So I haven’t.
Probably like thousands of others out there.
Which I don’t think does much for morale, at least mine.
Chapter Seven
A skirmish line has been set up at the end of the access road—or long driveway—that leads from the paved road to the destroyed farm and the two Creeper Domes. The lead Stryker has taken cover at a smaller barn off to the left, and there’s a depression in the ground that allows a dozen soldiers to sight their weapons toward the two Domes.
The Humvees maneuver around and so do the trucks, and we move out. Captain Wallace goes from platoon to platoon, squad to squad, and says to me, “How do you like your new position, Sergeant?”
Bronson and the others look at me, and I say, “I’m loving it, Captain Wallace.”
She laughs. “Glad to see you’re fitting in.”
When she leaves Bronson points to me and says, “Knox, over there by that birch tree. You and your mutt stay still and don’t do anything without an order.”
“You got it,” and I wander over, M-10 in hand, Thor moving right next to me. Bronson and I are at the same rank, but he’s also in temporary command of the First Platoon, which means he’s above me…barely. But I don’t want to make too much of a fuss. I find the birch tree and start scraping away a trench, using a small entrenching tool.
The young Balatnic joins me, M-4 in her hands, and says, “Did Bronson tell you to dig in?”
“Nope.”
“Then why are you doing it?” she asks.
I pause. “Over there are two Creeper Domes. Not one. I don’t like it. Each Dome has scores, if not more, of Creepers. I just like to keep my head down. It’s not particularly good-looking, but I’d like to keep it on my shoulders.”
Balatnic looks past me, at the scorched pasturelands and broken buildings, and two quiet Domes. “Can I borrow your shovel when you’re done?”
“No,” I say.
“Sarge…”
I playfully toss a shovelful of dirt into her lap. “I’ll dig a slit trench big enough for us both.”
She smiles at me and helps, moving the piles of dirt with her hands.
* * *
In the slit trench Balatnic is near me, holding her M-4 and Thor is between us. Other platoon members have seen what we’ve done, and there’s a nice line of shallow foxholes around me, the deepest one having been dug by the old vet, Sullivan.
A slow whine and the Humvee with the mounted loudspeakers comes up. Captain Wallace, Dad and the first sergeant go over and talk to the driver. Wallace looks around, like she’s evaluating the situation, and she says something to the first sergeant. He runs off and a few minutes later, four soldiers come back to the Humvee. Even at this distance I can see they’re limping, injured and old. Two of them have prosthetic arms, and Wallace talks briefly to each of them, slapping them on the back when she’s done.
Then a whistle is blown, and Bronson says, “First Platoon, listen up! They’re getting ready to move out!”
Balatnic squirms deeper into the dirt. She says, “Wish I had the M-10.”
“Yeah, but your M-4 puts out more firepower.”
“Not enough to kill a Creeper. Only way I’ll kill a Creeper with this”—and she lifts it up for a second—“is with a golden BB, getting through their armor.”
“Well, you’ll make some noises and scare them. That’s a good thing.”
“Hah.”
I undo my M-10, take out a round from the bandolier. The thick cartridge is set on safe, and there’s a dial on the bottom that can be twisted so it’ll explode at ten meters, twenty-five meters, or fifty meters. The cartridge contains a binary chemical warhead that will kill a Creeper if it explodes close enough. What’s in the cartridge is one of the most closely guarded secrets of the war, one that I’m not tempted to learn. So long as it works, it can contain honey and rosewater for all I care.
I spin the base so it’s primed, and set it for fifty meters. Bronson sees what I’m doing and says, “Knox, anybody give you orders to arm your weapon?”
“Nope,” I say, opening the breech of the M-10, sliding in the cartridge, sliding the bolt shut.
“Then why the hell are you doing it?”
“Just showing initiative, that’s all.”
A couple of laughs and somebody says, “There it goes!”
