Dark Victory - eARC

by Brendan DuBois

  “Not really,” I say, but I step forward anyway.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Out on the balcony the late afternoon air is muggy and the sky is overcast. I take two steps and stop. Standing in a corner of the balcony, leaning over a wrought-iron fence and smoking a cigar, is Colonel Victor Minh. He turns to me and in one hand he’s holding a thick white coffee mug. He’s still in uniform, the Medal of Honor tight around his neck, and black eyepatch in place. A small electric lamp on a near wall is lighting up the balcony. It seems like an awful waste of power.

  “Hey, kid, how’s it going?” he asks, taking a puff from the cigar.

  Anybody else in uniform calling me kid, I’d bristle up like my poor wounded Thor, smelling a Creeper in the distance. But I’m in awe of this man, who’s been in space, fought the Creepers on their home turf, and returned safely back to Earth.

  “Doing fine, sir,” I say. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Sure,” he laughs. “One famous serviceman to another, eh? I’m a damn hero for the ages. Ladies will be tossing their panties at me. Presidents and generals will salute me first. Schools will be named for me after I’m dead, and maybe even airports, once we get aircraft up and flying again. But you . . . What are you doing here?”

  I’m not sure what he’s asking. His good eye is boring right into me, and I say, “I killed a Creeper with a knife.”

  “Good for you, kid. A hell of a job. But again . . . Why are you here? To receive a Silver Star from the President? Bully and all that, but why the President? Why not your C.O., or your governor, or whatever congressman might be hanging around with nothing else better to do?”

  I say, “Because they’re trying to bribe me.”

  A crisp, smiling nod. “Good job, kid. Nice smarts, nice evaluation of the situation. You’re young enough, when we get to flying again, maybe you should join with us. A nice real service. Pretty small now, but we’ll grow eventually.”

  “No, thanks. I’m used to where I am. Don’t particularly like heights.”

  “So there you go,” he says, taking a deep swallow from his coffee mug. “Any idea why you’re being bribed?”

  “I got something the President’s Chief of Staff wants. Classified information. I declined to give it to her. This whole ceremony with the President, the fine food and drink, all a bribe. Get me feeling good so I’ll give her what she wants. What do you think?”

  The colonel takes a deep drag from his cigar. The smell is rich and heavy, and I wonder how it tastes. “Could be. Also could be something else, nice P.R. of having a young buck like you and an old bastard like me being honored, the same time they announce the Denver siege being lifted, helps out the Administration during this whole election mess.”

  “What mess is that?”

  He laughs. “Hell, boy, what do they teach you when you’re not out running drills or going for target practice?”

  I say crossly. “They teach me English, math, logistics, tactics, strategy, and military history from the Assyrians to the Third Gulf War last decade. Don’t have much time for current affairs, except better ways to track and kill Creepers.”

  “Don’t get so ticked off,” Minh says quietly. “You see, kid, the President and his Chief of Staff have a problem coming up: it’s called an election.”

  “Why do they have a problem?” I ask. “The President’s term is up. Time for somebody else to have the job.”

  “Yeah, his term is up, but that’s during usual times. Serve two terms and you’re done. But these ain’t the usual times. It gets funky, so bear with me, but ever since the second President declared Martial Law, a lot of laws have been suspended or ignored. Anything to win the war, right? So when our current CinC got into office, there was a compromise among what was left of Congress and the Supreme Court to let him serve two full terms. You sure you didn’t notice that?”

  “Maybe I did, but I’ve had other things to worry about. Like keeping my lieutenant happy and killing Creepers without getting roasted.”

  “So worry about this. The President’s term is coming up, and he and his crew and Tess Conroy are trying to get the Twenty-Second Amendment repealed, so he can run for a third term.”

  “He looked pretty tired tonight.”

  “Sure he did, but a man gets a good taste for power, he tends to want to keep on tasting it. Along with his staff and his lackies in the Congress. Maybe the Amendment will get repealed, maybe not. But having this ceremony tonight and announcing the relief of Denver, it sure does help his case, doesn’t it. So maybe our commander in chief gets elected to a third term, and then a fourth. Think you’ll remember that when you finally go home?”

