We Dare

by Chris Kennedy

  It would be Sally’s birthday in a few weeks, and the soon-to-be five-year-old girl was laughing and enjoying the colorful lights, wonderful smells, and the mariachi music. This would likely be as much of a party as she would get, so Martin was trying to make it special. Claire had been to S.A. many times and was leaning back against Martin with her eyes closed. He had a 48-hour pass and had managed to find a hotel room for a single night. Rooms on the Riverwalk were already expensive, doubly so with the influx of refugees. He would have a night together with his family, then run them up to his sister’s place tomorrow.

  He hated that Claire would have to drive back to Corpus by herself; some of the reports he was hearing mentioned an increase in strange activity between cities. The army was beginning to consider armed convoys, just like they had done in the Litterbox, and every war zone before that. At least Claire had a decent vehicle if she had to get off of the highway—the insurance payment on the sedan he’d rolled had gone toward a safer, sturdier SUV. He just hated the idea of not being there to protect her and Sally if there was an attack—human or alien.

  * * *

  “Master Sergeant Martin, reporting, sir!”

  “Sit, Marty.” Wilkinson gestured to one of the chairs in front of the desk as Martin entered the office. The colonel was a little grayer and a bit more worn. It had been a long six months. “I just got the transcript of your debrief but wanted to hear from you directly. But first, have you had a chance to see Claire and Sally? “

  “Yes, sir, I have. I also need to thank you for your assistance. They’re a lot safer than in Johnson City, and much more comfortable in my parents’ old house than down in the Dome.” San Antonio was one of the few cities to have expanded since the Aliens arrived. The existing and reactivated bases, plus Medical Command and local infrastructure, had transformed Joint Base San Antonio into Fort San Antonio, and it was the principal ‘Fortress City’ keeping South Texas under protection. Unfortunately, the refugee housing situation had gotten worse with locals coming in from towns just outside the ‘umbrella’ of protection provided by F.S.A.’s armaments. Martin’s parents had passed away several years ago, and his sister had kept the house, never quite willing to sell it. It had been in danger of being confiscated for refugee housing when the Army had claimed it for housing the dependents of Medical Command personnel. It was crowded with three families, but certainly more comfortable than cots and chemical toilets in the sports arena.

  “Good. Glad to help.” Wilkinson picked up the tablet on his desk, tapped at the screen, then looked up at Martin. “So. You were support on the convoy to Tucson, encountered the aliens, and they took out your air cover.”

  “Yes, sir. We first saw the little floaters, they attacked the aircraft, and when the energy beams did not kill the pilots, the Pawns retreated.”

  “‘Pawns?’” Wilkinson raised an eyebrow. “I thought they were called ‘Grunts?’”

  “Yes, sir, they are, but unofficially, the troops call the little round floaters ‘pawns’ because they are always the first in, limited in mobility and pretty easy to pick off if you aren’t affected by the killing beams. They call those ‘Checkmate’ beams, by the way.”

  “Of course they do; command’s been using some German word, but the troops will do it their way. You’re telling me that the infantry plays chess? Never mind. Continue.”

  “Sir. Next came the ‘Bishops’—those are the larger floaters, kind of boxy, with the cutting beams. The choppers drove those off, but there were Rooks waiting for us up ahead.”

  “‘Rooks.’ I assume those are the mobile ground units? With the particle beams?”

  “They are, not as big as a truck, let alone a tank, but they seem to have equivalent firepower. Their surface-to-air attacks are bad news for choppers, but their weapons don’t depress worth a damn. If you get close enough, you can take them out. Unfortunately, once the air cover was gone, the rooks started on the trucks, and the pawns came back in to support.”

  “So, that was when you took the hit?”

  “No, sir. Captain called retreat, and we were headed back to ‘Paso. They moved the heavy beam weapons down to White Sands, so there’s pretty good force projection there. Problem is—we would never have made it.” Martin realized he was gripping the arms of the chair. He tried to relax; it wouldn’t do to damage the colonel’s office furnishings. Only generals were allowed to do that.

