Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

  * * *

  Tanner says, “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, things are fine,” I say, but I’m overdue to report to the CP. I crank and crank the side of the field telephone, receiver up to my ear, and…

  Nothing.

  “Private, have you touched the field phone?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “Has it rung since I’ve been out?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  I try again, and again.

  No joy.

  “What’s wrong?” Tanner asks.

  “Field phone’s dead,” I say, telling myself all the different ways this could be nothing at all. “Stay put. I’m going to take a stroll up to the CP, see if there’s a break in the line, or if it got unplugged at the other end.”

  “Sergeant…”

  I take pity on the kid. “Thor, stay.”

  “Thank you.”

  I flop myself out of the foxhole, find the telephone line, and keep it loosely in my hand as I walk, hunched over, with M-10 bouncing heavily and awkwardly on my back, heading across the parking lot. I keep a low profile, not knowing if there’s anything out there watching me. More often than not, the Creepers like to roll in and start attacking, without much stealth or sneaky maneuvering, but there’s been tales—and I’ve seen it twice before—where a hidden Creeper will fire off a laser that will kill a soldier from hundreds of meters away. Once you see a guy cut in half while walking casually across a supposedly safe field full of knee-high hay, with no danger in sight or Creeper scent in the air, that tends to stay with you.

  The wire is secure and all in one piece as I get up to the CP, and I’m thinking of banging on the door before going in, but I don’t want to wake the people whose turn it is to sleep. So I let the wire drop, softly open the door, and peer in.

  To the right, Captain Pulaski and two of her medics are asleep on the cots they’ve got set up for the wounded. Serena is on the floor, sleeping, cuddled up around Buddy, two blankets covering them. In the center is the table with a gas lantern, set on low, with the field phone setup in the center, and a dozing first sergeant, head on his arms, splayed out on the table. I instantly see what had happened: a movement of his left arm had disconnected the phone line for the First Platoon from the communications apparatus. I step forward to snap it back in and—

  Look to the left. A padded bench. Dad is there, with Captain Wallace, and his arms are around her, and they’re…they’re kissing.

  Kissing.

  I take a deep breath, move forward, snap the line in place, and turn to get the hell out.

  I make it about three steps before Dad catches up to me, hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey,” he says, voice low.

  I shrug off his touch and keep on walking, and he grabs me harder, pulls me around to look at him. “Randy.”

  “Dad.”

  He seems to be struggling to say something, or do something, and right then and there, I don’t particularly care. The door to the cabin is closed, only some thin rays of light coming out from the cracks, and I don’t want to think what Captain Wallace is doing right now.

  “Randy, look, Kara and I—”

  I can’t believe I get the words out but I do. “But Mom…what about Mom…”

  His voice is thick. “Son, it’s been ten years, and—”

  “Damn it, I know it’s been ten years! I was there! And I still don’t know what happened to Mom or Melissa!”

  Dad’s mood changes, he steps back, no longer the humiliated father, but now the angry widower. “Is that it? Is that it? You want to know? All right, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you every grim detail, if you think you’re so big you can handle it.”

  My eyes are brimming with tears. Oh, Mom. Oh, Melissa. Is this how it comes? Is this how I finally find out? In the middle of a fight in the middle of a battlefield?

  I step back. “Colonel, I need to get back to my platoon.”

  “Randy…”

  “Colonel, I’m going back to my unit.”

  I turn and I can’t even wipe at my eyes when the world around me lights up so bright that shadows fall upon the dirt parking lot, and a strangled voice screams:

  “CREEPERS!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I guess it’s a tribute to my training or leadership or just plain being scared out of my mind, but I don’t run to the site of the attack, which is on the reverse side of the hill. I run across the parking lot, down the slope and into my foxhole, and things get very chaotic, bright and loud all at once.

  Hand-held warning bells are ringing, there’s the thundering BLAM! of M-10s being fired back there, and I slap Tanner on the shoulder, tell him, “Eyes front! Watch your area!” His face is pale but he’s a good kid, and he turns away from the action behind us, grabs his M-4 and looks down slope from our foxholes. Thor’s growling and I say, “Tanner, I’ll be right back. Stay in position!”

