by Mark Bordner
Mark found himself standing there in the doorway alone and distinctly uncomfortable, at attention and unsure of what was expected of him. The officers were looking at him as if he were some sort of honored guest.
“Relax, Sergeant,” The general told him. “Come in. This is your party, you know.”
He stepped into the room, immediately surrounded by the officers who wanted to shake his hand, congratulating him for something that he had little understanding of. Once through the gauntlet, the General was the last in line, and grinned like a proud father. Mark could not take it any longer and confessed his ignorance.
“Sir, I really haven’t the slightest idea of what this is all about.”
Towers chuckled, “Your unit single-handedly turned back a full armored offensive at the Enon Pass, Corbin. A Storian push that would have likely rolled straight into Springfield, and massacred a large portion of the division. You saved thousands of lives.”
Mark blushed, “I can’t take credit for the sacrifices of my troopers, General. They all fought with everything they had.”
“Understood, young man,” The general said. “They have all been awarded citations and promotions, whether posthumously or not. It was you that called the shots, though, and hard ones at that. Few people would have had the guts to make that kind of call. Many would have simply fallen back to save themselves. You displayed a fortitude that has been both consistent and mind-blowing of the First Battalion.”
The master sergeant was at a loss for words, “Sir, we just did our jobs.”
Towers produced a nano-baton and tapped Mark’s sleeve plates, changing the chevrons, “Your slot as Alpha Company commander had to be filled in your absence,” He explained, “But, your battalion could use a good First Sergeant. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, General.”
“Is there anything within reason that you would like to request?” Towers asked him.
Mark did not hesitate, “I’m rather in a hurry to see my wife again, Sir.”
The general grinned wider, “I think I have that covered already, First Sergeant.”
He motioned toward the back of the room, and Mark turned to look. Standing in the doorway was Colonel Strasburg, Sergeant Major Ford, and of course, Minerva, who could scarcely hold herself at bay. The officers cleared a path and she bolted forward, crying, arms out-stretched. Their embrace was dramatic and tearful. The room broke out with applause, and even the hardened commanding officers had to dab at their moist eyes. Even a small slice of happiness was profound in such dismal conditions.
Six
Intrigue
After the pomp and circumstance of the award ceremony, the flag officers all departed for their respective commands, leaving the senior staff of 1st Battalion alone in the dining room of a small, quaint Italian restaurant across the street from the Headquarters building. The space was small and intimate, lit only by candles on the tables and sconces on the walls. Civilian diners had left long before, leaving the place to the privacy of the reunited friends. Their meals were settling nicely with after-dinner drinks. The mood was uplifted and somber at the same time, being happy with the reunion, yet clouded by a subject that Mark had brought up once the others had gone.
“We actually know next to nothing about the POW’s on Denmoore,” Attayan Colonel Lafferty was saying. “Only that their life-signs are registering on the Anderson
frequency. There’s been no time or means to gather any intel as yet, let alone set any plan for rescue. That stage may actually be some time in the future, as we are entirely committed to the war effort here on Earth.”
“I understand that,” The newly promoted First Sergeant replied as he finished his third helping of the steak and lobster that the wait staff had brought out. “What I am asking is why can’t a spec-ops team be deployed out there? Something small, just to do some recon and gather the intel that we need to evaluate that situation? If our SEAL’s can’t be spared, the Attayans have teams that are just as capable.”
Colonel Strasburg bummed one of Ford’s cigars and fired it up, regarding the pile of plates growing in front of the young man with dubious wonder, but refrained from commenting on the amount of food that the kid was packing away--- instead sticking to the conversation at hand. “It is possible that something of that nature could be put together, but you have to understand that the layers of red tape will take time. You’re going to have to be patient. I’m sympathetic that you’re concerned for your father and brother, but let me spin the wheels that I need to in order to make this happen.”
