“Sergeant,” Wiener stressed Ski’s rank. “You get your sorry ass team over to the latrine and make yourselves presentable. If you can manage that. Then I want to see you no later than 1600 hours where upon you will brief me on what you and your team has been doing all this time,” Wiener said as he came around to face Luzetski. “Do I make myself clear?” Weiner leaned closer to Ski, a sneer on his face, and stared him in the eye.
“Sir, yes sir,” Luzetski replied.
“Dismissed,” Wiener said as he about faced, not waiting for a salute. The contempt in his voice as evident as the look of disgust on his face as he walked away. Ski looked over at Doyle, about to ask a question when she just shook her head while mouthing the word, ‘later’. Wheeler, who had stood off to one side trying to become invisible through the entire ordeal, stepped forward.
“Sergeant, latrine’s this way,” he said gesturing to a hallway. Ski motioned for his team to follow him then looked at the civilians that had kept their distance. The faces he saw all looked like a whipped dog. There was no hope in anyone’s face and they all averted direct eye contact.
“What the fuck was that, Ski?” Pruitt asked quietly once they had left the Grand Hall.
“Fucked if I know,” Ski replied trying to understand what Wiener’s problem was. The latrine area was in one of the workrooms that were away from the public sections of the museum. The room had a hasty remodeled look to it as it wasn’t originally designed for showers. Luzetski saw the work of the engineers, they had knocked out the wall between the restrooms and tapped into the water feed pipes to make the adjoining workroom into a large shower stall.
“I’ll be outside watching your gear,” Wheeler said as he held open the door to the latrine. Ski had noticed a rifle rack in the hall. “I’m pretty sure we can rustle up some uniforms for you too,” Wheeler added. Ski nodded as he worked the sling of his rifle off his body, ejected the magazine, cleared the action, flipped the selector switch to safe, an action he hadn’t done in months, and placed his rifle in the rack. His uniform was another story. It would probably never be truly safe. He was pretty sure that if he tossed it in the corner it was capable of standing up by itself. The rest of the team’s uniforms looked as bad as his own.
“You have about five minutes of warm water before it goes cold,” Wheeler said as the door closed. Sierra-3 stood and looked at the showers. It had been a long time since they had last seen this type of convenience. As a forward recon team, one tasked with snooping and pooping in highly deniable locations and always in hostile, austere environments, their experience with showers was waiting until you got back to base. Rapidly stripping off their soiled, torn and ragged uniforms, the men hit the showers and enjoyed the warm water. By the time they had gotten themselves cleaned up, the water running down the drain was almost black. Stepping out of the spray, they saw towels, real towels not thin sheets of non-absorbent material masquerading as towels that the military issued. The towels had the Ritz-Carlton logo embossed on them making the men look quizzically at the towel then at the each other. They took turns at the mirrors, scraping off the month’s old growth of facial hair until they looked and felt almost as if they were back in the real world. Cleaned up and dried off, Luzetski looked outside to find Wheeler standing at the door with an armload of clean uniforms.
“I have some people cleaning your field gear. Your old uniforms weren’t salvageable. You can clean your weapons later. There’s a section we have set up for that,” he said. “I’ll have someone find you a place to stay.”
Ski nodded, still a little off balance by the relative opulence of facilities. He rubbed his hand across his face expecting to feel the familiar beard that had grown there. Dressed in the new uniform minus any rank tabs and name tape, Ski headed next door, shrugging his shoulders at the feel of the starched uniform shirt. He stopped and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Starched? He asked his image. Looking down and feeling the shirt. No shit. It was starched. Mentally shaking his head, he continued on.
Exiting the latrine, Ski felt like a new man. His team had filtered in and out of the latrine and was now waiting for Wheeler to show them were they could clean their weapons. Wheeler stood off to one side. They received directions then headed off to clean their implements of war leaving Ski waiting for Wheeler.