  I roll out and keep my head down, run along the foxholes, checking in on my squads, saying again and again, “Eyes front, eyes front. That could be a diversion. Second Platoon’s got it. Eyes front.” Everyone’s in position and I make it to our end of the foxholes, where the cliff face is located, and at the end pit Bronson says, “What the hell’s going on, Randy?”

  I ignore him using my first name and look up at the hill, in time to see a long tongue of flame rise up, along with the flash of lasers from the attacking Creepers. “Second Platoon is taking it. Be on the ball. We might be next.”

  He mutters something but I don’t have time, and I scurry back to my foxhole, and after rolling in, crank up the phone.

  It’s Hesketh. “CP, go.”

  “First Platoon up,” I say. “Our sector’s quiet.”

  “Good for you. CP, out.”

  I slam the phone back into the receiver, peer over the dirt pile and check out our slope. Quiet all right, and with the Creeper attack back there, it’s dimly lit, but a moment later, there’s a hissing noise as a parachute flare is sent up, and when it pops open, its slow descent gives us a better view.

  Another BLAM!, and one more report from an M-10 back there, and it seems to quiet down. The parachute flare stays up for a number of long, long seconds, illuminating everything in a harsh and unforgiving light, and it eventually drifts off to the south, and Tanner says, “Shit, hope it doesn’t start a fire.”

  I can’t help myself, and I laugh, and Tanner laughs, too. I say, “All right, I want you looking up at the parking lot. You tell me what you see, all right?”

  He turns around and says, “What am I looking for, Sergeant?”

  “You’re looking for a line of Creepers going over that cabin and coming at us.”

  “Oh…”

  I shift some, remove two 50 mm cartridges from my bandolier, click one unsafe, and spin the base so it’s locked in to fire at fifty meters. I slide the cartridge in, slam the bolt shut, and wait.

  I pat Thor on the head and he growls again, and I say, “Yeah, pal. We ride again…except this time, we’re stuck in one place.”

  I stroke his head again, remembering the command that will send him out of here and back to Fort St. Paul if we’re overrun. “Lucky you, if we’ve got to run, you got two extra legs.”

  * * *

  Tanner cries out when our field phone rings and I nearly jump out of the foxhole. I pick up the receiver and say, “First Platoon, go.”

  Hesketh gets right to it. “Command Post. Two Battle Creepers destroyed. Two from Second Platoon injured. Report any movement.”

  “Hoo-ah, First Sergeant,” and I replace the receiver.

  “What’s going on, Sergeant?” Tanner asks.

  “It’s—”

  I can’t believe I don’t respond faster, but there you go. A Battle Creeper emerges from the woods below us and that damn thing skitters up at us like its friends are chasing it. I scream, “First Platoon, fire fire fire!” and the M-4s rip off their rounds, and there’s an M-10 shot from two foxholes down, but it overshoots the f
ast moving Creeper, and I’m in the same spot, damn it. I’ve set my round to explode at fifty meters and the Creeper’s raced past that point, and Christ, those six legs are moving faster than I’ve ever seen before. Its weapon arms are extended, moving, spinning, firing off burst after burst of laser fire.

  I yell out, “Check your down range, check your down range!” but I’m not sure if I can be heard over the fire of the M-4s, setting down harassing fire, but I move quickly, ejecting the live round, letting it drop to the dirt—thereby violating a few rules and regs about how to treat live rounds—and I grab another round, twist off the safe, twirl it to ten meters, and I slam it into the breech, ram the bolt home, all without looking, just as another parachute flare is sent up from the CP behind us.

  The light bathes everything again in its sharp relief, and as I bring my M-10 to my shoulder, I see a beautiful sight indeed, which is the Creeper, getting about fifteen meters or so from our line of foxholes, and an M-10 round explodes right in front of the fast-moving bastard.

  Perfect.

