“Sucks to be you,” and then they start slowly heading to the mess tent, and there’s a yell, “Hey, look at that!”
I move around a parked truck and coming up the dirt road to our encampment, safely under cover from trees, is the disabled Stryker, moving slowly but surely. Hoots, hollers and applause break out from K Company, and nearly as one, we move up to the vehicle as it turns and growls to a halt. The rear ramp grinds down and Lieutenant Jackson steps out, along with Sergeant Merlino and other soldiers. They’re filthy, covered with dirt, grease and there’s still the smell of scorched rubber, and Merlino nearly shouts out, “Those bugs are getting clumsy, those sons-of-bitches. They missed us by almost a meter!”
More laughs, which is good to see in an Army unit, at any time, any place.
* * *
Dinner is a bowl of beef broth and a chunk of white bread covered with cheese paste, and a glass of fruit juice. Dad is in line in front of me, with Captain Wallace, and he says, “Care to join us, Randy?”
“No, sir,” I say. “I’ve got things to cover with the platoon.”
He nods in agreement. I sense some hurt in his eyes, behind those black-rimmed glasses, but he should know better. I’ve got a hell of a job ahead of me, and I can’t be seen spending valuable time with superior officers.
There’s a pause in the chow line as a fresh container of beef broth comes out, and Dad and Wallace take a small folding table by themselves. Wallace laughs loud at something Dad says, and briefly reaches out to touch his hand.
The gesture makes me feel queasy.
* * *
Dusk approaches and a small fire is built in the center of the company’s parked vehicles, carefully shielded. I walk the perimeter again and check on the positioning of First Squad, which has first watch tonight. It’s a thin crew and they’re set up in a triangular position, covering the site, but it’s the best I can do, and I say to Bronson, “Where’s their trenches?”
“Their what?”
“Foxholes, slit trenches, holes in the ground,” I say. “I want everyone in a hole.”
“Knox, that—”
“Sergeant.”
“Sergeant Knox, that’s gonna take a while, and Christ, we’re just spending the night here. This isn’t a permanent setup.”
“If our guys are out in the open and a Creeper races up from that river bank, this orchard will be permanent indeed,” I say. “Slit trenches big enough to hold four, two from each squad, in case we’re attacked during the night and Second Squad comes out to reinforce.”
He grimaces. “Yes, Sergeant. But we’ve only got five soldiers in First Squad. That means one hole is going to be at half-strength.”
“No, it won’t,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be in that hole, covering as well.”
“Oh,” Bronson says. “And what happens when Second replaces First?”
“I won’t have far to travel, because I’ll still be there.”
* * *
It takes another hour to get things sorted out, and I arrange First Squad so each hole has a soldier with an M-4 to take care of trespassing Earth-based life forms, and a soldier with an M-10 to handle everything else. I quietly ask Bronson to give me the youngest soldier, and I’m hooked up with a twelve-year-old boy named Tanner.
We settle in just before the sunlight fades away, and I point out to him some landmarks—the rusted tractor, the solitary boulder, the cracked apple tree—so we have good battlefield awareness. It doesn’t help to be screaming, “Shoot there, shoot there!” if you don’t have a handle on what “there” means.
His skin is pale and he’s wide-eyed, and his hands are holding his M-4 so tight I can practically see his knuckles glow in the dark. Thor jumps in with us and turns around a few times, lying down on a poncho that’s protecting us from the wet soil, and I say, “How long have you been with K Company, Private?”
He says, “About five months.”
“Seen lots of action, I’m sure.”
He softly laughs, a high-pitched sound. “More than I thought I would. This company…Captain Wallace, she loves to get in the thick of things. I got out of Basic and got assigned here, and we hit two Creepers on my first week. First dead Creepers I’ve ever seen…and first dead soldiers I ever saw, too. One in each attack, drilled with a laser shot to their heads. Didn’t even know their names.”
Another little brittle laugh. “And last month…boy, it sounded like the war was over, when the Creepers’ orbital base got destroyed. How come we’re still fightin’?”
