by Weston Ochse
I asked a selfish question. “Why’d she volunteer?”
Ohirra sighed. “Her brain is wired better than most of us. Whether it’s the neurosteroids affected by PTSD, or other chemical changes created by Dissociative Identity Disorder, or a combination of both, she... you didn’t know about that, did you?”
“Dissociative Identity Disorder?”
“Multiple personalities. She’s had the problem since she was thirteen. OMBRA recruited her because of it. It was under control with medication, but she was no longer on that medication. In fact, they’ve designed drugs to enhance it.”
“They’re making her more crazy? She didn’t sign up for that.”
Ohirra glanced at Olivares, who stood beside me with his arms crossed. Then she nodded. “She did know. She was told it would be terrible. It was explained to her that there would be no going back.”
“For the hundredth fucking time, then, why did she do it?”
“Because she loved you. She felt powerless to save you, except if she could change and become what she’s become. She did it for you, Mason. Don’t you get it? She made herself into an HMID for you.”
I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. “For me?” The idea that someone would ruin their entire life, put their very existence in jeopardy, subject themselves to torture was absolutely beyond me.
But it wasn’t, was it? It was the stuff of leaders, of heroes. We’d long been brainwashed into the idea of sacrifice. From John Wayne going against the bad guys alone to Clint Eastwood out to seek revenge. It was the essential message of the Western film genre, and of the old Kurisawa-style samurai films like Yojimbo and Seven Samurai, on which A Fistful of Dollars and The Magnificent Seven were based. Toshiro Mifune and John Wayne had idealized selfless heroism. Hell, I’d done it myself, racing ahead, going on secret missions, rushing into certain death in the hopes of saving the soldiers under my leadership. It was never something I thought of rationally, it was just something I did. Just as Michelle had done. Who thinks of the consequences when they want to save someone’s life? I never have.
“And there’s nothing we can do to get her out?” I asked.
“Not unless you want to kill her.”
I leveled my gaze at her. “That’s what she wants, you know.”
“It’s what part of her wants. She has so many personalities. They sometimes talk to each other. We have a speaker where we can listen in. I listened one day. She was a little girl, then she was a furious bitch, then she was herself, then she was a woman who sang Oh! Susanna over and over.”
I tried to think through this out loud. “With so many personalities, how can she be useful?”
“They control her feed.”
“So she’s just a hooked-up guinea pig.”
“Who’s doing this so that we might live.”
I stared into the night, emotionally empty.
“Tomorrow it’s going to be your turn in the firing line.”
Without looking at her I said, “What’s the mission?”
“I can’t get into details, but we’ve discovered a new alien.”
My head snapped around.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Bring it back.”
Hell, there are no rules here—we’re trying to accomplish something.
Thomas A. Edison
CHAPTER FOUR
0600 CAME EARLIER than it should have. I’d slept in fits and starts. Images of Michelle attached to her box, tubes pumping glowing fluids in and out of her, ruled my dreams, all to the soundtrack of her singing Oh! Susanna in a cracked, off-key voice. It was almost like she wanted me to see her. Her face was still beautiful—sculpted cheekbones, dusky eyes, the same gaze that had held me during the night behind the generators, the night before she’d disappeared. But her skin was pale. Sores wept in dozens of places. Then everything familiar was lost. Her head had been shaved and she now wore a dark metal cap from which an arm-thick cable extended into the black box. Then there were the tubes. I wished I could rip every one of them free and jam them up Mr. Pink’s ass.
I sat at the regimental commander’s conference table along with Ohirra, two other intelligence officers, Mr. Pink, a bald, thin man who stared daggers at everyone, and a pudgy guy who looked like he could have been a math teacher back when we had such things. I held a Styrofoam cup of coffee and blew on it. As it cooled, I glanced around the room. It had never been changed after the alien invasion.
