Dark Victory - eARC

by Brendan DuBois

  I still keep my mouth shut. The President’s Chief of Staff goes on. “You think I have the time or interest to go back and forth with a boy like you? Do you? If you saw the dispatches and papers that cross my desk every day, you’d age ten years in ten minutes. Telegrams from the Jefe of Mexico, begging for food aid. Or the King of Brazil, looking for doctors. Australia asking us to increase shipments of the Colt M-10. Not to mention last month, we ended this damn war.”

  “With no disrespect, ma’am, I know a bunch of guys and gals back at the V.A. hospital who’d disagree with you.”

  She frowns sharply and says, “That dispatch case and that young girl are vital to the national security interests of the United States. Stop stonewalling, sonny, or you can’t believe how difficult I can make things for you.”

  Something starts to stir inside of me. Anger? Disdain? Disgust? I don’t know. I go on.

  “I was just awarded the Silver Star from the President of the United States, ma’am,” I point out. “I think it might be hard to do anything against me.”

  That gets her attention. “You stupid boy, I got you that Silver Star. Me! And nobody else! I gave it to you and I can damn well take it back.”

  I unhook the medal from my uniform, slide it over on the desk. “You can have it now,” I say. “I just want to get back to my job.”

  She stands up, face scarlet. “Oh, you’re going back, and sooner than you think, sonny. Does the name Fred Mackey mean anything to you? Fred Mackey of Purmort, New Hampshire?”

  I have to think and then it comes to me. “Yes, he’s a civilian that I . . . encountered during a Creeper mission a number of days ago.”

  “Correction, Sergeant Knox,” she says, triumph in her voice. “He’s the civilian you shot and killed during a Creeper mission a number of days ago.”

  My hands, my face, the back of my neck are all suddenly chilled, like a blast of Arctic air has come through the closed door. “The hell I killed him!”

  “Oh, yes you did,” she says. “I’ve seen the medical report from the New Hampshire hospital.”

  “I shot him in the leg! That’s all that happened, and you know it.”

  She brushes past me, to the door. “What I know are three things, sonny. One is that you’re refusing to cooperate with me, even after getting direct written orders from your commanding officer. The second is that you shot a civilian, one Fred Mackey, who later died of a massive infection, brought on by a gunshot wound that you inflicted on him. And the third is that in a few minutes, the MPs are coming here, to bring you back to Ft. St. Paul, where you’re going to be court-martialed.”

  With that, she opens the door, goes through it, and slams it behind her.

  I step up almost immediately, try the doorknob.

  Locked.

  * * *

  I pace around the room. I’ve certainly gotten into it, but I had no choice. My uncle’s letter had told me that. And knowing how Tess Conroy worked, I had a cold chill, wondering if Mister Mackey had really died of an infection, or something else. About the only good thing in her threat was me going back to Ft. St. Paul, which is fine. There I’d be among my uncle, my buds, and I’d be on a much more even playing field than this damn shadowy place. My pal Thor is getting good care at the vet clinic and I’ll try hard to get him back, maybe by pressing our batman Corporal Manning to see what he can do.

  As to Specialist Coulson and her scarier-than-hell brother, well, she’d have to figure what to do next out there in the Capitol without me.

  The doorknob is unlocked and a man in uniform comes in. I’m expecting an MP, or even two MPs.

  What I’m not expecting is Captain Ramon Diaz of the Special Forces.

  He nods at me, wearing his Class A uniform, his face still burnt and ears misshapen. He shuts the door firmly behind him and sits down. I take the other chair, shocked and thrilled at the same time.

  I say, “Captain Diaz, could you tell me where my dad is, what—”

  “We’re running out of time,” he says, speaking quickly. “There are two MPs coming here to take you to the local stockade, and from there, a train to the east. So let’s get to it before they arrive. You need to meet up with Specialist Coulson and her brother. Once you do that, follow her lead. Time is running out.”

  “But I don’t know where she is!”

  He glances at his wristwatch. “Minor detail. Now to get you out of here.”

