Then, the entire sky lit up like it was daytime in a flash that lasted no more than two seconds. What followed was a single beam of blue light that came from space. It cracked the heavens open and struck the silos before vanishing. There was a deep boom of thunder, and the explosion that followed engulfed the entire basin in a storm of fire.
When Matt and the other greenies ducked their heads, they felt themselves buck off the ground as the shockwave rippled underneath them like an earthquake tremor.
The silos and the surrounding area had been evaporated to dust. There was nothing left except a flaming crater the size of a football field. They could feel the heat radiating from it, despite the strike taking place over a mile away.
Matt turned to the others who were all looking at the endless sprawl of devastation, slack-jawed and in utter shock. “Tango down,” he said with a triumphant grin.
Behind them, the two Wasps suddenly appeared again through a fiery cloud bank, rapidly descending to their position for extraction.
Matt’s first few hours on Epsilon had nearly killed him and his fellow greenies. He couldn’t help but wonder what the next four years would be like.
Assuming he could survive that long.
Seven
USC FOB: Camp Rhino
U.S. Troop Barracks
Two days later…
A shaft of Epsilon’s brutal sunlight penetrated a plywood-covered window, lighting the interior of a low-ceilinged dorm. That morning alone, Matt had moved his cot several times before finding a spot that did not feel as if he was lying directly underneath a blinding spotlight.
As the less-than-adequate air-conditioning blasted down on him, he surveyed the cramped room while waiting for his appointment. This would be his home for the next four years. Aside from the two aisles of cots, the prefab room consisted of unisex lockers and storage boxes, with various personal items scattered about.
Matt’s cot had a large Cincinnati Bengals flag that spelled out, You’re in Bengals Country Now, hanging proudly above his head. It was a gift from his father, who was also a rabid fan. Despite their lackluster performance this past season, interstellar war could not stop him from supporting his beloved NFL team. Underneath it was a small metal rendering of the U.S. flag, along with a holophotos of his mom and dad, his daughter, and his late wife.
The cot on his right side was Wilson’s, which aside from some pictures of his family, was mostly adorned with digital illustrations of Medieval dragons and serpents. Wilson’s art was impressive, but perhaps a little dark and disturbing for the casual observer. Mixed in among them were photos of his family, his four dogs, and a beautiful, silver-plated USC crest mounted on a Mahogany shield. Before deployment, his parents had it custom-made for him as a gift.
On the opposite side was Lee’s cot. It was meticulously neat and tidy, with his walls consisting of technical and topographical maps of Epsilon, along with a giant poster of his favorite Asian superhero, Bastard Samurai. Even though Lee was born and raised in Hawaii by military parents, they were huge geeks and had instilled an appreciation of both American and Japanese pop culture into him from a young age. He was constantly feeding his never-ending hunger for Anime, Manga, superhero comics, and role-playing video games.
Lopez, Maynard, and Davis’ cots were across the opposite side of the aisle and were a similar mix of personal adornments and effigies. Lopez’s entire wall was filled with family photos that consisted of her mom, dad, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, along with various childhood friends. It looked as if she had brought the entire neighborhood out here with her. She had even hung a giant digital holograph of Santa Muerte above her pillow.
Aside from a few photos of her husband and their three-year-old daughter, Maynard’s cot was still mostly bare as she was yet to take the time to fully unpack.
But much to both Maynard and Lopez’s annoyance, Davis’s giant flag of Texas impeded either side of their cots. Despite their repeated protests since arriving, Davis insisted on maintaining the flag in its current position to serve as a reminder to everyone that, aside from maybe Florida, Texas was still the freest and greatest state in what remained of America, post-invasion. That morning, Lopez had given him a midnight deadline to remove the flag from her side of the dorm, otherwise, he would wake to find himself hanging by the ceiling from it.
Matt sat up when there was a knock on the door of his dorm. “Private Reeves?”
“Yes, sir. It’s open.”