I look past the birch tree and the Humvee with the loudspeakers maneuvers out onto the field. The team of four soldiers moves in a straggling line behind it, all of them carrying M-10s, though from where I am, they look old and desperately tired.
The little unit rolls and walks towards the two Domes, and there’s something noble and tragic and hopeful in what they’re doing, four men, the Humvee driver and Humvee, going up against the Creepers in the two Domes.
Balatnic burrows herself deeper and I say, “How old are you?”
“Fourteen, Sarge.”
“You doing okay over there?”
“Not really,” she says, wiping at one eye, and then another.
“What’s going on, then?”
She lets out a heavy breath. “I…I’ve never been this close to a Creeper Dome, never mind two. I’m usually in a support role, you know? Oh, I’ve seen Creepers and I’ve been in skirmishes and raids…but damn. This is something else.”
“Well, you know what they say.”
“What’s that?”
“Those bugs are more afraid of us than we are of them.”
I think she smiles. I’m not sure. The Humvee and the squad move slowly along the blackened pastureland. I say, “What’s your first name, Balatnic?”
“Loretta.”
“Loretta, you stick with me, and everything’s going to be fine. Okay?”
She wipes at her eyes again. “Okay, Sarge.”
But in a few seconds, it doesn’t stay fine at all.
* * *
From the Humvee’s speakers, there’s a burst of static, and then a squeal of feedback. Some nervous laughter from my fellow soldiers. “Guess we’re gonna burst their eardrums, if those damn bugs have eardrums,” someone says.
One Dome dilates open, and then the other. Despite all that brave talk from a few moments ago, my chest and stomach clench hard at seeing Creepers emerge. There are three types, as designated by our whitecoats: Battle, Transport, and Research.
The ones coming out are all Battle.
A strong smell of cinnamon sweeps over us, and we all hear the familiar click-click sounds of Creepers on the move.
“Jesus,” De Los Santos murmurs. “Play the tape. Play the damn tape.”
We wait.
I look down the line, at the overgrown driveway, at the slight hollow where Captain Wallace, Dad, and a few others are waiting. All have binoculars, all are watching what’s going on…or not going on. Something square and familiar-looking is on the hood of Wallace’s Humvee, but I can’t place it. It looks like a very small suitcase.
Another burst of static. A soldier about two meters away on the left is murmuring a prayer in Arabic, and I hope his God sure is listening because with each passing second, more Creepers are emerging and—
A loud voice comes out of the speakers. It’s a collection of clicking, sputtering, and whirring sounds, just like what Buddy yelled out yesterday, just like—
No.
It’s wrong.
It’s all wrong.
The Creepers maneuver into two lines. Another prayer is lifted up to Whoever might be listening, and I slap Balatnic on the helmet, say, “Whatever happens, keep your head down!”
I grab my M-10 and battlepack and break out of my slit trench, start running, hunched over, feeling terribly exposed. Thor is at my side, whining, because he knows what’s out there, a couple of hundred meters away, and he doesn’t like it either.
“Knox!” Bronson yells at me. “Get back in line, damn you!”
I ignore him. Keep on running, still hunched over, gear rattling. The alien sounds from the loudspeakers seem to repea
t themselves, starting again from the beginning, and I breathe heavy, trying to get to the command Humvee, suddenly feeling like I’m in that dream where everything goes wrong, your legs can’t move fast enough, your boots are stuck in mud or some sticky substance.
I hope I’m close enough. I scream, “Captain Wallace! Captain Wallace!”
She turns to me.
“Something’s wrong! That’s not Buddy on those tapes! Those aren’t the same phrases from yesterday! They’re not going to surrender!”
Captain Wallace whirls to her first sergeant, yells out, “Recall, now!”
Hesketh holds up some sort of hand-held siren, triggers it, and the sound cuts through the air and almost overwhelms the alien sounds coming from the Humvee.
I keep on running towards Captain Wallace.
I look over to the Humvee and four exposed soldiers.
The Creepers rise up.
It’s too late.