Sergeant Major Ford was watching the contents of the plate disappear with something akin to wonder of his own; he had never seen anyone eat like that.
He spoke to the colonel while still looking at his friend with some unease, “Sir, I request that Mark and I be permitted to take part in this operation. There are a few people of my own that I feel would be extremely capable of carrying this out.”
Strasburg nodded. Talk had dwindled to silence as they all merely observed the almost desperate shoveling of food into Mark’s mouth. He finished the meal and literally
licked the plate clean, oblivious of their astonished, bewildered scrutiny. Minerva tentatively reached out and touched his arm, alarmed at his behavior. He paused long enough to look at her, then realized that every eye around the table was focused on him.
“Dying gives you quite an appetite, I see,” Lafferty commented with a half-grin.
Mark blinked, then nodded at the officer’s half-eaten chocolate mousse, “You gonna finish that, Sir?”
Ford did not know what to think. The young man had seemed a bit off the entire evening, anxious and hyper-alert to everything going on around him. Now, this inhuman
hunger, and damned if he didn’t look more broad-shouldered than before. Something was not right, but Ford couldn’t put a finger on it, exactly.
Lafferty slowly pushed the dessert plate over to Mark, who spooned its contents into his mouth, gulping it down. Finally, with a muffled burp, he relaxed and patted his stomach. His eyes were no longer glazed over, and he seemed more himself, back in touch with his surroundings.
“What were we talking about?” He asked.
The Brass had been kind enough to quarter the two of them in a local hotel, where they would have the benefit of some privacy. Mark lounged on the bed, propped against the pillows, hands folded behind his head against the headboard. It wasn’t the fanciest room in town, but it would suffice for a quiet evening or two to do some catching up.
Minerva stood at the window, gazing out into the darkness. His wife looked so very tired. He had never seen her face so burdened. She held her arms tight against herself, leaning against the window frame. His heart went out to her.
“You’ve been through hell, haven’t you?”
Minerva smiled, but it was sad. Her eyes reflected the pain that had settled behind them. She shivered despite the room being comfortably warm.
“Mark, you can’t imagine what it’s been like.”
A tear welled, and coursed down one cheek. She wiped it away, and returned her gaze to the night.
“When I heard you call in Code Over-Lord, I wanted to die,” she went on, her voice thick with emotion. “When we finally got to Enon, and saw the destruction…”
“I know,” Mark said softly.
“No, you don’t know!” She retorted sharply. “I felt so helpless! Then, when Dwayne came to tell me that they’d found your body…” The tears began to flow then, and her body shook with sobs. Mark rose to go to her, to comfort her, but she pulled away, facing him with something that bordered anger.
“Part of me died that day, Mark! Losing you tore me apart, and I still had face the rest of the battalion! And, the rage! Oh, my God, the rage! We flew into Dayton after that, and I did things that will haunt me for the rest of my life! I took out all of that anger on the Storians, and it felt good!”
Not knowing how to comfort his wife, Mark stood before her, just listeni
ng. His own heart aching for her, for the horror that she had gone through.
“Then,” Minerva added, wiping her face with her hands, “to top it all off, I find out that Grozet decided to try to hurt me personally. He sent an assassin after my parents, and my dad ended up in the hospital with a gunshot wound to his spine.”
Mark shook his head, astounded.
“I’m sorry, Minerva,” he said softly.
His wife looked at him with eyes that were hurt far beyond any length that he could have imagined inflicting.
“Mark, don’t do that to me again,” she pleaded. “Don’t be a hero. Remember saying those words to me back before D-Day? You could at least do the same for me.”
He held his arms out, and this time, she embraced him. She cried for a long time, content to merely be in his touch. To smell him, and feel the strong beat of his heart in his chest. The things that had comforted her so long ago still wrapped around her like a blanket, and she lost herself in them.
