About two months after I was assigned Thor as my K-9 companion, I was on a training mission with five other soldiers, four of them a year or two around my age, the last one a woman in her early twenties—a sergeant—who was wearing a Special Forces flash on the side of her BDUs. She was quiet and kept to herself. We others either had German Shepherds or Belgian Malinois to train with, but she had a black and white English Springer Spaniel named Spencer, who seemed friendly enough, unless you got too close to the sergeant and he gave a heavy growl.
We trained with a tall, skinny soldier with no visible rank, an eyepatch over one eye, and plenty of burn tissue on his face and hands. His name was Wood and he worked with a three-legged German Shepherd named Duke, and right at the beginning of our training he gave the following little speech: “You gents and ladies fortunate enough to train with these brave warriors better remember one thing. These dogs are smarter than you are, braver than you are, and have abilities of sight and smell you can’t even dream about. You soldiers can be easily replaced. Not these K-9s. They have the intelligence, temperament and ability to help us contain and defeat the Creepers.”
A deep breath. “You will care for your warriors, you will look out for their welfare, and you will treat them with respect. In return, they will gladly sacrifice their lives for yours, even though for the most part, you’re just worthless men and women not deserving of the love and dedication these fine animals will give you.”
One last pause. “You will train with them, you will work with them on the battlefield, and by God, you will not leave them behind, and if you need to ensure that they pass without too much pain and suffering, you will perform that last duty. If you can’t meet those requirements, leave now.”
None of us left, then or later.
After a training session which involved Wood hiding bits of Creeper arthropod in woods, abandoned homes, and fields, then seeing which dogs could hunt them down—I’m pleased that Thor only missed one—we traveled back to the K-9 training facility outside of Portland, Maine, and stopped at a roadhouse for a rest break.
We were all traveling on an old transport truck powered by steam, and the only real bump was when we got there and Wood noticed a soldier called Crandall leaving the roadhouse with a cup of cold cranberry juice, and Wood came up to him and said, “Where’s your dog?”
“She’s tied up over by that fence.”
“She been watered yet?”
“Uh, no,” Crandall said and Wood slapped the cup out of his hand and said, “You get over there right now and take care of your dog. She comes first. Always. And only then can you get a drink.”
Crandall bit his lower lip. “But I can’t afford to buy another drink.”
“Too bad,” Wood said. “I’m sure the water is free.”
Eventually our dogs were rested and watered, and I came out of the roadhouse with a watery glass of lemonade, sat next to Thor. We were still getting used to each other and I was happy to see that he didn’t try to push things with me. He was learning his commands, he was learning how to come back when called, and I thought then we were going to make a good team.
We were about to leave when the trouble started. Three guys came out of the roadhouse, the center one stumbling and laughing, and it was easy to see they were drunk on something, homemade beer or wine or hard cider. The center guy had a glass bottle in his hand with a red and black label. He stared at us and his two buddies wandered off and sat at a picnic table, and the guy, who had a thick beard, patched jeans and a filthy gray sweatshirt, spat on the ground and said, “Lookie here, who’s fighting on our behalf. Dogs, kids and a cripple.”
One of his buddies said, “Oh, Christ, give it a rest, Brian.”
“The hell I will!” He stumbled closer and stared at each and every one of us. “Kids. Dogs. To fight freaking aliens. That’s our mighty, mighty armed forces now. Used to be the greatest in the world. Took up almost half of our freaking budget. I paid taxes, year after year, for protection…and for what?”
None of us said anything, although Wood was definitely paying attention, sitting on a boulder near the gravel parking lot full of wagons, a few hitched horses, some locked bicycles and two trucks with coveted C ration stickers on the windshield.
The man called Brian said, “I used to be a loan manager, for Citizen’s Bank. Great job, great bennies…and now what? I slop shit at my stupid brother-in-law’s farm.”
Wood said, “Maybe you finally found your true calling.”
