Dark Victory - eARC

by Brendan DuBois

  “Sergeant, glad to see you’re here,” he says. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Out visiting a friend,” I say. “And if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the front desk.”

  I move to go around him but he steps in front of me, puts a large hand on my shoulder. He leans in and says, “You got the drop on me back at the hospital room, I’ll give you that. But that was at the hospital, with docs and nurses around. Here, you’re in my element, Sergeant. Don’t push me. When I was younger I was chasing Taliban up and down mountains in Afghanistan, and when I rotated out, they sent me to chase hajis in Iraq. So don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  His hand is gentle on my shoulder but I can feel the strength in it. “All right, what do you want?”

  Riley pulls his hand away, smiles. “Good job. Look, Sergeant—see, I’m not calling you kid, am I—we can get along just fine. Here’s the deal. Tess Conroy requests your presence in just under an hour, and you need to be gussied up. In your room is a full-dress uniform for you, because the good lady is going to put you on display.”

  “What the hell for?”

  Riley grins wider. “You’re the most famous soldier in the East Coast, you knucklehead. How many other soldiers are out there who’ve killed a Creeper with their frigging bare hands?”

  “I had a knife.”

  “Yeah, in your hands. Tess Conroy wants to put you on display, so be a good sergeant and run upstairs and get dressed, and I’ll take you there.”

  I look past his bulky shoulders to the front desk. “Where am I going?”

  He tries to act surprised. “You don’t know? You really don’t know?”

  “That’s right,” I say. “I have no idea.”

  Riley gently grasps my upper arm, sends me in the direction of the stairs.

  “You’re off to the New White House, my young friend,” he says. “To see the President.”

  In my hotel room I move around slowly, like I’ve just woken up and I’m not sure where I am and what’s going on. Sounds funny, but sure, I know where I am—the Capitol Arms Hotel—but I sure as hell don’t know what’s going on. I’m off to see the President . . . me? Randy Knox, from Ranger Recon? Randy Knox, who was nearly orphaned at six, has gone cold, starved, been wounded and injured and lives most days with dirt under his fingernails and with his stomach grumbling from not having enough to eat?

  That Randy Knox is going to see the President?

  I start getting the shakes, like I’m out on a Creeper mission, and I sit down on my carefully made bed. Like Riley had promised, a perfect-looking Class A uniform is laid out, with all unit badges, ribbons and medals in proper fashion. I run my hand across the uniform, feel so out of place, so much like an imposter. The shaking eases and I jump when the phone rings. I reach over and pick it up.

  “Knox,” I say.

  “Sergeant, it’s Tess Conroy,” comes the sharp, confident voice. “I do hope you’re not wasting my time up there, so be a good boy, get showered, dressed and get down to the lobby as soon as you can.”

  I can’t think of anything to say, so I hang up the phone, and strip and go take a shower.

  The shower is clean white tile and has a fresh bar of soap in the dish. I unwrap the soap and breathe deeply of the scent, and then turn on the water. It comes out nice and hot and fierce, and I can’t help myself, I giggle. Plenty of hot water, no timing chit, fresh soap, and best of all, I can shower by myself. I go in and despite the orders from the Chief of Staff, I take my time, and I wince as I soap around the burn wound on my shoulder. The water also stings my face, hands and the back of my neck, but I’m used to those kinds of burns.

  The water goes on and on until my fingers get wrinkly, and after I get out and towel dry, I carefully remove the still-wet bar of soap, pat it dry and then re-wrap it in the paper wrapper it came in. I then go out to my room and slide it into one of my pack pockets.

  I finish drying off with a towel—and I have a temptation of larceny, wondering if the hotel would miss one of these towels—and the television catches my attention. I go over to the stand and turn it on, and it hums for a moment, and then the screen snaps into focus, a black-and-white picture. I sit down on the bed, the blankets turned down, and start watching an episode of something called I Love Lucy. There’s a scene of a woman with big eyes and thick lipsticked lips, and she and a friend are working on some sort of assembly line, trying to keep up with a fast-moving belt containing lots of candies. I laugh out loud as I see her and her friend stuff the candies into their mouths.