* * *
The Battle Creepers fire from their large claws, a mix of flashing laser beams and lengths of flame. The Humvee is caught first, instantly blows up in a fireball. More flickers and flames dance around the exposed soldiers. The one on the right manages to live just for a few seconds, still walking in a straight line, still following orders, ablaze from head to foot.
“Fire, fire, fire,” comes the order from a bullhorn. The Stryker starts firing off its M-10 rounds. I skid to a halt, aim at what I think is the closest Creeper, and press the trigger.
BLAM!
The recoil knocks me back, as it always does, and the battlefield quickly becomes a confusing mess of Creepers charging, lasers and flame weapons firing, gas clouds popping, and Captain Wallace yells, “First Sergeant, number four, four, four!”
Flares suddenly rise up into the air, colored red and yellow, and I’m scrambling to eject my spent shell, insert another round, and Dad appears, grabbing my elbow.
“Randy, get the hell out of here!” he yells. “We’re falling back!”
I grab a round from my bandolier. “I haven’t heard an order!”
“It’s coming!” he yells. “We can’t hold here! Get a move on!”
I break free from Dad’s grasp, remove a round from my bandolier, rotate the base to fifty meters—probably too short but I don’t care—and as I move the M-10 up to my shoulder, another sergeant I don’t know races by, yelling, “Back to the roadway! Back to the roadway! Now!”
Up where I had been before, the birch trees are on fire. There looks to be a couple of blackened lumps up there as well. We all start breaking away, me running, the command Humvee bouncing its way down the old driveway, the trucks gasping and stuttering as they try to join them, the Stryker bringing up the rear, laying down M-10 fire as best as it can.
I don’t jump on any moving vehicle, for I’m not going to leave Thor behind, and they’re not going to slow down to let me put him on board. I glance back at the advancing line of Creepers, emerging now from the smoke and gas clouds—it only looks like two have been killed—and I keep running, because I don’t think any of these vehicles are going to survive another minute.
I move along to a ditch, staying low, joining other soldiers, splash through a stream, Thor still at my side, the good boy, and from overhead, comes a thundering, booming sound, like scores of sheets a mile long are being torn in half.
Explosions thunder in the field, lots of them, lifting up fountains of dirt and smoke.
“Yeah!” someone yells. “Get some!”
Now I know what those flares were: signaling flares Captain Wallace had cleared with a field artillery unit out there somewhere, providing them with the coordinates I had given. And if things had gone badly—quite the understatement—Wallace would have a way of providing covering fire for a retreat.
No, not retreat. That word’s been forbidden for as long as I can remember. High command would call this a tactical redeployment.
Some of the advancing Creepers are on their sides, or on their backs. Their body armor is impervious to most everything save a nuclear blast, but we’ve learned—after a lot of bloodshed and heartache—that artillery rounds, chewing up the dirt and landscape, can slow them down.
Not kill them. Just slow them down.
Good enough.
I keep on trotting along, head low, Thor right by me. We go into a thin wood line and then I move to the left, to higher ground, and somebody says, “The hell are you doing, Sarge? Safer this way.”
“Quicker this way,” I say. “Driveway should be right over there.”
I scamper through and sure enough, break free from the thin trees and brush. My chest hurts and I know it’s from the heavy breathing. Five soldiers—three girls and two boys—join me. We kneel in a circle, take stock of the situation. Three of the soldiers are carrying the M-10. The other two—the boys—are carrying the M-4.
“What platoon?”
A brunette named Stoll—a corporal—says, “We’re from Second.”
“Anybody see what happened to First? They were up on the ridgeline, by the birch trees.”
One of the two boys says, “I saw some of them hauling ass, heading down the slope when the firing broke out. But it looks like most of them got scorched.”
“Yeah,” the other boy says. “Barbecue bait for sure.”
I don’t want to think what I’m thinking.
Corporal Stoll says, “Sarge, c’mon, let’s get a move on.”
“Hold on,” I say.
