“. . . the EPA is still at work, if you can believe it, about damn carbon emissions . . .”
“. . . Governor Franklin’s got her panties in a bunch I hear, but she’s learning Kansas ain’t Albany . . .”
“. . . so I managed to get an increase for my idiot cousin from the Fertilizer Distribution Board . . .”
All this talk, all this blather, and not one word about the war, about the military or the Creepers.
Music is still playing in a corner by the raised podium. I go check it out. Marines in fancy red and gold dress uniforms are playing something that sounds like Sousa, and I remember an old history lesson, back at the fort. These Marines are the official band for the New White House, and are called the President’s Own. I maneuver around a heavy-set woman and man, knowing they had never suffered through the famine years, and I enjoy the music, keeping my good ear tilted toward them, until I look closely at the Marine musicians.
All of them have scarred faces and healed burn tissue, and all of them are blind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The music suddenly stops and there’s a gentle touch on my shoulder. A girl my age, wearing formal dress Army uniform with the rank of lieutenant and a brassard over one shoulder, signifying she’s a presidential aide, whispers to me. “Excuse me, Sergeant. You need to sit up in the front row. It’s all straight forward. The President will present you with your award first, and then Colonel Minh, and then the party will resume.”
I just nod, let the pretty Army lieutenant lead me to a seat that has RESERVED printed on white paper and taped to the back of the chair. I sit on the chair, hands on my thighs, still not believing this is going on. My buds back at my barracks would probably wet themselves laughing at thinking Randy Knox would be here and at this event.
Murmurs and voices as the assembled guests take their seats, and there’s a bit of Sousa music and then applause, as Tess Conroy goes up to the stage and stands in front of the lectern with the Presidential seal hanging from it. She’s smiling widely and raises her hand, and the applause dies down. There’s a microphone set in the middle of the podium, and she leans into it like it’s her best friend in the whole wide world, and she says, “On behalf of the President and the New White House, I welcome you this afternoon to this awards ceremony. We honor today two special servicemen who have gone above and beyond to serve their country, their fellow citizens, and the people of the world. One such serviceman is a young infantryman, who used his skills and bare hands to prevent the murder of hundreds of our fellow citizens.”
With that, the audience starts applauding again and my face and ears burn, almost as bad as being near a rampaging Creeper, when I realize all of these adults are applauding me. Sixteen-year-old Randy Knox, in the New White House, about to meet the President, being applauded and honored.
I feel like throwing up.
I take some deep breaths, and Tess gives me a little wave, and I smile and nod in return. Man, oh, man.
When the applause drifts away, she says, “Then there’s another serviceman, an Air Force pilot and astronaut, a legend who was nearing retirement age, but who still volunteered for one last dangerous mission, a mission he joined with other dedicated volunteers, to take the fight to the Creepers in outer space, in their own safe harbor, where they were hunted down and destroyed!”
Cheers and whoops and hollers at that, the applause really heavy now, and I join in, looking around, trying to spot the famous Colonel, but I can’t make him out. The applause goes on and on, and Tess just lets it go on until it dies away, and her smile gets even wider.
“This afternoon, before I introduce the President, I have an announcement to make. A very important and special announcement, one that is currently being released to news agencies here and around the world.”
The large room suddenly gets very quiet, so still and silent even with my bum ear I can hear a fat man next to me slowly breathing. Tess milks the moment, looking around the room, like she’s trying to catch everyone’s eye, and then, speaking slowly and deliberately, she says, “This morning, at nine a.m., the Joint Chiefs of Staff reported to the President that as of six p.m., last night, a task force led by the brave men and women of Bravo Company, the Two-One Sixteenth Calvary, of the Idaho National Guard, successfully broke through the Interstate Seventy MLR—Main Line of Resistance—in Colorado, and have held their positions. Relief convoys are now on the move along the Interstate.”
I can feel the tension in the room, rising and rising, like we’re all inside some steam kettle, ready to explode, not quite believing what we were hearing, and Tess says simply, “Ladies and gentlemen, the siege of Denver has been lifted.”
* * *
The cheers, whoops, whistles and applause are deafening, and even I join in the celebrations, and we don’t have much time to process that amazing piece of good news, when Tess dramatically steps back, holds out an arm, and announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!”
The Marine Band strikes up “Ruffle and Flourishes,” and that’s followed by “Hail to the Chief,” and from a door behind the stand and podium, the President slowly comes out, waving and smiling, as the applause tries to overwhelm the music. He looks older than the photographs I’ve seen over the years, and that’s easy to believe. Poor guy has the hardest job on the planet, one he never really wanted.
When the war started and the Creepers’ satellites started hitting targets from orbit using particle beams and weapons rods, the sitting President, Vice President and Speaker of the House were all killed within days. What was left of the National Command Authority responded the best they could, and in those confusing first couple of years of the war, we went through nearly a half-dozen Presidents, as the Constitutional line of succession was stretched beyond recognition. There were also some times when we didn’t have a President: if you’re the Secretary of Agriculture, next in line to the presidency, and your predecessors were killed by Creepers, do you take the job or retire to a hog farm in Iowa?
