it. Easier money was definitely possible, especially given my current situation. Plus, I had to admit that I was more than a little curious. I mulled over my future for a moment. A medical discharge killed any retirement I would get, and if I was lucky, I might qualify for some VA benefits one day – after jumping through sixteen million hoops. Plus, I'd become a bit of an adrenaline junky. Going home to do…what? Yeah, I really wanted to see my family again, but knew that I would never really fit back into that the social order of things back home. I'd seen too much, experienced more, and there were too many memories. Memories
I had spent the past ten years trying to forget. If I was going to be honest with myself, I also knew that being back home would suck the life out of me, no matter how much I missed my parents.