  But the damn thing keeps on moving, keeps on moving, and I fire a shot—BLAM!—the recoil knocking me back, but my shot misses and explodes at the rear of the Creeper, and then the damn thing noses down, its center arthropod digging into the soft dirt, and by God, it looks dead all right, as its center section and six legs rise up from the ground, and go up, and it looks like the bug is going to somersault onto our line.

  It goes up, up, pauses, and then falls back down, twisting, until it collapses on its left side, crushing the three legs on that side. A cheer rises up from my platoon, and I join right in. A hell of a thing. The flare continues to light up the landscape from up there, swinging, and maybe there’s an updraft or something, but it hangs for a long time. I take a good long look across our front, and it looks clear. The stench of cinnamon and a dead Creeper comes our way, and Thor barks in excitement. I drop down and ring the CP, and a soldier I don’t recognize answers, and I say, “First Platoon, one Battle Creeper, dead.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Unknown, out to check.”

  I hang up the field phone, roll out, and keep down as I work my way up the line, checking in, and I come to the third foxhole and ask, “Who killed that Creeper? Anybody here?”

  De Los Santos is in the hole with Winn, a female PFC, and he says, “Not here, Sarge. Next one up.”

  “Thanks.”

  I move onto the next foxhole and it’s Balatnic and Lancaster, a corporal. He’s holding an M-10 and Balatnic has an M-4. In the fading light of the overhead flare, their faces are drawn and pale underneath their helmets.

  “Corporal, you the one who killed the Creeper?”

  “Uh…”

  “Corporal, did you kill the Creeper? I hear the killing shot came from here.”

  Lancaster looks miserable and says, “Sergeant…it wasn’t me. It was Balatnic.”

  She looks equally miserable and I say, “But you’re not qualified on the M-10.”

  “That’s right, Sergeant.”

  I give them both a stern look and say, “Then what the hell happened?”

  Lancaster says, “Well…it’s like this…”

  “Make it snappy.”

  “Sergeant, I had to take a dump,” he says, eyes downcast. “I was up at the latrine when the Creeper attacked.”

  “You left your M-10 behind?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “For real?”

  “Sergeant…I know I shouldn’t have done that, but I was in a hurry, and I didn’t think anything would happen, and…”

  “Balatnic?”

  “Sergeant, when the Creeper started up the slope, I grabbed Tony’s M-10, switched the cartridge off safe, loaded it up, and shot. It was just…I just reacted.”

  “You reacted well,” I say. “Why did you set the round to ten meters?”

  “I…panicked. I thought I had set it to fifty.”

  “Good job panicking,” I say. “Well done. Lancaster?”

  “Sergeant?”

  “Make sure that M-10 stays with you. And if you get torched…Balatnic, you’re qualified. You get his weapon.”

  Lancaster doesn’t look particularly pleased at what I’ve just said, but Balatnic shyly smiles because among other things, being qualified means a raise of ten new dollars a month.

  I check in with the rest of the platoon—no injuries, thank God—and when I start back down the line, it’s Third Platoon’s turn to get hit.

  * * *

  It doesn’t last long, as I later learn, for the Battle Creeper just raced up the dirt access road and got croaked in a crossfire of at least three M-10 rounds, with no human casualties.

  Back in my foxhole with Tanner, he says, “Wow…three dead Creepers in a row. Not bad, hunh?”

  I grab a canteen, take a swig of water, and then pour some in a metal bowl for my boy Thor, who laps and slurps with contentment. “It’s not over.”

  “Sergeant?”

  “A probing attack, that’s all. The Creepers wanted to see how we’re organized. For them, mission accomplished.”

  Tanner just nods, gulps. “What next?”

  “Up to the Creepers, I guess.”

  I lean back against the dirt side of the foxhole, and to the east comes a line of pink and light red as the sun starts to make itself known.

  I shiver just thinking of what is waiting for us later in the day.