  I reach over, switch a channel. I get something called C-Span, focusing on some sort of Congressional debate. I turn another channel, and it’s a test pattern. So I go back to the I Love Lucy episode and get dressed, looking around the room.

  I’m tingling. Something’s wrong. Something’s not right.

  I look around the room, in the closet, in the drawers, and then back to the bed, where the blankets have been turned down.

  They weren’t turned down when I stepped into the shower.

  I edge around the bed, examining it, and the pillow is out of place. I slowly put my hand underneath the pillow, touch something that feels like leather. I run my hands around the object, not feeling any wires or batteries. Paranoid, I know, but the other day I saw a Creeper that wasn’t a Creeper, flaming and lasing a train because of either Mister Manson or Buddy Coulson, the quiet boy with a recording device for a brain. So I wouldn’t put it past someone to put some sort of an IED in my bed, maybe something that’d be triggered by the weight of my head on it.

  I sit back. Feels like a leather object. Contradicting all of my training, I know, I whisper, “To hell with it,” and I pick up the pillow.

  Revealing my journal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “I’ll be damned,” I say, not whispering this time. From behind me and with my good ear, I hear a man in a Spanish-accented voice call out, “Lucy, You got some ‘splaining to do.”

  I pick up my journal and inside the front cover is a handwritten note on a slip of light yellow paper. It says, “Your talents are being wasted in the Army, Randy. Well-done. But be careful. Trust no one.”

  I bring the journal up to my face, catch a scent of Serena’s perfume. Somehow she or someone she’s with brought this back up to my room while I was in the shower. Not bad. A professional job. Very professional.

  I look at the note again.

  Trust no one.

  “Tell me something I don’t already know,” I say, and then I tear up the note in half, quarters and eighths, and while watching a television show nearly a century old, I put the scraps of paper in my mouth and carefully chew and swallow them all.

  Outside in the hotel’s corridor, carrying my pack, there’s a woman in a black uniform gently pushing a wheeled cart with brooms and towels and buckets. She spots me and I suddenly ask her, “Ma’am, is there another way to the lobby besides the main staircase?”

  She smiles, like she’s telling an old favorite joke. “There’s the elevators, soldier, but you step in those shafts, you’re going to the lobby faster than you probably want.”

  “True enough,” I say, smiling back at her and she relaxes and says, “Here, I’ll show you a back stairway. Dumps you out near the front desk.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  I go down the narrow and dimly lit staircase, feeling pretty exposed as I go out into the lobby. I see Riley sitting in a big chair, staring at the main staircase, and sitting next to him, all alone on a long couch, is Tess Conroy, glasses on, looking at a collection of papers on her lap. Neither of them is looking over in my direction. I stroll over to the front desk and ask the nice elderly man there if he could store my assault pack for a while. I have to repeat what I say twice for him to hear me, and he motions me to the back of the counter, where I deposit my pack among some suitcases. He gives me a receipt. He’s short, squat, with a fringe of black hair around his bald head, and eyeglasses hanging from a thin chain about his neck
.

  At the front desk, I feel my back tingling, like Riley or Tess is staring right at me, wondering what I’m doing, and I press ahead. “Excuse me, I was hoping you could tell me if someone is staying here. A Captain Ramon Diaz, from the Army. D-I-A-Z.”

  The clerk purses his thin lips, goes through a small metal file box, shakes his head. “No Captain Diaz here, I’m afraid.”

  I put both of my hands on the polished wood of the counter. “Anybody at all registered as Diaz?”

  He shakes his head again. “”fraid not.”

  To the rear I hear Riley’s voice. “Sergeant Knox! Over here!”

  I say, “Well, anybody in the Army? Who do you have here that’s in the service?”

  He looks up in disbelief. “Sonny, we’re smack dab in the middle of the Capitol. I’d say about half of the people staying here today are in the service. What, you want me to give you a damn list or something?”