  “I see. The Intel report said something about the mountains?” If Wilkinson had noticed the sergeant’s tenseness, he didn’t react.

  “You have the Intel report? It’s all in there. Mountains where they shouldn’t be.” Martin paused. “Sir, how well do you know southern New Mexico?”

  “Not very. I’ve been to White Sands, and I’ve been to Fortress Tucson.”

  “Sir, it’s flat. West of Las Cruces, headed toward Tucson, hills and mountains are something you see on the horizon. Not near I-10. About 50 klicks west of Las Cruces, though, we saw mountains, about five—six thousand feet high. The pawns, bishops, and rooks were coming out of caves at the bottom. The captain dismounted a platoon and sent them up to check. The platoon Ell-Tee wanted to send a trainee medic along, but I convinced him to send me instead. It was an unstable situation, and they weren’t trained for it.”

  “They all know the risks, Sergeant; why did you dispute the lieutenant? His report says you refused to let the junior medics accompany the platoon. ‘Borderline disciplinary offense’ were his exact words.”

  “Trauma’bots, sir. I’ve had ‘em; the accident last June proved they were still active. None of the trainees have gotten them—there’s still not enough to go around. Anyway, it was an ambush; they had the checkmate beams right at the entrance. Hit the whole platoon, turns out half the troops hadn’t been inoculated, either. I had five injectors with me, and managed to get at least three troops stabilized. Of course, then I stood up at the wrong time.”

  * * *

  Damn it, it hurt! Like his entire right side was on fire. He half-turned to the two privates behind him. They looked shocked but were still standing. That was a start. He tried to bend over to check the three troopers on the ground; he’d managed to drag them into the shadow of some rocks and get them injected. They were stirring now. He tried to tell the two standing—no, crouching—privates to drag their fellows to back to the road. They might be able to move on their own soon, but for now they needed to move! The only problem was when he tried to speak and couldn’t open his jaw, couldn’t grunt, couldn’t hiss at them. He made a vague motion with his left hand. Either they understood his intent, or they figured it out on their own.

  Someone tapped his shoulder, the signal to move out. He turned to see who was still here, and as he turned, he saw the private’s eyes go wide. He turned back, but it wasn’t something behind. The kid was looking at him. He felt something wet on his face, tried to brush it with his good hand, but it was sticky, red.

  There was a sharp stinging sensation on his leg. He looked down and saw the kid holding a tube that looked like an epinephrine or atropine injector, similar to the kind used for someone severely allergic or as nerve gas antidote. Smart kid...They’d have to hurry, though; Martin’s vision was going black...

  Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeeeeeep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

  “His readings are all over the place—first his pressure’s down, then up! He’s bleeding out, then it stops! His heart stopped, then came back on his own. What is this? Howard! Get some more O-negative in him!”

  “Frankly, Doctor Witcher, I’m surprised he’s even alive; I heard he took a beam full on. I’ve never heard of anyone surviving that.”

  “Some do.” Someone else had entered the already-crowded operating room; he wasn’t scrubbed in, but was carrying a tray draped in sterile cloth. On the tray was the autoinjector that had been administered in the field. “They survive because of these. Use this, Doctor Witcher; we just got a delivery of Greene’s Trauma’bots from North Carolina.” He nodded toward t
he resident, who picked up the injector, careful not to touch the non-sterile areas near the newcomer’s gloved hands. “Nice to finally get some of our own. Read me the serial and lot numbers. We need to match the programming codes.”

  “So how come he survived the hit before the ‘bots were delivered?”

  “Luck.” Wilkinson replied. “Luck, and Greene disobeying protocols with his initial surgical ‘bots. This guy was exposed to an early prototype, not enough to protect him, but maybe just enough for us to save him.”

  “Lucky kid.”

  “Lucky, foolish, charmed. Whatever. He shielded two other soldiers when the convoy got hit.”

  “Damn. Brave, too.”

  * * *

  “Not exactly the way the platoon sergeant tells it, Marty. Something about shielding half the surviving squad and walking back through the beam to its source, then using an M-4 like a club. That’s another Bronze Star, Marty, if not Silver.” He paused and then continued, “By the way, your count was off. You had six injectors. One of your trainees used it on you.”