“Sergeant,” Wheeler said and beckoned him over with a hand gesture. “Colonel Wiener has requested your presence.” Ski nodded and followed Wheeler as the NCO led him through more service hallways and to the Archivist area of the museum. Lieutenant Colonel Wiener had commandeered the senior archivist’s office as his own. Wheeler knocked once then opened the door. Luzetski stepped inside and came to attention. Wheeler closed the door and remained in the hall.
“Sir, Sergeant Luzetski reporting as ordered.”
Wiener stayed seated and looked at the scout team NCO. He leaned back in his chair, a knowing look in his face. Nodding finally and standing up, Wiener walked around the desk to stand in front of Luzetski. Ski studied Wiener’s uniform. There was a unit patch only on one of Wiener’s uniform shoulders, opposite the subdued American flag, no CIB, no Air Assault, and no jump wings. That made no sense since Ski knew that Wiener had attended Airborne school and barely graduated. Something had happened over the years for sure.
“Rich, I’m glad to see you made it,” Ski said.
“Luzetski,” Weiner said. “Shut up. You know enlisted personnel do not address officers by their given name,” Wiener said. “I can’t imagine what’s going through your head at this time. Confusion, I’m sure.” He fixed Ski with a hard glare. “You have some kind of an explanation, obviously exaggerated, of what you’ve been doing all this time.”
“Sir,…” Ski started to say.
“Shut up,” Wiener said narrowing his eyes and giving Ski a hard look. “I haven’t asked for your report nor do I wish to hear it. No doubt it will be a classic work of fiction,” he said angrily. “I don’t need fiction, I deal in fact. I already know what your mission parameters were supposed to be. You were supposed to perform the function of a pathfinder. You were supposed to provide support. Your mission was to recon areas so that the follow on units could bypass heavy concentrations of the Zulus. You were supposed to direct them around bottle necks, traffic jams, and other hazards that would have been detrimental to the successful completion of this mission. You were supposed to provide a timely warning. All these were mission critical directives, all mission imperatives, and all that you and your team, failed to perform.”
Ski stiffened and stared straight ahead; finding a spot on the wall above Wiener’s head and fixating on it.
“I don’t know what it is you really did out there, but you sure didn’t provide any advance warning. Your failure led to the loss of containment in this city. Your failure led to the loss of vital personnel. Personnel that we couldn’t afford to lose and can’t replace. All because of your ineptitude,” Wiener said.
“Sir, I...” Ski started to say.
“Shut your fucking hole,” Wiener said. “When I want to hear something from you, you’ll know.”
Ski grit his teeth. Who the hell was this asshole to dress him down? From the looks of this officer’s uniform, the man had never seen combat. Sierra-3 had no control over what happened to the city and he certainly wasn’t responsible for the loss of lives. They had lost radio contact with command shortly after calling in for extraction.
Wiener glared at Luzetski for several silent seconds.
“You and your team are going to be assigned to lower level security. I don’t want to see you or hear about you at all,” Wiener said. “When we get out of this mess, a mess you’re responsible for, I’ll see that you and your men are brought up on charges. Dismissed,” he said with disgust.
Ski snapped to attention and knocked out a crisp salute. He held it until Wiener returned it before Ski about faced and left the office. In the hallway, Wheeler was leaning against the far wall. He looked up as Ski left the office and clo
sed the door.
“The Big Dick chewed your ass,” he said not as a question but a statement.
“Yeah,” Ski said.
“Don’t worry too much about it. He’s all bark and no bite.”
“Who the fuck put him in charge?” Ski asked.
Wheeler shook his head slowly before replying.
“That’s the shit for sure. When we lost Fort Ti we lost all of our command and control. Wiener was over here at the museum setting up a resupply area for the National Guard. You may have noticed he’s not regular army. The Zulu’s swept the park, took out the FARP, the TOC and all the other officers. Those that were left fell back to this place. When the dust settled, Wiener was the only ranking officer left standing,” Wheeler explained.
“That’s just great. So we have a National Guard supply officer in charge. That explains the uniform,” Ski said as he pulled at his uniform top.