  “I think I will,” I say, “and I think I’ll remember something else. Like you don’t look so drunk right now. You seem pretty sober.”

  That brings forth a chuckle and he says, “I meant to raise a bit of hell up there with the President, and I figured if I appeared cold sober, they wouldn’t cut me any slack. But if I’m drunk . . . it’s just the newest hero, breaking a bit under the strain. They had a part for me, okay, but I was going to do a bit of ad-libbing.”

  In the cloudy sky off beyond the balcony, there are three bright flashes of light illuminating the clouds, making them look milky white, as more space junk comes burning back to earth. Minh sighs. “What the President said back there, about our mission . . . he spoke the truth, mostly, about what happened. Right after the war started and the Creepers burned all the aircraft and most powered vehicles, we in the Air Force didn’t have much to work with. But by God we got our orders: find a way to get up into low earth orbit and blast that orbital battle station, any way we could.”

  I keep quiet, knowing that when this night is over and I get back to my journal, I’ll make sure to write down as much as I can remember.

  The colonel says, “Did our best when the aliens revealed themselves. Minuteman missiles were launched, the Navy’s sub force launched their own warheads, our classified satellite killers were sent up too, but the missiles never got more than a hundred-thousand or so feet up in the air. They were blasted before they could reach orbit. Way our white-coats figured, it was the electronics and complexity of the launch systems that the Creepers picked up on. That’s why steamships and sailing craft and steam locomotives don’t get disturbed. Too damn primitive. So we decided to go primitive, we did.”

  He coughs some and I hope I’m not running out of time from Tess’ schedule. He says, “So we went to the old Morton-Thiokol factories in Utah, where they made solid-fuel rocket boosters for the space shuttle. Got the assembly line re-started, shipped the components by horse-drawn wagons to an abandoned base. I helped work on the crew capsule, which was pretty simple. One pilot and one warhead. Limited electronics. Manual controls. Nothing computerized, nothing to attract the Creepers . . . Couldn’t even test the bastards. We had one chance, once chance only.”

  He stops, and his good eye is moist. I try to gently prod him. “The President said there were eight of you.”

  The colonel takes a slight puff from his cigar. “Eight went up. One barely got off the launch pad. Major Susan McLane. One of the best pilots I’ve ever known. Damn booster split into pieces as it went up, scattered her all over the Utah desert. No escape rockets or ejection seats. Didn’t have time! Do you hear me, kid? They were pressing us, pressing us, no matter what others advised. We didn’t have time!”

  Softly I say, “I hear you, sir.”

  He takes a deep breath, turns and stares out at the buildings of the Capitol. “Seven of us reached space . . . God, you’d think we’d have time to look down at the Earth, get used to zero-gee, but we were in a hurry. The Russkies, Chinese, and Japs, bless ’em, had sent up the diversionary attack. Let us go right in. I was the commander of the squadron, herding all of those brave guys and gals to that damn Creeper orbital station. Big ugly thing, odd protrusions and shapes . . . dark and sparkly . . . our squadron sailed in . . . very little electronics . . . our brave space-borne kaiten.�
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  I stay quiet. He turns away from the Capitol buildings. “You say you’re educated, kid. Care to tell me what the kaiten are . . . or were?”

  I pause, not quite believing what I was hearing. “The kaiten . . . they were Japanese sailors, back during the end of World War II. They operated one-man mini-submarines, designed to attack the Allied invasion force.”