  “Oh. So that’s where it came from.” Martin shook his head. “Sir, I don’t want medals. I was just doing my job.”

  “The report says that, too. The captain wants to be very mad at you, but admits that he can’t. Last question...” Martin had been looking down through the last part of the exchange. It was against regs, but Wilkinson had made it clear this was informal by addressing him as ‘Marty’ and inviting him to sit. When the silence dragged on, Martin looked up to see the colonel staring intently at him. “In the cave, Marty. What did you see?”

  * * *

  As the survivors retreated, Martin turned back to look at the cave entrance. The grenades they’d tossed had had an effect, except it was after the checkmate had fired. Once again, he tried to get a good look, while staying behind the rock formation.

  Rock formation. Something was wrong here; something his subconscious was trying to tell him. Rocks. The rocks shouldn’t be here. The caves shouldn’t be here. Hell, this mountain shouldn’t be here.

  * * *

  “I collapsed, sir. I do not remember anything between seeing the private and...and waking up in SAMMC. I’ve tried long and hard to figure out what it was that bothered me so much at the time; what I saw. The only thing I vaguely remember thinking was that the rocks were moving.”

  “Moving?” The colonel had a skeptical look.

  “Seems odd, but a buddy of mine helped me find old satellite photos that accompanied the maps of the region. There are no rocks in that area—not even the ones we sheltered behind.”

  “Moving rocks.” Wilkinson stood up, and Martin popped to attention. “Very well, Sergeant. It’s no wonder DiNote didn’t include that part in the report. Moving rocks—well, I’ve learned not to doubt you on most things, but we may have to chalk that one up to getting half-poached by a beam! Dismissed. Get back to training; you’re still on light duty, so no convoys for the near future. “

  * * *

  “So, like, you’ve died twice, now?”

  “Shut up, Carl.”

  “Yes, sir.” The medic trainee was in awe of the Master Sergeant. The rumors that he had actually seen the aliens was the talk of the barracks. “But...what was it like?”

  Martin turned to the Specialist and leveled his best senior NCO glare. “It was a god-damned nuisance and a pain in the ass because of wet-behind-the-ears Sixty-eight Whiskey-oh-ohs who can’t figure out that you don’t call a Master Sergeant, sir! And don’t know which end of the auto’jector goes on the damned patient!”

  “I don’t have any more time to spend with you so I will say this once more!” He held up the six-inch long, half-inch wide cylinder. “This is your Mark Three Field Deployable Trauma’bot dispenser. It is an autoinjector! That means it will automatically inject whenever the red button is pushed. Do not push the red button until you are ready to inject a patient. Do not inject yourself! Do we know which end of the injector goes against the patient, Specialist Mitchell? The red end, Mitchell! Red end against the patient, then press the green button! Can you do that? Good! Let’s see you do that with the practice injectors!”

  * * *

  “You shot me, Private!”

  “I was shooting at the shark, Top! I didn’t mean to shoot you.”

  “You still shot me! Damn, right in the gluteus. It’s not bad enough you shot me, but you shot your first sergeant in the ass, Roeder! You’ve probably wanted to do that for a long time. Corporal Levitt, get this grunt out of my sight.”

  “It’s probably only a graze, Marty, don’t be a wuss. It’s already stopped bleeding.”

  “I’m never going to live this down, hand me that autoinjector.”

  “Sure he shot you—but you’ll get better!”

  “Shut up, Levitt.”

  * * *

  “Did it hurt, Daddy?” Sally was sitting on the side of the bed, trying to be a Big Girl and restrain her natural impulse to bounce all over everything. It was hard for a six-year-old to sit still.

  “Yes, Babydoll, it hurt, but only for a little while.” Contrary to Levitt’s opinion, it had not been a graze, and Martin had needed surgery to get out all of the bullet fragments. The trauma’bots he’d administered immediately after the accident should have been sufficient to get him back to duty the next day; unfortunately, the location of the injury made it impossible to sit, and he was still just a bit too weak to stand for long periods. He’d been transferred back to SAMMC and would spend another day in the hospital laying on his side and stomach. Since he was back in town, and Claire had recently transferred over to the sprawling military medical complex, she and Sally had been invited to visit.