Fort Irwin had been the home of the National Training Center, a facility for brigade-on-brigade combat training. This could mean as many as eight thousand combatants maneuvering against each other, which required an incredible amount of space. The aptly named Death Valley was so hot and desolate that almost no one wanted to live there. With more than 900,000 square miles of training ground, NTC had more than enough space for armies to train effectively. The wall still held pictures of various battles, old commanders, and aerial views of the area. A flag of the storied 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment—a shield with a horse rampant across a diagonally-divided field of red and white—stood framed alongside them. To think that a unit that fought in the Philippine-American War, the Mexico Expedition of 1916, World War II, Vietnam, and Iraq, was decimated by the Cray and had ceased to exist; it would be staggering had I not also realized that the same could be said for each of the countries I’d mentioned. The world had forever changed, and like it or not, OMBRA was as much a country as it was a company.
A man wearing a lab coat and a NY Yankees baseball cap rushed into the room, setting a clipboard down at the other end of the table and taking a seat. “Sorry I’m late.”
Mr. Pink nodded perfunctorily. “Okay, we’re all here. Everyone introduce yourselves. My name is Wilson.” He glanced at me. “I’m the OMBRA commander here at Special Operations Headquarters North America.”
Ohirra introduced herself.
So did the two guys sitting next to her, who turned out to be Lieutenant Rosamilla and Lieutenant Reed—both intel types.
The bald guy’s name was Drake; whether that was his first or last name, I had no idea. He was OMBRA’s special security liaison and probably specialized in stabbing people in the back.
The guy who looked like a math teacher was Dr. Norman Dupree and was apparently an ethnobotanist. His voice and demeanor were more like a roughneck than a scientist, though. Could just be his southern drawl, but the way he held his shoulders and hands told me that he could probably hold his own in a fight.
Interesting.
Then came Mr. Malrimple. He was OMBRA Special Operations Chief of Science. He spoke fast, used few words, and was very New York in the abruptness of his actions.
Finally it was my turn. “We’ve all spoken about Master Sergeant Ben Mason. Most of you have seen his file. Although not everyone agrees with my decision,” Mr. Pink said, glancing at Drake, “it’s mine nonetheless. So now that everyone knows the players, let me explain the game.” He turned to me. “This is all for you, Mason, so don’t fall asleep.”
I held up my coffee and smiled. Jerk.
“Lt. Ohirra, let’s do big picture. Brief Mason on current Blue Force Order of Battle.”
She nodded to Reed, who pulled out a map and spread it on the table. It was the world—Mercator projection—with annotated markings.
She pointed to our location to orient me. “This is where we are. OMBRA has a North American HQ in Buffalo, New York. The rest of the country is red.”
Red meant enemy forces. Blue meant good. By the looks of it, we had a fingernail hold on the country.
“The good news is that we now know how to effectively use light against the Cray. NAHQ plans are to retake New England, then Pennsylvania, then New Jersey, then New York.”
I nodded only because I couldn’t yawn. “Sounds like a great plan.”
“European command is in Bruges, Belgium. African command is at the Kilimanjaro Complex. Same place we fought, but you wouldn’t believe the upgrades it has now. We have Med
iterranean Special Operations HQ in the White Mountains of Crete.”
She stood back and I noticed that most of Asia was purple, India was yellow, and Australia was gray. I asked about them.
“OMBRA has no visibility in these areas,” Mr. Pink said. “Prior to the alien invasion, we warned the governments of every country we could what was going to happen. Most of the countries didn’t believe us, but a few did. Sri Lanka has the Clarke Holding Company, named after famed science fiction writer Arthur C. Clarke. They’re much like OMBRA, but one-tenth our size. Still, we passed information to them, in the hopes that they’ll tell us what’s going on in Australia.”
“We have no information at all about them?”
“None. Asia is another thing all together. China has an organization three times the size of OMBRA called Shìjiè Xῑn Zhìxù, which means ‘New World Order.’” He shook his head. “At this point they are tight-lipped, unwilling to work with us, and evidentially don’t want to be friends.”