That would take a good chunk of the night to discuss, so I rearrange my imaginary platoon leader hat and say, “That’s beyond our pay grade, Tanner, sorry to say. You comfortable?”
“Doing okay, Sergeant.”
“Good.”
He says, “You’ve done this before, right? Platoon Leader?”
I sense what he’s asking, which isn’t a straight-up answer. Tanner wants to make sure that the FNG—freakin’ new guy—has experience and isn’t going to get him and his mates killed.
I say, “Sure. Plenty of times.”
“Okay.”
Overhead the clouds are breaking away, which reveals the night sky and enough ambient light from the stars and burning trails of old satellite wreckage to light up the perimeter better, which eases some of my strain. Back in the good old days of bloody war fighting, even fresh privates like the one next to me had the latest in night-vision technology that would illuminate everything around them. Ah, yes, back in the days of electronics. I had a few memories of smart phones, tablet computers, and huge television screens, and I knew Tanner next to me would have none of those memories. Made you wonder who was the most disadvantaged.
From behind us there comes a screeching noise that nearly lifts me straight out of the foxhole, and even makes Thor sit up and take notice. Tanner laughs. “No worries, Sarge, that’s just MacRae. Not much of a soldier but man, can he play those bagpipes.”
And the screeching noise rises up to a bagpipe tune, a haunting, slow melody that goes right through me, and I can barely make out the shape of the piper, standing near one of the parked trucks. The tune goes on and on, and then slowly dribbles out. A couple of hoots and some applause, and that’s that.
“What was the tune?”
“What amounts to Taps for the Scots,” Tanner says. “Called Sleep Dearie, Sleep or something like that.”
“After all that screeching, I’m so wound up I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep for a while.”
Tanner says, “That’s probably the point.”
* * *
The night settles down and I keep watch out there, just scanning, looking out the corner of my eyes, which are better at seeing things in the dark. It feels pretty calm. Other soldiers to the rear of us are quieting down as they prepare to go to sleep, though there was the soft murmur of voices from where the hidden campfire was located.
After about ninety minutes I check my watch and retrieve my M-10 and Tanner instantly snaps to. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing wrong’s, Tanner,” I say. “I’m just going to slip out and check on the other positions. I’ll be back in a bit.”
His voice is shaky. “Can…can I come with you, Sergeant?”
I take a breath. According to the Department of Defense, the Department of the Army, the Congress and the President—wherever he is nowadays—this guy next to me is a Specialist in the Army of the United States, one in a long line going back all the way to 1775.
But he’s also a scared, twelve-year-old kid out in the dark, facing real-life monsters.
I say, “Tell you what. I’ll leave Thor here with you. How’s that?”
I can’t see his smile but I sense it. “Hey, that would be great. Thanks a lot!”
“Not a problem,” I say. “But keep your eyes open, keep it tight. If you see something…do what you have to do. But word of advice. See if Thor responds, okay? He’s pretty good at gau
ging any possible threats.”
“Okay, Sergeant.”
I say, “Thor, stay. Thor, guard.” My boy sits up and looks out into the fields, and then I get up, roll over the top of the hole, and slip away.
* * *
The inspection goes fine checking the other two holes, and then I’m back with Thor and Tanner, and nothing happens, and we stay there and stay there, the only interesting thing seeing a huge piece of space debris burn up and split into four trails, and hearing muffled booms! as they strike somewhere. When four hours have passed, Second Squad comes out to replace First Squad, and Private Tanner says, “Have a quiet night, Sarge.”
“You too, Tanner,” I say, and he’s replaced by an older guy, maybe fourteen or so, with the name of Ramirez, and after a few exchanges and such, he settles down to business and so do I. I take a couple of catnaps and then I’m out again, leaving Thor behind, going from hole to hole, and at the second hole, I find Balatnic and another specialist, Gould, and I find them fast asleep and curled up in opposite ends of their slit trench, their weapons uselessly standing against the dirt.