Wheeler chuckled.
“Oh yeah, God save us from the supply clerks. He somehow thinks he’s the reincarnation of Patton and MacArthur. Even does a pretty good imitation of old Storming Norman Schwarzkopf. The screaming part. At least he hasn’t tagged some junior officer to hold his place in line for the latrine like old Storming Norman used to do. Yet,” Wheeler said as he removed a slip of paper from his pocket. “Here, you need to sign for all the gear that was issued to you including the new uniforms.”
Ski took the offered slip and shook his head. The world as they knew it was over but there was still paperwork to be done.
Wheeler led him to an office across from the great hall. He knocked once, looked at Ski with a quirked eyebrow and gestured to the door. Luzetski opened the door and stepped inside.
Doyle was seated at the desk; she looked up and closed the file she had been working on. Ski closed the door and looked at her. She hadn’t changed since their first meeting years ago. Her rank was different but nothing else. Doyle stood up and stepped around the desk and stood in front of him, looking up. They studied each other for several seconds in silence before she spoke.
“You smell better,” she said with a slight grin.
Ski returned her grin but said nothing.
“I waited for you,” she said quietly, her eyes staring into his.
“I didn’t ask you to,” he said after a moment of silence.
Doyle brought up her hand and placed a finger over his mouth before he could anything more.
“I know. You just...left.” She looked down and then back up at him. “You left because you thought you’d get killed and that would hurt me. But, I think the truth is, it was easier for you to be alone.”
There was a moment of silence as Ski realized how his leaving had affected her.
“That’s one of the things you learn. It easier to not have attachments. We’re all alone and no one is coming to save you,” he finally said. Doyle stepped back from him, her face downcast then back up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Damn you. Look at what you do to me,” Doyle said before slapping his face then pulling him close and kissing him. Ski was momentarily shocked by her slap but then he returned the urgency in her kiss before he pulled back and looked at her.
“It been so long, I forgot who gets tied up,” he said before bringing his lips back to hers. Leaning back and catching his breath from the intensity of the moment, he looked at her.
“I know we’re not in the same chain of command, but what will the others say if they see us like this?” Ski asked.
“Fuck them. If they want to kiss you, they can make their own arrangements,” Doyle said as her lips found his again. Ski let his hands roam her body, grasping and holding what he could. He remembered how she felt and soon she was moaning into his mouth as he found all the special, intimate locations they had once shared so many years previous.
They enjoyed each others company for several more minutes before Luzetski pulled back and looked at her.
“What’s the deal with Wiener?” he asked, changing the tone of their meeting. As much as he enjoyed being with Doyle, there were some other issues that needed to be addressed.
Doyle pursed her lips in irritation and squinted her eyes at him as she stepped back.
“He’s an asshole. An asshole with no concept of what needs to be done,” she said. “You know about the shooter he orders to the roof every day for 20 minutes to draw the Zulus into the park so they can step on a mine. The fucker then stands up on the roof with binoculars and cackles like an idiot every time a Zulu goes up.” Doyle shook her head in disgust. “Every morning I have to send my men out to replace those mines. I’ve lost six of my people because of that shit.” Doyle paced the office, hands on her hips as she continued her tirade.
“I know,” she said holding up one hand in a stop gesture. “Officers are not supposed to talk bad about other officers in the presence of enlisted but give me a fucking break.” She stopped pacing and shook her head. “That asshole is nothing more than a walking, talking clusterfuck who won’t be satisfied until he brings all the infected in the city down on us,” Doyle said as her face flushed with anger.
Ski smiled at her terminology and emotional reaction. Her temperament matched her fiery hair. “Don’t hold back, tell me how you really feel,” he said with a chuckle, leaning back against the doorframe and watching Doyle vent her frustrations. She paused and looked at him, took a breath and calmed down.
“Then there’s the fucking Russians,” Doyle said.
“What?”
“Russians. You know? Eastern European, former Soviet Union. Russians,” Doyle said looking at him strangely.