  Or something, I think, and I turn around and Riley is standing right there. “A problem, Sergeant?”

  “No problem at all,” I say. “I was just complimenting them on their hot showers.”

  He looks me up and down, and sighs. “When I was your age, I was—”

  I push past him. “Spare me,” I say. “I’ve heard it all before.”

  * * *

  With Riley, the other bodyguard from the hospital and Tess Conroy, we go out through the lobby and out into the afternoon. It’s cloudy and threatening rain. No big surprise. A pre-war black Cadillac comes by and stops. There’s no ration sticker on the windshield. Riley opens the rear door and I follow Tess in. The interior is huge, looking like it could fit four or five people. There’s a wide and luxurious seat, dark blue carpeting, and another seat facing the first. The windows are darkened in an odd way, so you can see out but people can’t see in.

  I sit back and look around, and Tess sits across from me. She has on a black formal gown that reaches down to mid-calf, and some sort of white wrap around her shoulders and bare upper arms. Riley sits next to me and the other guard slams the door shut, goes to the front, and we’re off.

  Tess says, “Excited?”

  “Confused,” I say. “Why am I going to see the President?”

  With a pen, she makes a check-mark on a paper in her lap. “To be honored, of course. That knife fight you had the Creeper has been in the news for days. Like it or not, Sergeant Knox, by the end of the day, you’re going to be very famous indeed. You and one other.”

  I look out at the streets and buildings, seeing what looks to be electric lights in lots of the windows. Looks like the Capitol is doing way better than the rest of the country in recovering. I’m sure dad would tell me that this was a great surprise, with his usual wry tone of voice.

  “Who’s the other person? Another soldier?”

  A paper goes from her hands to the seat next to her, and she picks up another. “No. A Colonel Victor Minh, of the Air Force. He’s getting the Medal of Honor for helping destroy the Creeper’s orbital battle station. An astronaut.”

  I have to repeat the words she’s just said to understand them. “An astronaut? He’s an astronaut?”

  She bites her lower lip, like something on the paper in front of her has just ticked her off. “That he is,” she says. “Apparently the last one. So he’s getting the Medal of Honor.” Tess looks up. “You’re getting the Silver Star. A nice way to honor those who kill the Creepers in orbit, and those who kill them on the ground.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Why’s that, young man?”

  I work to find my voice. “Awards like that are only given out after months, maybe even a year or two of investigation. Witnesses have to be interviewed, after-action reports need to be examined, everything checked and re-checked.”

  “You’re probably right, Sergeant Knox, but your Commander in Chief thinks otherwise. And so do I.”

  The Cadillac maneuvers through an open wrought-iron gate, guarded on either side by Marine guards in dress blue. There’s a small knot of protesters on the sidewalk, being kept away by uniformed cops. I see one sign: NEGOTIATE NOW, END THE WAR. And then another: WE DESERVE A PREZ, NOT A DICTATOR.

  “And, Sergeant Knox?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “When the ceremonies and speeches are over,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “You and I are going to have a serious talk about Specialist Coulson, that dispatch case, and her possible whereabouts.”

  I feel a rush of panic for just a moment, wondering if Tess or Riley could catch Serena’s scent on my hands, from where I had picked up my journal. I keep my voice calm and say, “That would be fine, ma’am.”

  She chuckles, picking up her papers. “Don’t try lying to me, son. I’ve had years of experience you can’t hope to match.”

  There are other pre-war cars parked here as well, with a couple of fine-looking carriages with matched black horses. Men and women are slowly streaming to the front entrance of an ornate three-story house, made of red brick. There are lots of uniforms, gowns, and fine suits with white shirts and tiny black bowties. Gas lamps and electrical lights are on, and I stand still, trying to take it all in.

  Riley is standing next to me, seems friendly for a moment.

  I ask, “Why do they call it the New White House? It’s all red brick.”

  Riley says, “Tradition. Besides, some in Congress and the Administration thought calling it the Red House would sound too socialist or communistic or something like that. In any event, it’s the New White House, though supposedly, the place is on loan to the President. It actually belongs to the Governor of New York.”