Damn.
A choice is presented to me, and according to doctrine, I make the wrong one. I loudly cough and Balatnic stirs, and I slide into their hole. She and Gould scramble to the lip of their hole, eyeing the dirt road and clumsily picking up their weapons.
I say, “See anything?”
Murmurs of “No Sergeant” from both.
I put some edge into my voice. “Hard to see anything through your eyelids, am I right?”
Both are quiet. “Who’s senior here?”
“I am,” Balatnic says.
“Gould.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Get out to where the fire is. See if there’s coffee or tea brewing. Grab some for yourself and Balatnic, get back here as quick as you can.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” and there’s eagerness in his voice as he slips out, his shouldered M-10 bouncing as he scurries away into the darkness.
Balatnic says, “Sergeant, I know—”
“Stow it,” I say.
I keep quiet for a bit, wanting her to think of what might be awaiting her. I say, “How long you been in the Army, Balatnic?”
“Two years.”
“So I don’t need to explain the importance of being alert on guard duty.”
“No.”
“And if I come around on picket duty in the future, while I’m commanding this platoon, I can count on you being awake and alert.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Good.”
A voice from behind us. “Private Gould, coming in.”
He scurries back into the trench, carefully carrying two mugs of hot liquid. I wish I had been smart enough to ask him to bring back one for me, but I let it be.
“Gould?”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“Stay alert, all right?”
“You can count on us.”
“I better,” I say, and as I slip out, Balatnic says, “Are you going to report this to Captain Wallace?”
I say, “Report what?”
Then I’m out and back to my trench, and Thor checks me out and Ramirez says, “Welcome back, Sergeant Knox.”
“Good to be back. Anything go on?”
“Quiet as the grave,” Ramirez says, and I say, “Next time, find a better metaphor, okay?”
“Meta what?” he asks, and I leave that be.
* * *
When dawn comes I get up, stretch and Thor leaps out, trots out to the field, and does his business, and I hear the rest of the Company getting up and stirring about. The light is dim but good enough to let me walk around, and as I head to the command Humvee, to see if Captain Wallace is up and about, Bronson finds me and says, “We got movement, out on the dirt road coming this way.”
“Humans?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, show me.”
I follow him as we go past the parked vehicles to where the repaired Stryker is covering the approach and sure enough, there are about a half-dozen civilians, two of them hauling small wooden wagons with wire-rimmed wheels.
Bronson says, “Sergeant?”
I say, “I’ll go out and see what’s what. In the meantime, see if the mess is ready to handle these civvies.”
Bronson says, “Christ, we keep on feeding everyone we run across, we’ll be eating our boots by the time we get back to Battalion.”
I go down the damp road, Thor at my side, and I make out an older male and female, accompanied by two boys, and bringing up the rear, mostly hidden, a young female and a young boy.
The male is dressed well in a black suit, white shirt and boots. His face is bearded, gaunt, and he smiles. “Looks like we’re lost.”
“How can I help you?”
“We…we were evacuated from outside of Albany, heading to a Red Cross camp. Our bus got a flat tire, we started walking…got separated from the main group. Been wandering around for a couple of days, and then we got word the Army was here. Can you help us?”
I say, “I’m sure. In the meantime, how about a sit down and something to eat?”
The woman says, “Oh, God, that’d be great.”
“Then head up over there, and someone will help you.”
The older man and woman walk by, the small wagons with battered suitcases and plastic bags creaking some, and then the two boys, about eight or so, faces dirty, holding hands, and then, bringing up the rear, dressed in tattered civilian clothes, are Serena Coulson and her younger brother Buddy.
Chapter Thirteen
She looks at me, face haggard, blonde hair dirty and tangled, and Buddy is his usual quiet and morose self. Thor whines and I whisper, “Stay,” and I mean to say something to Serena, when Bronson comes up to me and says, “What do we have, Sergeant Knox?”