  * * *

  There are three more probing attacks, each one beaten back with success, and breakfast comes by, with lukewarm coffee, lukewarm oatmeal, and cold toast. Tanner and I share ours with Thor, and we both take turns at the latrine, and when we’re squared away, there’s the sound of a high-pitched engine. I raise myself up to take a peek and right next to the dead Battle Creeper that took on the Second Platoon, a motorcycle roars up, the driver in blue jeans and leathers, a torn and battered American flag flying from a whip antenna at the rear of the motorcycle. The sight warms me right up.

  “What’s that, Sarge?” Tanner asks.

  “Dispatch rider, which is the best news of the day.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because it means we’re not totally isolated. Other units out there know we’re on this little peak, which means a relief should be coming soon. Or a well-defended redeployment.”

  “You mean, retreat?”

  The motorcycle parks outside of the cabin, the door flings open. “Private?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How long you’ve been with ‘Kara’s Killers’?”

  “Not too long,” he says. “A month, maybe.”

  “You want to stay another month, I wouldn’t say the word retreat, ever again.”

  * * *

  Some minutes pass and I jump again when the field telephone rings. Tanner answers and then hangs up and says to me, “Captain wants to see you, right away.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  I tell Thor to stay and he’s about half asleep anyway, and doesn’t give me any fuss. I roll my way out and then move up to the gravel parking lot, and then up to the cabin. As I get closer to the door with the sandbags and rocks piled nearby, Lieutenant Morneau and Lieutenant Jackson come in from their respective sides of the hilltop. All are carrying their M-10s, and while one’s a white woman, and the other’s a black man, their faces are the same, tired and worn.

  “Some night, eh?” I ask.

  Morneau grunts and Jackson says, “Just living the dream, Knox. Living the dream.”

  On the right side of the cabin, a tarp has been stretched out and hammered down with stakes and rope. The shelter’s for the response force that’s been assembled from the three platoons. All of the soldiers are rolled up in blankets or shelter halves, sleeping, and I don’t envy them. Right now I’m content to be with First Platoon, assigned to one spot. Moving around in the open during fierce combat is just a sweet invitation to get your head blown off, or to get scorched from head to toe.

  Inside the CP the air is stuffy
and warm. The gas lantern is still on because the windows have been blocked with dirt and rock. The motorcycle dispatcher has his—oops, her—jacket off, and she’s sitting on a stool, drinking a cup of coffee. Her face is tanned, worn, and her dark brown hair—freed from its helmet with an American flag painted on the rear—is streaked with gray.

  Wallace gestures to one corner of the room and there’s a stove, and we three platoon leaders grab our own cups of coffee, although it tastes pretty watered down.

  Serena and Buddy are in a corner, on a mattress, blanket held up against their chests. Serena gives me a quick smile and I feel light on my feet and happy, and Dad is talking low to First Sergeant Hesketh, and I do my best to ignore them both, no longer feeling so light or happy.

  Wallace says, “If we can get this little kaffeeklatsch moving along, this is the situation. Sergeant Nicholas here has come with news that a relief column is on its way.”

  I think all of us let out a deep breath at that. Finally, thank God. Wallace says, “It’s a QRF from the Third Mobile Combat Team. They’re heading in our direction and should be here in…”

  The dispatch rider speaks up. “Less than an hour, Captain.”

  “Outstanding,” Wallace says. Her finger moves along the dirty map like some proverbial hand of God…or Goddess. “They’ll pick up our vehicles and two Strykers, and convoy their way here, punching through any Creepers that might set up a resistance line.”

  Lieutenant Morneau asks, “What kind of unit is the Third Mobile Combat Team?”

  “Pretty damn new, but pretty damn tough,” Nicholas says. “We’ve been operating up near the Canadian border. We were coming south for rest and refit when we got the word.”

  “We got a shitload of Creepers closing in on us,” Morneau continues. “They might be tough, but how are they going to be able to get past the Creepers and up this hill?”

  Nicholas offers a sly grin. “The Third Mobile’s got a pair of M1-A2s coming up here,” she said. “They’re be on tank transporters until they get about three klicks out, and then they’ll deploy once they’ve linked up with your vehicles. The two tanks are supported by two Strykers and up-armored Humvees. The Abrams will hammer through and then provide covering fire as your Company bails out.”