I grinned a little too maniacally. “That’s a shame. You guys at OMBRA are such nice guys. Too bad no one is left to pay your extortion money.”
Mr. Pink rolled his eyes.
Drake jumped in. “Politeness is next to Godliness, just as pain is next to my fist, young man.”
I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not, but I was struck enough by the odd childish threat to shut up.
Mr. Pink gestured to Malrimple.
He glanced at me, but when he spoke, it was to his hands, clasped on the table. “Fauna. So far two distinct alien species have been identified—the Sirens and the Cray. These seem to be pre-invasion species designed to do what they did... reinvent the Dark Ages. There have been reports of something gigantic in the oceans, bigger than whales, purposes unknown. No further information. There are also reports of abnormal human activity in urban areas. Also NFI.” He glanced at me to see if I was paying attention, then returned his gaze to his hands. “My climatologist has also indicated that in the last six months, the Earth has warmed by three degrees. Ham radio operators have reported sea rise by ten feet in Florida, Oregon, California, and South America, which suggests the ice caps are melting. There are also reports of fast growing flora in urban areas.”
“Thank you, Malrimple.”
“Am I done here?” he said, not bothering to look up.
I noted the man’s impatience and wondered what his reluctance stemmed from. After all, he wasn’t the one going out on a mission.
“Not yet. Wait for questions.”
Malrimple sighed heavily.
Mr. Pink turned to me. “This is where you come in, Mason.”
I could have left it alone. Maybe I should have left it alone. A good soldier would have behaved better. Then again, I never was much of a good soldier. So ignoring Mr. Pink, I spoke directly to Malrimple.
“Do you have a problem with me?” I figured blunt was the best method.
He looked up, his eyes wide at first, then narrowed. “No, not at all.”
“I’m asking because you’ve barely made eye contact and your entire effort seems forced. You do realize I’m going out on the mission, Malrimple? You do know that it’s going to be dangerous and your thumbnail sketch of the information is hardly adequate? I could have gotten this information in the mess hall just by talking to a few grunts.”
Mr. Pink held up a hand. “Hold on now, Mason.”
Malrimple squirmed like a bug at the end of a needle. “Can I go now?”
Mr. Pink nodded.
I rolled my eyes. Once Malrimple was out of the room, I leveled my gaze at Mr. Pink. “Seriously? Chief of Science?”
Mr. Pink hesitated, then said, “He has a lot on his mind. But that’s okay. Mr. Dupree is going to brief you after this. Lt. Ohirra?”
“Okay, Ben. Here’s your mission. We’re going to infil you into Crestline via helicopter at 0200. We can’t get you any closer to Los Angeles because of the twin hives. You’ll be escorting Mr. Dupree. It’s your responsibility to get him to where he’s going and return him without harm.”
I glanced at Dupree, who was smiling as if this was all a great adventure.
Ohirra added, “We’re looking for the smallest possible footprint. There are too many unknowns out there at this time.”
“Commo?”
“Prick-77.”
I raised my eyebrows. The prick-77 was Vietnam era.
“It’s okay. We have retransmitters in Crestline and Yermo with ground plane antennas. We’ve also attached an extender which will enable an additional fifteen miles.”
“So that’s twenty mile range. We’re talking Rialto, which isn’t anywhere near L.A.”
She shrugged. “It’s the best we can do.”
Dupree spoke for the first time. “We might not have to get all the way into Los Angeles. There’s a plant—a vine—that I need samples of. One of my counterparts in Argentina says that it is the locus for spores that may have deleterious effects.”
I turned to Mr. Pink. “I’m on escort duty to get a vine using Vietnam-era equipment?”
Dupree sat forward. “You don’t understand, Mr. Mason. This isn’t a terrestrial vine. It grows impossibly fast. This is the next species. This could be a different form of attack, or it could be terraforming.”