  “I’m under arrest.”

  “Don’t quibble. I’ve told the powers that be that I’d babysit you until the MPs arrive, do a bit of interrogation. So here I am.”

  To say my head is spinning would be like saying LEO is just a bit crowded. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  A quick touch of a scarred finger to an emblem on his chest. “Diamond Eagle can open a lot of doors, either officially or unofficially. Including the one you’re going to slip through. Sergeant, you need to escape, and escape now. Think you can get past me?”

  My head feels thick, like I’m in math class, trying to figure out an unfamiliar problem. “A challenge, but if I do get past you, what do I do then?”

  He reaches into a side pocket, takes out a hand-drawn map. “Follow this, you can get out of the New White House in five minutes and be back on the streets. The Secret Service worry about people getting in. They don’t worry as much about people getting out. Plus you’re a ‘hero,’ Sergeant, and only the Chief of Staff and a couple of others know the trouble you’re in. The S.S. will probably hold the door open for you as you bail out.”

  From another pocket, he pulls out a set of handcuffs, which he clatters on the top of the table. “I took these in case you got out of hand. Come on, Sergeant, do I have to draw you another map? Get going, get past me, and hook up with the Specialist. She’s waiting for you.”

  “Why me?”

  His smile looks like a grimace on his scarred face.

  “Because of all the men and women in the armed services, she says she trusts you the most. Seems you saved her from being killed in Massachusetts. True?”

  “True, but where is she?”

  “She got into your hotel room once before. She’s a smart girl. She and her brother will be waiting for you there, but damn it, Sergeant, get a move on. You’ve got to get them to her father.”

  “What’s the damn hurry, sir? And why are you here?”

  He glances behind him, like he was trying to hear if the MPs are approaching. “Christ, sergeant, it’s like this, all right? Some of us are trying to end this damn war, despite everything that’s been going on out there for the past ten years.”

  “The President said the war’s already over.”

  “Sure he did,” the captain says. “And those of us that have bled, burnt and been blinded for this country want to make sure he’s right, that he and his staff aren’t blowing smoke up our collective asses. Maybe the orbital station attack was a success. Maybe it was a mistake. We don’t know for certain. So get a move on!”

  I pick up the handcuffs, juggle them in my hand, and say, “Where’s my dad?”

  “Sergeant—”

  “Captain, you tell me what’s up with my dad, or I’m going to stay here and let myself get arrested.”

  “Sergeant, there are a hell of a lot more important things to worry about than your father!”

  “Sorry, sir,” I say. “So says you. So where’s my dad?”

  He frowns, which on his face looks horrible, and he looks like he wants to knock me under the desk. “Sergeant, I answer your question, you get a move on. All right?”

  I nod. “Fair enough,” I say.

  Captain Diaz says, “Sorry, Sergeant. Your father’s under arrest. For treason. On his way to Leavenworth.”

  I stand up and slug Captain Diaz in the face.

  I wince and shake my hand from the punch, and he does me the favor of falling back in his chair. I take my chair and bring it down hard across his shoulders and the back of his head. He curses at me and I grab a wrist, snap one en
d of the handcuffs there, and fasten the other to a desk leg.

  Blood is running down the back of his head. “Christ, Sergeant, smartest thing you’ve done all day! Now haul ass!”

  “What’s the damn rush?”

  He coughs. “The President says the war’s over. Looks like the surviving Creepers disagree and want to prove it. Something’s up and they’re on the move, sergeant. To the Capitol. Tonight.”

  “My dad,” I say. “Where is he now?”

  “North of the Capitol,” he says, touching his lips with his tongue. “Stockade at the Watervliet Arsenal. But forget him. Get out of here!”

  I get out into the hallway, make sure the door is locked behind me. Should slow down the MPs some. I glance at the map, memorize the directions, and shove the paper in my pocket. I don’t want to raise suspicions and bumbling around the New White House with directions in hand would do just that.