  Claire mainly stood frowning, particularly as she saw the slight grimaces of pain on her husband’s face as Sally’s restraint wore down, and she started to bounce on the side of the bed. “Honey, don’t do that; the doctor said you need to sit still.”

  “It’s okay, Babydoll,” Martin reassured them both, but then gave Sally the sternest look he could manage. “But don’t let Dr. Hoyt catch you! ‘Ogg’ might toss you in the air again!”

  Sally turned from bouncing to giggling “Doctor Ogg!” ‘Cro-Magnon’ was the phrase most often used to describe the Emergency Medicine (Pediatric) surgeon. He was heavily built, with an olive complexion, thick dark hair, heavy brows, and perpetual five-o’clock shadow. Despite the caveman appearance, he was friendly and well-liked, particularly by his pediatric patients and their families. He was an old acquaintance from the Litterbox who’d become a family friend as their paths (and eventually, his and Claire’s) continually crossed at SAMMC. He’d picked Sally up when they arrived and swung her around a few times. Martin was a bit chagrinned that he was not able to do so, but the doc had winked at him as he sat her down and whispered to Claire that he hoped it would dissipate some of the child’s natural energy.

  Claire’s expression was clearly signaling worry to Martin. They wouldn’t talk about it in front of Sally, but she was clearly concerned about the dangers in his new job. Taking over a company as First Sergeant was a lateral transfer from Master Sergeant, but a massive increase in responsibility. It would mean more time deployed and less time under the relative safety of the F.S.A. defensive net. Unfortunately, as the most experienced medic in the use (on others and himself) of the field-deployable ‘bots, he would go where the Army sent him.

  After they left, he tried to roll onto his back, to get the kinks out. The pain in his ass was receding, but the painful memories remained. They’d lost good men—grunts and baby docs, both—at Las Cruces and on the flotilla evacuating Galveston. They were having to give up too much territory to the Rockers. He turned further and reached into the rucksack Claire had brought him. The small bottles were well-padded, and she’d had no way of knowing he’d put them in there last week. The booze was strictly against regs, particularly in the hospital, but it was late, the nurses were at their station, and he wanted an anesthetic that would treat the pain i
n body and mind, alike.

  * * *

  “Doctor, he’s waking up!” The nurse grabbed for the tray of sterile surgical instruments before the patient’s sudden movements could knock them to the ground. The beeping from the various machines monitoring the patient became louder, more incessant.

  “Put him back to sleep! Dr. Charron, set a four hertz stim for 10 seconds on the TMS...yes, that’s it, place it right there above his temple.” The beeping slowed and the operating room quieted as the patient relaxed. The surgeon turned back to the table. “Ok, soldier, back to sleep.”

  * * *

  “Sir, you really shouldn’t...”

  “‘M not a ‘Sir,’ Bab-by Doc. ‘M a sargn’t. ‘M your Firs’ Sargn’t!”

  “Yes, First Sarn’t, but you really shouldn’t be in here. Major says the CASH is moving; it’s not safe here. We’re abandoning the bunkers in place, so no one’s been looking in here, but Cap’n Hamm’s been asking for you.”

  “An’ you din’ wan’im t’ see m’ drinking? Hell, Baby Doc, you should know by now that the damn ‘bots don’t let you stay drunk. We all got a fresh dose before heading to the Swamp. What does Captain Hamster want now?” Martin walked over to the ice box, grabbed two handfuls of ice, dumped them in the sink, filled it with cold water and then plunged his head into the bowl of ice water. He held it there for about 20 seconds and then straightened back up and reached for a towel. “So, if no one is looking in the bunkers, how did you find me?”

  “Sarn’t Gutierrez said to look for you here. ‘Go find Top,’ he said. ‘Find him ‘fore the Cap’n does; he’s looking for the logs for the drug lockup.’ Sarn’t said he didn’t like the numbers, and won’t sign off on securing for shipment ‘til he sees the logs.”