His two buddies smiled but Brian wouldn’t have any of it. “We spent billions and billions of dollars with gold-plated weapons, and what happened? Damn cowards didn’t even lift a finger when the Creepers revealed themselves. Ran away. Hid their precious tanks, missiles, ships and aircraft. Bastards.”
That was one very one-sided statement, and I wished I was brave enough to correct the drunk. The truth was, no government or military was prepared for when the aliens attacked. Who would be? Can you imagine prewar any politician trying to secure funding to defend against…what? Little Green Men? Please. And during their months-long journey to Earth, when telescopes first spotted them, the Creepers appeared to be a strange collection of comets traveling in formation.
But once the attack began, what passed for civilization on the third planet got squirted back into the nineteenth century. The United States, China, Russia, Israel and Japan—from what’s been pieced together after the Creepers invaded—had highly secret antisatellite weapons that launched in the first hours of the conflict, with every one of them being burned out of the sky. Nuclear-tipped ICBMs that were hastily reconfigured to reach orbit and explode near the Creeper orbital base were either destroyed in air, or on the ground, or in silos, or in submarines. This one-sided battle raged for a few days, while the Creepers upped everything by dropping asteroids into oceans and large lakes, creating tsunamis that took out most major cities, since the most populous cities on Earth were built near large bodies of water.
The drunk went on and on, spittle drooling down his lips, calling us losers, cowards, incompetent. And I think, sure, after the Creepers landed, the slaughter continued. Most first-line military units were dispatched overseas, and hiding aircraft, tanks and other assets from the overhead killer stealth satellites only made sense while reserve, National Guard and other units scrambled like hell to fight the invaders.
We had to learn to fight differently, fight smart, and sure, it took time, but it also took a lot of blood and burned and crisped bodies.
There was a pause. Wood said, “You done?”
“Maybe I am, and maybe I’m not,” he said. He held up the bottle he had been drinking, rotated the label. It showed a human hand in red, crushing a Creeper painted black. The name of the drink was RED VENGEANCE.
“See?” he said. “This cider maker…they know what we need…some kind of Red Vengeance to save us. Is that you?”
Wood quietly said, “Come along, squad. Let’s saddle up.”
We gathered up our packs, called our dogs to our sides, and went back to our truck, the drunk man’s laughter and insults following us all the way.
Chapter Seventeen
First Sergeant Hesketh trots down the line of vehicles and shouts, “Disperse, everybody disperse! Get your vehicles undercover, slide into any open building or hangar.” As he goes by he slaps the door of our truck. “Move!”
So we move. We roll out and we follow the lead Stryker and Wallace’s Humvee, and we and another truck—carrying the Second Platoon—go into the darkness of the first and largest hangar. We park and get out, and the place is a mess. Holes in the roof, water on the floor, broken pieces of equipment scattered around and shoved into the corner. There’s a smell of diesel and I look around, Thor next to me. Wallace talks to my dad, and I wander over. The Captain says, “This is your base? This is where you wanted us to go? Where is everyone? Damn it, Colonel, I told you this place had been marked as abandoned. Who’s right? You or me?”
Dad looks pissed. “Ho
ld on, hold on, let me check something out.”
“Colonel, if you please, that would be one hell of an idea.”
“Stand by, Captain, stand by,” he says, and he stalks off to the far end of the hangar. I know why we’ve been dispersed. This place has been the recipient of Creeper attention, and I’m sure any killer stealth satellite up there seeing a military convoy roll in just might decide to attack once again.
Thor is near me, and he sniffs, sniffs some more. He paws at the concrete floor, whines some. I scratch his head, try to look into the darkness.
“What the hell is going on?” Balatnic asks me, and I shrug.
“Beats the hell out of me,” I say, which isn’t very inspiring but does have the point of being the truth.
Along the far walls are smashed shelves, desks, and cabinets that were probably used to keep tools or equipment. I make sure the First Platoon sticks around—“No wandering outside until we figure out what’s going on,” I say—and then I violate my own orders when I poke my head out for a quick look-see. Rain is starting to come down, and I wonder how Dad could have been so wrong. This place is dead.