  I move down the wood-trimmed hallway, take a right, and descend a set of stairs. My right hand hurts like hell, joining the throbbing in my shoulder from my Creeper burn. Men and women pass me by, all wearing lanyards around their necks with photo identification. Some of them glance at me with some curiosity, but I just nod at them like I belong and keep on walking. I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you go into battle with all of your gear and M-10 in hand, only to realize you’re not wearing pants and have no ammo.

  Another set of stairs, a short hallway, and a door up ahead marked with a glowing red EXIT sign. According to the map, once I get through this door, I’ll be out in a small park. Go through a park, go to a side gate, and then I’m out on the streets of the Capitol.

  I’m about five meters away from the door when a hand grabs my shoulder.

  I whirl around and there’s a large, bulky man in a black suit with shiny areas on the knees and elbows, looking down at me. I recognize him right away. The second bodyguard who had accompanied Tess Conroy and Riley to my hospital room. Don’t know his name but he’s squatter and looks meaner than Riley. To get past him would take a pistol, an M-4 or a length of iron pipe, none of which I’m currently carrying.

  “Sergeant Knox?” he asks, his voice a low-pitched growl.

  I step back so his hand’s not on me. If I can’t fight, maybe I can flight. Dodge him and make a break for the exit.

  “That’s right,” I say, evaluating, gauging, just seeing how I can get around this bulky armed man.

  He moves his face muscles, revealing big yellow teeth. I suddenly realize he’s smiling at me. He shoves a hand out.

  “Congratulations,” he says. “It’d be an honor to shake your hand.”

  “Sure,” I say. My hand practically disappears into his and after a one-two pump, he reaches into his pocket, takes out a folded program from the day’s ceremony, and presents that with a pencil stub.

  “Could you sign this for me? To my son? His name is Travis, and he’s enlisting next month.”

  I take the offered items and scrawl with a shaking hand, “To Travis, good luck in your service. All best, Sergeant Randy Knox, 2nd N.H. R/R.”

  I return the pencil and paper. “How old is he?”

  “Twelve,” he replies softly, looking at the program.

  “Of course,” I say, and he turns around, shoves the program back into his coat.

  I walk by him, forcing myself to keep a slow pace, like I’m moving by without a care in the world, even though I’m expecting alarms to ring, lights to flash, or something to nail me between my shoulder blades if this bodyguard behind me gets the word that I’m not supposed to be out and about.

  The door is in front of me. I push it open. Outside it’s pouring rain.

  A beautiful night.

  About a half-hour later, soaked through and with my right hand aching from punching Captain Diaz, I arrive at one of the service entrances of the Capitol Arms Hotel. I go through a kitchen area and after asking directions from a dishwasher, I get to the front desk. The same man as before is working there and I say, “Excuse me, I’m looking for my pack?”

  He bustles about, his eyeglasses dangling down his chest, and I repeat myself, louder, knowing that when the MPs get into that locked room back at the New White House, they’ll be racing right here after me.

  The clerk turns from his paperwork, and I repeat myself for the third time, and he shakes his head. “Sorry, sarge, not here.”

  “Where did it go?”

  A shrug. “Sorry. It’s gone. You wanna make a claim?”

  The MPs probably got here earlier, I think, and I just give him a quick wave, and go to the rear set of stairs, taking them two at a time. No assault pack. Means no spare clothes, no weapon, and no journal, damn it.

  Out in the corridor, I make my way to my door. Get my key out, open the door, and I’m looking at Serena, who’s standing there.

  Holding my 9 mm Beretta.

  Pointed at my head.

  “Close the door,” she says.

  So I do just that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  With the door shut, I turn back to Serena, who’s holding the pistol with both hands, staring right at me. She has on BDU’s and so does her brother Buddy, who’s sitting on my made bed. My assault pack is on the floor near the bed, so it’s clear where her pistol came from.