Sergeant James Greeson stepped in, extending a hand for Matt to shake. Late thirties, a former coast guard before enlisting in the USC, he was good-looking with a solid build that seemed to compliment his immaculate appearance. Good stock, Matt thought as he rose to salute and shake his hand. There was an unusual amount of depth to Greeson’s friendly expression as if he were guarding an inner chaos that could reveal itself at any moment. “I’m Sergeant James Greeson. Welcome to Camp Rhino. At ease, private.”
“Thank you, sir” Matt replied, wondering why the sudden niceties. Given the current state of this war, and from what he had experienced so far, there seemed to be little time for politeness around here.
“I’m glad you made it to us in one piece. Heard you ran into some trouble out there during your atmo-drop. Some of your teammates were lost?”
Matt visibly bristled upon hearing that. “Yes, sir. We were knocked off course. A Wraith sniper had us pinned down for several hours - got four of our guys.”
Greeson slowly shook his head as his eyes fell to the ground. “I’m sorry to hear that, private. Helluva way to pop your cherry, huh?”
Matt was beginning to feel this Sergeant was doing his best, regular nice guy impression. There was a slight air of bullshit to him that implied he was buttering Matt up for something - most likely some low-level shit-kicker job no one else on the base wanted.
Greeson nonchalantly looked around the stuffy dorm as if inspecting the cots. “So, how have you been settling in since your arrival?”
“To be honest sir, I haven’t. Once we arrived, our heads were shaved, then we were assigned to these barracks. They told us everything aside from the mess hall was off-limits. When I woke this morning, I was ordered to wait here for you. As far as I know, my squad are at a series of orientation and training briefings somewhere.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You won’t need to sit through those.”
“Did I do something wrong, sir?”
“Quite the opposite. As I’m sure you are aware, this facility houses some of our most esteemed warriors.”
“I am aware of that, sir. Well aware.”
Good. Because your actions in the field the other day garnered the attention of some of those warriors. They believe your ability to think strategically under pressure, along with a natural flair for leadership, are the reasons why most of your team made it here alive.”
Matt gritted his jaw, unsure how to accept that. “I simply did what any soldier would do, sir.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, private. Despite the extensive training we go through, not all soldiers are built the way the USC prefers them to be. Some are just wired differently. That’s the uncomfortable truth a lot of brass around here don’t like to admit. But you don’t fall into that category.”
“And yet, I still lost four of my teammates.”
“From what I’ve been told, that was entirely out of your control...” Greeson could see Matt was not convinced of that. Arms folded, he stepped closer, speaking in a lower and more intimate tone. “Private Reeves take it from me – as you progress through the chain of command here, you will lose men and women you consider to be friends.”
Matt held his gaze. “I already have, sir.”
“I know. Unfortunately, there is nothing you can do about that. It’s the nature of war. It’s the nature of this combat theater. Take it from me - you must keep that pain and anger where it belongs.” He pointed to Matt’s chest. “Use it. Let it fuel you on every op you partake in. But don’t let it
consume you. It will do nothing but cloud your judgment and weaken your ability to engage our enemy. With a little luck, you will have purged it entirely by the time you’re ready to go home, comforted in knowing that you have carried out your duty, and avenged the fallen warriors you leave behind.”
“Yes, sir.”
Greeson breathed out a sigh and unfolded his arms. “Go have some chow with your team. Someone will come for you and escort you over to Colonel Tapscott. He would like to have a quick word with you.” They saluted each other, then Greeson turned and swiftly exited the dorm.
After all that, Matt still had no idea why the Sergeant had visited him, or what Colonel Tapscott had in store for him. He had resigned to the fact that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
Eight
After freshening up, Matt grabbed his cap and polarized sunglasses, then exited his dorm into the blistering heat. The only thing remotely comparable on Earth to this heat he could think of was Thailand during their summer months. He had once vacationed there with Karen before Ally was born, and he never forgot how humid the air was. But this was way worse. On the rare occasion when it did rain here, it was known to rain sulfur. He would have given anything to be walking along a Thai beach at that moment, gleefully sweating away half his body mass alongside his beautiful wife. But alas, to his knowledge, there were no beaches on Epsilon. Not anymore at least. And if there were, they would be far from desirable.