  “Where does he stay, then?”

  Riley says, “Who cares? Come on, don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

  I try not to look too stunned or overwhelmed as I go into the New White House, with Tess Conroy at my side, who’s busy waving and talking to people, shaking hands with some of them, pausing for a few words. Some of the people nod knowingly in my direction, and I freeze for a moment when a three-star Army general growls at me and shakes my hand.

  “Christ, kid,” he says, “when the books finally get written about this war, you and your kind are going to make the previous Greatest Generation look like amateurs.”

  Considering what that generation was up against, all earth-bound enemies, maybe he’s right, but I don’t press the point. “I appreciate that, sir, honest, I do.”

  There are so many electric lights from the ceilings and walls it hurts my eyes, and after passing through a security checkpoint, with Secret Service men and women giving the guests quick pat-downs, we’re brought into a large ballroom. Music is being played and there are rows of chairs, facing a raised platform and podium that bears the Presidential seal, and at the rear, are round tables with white tablecloths.

  Waiters and waitresses carrying trays are going by, and my mouth waters as I see the food. I eat, and eat, and eat, sometimes having to ask the serving people what exactly I’m eating. There’s scallops wrapped in bacon, stuffed mushroom caps, bits of steak on skewers with vegetables, and it seems every time I finish something off, another tray is presented to me. One thing, though, I turn down, and it’s some sort of sour cream with toast points and fish eggs. Fish eggs! Over the years I’ve eaten and scrounged for lots of food, sometimes opening up rusted tin cans with the labels worn off to see if I was going to be dining on hash, or beets, or beans, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to eat fish eggs.

  There are cold drinks as well, beers and iced teas and coffee, and I try sipping some red wine, and find it too strong, and go with a nice chilled glass of Coca-Cola. Based on the last time I’d sipped a Coke, it’s nice not to have to share this time.

  Then everything snaps into a greasy focus, and I don’t feel so good. Back up at Ft. St. Paul, who knows what’s on the dining facility menu tonight, and Abby . . . good ol’ Abby. If she had been here, she’d be eating right next to me, but she’d also be finding a way to gather up some of the food to
bring to back to the barracks.

  But me?

  I’m just stuffing my face with all of these civilians. Suddenly I want this whole foolishness to be over, to confront Tess Conroy and get her off my back, and then get back to the hotel and see if I can’t track down Captain Diaz. Find out where my dad is, why he’s in trouble. Maybe Dad’s in the Capitol, or nearby. Good. Track him down, see what’s going on, and then get the hell to Ft. St. Paul and get back to work, killing Creepers.

  I turn and bump into a plump woman with white hair, teased up in an elaborate hairdo, and a cheery looking face with light pink makeup on her cheeks. She’s wearing the same kind of formal dress that the other civilian women are wearing, and she looks vaguely familiar.

  “Sergeant Knox?” she asks, sticking out her hand.

  I shake the hand, feeling some strength but smoothness, no calluses or worn ridges, as she announces, “Congresswoman Julie LeBlanc, from the Second District. Your district, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s right,” I say, seeing she has a young male aide standing closely behind her, holding a notebook close to his side.

  She pumps my hand a few times. “Darn proud to see you getting recognized this afternoon. You richly deserve it. A few more boys like you and we’ll lick those Creepers for good, eh?”

  I pull my hand away, resist an urge to wipe it on a napkin. “If you say so, ma’am.”

  She winks and pulls in close to me, and her tone of voice gets harder. “Just a word of advice, son. I know Tess Conroy has her eyes on you, so play it safe. She’s a powerful woman, and you don’t want to cross her. You be bright and do what she says.”

  The delicious food I’ve eaten earlier is threatening to crawl up my gullet, so I give her an enthusiastic nod, which seems to please her, and she wanders off; and I do, too, to get away from the flattery and the oh-so-polite threats. There are snatches of conversation, and I try not to listen, but it’s hard not to.