Our president now, though, has been in the job for nearly seven years. When the war started, he was an Assistant Secretary of Defense, and as the war went on, he was the highest surviving Cabinet member who agreed to serve as president. He was easily re-elected back when I was twelve, when the opposing party only put up token opposition from the governor of Rhode Island, a role to be taken later this year by the governor of Kansas. I’m close enough to see his tanned and wrinkled skin, his fine dark suit with white shirt and red necktie, his combed thick white hair, but it’s his eyes that get my attention. They look so very tired, like the poor man hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in nearly a decade.
The applause finally dies down and the President comes to the podium, grasps both sides with his hands. He smiles and I note a flag pin on his lapel. It shows the American flag, with black mourning bands draped along the pole, denoting the start of the war on 10/10.
When it’s quiet in the room, he looks around and keeps on smiling, and then the mood of the room changes. There’s a cough, a quiet whisper, and I feel horrified for him, wondering what’s going to happen next. It seems like nobody knows what to do, or what to say, with the President standing still in front of his podium with the round presidential seal fastened in its center. Tess Conroy is in the corner with the military aide, hands clasped tightly in front of her, and finally the President speaks.
“My friends,” he starts, and then he stops, his voice raspy. “My dear, dear friends . . .” He looks down at the podium for a long moment, and raises his head. There are tears in his eyes. “This is a wonderful day, is it not? Just a few short weeks after our brave Air Force destroyed the alien orbital battle station, we receive the glorious news that our fellow Americans in Denver have been saved. It has been such a long, discouraging and hard road for all of us, here in the United States and around the world . . . but that promise I made on the day of my inauguration, in paraphrasing another president elected during perilous times, that I woul
d ‘pay any price and bear any burden, to secure victory for our people and our planet,’ my friends, it seems that promise is finally being fulfilled.”
More whoops, cheers and applause, and it seems to energize him, and he nods vigorously and waves again, and Tess Conroy looks like she’s relaxing. When the quiet comes back, the President says, “So this afternoon, it’s appropriate that we come together to honor two of our brave servicemen, one so very young, and one so very experienced, who have led, and who will continue to lead us, to our final and complete victory, so help us God!”
So another round of applause and I’m starting to get fidgety and nervous, like the time I went up to the oral boards for my promotion to sergeant, and Tess and the military aide join the President, and Tess slips a sheet of paper into the President’s hands. Having something to read strengthens his voice, and my face and hands burn with embarrassment as the President starts talking about me.
The language is both flowery and formal, as the President reads the official declaration of what happened that night by the bridge near the swamp, where a rag-tag group of civilians and cops and yours truly went up against a Creeper Transport. As the words are spoken, I feel even more warm and uncomfortable. What I recall from that night is being scared out of my mind, knowing with some certainty that it would probably be my last battle, for Serena was right in noting why I had sent the dispatch case, my journal, and Thor along with her. I remember being wet, muddy and terrified as the Creeper Transport lumbered through the swamp, heading right towards me.
The brave soldier mentioned in the President’s reading—a young man who was full of honor, sacrifice and devotion to duty—bears no resemblance to the scared teenage boy in uniform who was there that rainy night, but I just stare straight ahead and keep my mouth shut.
The sudden clapping of hands jerks me out of my semi-trance, and with Tess Conroy staring at me, I get up and make my way up to the raised platform. I nearly trip over my feet and I feel like I’m in an elaborate play, written and staged for my benefit. I shake hands with the President—seeing age spots on the back of his hand—and I’m gently turned to one side so photographers can take my photos. The military aide opens a small blue case, and the Silver Star is taken out, and the President pins it on my formal dress uniform, taking two tries to do so. Standing so close to him, I smell his cologne, see some sort of make-up on his face, and even his nostril hairs. He’s smiling at me but damn, there’s still something so very tired with his eyes.
“Congratulations, Sergeant,” he says. “You’ve made us all very, very proud.”
I shake his hand again and he propels me to the podium. “Do you have anything you’d like to say?”
Hell, no, is what I think, but I see the expectant look on his face, and I don’t want to disappoint my commander in chief. I go to the podium and look out at all the people sitting in their chairs, waiting for me to say something wonderful and profound. I clear my throat and not daring to look at anybody directly, I say, “Thank you, Mister President, thank you very much.”
I step back, almost bump into the President, and face still flushed, I get back to my chair as yet another round of clapping commences.
I’m so much out of place that I feel like I’m going to rise out of my chair and drift away.
The President reads from a second sheet of paper, about the exploits of Colonel Victor Minh, and I lean forward, not wanting to miss a single word, since this is the most information that’s ever been revealed about the Air Force’s low earth orbit attack. The President reveals that planning for the mission began nine years ago, and despite setbacks and accidents and failures, it continued, day and night, week after month, after year. “Using solid-rocket boosters salvaged from old space shuttle contractors, built at a secret high desert base in Nevada, a squadron of eight manned rockets was constructed.”