“Or both,” Mr. Pink added.
The rise in temperature and the addition of alien flora definitely suggested something happening. This mission could mean a lot more than it seemed. But with only two of us—scratch that; one of us capable of using weapons—it was going to be sketchy at best. “What do we know about possible enemy forces in the area?”
“The twin hives of Los Angeles still hold a complement of Cray, but they don’t stray far from their queens. Unless you get close, you won’t have to worry about them. As far as civilians go, we’ve reports that more than half of the population was killed during the first attack and ensuing months. Of those who remain, I’d expect organized defenses, roving gangs, paramilitary groups.” Ohirra smiled. “You know, the usual.”
To Dupree I said, “Ever carry a gun?”
“I spent four years in the Marine Corps.”
“Thank God. Then I expect you know your way around an M4.”
“Make that an M16.”
“Think of an M4 as an M16 that actually works.”
He grinned. “Probably some scientist figured out what was wrong with it.”
“Or enough grunts got killed for Congress to allocate the money for a new rifle.”
Dupree kept smiling. “That’s one thing we don’t have to worry about anymore: Congress.”
“You smile a lot, don’t you?”
“Why not? This is a great time to be a scientist. I mean, aliens are invading and trying to take over our planet. What’s not to love?”
I shook my head. “That’s a whole lot of lemonade you’re making.”
He just kept smiling.
Once we have a war there is only one thing to do. It must be won. For defeat brings worse things than any that can ever happen in war.
Ernest Hemingway
CHAPTER FIVE
IT’D BEEN MORE than six months since I’d had to get ready for a mission. Back then, Olivares and I were preparing to climb down the mouth of an extinct volcano and the packing list was completely different. This was to be more of a reconnaissance. I was planning for three days max, then exfil, so I spent the rest of the day going over maps and checking my equipment. I chose to wear military fatigues, even though it would set me apart from the civilians I’d encounter; I figured they might see me as a friend rather than an immediate foe. I checked out two sets of Night Vision Devices, as well as two extra batteries for the ANPRC-77, or prick-77 as we called it. For weapons I chose a P226, which I wore in a chest rig on my body armor. I selected a smaller P238, which I concealed in the small of my back. For my long rifle I was elated to find an HK416. It fired the same 5.56 mm rounds that the M4 fired, but was easier to clean and cold metal forged. I’d never fired
one before. The closest I’d gotten to one was back in Africa when the infantry platoon used them in backing up my recon squad. But back then I’d worn an EXO suit and had little need for a mere rifle.
I also checked out a 416 and P226 for Dupree, along with 300 rounds of ammo for both of us. I’d have liked to have had more, but we could only carry so much. Then I packed a first aid kit with some quick clot gauze along with some super glue. Finally I found some MREs and broke them down. I prepared two canteens and had a two-quart shoulder sling canteen ready for Dupree.
Then I spent a few hours going over maps¸ planning several routes and concentrating on open spaces and safe areas in the event we were chased or had to go to ground, which I could almost guarantee was going to happen. Based on the desperation of the man I’d seen in Mr. Pink’s office, it was a high probability that any encounter would be a violent one, which was why I intended to travel at night as much as possible.
I’d arranged for Dupree to come by at 1400 hours for a mission brief and weapons familiarization. Then I spent the rest of the day sitting in intel spaces beside the analysts keeping track of population movements outside the wire. Without satellite coverage, we were limited to UAVs for IMINT (imagery intelligence), which were used sparingly and always during the day. The only other int they were able to use was HUMINT (human-derived intelligence), which meant they had collectors both overtly speaking to refugees, and clandestinely embedded within groups.
Lt. Rosamilla briefed me. “God’s New Army, or GNA, is the most organized of the groups operating in the greater L.A. area. Their HQ is West Covina Plaza, what used to be a mall.”
“I’ve been there to see movies before.”