Good question. When I saw them last, back at the surrendered Creeper Dome, they were both in uniform, getting ready to head out with their dad, the man from Langley—Hoyt Cranston—and General Brad Scopes from Intelligence, for additional debriefing and meetings.
But now they are here, quiet, and definitely out of uniform.
Meaning…
Deserters?
Or something else?
I say loudly, “What you see is what we got. Civilians, looking for a Red Cross refugee camp. Get them to the chow tent, all right?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Serena glances at me as she passes by, and I’m hoping for a look of thanks, or appreciation, but I get neither, just a look of desperation.
* * *
I find Dad curled up in a sleeping bag, underneath an up-armored Humvee. Thor goes in front of me and licks his face, and Dad sits up, bangs his head, says, “Shit, Randy, what the hell is this?”
“Dad, we got a situation.”
He rubs at his head, fumbles around inside his sleeping bag, retrieves his glasses and puts them on. “What’s going on?”
“Serena Coulson and her brother Buddy. They’ve just shown up, in civvies, part of a refugee party.”
Dad struggles to get out of his sleeping bag, and I reach over, grab the zipper, pull it free. He gets out and says, “Serena? Buddy? Here?”
“That’s right.”
He stands up, coughs. He’s wearing faded green gym shorts and a Boston University T-shirt, and his skinny legs are white and covered with old scars. I get this disquieting feeling, seeing my father like this, old and tired, barely awake. I don’t like it. He rubs at his face and says, “Is Dr. Coulson with them?”
“No.”
“Damn,” he says. “Does Captain Wallace know they’re here?”
“No,” I say. “Nobody’s recognized them except me. Right now, they’re just a couple of refugees.”
He reaches into a knapsack, pulls out his BDUs, starts getting dressed. “All right. I guess we should tell Captain Wallace and go on from there.”
“Dad…”
“What?” he says, pants still around his ank
les.
“The civilian clothes.”
Dad doesn’t say a word. I go on. “They might be deserters.”
He nods, reaches down, pulls up his pants, almost falls down. “Okay. Look, there’s a wooden lean-to by the lead Stryker. I’ll be there. Bring Serena and Buddy over, we’ll see if we can figure out what the hell is going on.”
“On it.”
* * *
I head back to the temporary mess, and Serena and Buddy are sitting underneath a pine tree, eating quickly from plastic bowls. Thor runs up to Buddy, tail wagging, and Buddy quietly puts his bowl down and rubs Thor’s head and ears. Thor licks Buddy’s face and there’s the briefest of smiles.
Serena scrapes the last of the oatmeal from her bowl. I say, “You done there?”
“I could probably go through the line at least two more times,” she says, “but I don’t think they’ll let me.”
“My dad wants to see you both.”
“Good.”
She picks up Buddy’s bowl, puts it on top of hers, and hands them to me. “Do you mind bringing them back? I’m afraid…some of the soldiers here might recognize me or Buddy. I don’t want that.”
Desertion, I thought. Definitely desertion. And here, just a few hours ago, I was worried about two soldiers dozing on guard duty.
“Fair enough. Stay here and I’ll fetch you.”
I walk quietly and quickly to the end of the serving line, where dishes are being piled up for later washing, and then I head over to the tree when First Sergeant Hesketh shows up.
“Sergeant Knox, the Captain wants all platoon leaders at her Humvee in five minutes.”
“Got it, First Sergeant.”
I try to walk around him and a strong hand grasps my upper arm, and his raspy voice says, “Knox, you’re heading in the wrong direction.”
“You said five minutes, I’ll be there in five minutes. In the meantime”—I tug my arm free—“go worry about something else, First Sergeant.”
I catch the attention of Serena and Buddy, and they follow me as I head to the lead Stryker. There’s still a stench of burnt rubber as I go around the Stryker, and Sergeant Merlino is examining the repaired tire, tapping on it with a small hammer and whispering obscenities. Other members of his platoon are still sacked out, and Lieutenant Jackson calls out, “Hey, Knox! Come on, we’re meeting up with the Captain.”
Red Vengeance Page 13