Gradually, as her nerves calmed, and the pain drained from her, other, more intimate emotions began to rise. Minerva lifted her face, and pressed her lips against his. The kiss brought her back from the darkness, and her soul cried out. Her husband was back, like some miracle too precious to dare ask for.
She allowed her hands to wander across his shoulders, his chest, the rock-hard plate of his stomach. The kisses progressed into something more passionate, and she pulled his shirt up, and over his head, tossing it aside.
Hugging him tight, she felt his back, fingers exploring every ripple of muscle, gliding lower, down into the small of his back…
Minerva froze.
An icy shiver coursed through her body as alarm mixed with fear. Her fingers had found the device implanted over his spine in the small of his back, and she pulled away, eyes wide with horror, looking at the man she thought she loved with her entire being with utter betrayal.
Mark did not understand the abrupt shift or her expression, regarding him as if a stranger, or worse.
Minerva jumped to her feet, “You traitor! You sonofa----!”
He sat on the edge of the bed, stunned, watching his wife scramble to get her clothes on, “What’s wrong?”
She did not reply, only shoving her shoes on without bothering to tie them and grabbing her blouse, backing away from him toward the door, “You stay away from me!”
She warned, feeling behind her for the knob without taking her gaze from him.
Mark was desperate to figure out what he had done wrong, “Minerva, what---?”
His wife swept her blouse on and yanked the door open, then vanished down the hall at a full run. Still in his pants and socks, Mark got up and stood in the open doorway, watching his wife flee, slamming into the panic bar of the stairwell door and vanishing. It swung closed and latched, leaving him standing alone in the silent hallway. Bewildered, he returned to the bed and sat there, playing everything over in his mind, trying to glean some kind of reason from what had taken place.
He was still sitting there a half-hour later when Ford stepped through the open
door, his expression one of stone, eyes like ice. Two military policemen flanked him, side arms drawn. Mark looked up at his friend to see the same anger burning in the man’s gaze that his wife had held.
“First Sergeant Mark Corbin,” Ford’s voice boomed coldly, and with great authority. His doomsday voice, the one he reserved for recruits, or enemies.
“I am placing you under arrest, under Article 41 of the Uniform Code of Galactic Justice. You are charged with Capitol Treason.”
Sitting alone in a small interrogation room.
The walls were white, the paint cracked and peeling. The table was flimsy; the folding type. His chair metal and rusty. It was cold in there, sitting shirtless with only pants and socks. The MP’s had not given him a chance to even put his shoes on, and Ford’s demeanor had been one of disgusted detachment. His friend of well over a year, the man who had fought by his side in a number of desperate campaigns, was now but a stranger. His own wife detested him.
Mark sat there, hands listless on his knees, staring up at the featureless ceiling with its buzzing fluorescent fixture, trying to make sense of the past hour. Those who were dearest to him had turned on him, somehow convinced that he was a traitor. He wondered what in creation were they talking about.
He ignored his reflection in what he knew to be a two-way mirror. The MP’s had
brought him to the local police station and ushered him quickly into the closet-size space, locking the door after shoving him in. The First Sergeant knew there was nothing to do but wait while they observed him from the other side of the glass. There were likely some high-level calls being placed, some muttered conversation about him. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts, to filter out the hurt and confusion.
He could swear that he could hear muffled voices through the wall, but that might have been his imagination.
The approaching footfalls out in the hall were not.
The lock clicked and in stepped Colonel Strasburg with a tall man in a business suit--- both sporting expressions that were unreadable and neutral. Those of strangers who were carrying out an unpleasant task. The suit sat in the chair across the table while Strasburg remained standing, arms folded, staring daggers.
The suit folded his hands on the table and fixed Mark with a look that was probably supposed to be intimidating, but fell somewhat short on someone who had rode the rough seas of combat.
“So,” The suit sneered. “Here we are.”
Mark looked at him blankly.
The man smiled, but it was far from friendly, “Did you really expect to infiltrate us so easily?”
Mark blinked. None of this was making any sense at all. Infiltrate?