The President looks up, blinks his eyes a few times, and goes on. Using old telegraph lines that went across the Pacific, cooperation was reached with surviving military commanders in Japan, Russia and China, where they launched diversionary ICBMs towards the orbital battle station. The killer stealth satellites easily destroyed those complex nuclear-tipped missiles, but the diversion allowed the simpler Air Force vehicles to reach orbit, where they destroyed the Creeper orbital base.
Another pause, as the President clears his throat. “The Air Force’s 19th Orbital Attack Wing, the ‘Retaliation Rebels,’ was commanded by Colonel Victor Minh, who was the sole survivor of this daring mission. He is with us today, to receive the nation’s gratitude and its highest military honor . . . honored guests, I present to you, Colonel Victor Minh!”
As one everyone stands up, applauding and cheering, again I join in, and the applause goes on and on, and the President looks expectantly to one side and then the other, and then looks to Tess Conroy, who’s horrified. The applause dies away and there’s a long, awkward silence.
Then from the left, a man approaches, getting up on the platform, stumbling, stumbling again, and he has on the uniform of an Air Force colonel, with medals and decorations. He walks with a pronounced limp, moving slowly now, and he cheerfully waves to the crowd, both hands scarred. He’s of Vietnamese descent, his face also scarred with burn tissue, and he has a black eyepatch over one eye, making him look like an airborne pirate.
And above all, he appears to be drunk out of his skull.
He bows to the President, who steps forward and with the assistance of the military aide, drapes the light blue ribbon and gold medal around his neck. The President shakes his hand and Colonel Minh grimaces—I’m sure the burnt hand is still sensitive—but shakes right back. More applause and the President attempts to move Colonel Minh away from the podium and microphone, but the last American to fly into space shrugs him off, and stumbles again, right in front of the podium.
When the clapping dribbles away, Colonel Minh is grinning widely, looking around at all of us, the expression on his scarred face saying “how about that, folks?” Then he belches and speaks into the microphone. “My God, what an honor . . . what an outstanding honor . . . if you had told me ten years back, when I was just a lieutenant, flying F-22s out of Nellis and trying to make sense of what the hell was going on when the war started . . . so many cities destroyed . . . so many of my friends burned out of the air . . . if you had told me that me, Vic Minh, son of boat people from a forgotten South Vietnam, would be here, meeting the President and getting the Medal of Honor . . . jeez, I would have told that you were full of shit . . .”
I laugh, but not many others sitting there do. Another belch and he presses on. “And it is an honor . . . you know? Good God, it is . . . but all this noble crap about sacrifice and duty and bravery . . . you know why I got this draped around my neck? Do you?” He flips the ribbon with one scarred hand and says, “’Cause I survived, that’s why . . . Can’t have a successful war without survivors . . . and finally, by God’s teeth, looks like we might just win one . . . win one in the Gipper’s memory . . . hah . . . just in time for election season and court decisions and all that nonsense . . .”
He lowers his head and tears come out of his good eye, and his voice, though slurred, gains strength. “Didn’t have to be that way . . . you know . . . we could have prepared . . . could have been ready . . . it was a scientific certainty there was life out there . . . we even had some bits of evidence they were checking us out earlier . . . could have been easy to set up an early warning system . . . space-borne weapons up there . . . crap, so easy . . . but hey! Budget decisions had to be made . . . money to be spent on bridges to no where . . . corn subsidies . . . foreign aid to countries that hated us . . . and trying to get a Congressman or a Senator interested in preparing for an invasion, hell, might as well try to get a baboon interested in quantum physics . . . crap, we could have been ready and so many of us, God, so many of us wouldn’t have had to die . . . get shot down . . . get burned like friggin’ pork roasts . . .”
Out of the corner of my eye, I s
ee Tess Conroy motion frantically to someone, there’s a sound of someone snapping his fingers, and the Marine band bursts into a loud Sousa tune. The military aide gently takes Colonel Minh by his wrist and pulls him away from the podium with its presidential seal. More applause, subdued this time, and I look around at all the suits and neckties and dresses and plump faces, all of the people now standing up and milling about, and something clicks, and I want out of here.
So I get going.
I make it about three meters from the main ballroom doors before I’m stopped.
It’s Riley, of course, as he blocks my way and says, “In a hurry, Sergeant?”
“Was thinking of finding a men’s room.”
He shakes his head. “Better think of something else. Like meeting up with Tess Conroy. Some stuff needs to get settled.”
I’m thinking about going all out in a blitz, pushing by him, because he’s cocky and confident and I might just make it, when Tess Conroy comes up, face pinched.
“Somebody wants to see you.”
“I thought only you wanted to see me.”
“I do, but this is going to take . . . precedence. Come with me.”
Riley looks disappointed, like he was hoping I was going to pick a fight, but being obedient, I follow Tess through the crowd, with some calling out to her and she brushing them off, until we go through a rear door, down a corridor, and to an open door to the right, that leads off to a small balcony. Tess pushes me in the small of my back. “Go in there, talk to him for ten minutes, and then get out. Then you and I will meet. Got it, Sergeant?”
Dark Victory - eARC Page 25