  The colonel takes a final puff on his cigar, tosses it over the balcony. I watch the burning ember as it fades away. “A very polite answer, kid, but don’t be so damn polite. The kaiten were a kamikaze force, since those mini-subs were nothing more than huge torpedoes. A one-way trip. That’s why I got my ten minutes with you, pal, otherwise, as a drunk officer in the United States Air Force, I was going to tell everyone within reach that the other brave astronauts were kamikaze pilots. All volunteers. They launched knowing they were never coming back. And me? Their brave commander? I was sent along to escort them, to watch them, and report back. My capsule didn’t have a warhead. It had a heat shield . . . and I came back and landed somewhere in Ohio. That was my damn mission. Before . . . I watched them all go in . . . we had old-fashioned radios, the ones with vacuum tubes, and I could hear them. Could hear them talking to each other and to me . . . got their last words. And for that . . .” He again flips the light blue ribbon and gold medal about his neck. “For surviving. I’m called a damn hero.”

  I find my voice. “You are a hero, Colonel.”

  “No more,” he says. “Please, no more.” He glances at his watch. “Besides, your time is almost up.”

  I remember something from his talk. “What did you mean, back there, when you said we weren’t prepared? Said there was evidence we were being checked out.”

  He stares at me some more. “Oh, hell, not much of a secret anyway. For decades, right after World War II, there were unexplained sightings. I don’t mean crap like the Roswell landing or people being brought up into space to get their butts poked. No, there’s always been . . . unexplained stuff. Qualified air crews seeing objects that moved too fast. Radar and visual sightings that just didn’t make sense. Even some gun camera footage . . . nothing provable, nothing that would stand up in court, but, by God. A warning. That we were being watched. Evaluated. Targeted. And what did we do? Nothing at all. For the cost of spare parts for one M-1 tank or an F-22 fighter, we could have put up an early warning system for the planet . . . but we didn’t.”

  Minh takes one last sip from his coffee mug, looks down at it, and with one hard motion, tosses it over the railing, to join his cigar butt. “Sorry, kid, we let you down. Big time. The generation before ours was called the Greatest Generation, for taking on the Great Depression, fascism and communism. Our generation . . . we’ll be known as the Stupidest Generation. We had everything handed to us, from wealth to knowledge to security . . . and we’re giving you ashes and a graveyard and a big damn overdue bill.”

  The door to the balcony opens up. I turn and Tess Conroy is silhouetted there. His voice softer, the colonel says, “Go ahead now, kid. Do your duty. God knows I didn’t do mine, even with this pretty ribbon around my neck.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  With Riley escorting and Tess Conroy keeping a quick pace in front of me, I’m brought into an office somewhere deep in the New White House. It’s spare, with a metal desk, two straight-backed chairs, and a door that shuts firmly behind us. There’s no window, no bookcases, no photos on the wall, no telephone, not much of anything. I instantly know this isn’t Tess Conroy’s office; it’s too simple. It seems to be an office for interviewing and grilling and demanding things, and Tess doesn’t disappoint.

  She sits on the other side of the desk, pulls open a drawer. “You’ve proven to be quite stubborn, Sergeant, but since you’ve just been honored by the President not more than a half hour ago, I’m willing to cut you some slack. So these are for you.”

  Tess tosses two envelopes across to me, and my heart nearly bursts, thinking they’re from my dad. I pick them up and see both envelopes bear the return address of Ft. St. Paul, but the taste of disappointment is strong in my mouth when I see my dad’s name isn’t listed as well. Still, one name is Monroe—good old Abby!—and the other is my uncle, Colonel Malcolm Hunter.

  “Couriers can move very fast when they have to,” Tess explains. “I’ll give you a moment to read them both, and then you and I will have our little meeting. All right?”

  I feel like telling her we can have our little meeting right now, that I’ll tell her everything and anything she wants to know about Serena Coulson, the dispatch case and her plan to meet up with her dad here. What do I care? All I want to do is to get out of here, see if I can’t find Captain Ramon Diaz and then get the hell back to Ft. St. Paul with my injured Thor right with me. I’m tired of secrets, of conspiracies, of the flattery and what not. Once upon a time I was just a simple soldier, a simple kid, and that’s what I want to be now.

  Be patient, ma’am, I think. In about thirty seconds, you’ll get everything you want.