“I would advise you to cooperate,” the Colonel growled. “We have other, more unpleasant means of extracting what we need to know.”
The First Sergeant slowly shook his head, “I honestly don’t know what to say.”
The suit slapped a hand down on the table, open palm. Mark did not flinch, instead unable to suppress a grin. This guy was ridiculous. The man leaned forward, attempting to look menacing, “Suppose we have you shot!”
With lightning speed, Mark’s right hand shot forward and clamped around his throat, “Suppose you try.”
The door flew open and an MP appeared with a rifle trained at his head. Mark gave one quick squeeze before shoving the twerp back and holding his hands in the air. Another guard came in and applied handcuffs, restraining his arms behind his back and forcing him to sit once again. The suit, coughing and grasping his bruised throat, left the room, leaving Strasburg there with the guards. The Colonel motioned for them to leave, and once the door was closed, sat in the chair that the suit had occupied. The two of them stared at one another for a short eternity, the silence hanging heavy.
“Why?” Strasburg finally asked. “Why’d you do this?”
Mark scowled back at the man that he had grown to respect so much, “If I knew what the hell you were talking about, I might be able to answer you. Has everyone lost their freaking minds while I was gone?”
The Colonel sighed, “It’s your mind that I’m worried about.”
The door opened again and a medical tech entered, holding a syringe of clear liquid. He stepped over and plunged the needle into the muscle of his bicep, injecting whatever it was. It burned like hell, and no sooner had the needle left his flesh, Mark felt a warm, dizzy sensation fill his head. It was not entirely unpleasant, quite like being
drunk. He felt utterly uninhibited and relaxed.
Then the questioning began.
The answers came.
Two hours had passed.
It was the wee hours of the morning, and Colonel Strasburg found himself once again leaning against the wall, arms crossed; his head spinning. The suit that was in fact a Department of Defense intelligence agent, was sitting in the seat across from First Sergeant Corbin, this time far
enough back that he was out of reach despite Mark’s restraints. Both men were exhausted.
In addition to the truth serum, a lie detector had been wired to the young man, and neither method had produced any results beyond the negative.
The agent turned and looked at Strasburg, “It’s clear that this young man really does not know anything. His memory must have been wiped.”
Strasburg frowned, “Or perhaps there really isn‘t anything for him to know. This young man has been a key staffer since D-Day.”
“Who he was before has no bearing on the here and now,” The agent replied. “If the Storians somehow managed to get to him, and program his brain to act as an infiltrator, they likely would have covered their tracks. In the truest sense, this kid is innocent, but because of this neural device, can no longer be trusted.”
“Can’t we just take the damn thing off of him?” The Colonel implored.
The agent shook his head, “It’d kill him. This thing is entwined into his spinal cord.”
Strasburg regarded Mark with the first twinges of sympathy that he could muster, “It had to have happened while he was on that hospital ship.”
The suit nodded, “Things are in motion to secure that route. In the meantime, this guy will have to remain in our custody, at least until we can figure out how to de-program this thing attached to him.”
Mark was sitting quietly, still dazed by the effects of the drug, listening to this exchange of words about him as if he weren’t even in the room. The questioning had made no sense to him. He had been in a hopeless tactical situation back in the Enon Pass, forced to call in ordnance on his own position, had for most intents and purposes died, and then restored to the land of the living. There was no political intrigue or spy interaction in any of that. Part of him wondered, though. There were huge blocks of time that remained lost to him, even with the brain-assisting device. All these guys needed to do was to consult the surgeon up in orbit, who could explain the whole thing to them. As for his being a danger to anyone, Mark found that equally stupefying. His sole purpose in life was to reunite with Minerva and get back on the front line. The Storians were still out there, stubbornly occupying their chunk of the United States and threatening to expand--- if their space navy ever managed to penetrate the blockade at the Kuiper Asteroid Belt.