The well-made dirt driveway has narrowed here, and there’s muddy, swampy land to each side. Off down at the other end, toward the road and out of view, there are distant shouts, the grumbling of vehicles.
A private with an M-10 nervously looks back. “Hell with this, I’m outta here.”
“Hold,” I say.
Thor starts whining. He knows what’s coming. “Corporal, what’s it like out there, on the roadway, just as you come in?”
“Nothing much,” she says. “Fields. Pastures.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Way out in the open. Even if the company starts trucking, they’re going to be exposed when the Creepers get there.”
“Sure are, and so are we,” she says. “So let’s hump our way back into the woods and—”
“No,” I say. “We’re gonna stay here, just for a bit. Slow down the Creepers, give the company a chance to get the hell out.”
“No!” a private says.
“Yes,” I say.
Another private says, “Corporal, he’s not our sergeant, we don’t have to listen to him, do we?”
“The name is Sergeant Knox,” I say, “and yes, Private, you’ve all got to listen to me. Right now.”
Corporal Stoll gives me the evil eye but she nods and says, “Sergeant?”
I say, “Any of you guys have some Detcord?”
Quick looks all around. Stoll says, “Picard. Give it up.”
Private Picard says something nasty for a girl so cute, takes off her battlepack, dives into a pocket and comes out with a coiled length of Detcord, green and waxy looking, like thick string.
Two pine trees are nearby, on either side of the driveway, both leaning in. “Set those two trees to blow, Private, to block this road.”
Picard has another private help her, and they work quick and efficiently, wrapping the Detcord around the trunk of each pine, about a foot off the ground. She and the other private—Hopi—attach mechanical matches to the end, yell out, “Fire in the hole!” and pull the trips for each match. They run away from the trees and we join them, going down the driveway, and there’s a quick blam-blam, and sighing and crunching noises, as the trees separately fall across the driveway.
“Corporal!”
“Sergeant!”
“Whoever paces best from your squad, I want fifty-five meters paced out from the blown trees.”
“Not fifty?”
“Fifty-five, and get on it,” I say. “Corporal, you and the other M-10 shooters, you’re with me.”
Luckily for us this
is a pretty straightforward stretch of gravel and dirt. Hopi turns, fear on his face, and says, “Clicking! I hear them clicking! They’re coming!”
I don’t hear a damn thing—understandable because of my bum ear—but I’m sure the private is right.
Another private, walking slowly and deliberately, stops and turns, sliding her booted foot across the dirt. “Fifty-five meters, right here.”
“Great.”
I take in the situation. Some boulders on either side of the road. Good. “Stoll…you and one other M-10 shooter, you’re across over there. Ah, Juarez, you’re with me.”
Stoll starts to the boulders. “What about Hopi and Beverly?”
The two boys with the M-4s stand together, like they’re brothers, though one is an American Indian and the other is African-American, but as far as I’m concerned, they’re both just Army green.
I waste a few seconds. Current Army doctrine is that even troops armed with M-4s—which could kill a Creeper about the time I’m chosen Army Chief of Staff—should lay down distracting fire, on the off chance that it may indeed wound or kill a Creeper. Plus, it’s thought that being close in battle would give M-4 armed soldiers experience of facing the buggy aliens.
Maybe so. I see two kids about twelve or so, in baggy uniforms, huge helmets, and M-4s being held in too-small hands.
“You guys scram,” I say. “Hook up with Captain Wallace if you can. We’ll…we’ll be right along presently.”
The two young soldiers turn and start running down the dirt and gravel, helmets bouncing on their heads, carrying the M-4s in their grateful hands.
Birds start flying in the same direction. Thor growls. I go across to the other boulder. Juarez has pretty brown eyes, thick black hair, and two simple gold stud earrings. Her fingers are scarred and ridged with burn tissue.
“How’s it going, Private?” I ask.
She lifts up her M-10, aims it down at the tree trunk tangle. “Outstanding, Sergeant Knox.”
Red Vengeance Page 7