He continued past the unisex toilet stalls, grimacing at the huge radioactive hazard symbol emblazoned above the entrance with the words: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here. From there, he headed east towards the chow hall, taking in the sprawling base.
It was two-hundred-acres of concertina-wire, portable trailers, shitty prefab buildings, tent farms, and outdoor toilet stalls - all wrapped in a network of runways, hangars, sentry turrets, and automated ventral cannons. Despite mingling socially outside their designated joint operations, the sovereign nations housed throughout the base were officially separated by wire fencing, with each respective sub-base containing their own military laws and culture underneath the USCs primary operations umbrella.
In an adjacent patch of dirt, Matt spied some British and Australian troops playing a quick game of cricket in the brutal morning sun. Some of the Aussie troops were stripped down to their jocks and singlets, sunbaking in small inflatable pools, careful not to tan themselves red from the alien sun’s harsh rays. The running joke on-base was that you could always spot an Australian soldier by how red their skin was.
Through another wire fence, a large unit of Japanese troops jogged around the perimeter of their base, sucking on the electrolyte tubes wrapped around their caps. Both the male and female troops were cladded in shorts and singlets that were drenched in sweat. From this distance, it looked as if they had been jogging for hours through a torrential downpour of rain. Those not jogging sparred outside their dorms, practicing Takiken, an ancient and traditional form of Japanese martial arts that had seen a much-welcomed resurgence after the invasion.
As Matt passed some more dorms, he caught glimpses of UAE troops blowing off steam during their downtime between ops, playing virtual backgammon and smoking pipes outside in makeshift hookah lounges, utilizing empty sandbags as tent covers and cushions. The Arabs were notorious for smuggling contraband out here which they sold to the other troops at exorbitant prices. The finely shredded tobacco flakes known as Dokha, was currently the most popular illegal product on the base.
In a nearby tent on Matt’s side of the wire, a small contingent of American soldiers pumped iron in a sad excuse for a gym that was adorned with a gigantic U.S. flag. Blocks of cement doubled as dumbbells, and huge armored vehicle tires were rolled onto their sides for end-over-end workouts. The air around this dorm was filled with the relentless thrum of giant cooling systems, alongside heavy rock music that pounded through the plywood walls. Matt felt as if he had just walked past the giant turbine engine.
After another hundred meters or so, he crossed an expansive gravel tarmac and entered the enormous mess tent to see at least three hundred greenies packing it in for breakfast. It was rowdy, sweaty, and humid in here, despite the giant AC fans blasting everyone from above.
As he grabbed a plastic tray and joined one of the several lines, he was still quite impressed at how oddly pristine they had managed to keep this tent, with white tablecloths and plastic jugs of fresh water on every table.
Upon moving closer to the extensive line of bain-maries, he could see what was on offer. It was the exact same menu as yesterday; gobs of powdered eggs with some kind of bean-slop, along with jellied fruit, partially defrosted bread rolls, and pieces of meat that looked like cardboard. Matt wondered how he would endure the next four years eating this stuff.
He looked around at some of the fresh-faced greenies from other regiments, as well as the older troops who sat nearby, staring at the new arrivals with pity in their eyes as they shoveled down their breakfasts, gorging as if they were partaking in their last supper. For some, it would be. It was a sharp contrast to the combat-virgin greenies who seemed to play with their meals before eating them, grimacing with each new bite. But for the more seasoned troops on this base, the bland food may as well have been gourmet à la carte. They even had flavored ice cream for dessert on Wednesday nights. That was a guaranteed crowd-pleaser.
After another ten minutes, Matt had inched further along the line, reaching a small table with a self-serve water cooler on it. He leaned over and fished out a paper cup, filling it halfway. But before he could take a sip, a familiar voice rang out behind him.