I walk to the other side of the hangar, where I locate Wallace’s Humvee. The driver is sitting on the hood, smoking a cigarette, and Wallace and the first sergeant are standing next to a smashed trophy case, talking about something, and Buddy and Serena are sitting still in the rear of the Humvee. The door is open and I lean in.
“Hey.”
Buddy doesn’t move, until he sees Thor, and he smiles. Serena turns and her face is red, eyes are swollen. “Randy.”
“How are you doing?”
She says, “You know what the corporal said, our driver? He said if I’m a deserter, I could be shot. Shot!”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever wants to do the shooting, will have to get through me and Thor. Me, I’m not that tough, but Thor, well, you’ve seen him work.”
I’m hoping for a smile or an expression, but her face is still worn, tired, and filled with grief.
I think of what else I can say to brighten her mood when the hangar lights up with the blaze of a thousand lamps.
* * *
Thor starts barking, I reach for my pistol, wondering why in hell I left my M-10 back at the truck, and there’s an amplified voice overhead that starts chanting, “Stand down, stand down, stand down.”
The lights dim some and I put a hand on my forehead, gaze up at the ceiling, see how carefully the overhead lights and the sound system have been hidden. Then there’s the sound of many boots hitting the ground, and the overhead voice starts up again: “Keep your weapons lowered, keep your weapons lowered, keep your weapons lowered.”
Armed soldiers are now coming out from an open door, bearing M-4s and shotguns, and there seem to be dozens of them. Once I get done checking out their weapons, I check out their BDUs, which have a different type of pattern from what we wear. And then there are their cloth berets, which are blue.
Then it strikes me.
They are Air Force personnel, and they don’t look happy.
* * *
An argument is underway from the door, and it comes out into this part of the hangar. Dad is talking loudly with an Air Force officer, and on the officer’s BDU is an eagle. His nametag says LAUGHTON. He has broad shoulders, strong-looking hands, and thick black hair cut short, flecked with some white. He’s a colonel, just like Dad, but boy, he’s giving it right to my father.
“Colonel Knox, this is highly inappropriate,” he says, walking out into the main hangar. “This unit of yours has to depart immediately, and only by one or two vehicles at a time. We don’t want the Creepers’ attention.”
“Phil, look—”
“Colonel Knox, you can’t stay, and that’s that.”
Wallace steps forward and says, “Captain Wallace, K Company, 153rd Regiment, Colonel Laughton. I intend to leave as soon as we can. If you can spare fuel and rations, we’ll be out of here in an hour.”
Laughton says, “Just how in hell did you end up here?”
“Colonel Knox directed us.”
“He directed you wrong,” he says.
“No doubt,” she says. “But I’m ready to take my Company out, if we can refuel and get fed.”
Laughton looks over our company and says, “Not your fault, I suppose. All right, that sounds reasonable.”
Wallace steps closer to the Air Force colonel, lowers her voice, but for some reason—how close I am or the acoustics—she says, “Since we’re being reasonable, I’d like you to tell your airmen to stop pointing their weapons at my company. One shot gets fired, even by accident, and I swear to Christ, I’ll kill ’em all.”
The colonel’s face is impassive, but in a loud voice, he says, “Master Sergeant! Lower your weapons, return to quarters. And let’s get some food and fuel to these troops.”
* * *
A slight flurry of conversations, and Dad comes over to Serena and Buddy and says, “Would you come with me, please? I need to talk to Colonel Laughton.”
Serena catches my eye and I feel like she’s asking for permission, and I give the slightest nod, just as Dad says, “Specialist, please don’t make me issue an order.”
“No, I won’t do that,” she says. “Buddy, come along.”
She gets out of the Humvee and with Buddy in hand, follows my dad to the entrance where the airmen had first appeared. Thor stays with me and whines again, scratching at the hangar floor. Rain is coming down heavier and puddles are starting to form under the holes in the wide roof. Pigeons fly off, and I think about the poor aircrews that had kept this hangar and so many others spotless and ready for any kind of military action years ago.