  “Randy, you’ve got to—”

  I step forward quickly, grab the barrel of my pistol with both hands, shove it up hard. Startled, her hand moves with me and it’s easy enough to push and twist the weapon out of her hand. With pistol now in my grasp, I give her a firm shove so she falls back against the bed. Eyes still on her, making sure she’s not carrying any other weapon, I step back, now armed.

  “Specialist, I don’t have to do a damn thing. What’s going to happen now is that you’re going to answer my questions, and if you hesitate, if you blow me off, if I think you’re dancing around, if you mention OPSEC, then I’m going to the telephone over there. I’ll call the front desk and then we’ll all be arrested together.”

  Her voice is firm. “Randy, please . . .”

  “Specialist.”

  Her eyes are glaring at me. “Go ahead.”

  “Let’s start simple. Thor. I told you to take care of him. What the hell happened?”

  “The bus driver . . . he stopped at another checkpoint, a few minutes after we left. The door opened up and your damn dog ran out.”

  “My damn dog ended up nearly getting killed by a Creeper,” I say sharply. “Lousy job, Specialist.”

  She stays quiet, lips pursed and trembling. I go on. “Your dad?”

  Her voice tinged with desperation, “He’s been arrested, Randy. I found out when I got here with Buddy. That’s why I never delivered the dispatch case. I knew I’d be arrested, too. I didn’t know what to do next.”

  I say, “But you knew enough to contact Captain Diaz. It’s no coincidence he was on that train from Concord, was it. He was keeping an eye on you. When the train got attacked, I couldn’t see him in the crowds. That’s because while I was tracking down Mister Manson, he was getting you and your brother to someplace safe, away from the attacked train. Right?”

  She nods. I go on, “That’s why you didn’t want to leave the next morning. You knew he was coming back to the rescue, along with the Quick Reaction Force.”

  “Randy, we’re running out of time, and—”

  “Yeah. And we’re supposed to meet up with your arrested Dad. He’s probably being kept at a stockade, up north of the Capitol, at the Watervliet Arsenal.”

  She opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “How did you know that?”

  “Because my dad’s been arrested as well. Another coincidence, eh? Both of our fathers arrested, both of them set to be transferred at the same time. My dad in Intelligence, your dad in Special Projects, up there at Jackson Labs.”

  I step forward, point my pistol for a moment at Buddy. There’s an intake of breath from Serena. “Your brother’s carrying a message. One for your dad, maybe one for my da
d and Captain Diaz. It’s something about a Creeper who’s been interrogated up in Bangor, right? A Creeper that was captured by Captain Diaz and his guys. Special Forces are the only ones who have the guts and skills to do something like that.”

  Another reluctant nod from Serena. “What did they find out, Specialist? What’s going on with the Creepers? Why the hell did they come here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I go to the telephone on the nightstand, pick up the receiver, and she quickly says, “I don’t know the details, Randy!”

  The receiver goes back down on the phone. Serena says, “Your dad . . . he was part of the crew conducing the interrogation. Buddy recorded it, the way he does with his memory. The Creeper told him everything we’ve wanted to know for the past ten years: why they’re here, why they’re fighting us, and how we can end the war.”

  I recall what Captain Diaz had said. “War’s not really over, is it.”

  “Why ask me?” she protests. “How should I know?”

  I gesture with the pistol. “Then why not ask him?”

  Exasperated, she says, “I can’t! He’ll only say what he heard during the interrogation if he hears a code phrase. My dad has the code phrase . . . and now he’s in a stockade. Oh, Randy, what am I going to do?”

  I go to my assault pack, quickly strip off my formal uniform, put on a set of BDU’s, not caring if Serena’s looking. When finished, I strap on my holster. My dad. In on this since the beginning. If he’s involved, it has to be right. I’m not sure who to trust but I’ve always trusted Dad. I put the Beretta in my holster, take out my knife as well, strap it in place in my right boot.

  “We three are getting out of here, now,” I say.

  Buddy is looking at the two of us, face impassive, and Serena goes around to the other side of the bed, picks up another familiar object.

  “This . . . the dispatch case? What should we do with it?”