“Dude, I wouldn’t drink that.”
Freezing mid-sip, Matt turned to see Pinehurst coming up behind him, shouldering his way through the long line.
“All the water here is hauled in from Ganymede. Tastes like cat piss.”
Matt couldn’t help but smile with delight upon seeing him. “I thought they would have sent you home by now.”
With his trademark smirk, Pinehurst got in line behind Matt and gave him an earnest bro-shake. “Give it time, man. I’m sure they’ll come to their senses and throw me on the next outbound ship.”
“Or they’ll throw you into the Brig and purposely lose the key,” Matt replied with a chuckle.
“Heard about your pod, bro.”
“Yeah, it was a shit-show.”
“At least you got your dick wet. That’s more than most of these assholes in here have done.”
“Including you?” Matt replied with a cheeky grin.
“Including me,” Pinehurst replied, playfully shoving Matt out of the line. “I run my first op tomorrow night with Joker Company. Armor’s rolling out at dusk.”
“Joker Company? Glad the commanders here are recognizing your many talents.”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ll admit, it’s full of fuck-ups, but I’m hoping I can elevate those sons-of-bitches a little with my amazing people skills.”
Matt shook his head and stifled his laugh. “You’re killing me, man.”
“Uhm… excuse me!” huffed an annoyed private standing behind Pinehurst. He was late-forties, with a wire-framed build and bookish spectacles that seemed way too big for his face. Based on his accent and appearance, he looked to be of Indian descent.
“You’re excused,” Pinehurst replied, not even bothering to face the soldier he had just rudely cut in front of.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve been in line for nearly twenty minutes. You can’t just steal my spot,” the Indian private protested in a polite, but clearly annoyed tone.
“I just did,” Pinehurst replied. “Don’t worry, there’s enough food here for everyone.”
Matt shook his head and turned around with embarrassment, acting as if he was unaware of the commotion behind him that was now drawing attention from the other lines. “Pinehurst… I can’t even look at you right now.”
“Hey, dickhead! There’s a line here,” snapped a younger American private, who was standing behind them.
This guy was brawny and barrel-chested, with fierce brown eyes that exuded violence. He looked as if he belonged here.
But that did not seem to worry Pinehurst in the slightest. “Yeah, I’m aware of the line, kid. I’m standing in it.”
“The fuck did you just call me, bitch?” The American private barged forward into Pinehurst’s personal space, chest puffed out, his dark cheeks turning beetroot red, years of pent-up aggression suddenly bubbling to the surface like a volcano eruption. Like many of the greenies here, they carried their personal baggage out here with them. They were tinder boxes that only needed the smallest of flames to ignite. That’s exactly how the USC liked them.
As Pinehurst held his ground and stared down his opponent with his trademark smirk, Matt intercepted them, blocking both men with his arm. “Hey, hey, knock it off. Come on guys, we’re all on the same team here.” Matt grabbed Pinehurst and spun him around by the shoulders. “You, turn the fuck around.” He then faced the American private with a polite, almost sympathetic smile. “My apologies, man. He’s just talking shit.” He then turned to address the Indian private. “You’re welcome to jump in front of us if you’d like.”
The Indian private gave an appreciative nod. “Thank you. It’s OK.”
“Wow, you’re a real hero, bruh.” said the American private in a tone that was designed to make Matt feel diminutive. He began to mockingly clap like a seal. “Got ourselves a hero here.”
Matt ignored the insult and shrugged. “Maybe I just want to eat breakfast.”
“Oh, yeah? Then you might want to muzzle your boy before he gets his ass turned out,” the American private sneered. “I ever see him pull that shit again, I’ll make sure he spends the rest of his tour eating through a straw. That goes for you too, bitch-ass.”
Matt deflected the threat by nodding and turning around to advance the line, praying no nearby officers caught any of that exchange. “Jesus, Pinehurst,” he whispered over his shoulder. “You’ve been here less than three days and you’re already pissing everyone off.”
The Soldier Page 9