Dad, Colonel Laughton, Serena and Buddy, are clustered around the doorway, and then another Air Force officer emerges, wearing a white coat that makes him look like a doctor. He’s in his thirties, short blond hair, with captain’s bars on the collars of the coat, wearing BDU trousers.
“Kara!” he calls out. “Hey, Kara, is that you?”
Wallace flips around at somebody calling her name, and I can’t believe the smile that comes across her face. “Mark! Damn it!” She runs across the pavement and Mark races right back, and there’s a collision and laughter and even a quick kiss on the cheeks, and Mark steps back. “Damn, you look fine. How the hell are you?”
Wallace wipes at her eyes. “What do you think? Look at me.”
Mark laughs and his eyes are watering, too. “You? Look at me, hon. I used to be the dopey computer designer and neighborhood nerd before our visitors came. Lots of changes.” He looks past her for a moment and says, hesitantly, “David?”
Wallace shakes her head. “Kabul, last I heard. And that was…that was a long time ago.”
Mark puts an arm around her, says, “Come along. I hear your folks are getting some food sent their way. I want to show you around some.”
Wallace hesitates and Mark says, “No worries, Kara. Swear to God. No worries. I’ll make sure your troops are looked after. Just for a while.”
She says, “First Sergeant!”
“Ma’am,” he says, and I’m surprised to see him grinning. Maybe he’s just happy to see his C.O. with a smile on her face.
“See to the troops while I’m gone, all right? And if something…untoward happens, work with Sergeant Knox.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
By now the little crowd of Dad, Colonel Laughton, Serena and Buddy have gone into the rear of the hangar, and Captain Wallace and her old friend Mark walk through, and like some damn miracle, I can’t believe what starts coming out.
* * *
First up are a number of BDU-clad airmen, about my age or younger, carrying folding tables and chairs. They set them up in a clear area of the hangar that isn’t being dripped on, and De Los Santos, standing next to me, says, “I see it but I don’t goddamn believe it.”
“Me neither.”
Some more airmen show up
, and they’re carrying tablecloths. White tablecloths. Carefully washed and folded, and they’re spread over the tables, and then almost as one, my platoon and others turn at the scents coming our way, and there’s a murmur as more airmen come out, carrying large covered serving dishes, potholders in hands. After a few minutes of putting stuff down and setting up other provisions, an Air Force sergeant approaches First Sergeant Hesketh and says, “We’re ready if you are, Sergeant.”
Hesketh shakes his head in wonderment. “We’re always ready. Troops, line up!”
They only have to be told once, and I take the rear of the line, along with Hesketh. I briefly worry that the food and drink will be gone by the time I get there, but no worries.
There are deep rectangular dishes of chicken cutlets, meatloaf, sliced ham. Two types of gravy. Mashed potatoes and scalloped potatoes. Peas. Carrots. String beans. Lots and lots of fruit juice and water. Squares of chocolate. I sit down at a crowded table, just touching the tablecloth for a moment, and I eat. Thor is with me, and I feed him as I feed myself. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a position to feed him so much food. When I’m finished I see my fellow soldiers are back in line, going for seconds, or thirds. I join them, eat some more, and then Corporal Cellucci, the company’s quartermaster, talks quietly to the Air Force sergeant that seems to be in charge, and he nods and says some words to his mess crew, and the leftovers are packaged up and carefully given to Corporal Cellucci.
Then a fuel truck grumbles into the hangar, as rain continues to pour from outside, and Hesketh gets up and goes to the Air Force crew manning the vehicle, and soon enough, one by one, our vehicles are fueled up.
I just sit with members of my platoon, who are leaning back in their chairs, smiling and talking, some just touching their bellies, like they’re trying to make sure it isn’t all an illusion.
Balatnic shakes her head. “I’ve never seen the Air Force before.”
De Los Santos grunts. “Who has? They can’t fly, so they hide. They’re experts at hiding.”
Red Vengeance Page 18