  I open up the note from Abby. It says:

  Dear Randy,

  Sorry I didn’t get a chance to see you off at the train station. Your departure was supposed to be very hush-hush, but I had to find out where you were going. I feel like a dope, the way I acted at the dance. You mean a lot to me and I miss having you and your smelly dog around . . . hah!

  Get back to the post as soon as you can. I hear you’ve been a very brave Recon Ranger out there in New York State and I want to know all about it. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, including dancing. (And I don’t care if there’s no Ranger Ball scheduled . . . you and I will do our own dancing.)

  Under that she drew a little smiley face, and then signed it:

  Love, Abby

  I grin. Can’t help myself. Abby’s never signed a note to me before with that magic word.

  Love.

  I fold up the paper and grin at Tess, feeling the best . . . the best in . . . well, in a very long time. I think to myself, one more letter and then it’s over, and then I tear open the second envelope.

  It says:

  My dear nephew,

  I’m so proud to hear of what you did in responding to the Creeper Transport attack outside of the Capitol. I’m so glad to know that even when you’re on a detached mission, you hold up the honor of the New Hampshire National Guard and the Recon Rangers.

  Through channels I’ve heard of your interaction with Tess Conroy at the Capitol. Rest assured I fully anticipate that you will do your duty and do what you must with the President’s Chief of Staff, and fulfill all aspects of your mission.

  Once again, I’m so proud of what you did, and I’m sure my dear brother-in-law—your father—would be proud as well.

  All best wishes,

  Your Uncle Malcolm

  While the first letter made me smile and forget the troubles I’ve been in, the second letter does exactly the opposite. I wanted so much to get out of the shadows, to get back to where I belong, but now I have no choice.

  My uncle’s letter tells me that.

  I slowly and carefully fold the letter back into shape, slide it into the envelope. Tess Conroy looks at me expectantly. When I had met with my uncle at Ft. St. Paul, when he had given me my mission briefing, he had told me to cooperate with the President’s Chief of Staff, and to get the dispatch case into her hands. But he also told me to do something else.

  Now I have this letter in my hand from my commanding officer. Tess continues to look hard at me. I put the letter down on the table.

  “Ma’am, what is it that you wish to know?”

  She nods. “That’s more like it. Sergeant, what were you told about your mission and what Mister Manson was carrying?”

  “Ma’am, I was told by my commanding officer to escort Mister Manson and the dispatch case to the Capitol. From there, I was to ensure that Mister Manson and the case were to be delivered to you.”

  “Go on. Do you know what was in the case?”


  I answer carefully. “I was told that it was a message from the Governor of New Hampshire to the President.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, ma’am,” I say. “I was also told that if there was an unfortunate . . . event, that I was to take possession of the case and make sure it was delivered to you.”

  I wait, wondering if she was going to repeat herself by saying “is that all,” but she continues. “Yet you didn’t do that, did you, Sergeant. You chose to put that case in the possession of a young girl, and then go off to fight a Creeper.”

  “Ma’am, I had no choice in the matter. A Creeper attack was going on in my immediate vicinity. I had to respond. I made the best choice I could under the circumstances. I gave the dispatch case to—

  “A young girl!” she interrupted.

  “No, ma’am,” I corrected. “I gave the dispatch case to one Selena Coulson, an Army Specialist. I ordered her to deliver the case to you.”

  “But she didn’t, did she.”

  My hands are getting moist. “Apparently not, ma’am.”

  “Why was she coming to the Capitol? And why did she have her brother with her?”

  Okay, here we go. “I don’t know, ma’am.”

  “Do you know who she might be meeting in the Capitol?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t say.”

  “Does she have friends, family, any connection in the Capitol?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t say.”

  Her eyes flash at me. “Oh, come on, young man. Do you think I’m going to believe that?”

  “You may believe what you wish to believe, ma’am, but I can’t say why she was coming to the Capitol, what she was going to do when she got here, or who she was meeting.”

  “You’re lying.”

  I keep my mouth shut. She says, “What is it, are you in love with her? A little hand-holding, a make-out session in the train or the bus coming over here?”