Luzetski blinked his eyes a couple of times and then mentally shook his head. It had slipped his mind that the United Nations building and several consulates and embassies were in New York City. He had been more concerned about staying alive then sightseeing. It stood to reason that some of those foreign nationals had found their way here.
“What’s wrong with the Russians?” Ski asked.
“For one thing, they keep to themselves in one of the other galleries. They hardly ever eat with the rest of the civilians, and apparently none of them speak more than two words of English,” Doyle said.
“What about the others?” Ski asked. “I saw a lot of law enforcement and civilians here.”
“We’ve got a whole slew of people here. It’s like this place drew them in. Cops, paramedics, ESU, civilians up the ass, curators, tour groups, and some Marines around here somewhere. You name it, we probably got it,” Doyle said. “C’mon, I’ll give you the nickel tour,” she added, reaching for the office door. “I think you’ll like the Marine OIC.”
Ski followed Doyle out of her office and into the hall. This section of the museum was quiet and he got the impression that she had chosen this location to be as far away from Wiener as possible. They walked in silence until he heard what sounded like singing coming from a set of double doors. He stopped and listened. The singing was something that reminded him of his youth when the tent revivals would stop in the small town he grew up in. Doyle stopped and looked back at him then walked back to where he stood.
“What’s all this?” Ski asked jerking a thumb at the closed doors.
“That’s Reverend Rob. He’s one of the civilians that found their way here when it all went to shit outside,” Doyle explained. Ski listened as the singing stopped and a male voice started loudly preaching. He couldn’t distinguish the words but he knew the cadence that the man used.
“I see you’ve found our little corner of alternative religion,” a voice said behind Ski. Ski turned and looked at a small stature, older man that reminded him of the cartoon picture that was on the Mother’s Cookies packages. The black suit jacket, pants and shirt with the small square of white at the collar by the neck identified him as a priest.
“Ski, this is Father McFadden. He used to run a large church in the area. Most of his congregation is here with him as well,” Doyle said. McFadden extended his hand.
“Nice meeting you, Padre,” Ski said as they shook hands.
McFadden had a solid grip, Ski had estimated the man’s age at about sixty but the grip was from a much younger man.
“You’ve found Reverend Rob’s meeting room,” McFadden said, jerking his head in the direction of the closed conference room doors.
“What’s his story?” Ski asked. McFadden motioned that they should move along the hallway. The trio walked as McFadden explained the current situation.
“Rob, or the Reverend Rob as he calls himself, believes this is rapture,” McFadden said. “I’m not sure what your religious background is, but I’m pretty sure that what’s happening outside is definitely not rapture of any kind.”
“I agree,” Ski said. “I’ve spent some time in the city and if there’s some kind of divine intervention,” he said making air quotation marks, “somebody, God, Yahweh, Jehovah, whoever, is pretty pissed off or has one sick of a sense of humor.”
McFadden chuckled at Ski’s statement.
The older priest snorted. “This is not God’s work. If he wanted to send us a message, he’d do it a bit more subtle. God works in mysterious ways but, his hands are not in this mess.”
Ski grinned at the priest’s statement. The old guy had a way with words.
“This is my stop,” McFadden said as they approached a room with other people milling around inside. “Nice to have met you, Sergeant,” he said extending his hand once again.
“Same here, Padre,” Ski said as he and Doyle continued on. “Nice old guy for a priest.” How’d he know my rank? Ski mentally asked himself. His uniform had no rank tabs on it.
“Don’t let his looks fool you,” Doyle said. “I hear through the grapevine that he’s been there and done that more times than you. He was in Vietnam when he was younger. Rumor is he helped defend the embassy when it was being evacuated.” Ski quirked an eyebrow at Doyle then shook his head. If McFadden was present during the evacuation of the US Embassy at Saigon in the final days of the Vietnam War, then the old priest had been in the shit. His thoughts about the priest’s background were interrupted as they turned a corner and were stopped by an armed Marine.
Up From the Depths: Book 4 Movement to Contact Page 23
