by J. F. Holmes
The old man smiled, said, “Goddamn that’s beautiful!” and closed his eyes one last time.
I think now, looking back, we did not fight the enemy; we fought ourselves. And the enemy was in us. The war is over for me now, but it will always be there, the rest of my days, as I'm sure Elias will be, fighting with Barnes for what Rhah called possession of my soul. There are times since, I've felt like the child born of those two fathers. But, be that as it may, those of us who did make it have an obligation to build again, to teach to others what we know, and to try with what's left of our lives to find a goodness and a meaning to this life.
~ Private Chris Taylor, “Platoon”, 1986
Homefront
Southwest of Olympia, Washington, second day of the war.
Chapter 103
Being wounded and having to sit out the rest of the war was, honestly, driving Staff Sergeant Eric Blake a bit crazy. The leg would heal, and he could get around for now on crutches, but he itched to get back into the fight. His CEF Special Operations Team had departed an hour ago, headed to Tacoma to join the Main Forces fighting the occupiers. Outside, the town had settled down, with the hastily-organized militia running things.
His son had left, also, and the fact weighed on him. What could he have done to make him stay? Was it even right to? He replayed the scene in his mind as the CEF major sat and talked to him.
Alex sat next to him, lost deep in thought. The revelations the night before, of how brutal and violent the occupation had been, were digging into the teenager’s soul. He was a sensitive kid, and the sight of humans, people he recognized, being slaughtered for food had blasted apart everything he’d learned over the past ten years.
Another revelation was that his father, someone he’d always thought of as a mild-mannered guy dealing in used supplies, was actually a soldier. The Special Operations team had done their job well, living under cover for years. So much so that even their own families hadn’t suspected. The shock of discovering that had, like with so many children when they realize their parents are human, been as profound as the revelations about the Invy.
From outside, the sounds of the summary executions of collaborators had stopped, to be replaced by a quiet that characterized towns without motor transport. He did hear, in the distance, a helicopter winding down, but they’d been coming and going all day.
“You know, Alex, taking off last night was pretty dumb. You might have gotten yourself killed.”
The teen held his head low. “Yeah, dad, I get that. But now I know.”
“Yes, now you know. I am proud of you, though. You stood by your convictions and acted. More than most would do. Your mother would have approved, too.”
Their reverie was interrupted by someone walking into the clinic. The man wasn’t anyone they knew, but he wore a CEF flash on his shoulder. “Sergeant Blake,” he introduced himself. “My name is Major Walsh; I’m working on Operation Copperpot.”
“That’s a pretty dumb name,” laughed the younger Blake.
Major Walsh gave him an annoyed look and turned back to his father. Blake half expected the officer to ask his son to leave, but he didn’t. “As far as I understand it, you’re the ranking man here in town.”
“That would be the militia commander, Captain Ellison.”
Again, the officer looked annoyed. Annoyed, and exhausted. “Regardless, this is a CEF operation. I’ll talk to him in a little while, but I wanted to get your take on things first. How is the supply situation? Food wise, I mean. We’ve got a lot of hungry soldiers to feed.”
“I suppose we’re doing OK for local needs, but lack of mechanical farm equipment or fertilizers really hurts production. I think the town will be alright for the winter.” It had been his job as a team member to be aware of those kinds of details.
“Well,” said Walsh, “they aren’t going to like it, but we’re going to have to do a certain amount of requisition. There’ll be a logistics team through here in a week or so to do an assessment.”
That left Blake with a decision. Did he tell his friends and fellow townspeople, and in the age-old tradition of war, have them hide as much as they could? He would think about that, and about where his loyalty lay.
“Next issue is manpower,” continued the major. “I need a dozen volunteers from this town to work on Operation Copperpot. Not strong backs or soldiers. I need technical people.”
“What is it?” asked Blake, curious.
“Part of Operation Moria. Over by Bremerton, the Navy rehabbed and secretly mothballed a bunch of surface warships. They need people to man them, to hit the main Invy West Coast base at San Francisco. Either volunteers or conscripts.”
“I’LL GO!” shouted Alex Blake, jumping up from his chair. “I know how to work radios, my dad taught me. Everything from vacuum tubes to single-burst encoded transmission! I kinda know why, now, though I always liked it, even if I couldn’t use a set.”
His father cursed under his breath and said flatly, “No.”
“Dad, you can’t stop me. This is MY war too, and you didn’t see what they did to those people!” His son was fired up now, full of teenage obstinacy.
“We could use you,” said Major Walsh, ignoring the look the older Blake shot him.
“I’ll go pack my stuff, what do I need?” said Alex.
Again the major ignored his father and said, “Just one change of clothes, and some food to last a day or so until you can draw rations. Meet me out by my helo.”
Alex leaned over and hugged his father, and said, as had millions before him, “Don’t worry Dad, I’ll be fine.”
When he’d left, Sergeant Blake said, “I can’t stop him.”
“No, you can’t. It’s total war, Sergeant, and he has just as much right to fight it as you do. Let him go, he’ll be a hell of a lot better off on a well-protected ship than he will be getting drafted as infantry to take one of the other Invy towns.”
Blake had nothing to say to that; he knew the major was right. He remembered when he’d been that age, not so long ago. The day he’d turned eighteen, he’d walked into the recruiter’s office, and asked for an Airborne Ranger contract, in addition to selecting infantry.
“Regardless, I need you to talk to these people. They’ve made sacrifices, sure, but they’ve also grown fat under Invy rule,” said the staff officer.
“Where did you come from, Major? Cascadia Base? Been underground for very long? Don’t talk to us about growing fat,” replied the NCO. He looked over at his friend, Sergeant Carballo, who was sleeping a drugged sleep, his stump showing plainly above the sheets. Further on, his team commander, Major Cliff, lay still as death. Though Blake didn’t know it, she had breathed her last barely ten minutes ago. “Don’t tell us about sacrifice, Major.”
“I meant no disrespect, Staff Sergeant. What your team, and others, did was incredible. I’m talking about the civilians outside. It’s time for them to step up and fight.”
“Some will, some won’t.”
The major nodded. “We’ll take volunteers first, then conscription next. We don’t want to kill the productivity of this place, either. And I have another job for you.”
He reached into a large bag that he’d placed on the floor and pulled out several reams of paper. Handing them to Blake, he said, “These have to start going out to the surrounding areas. I have an alcohol-powered motorcycle on my helo; once your leg is up to it, I want you to distribute them from here north through the hill areas, back around Mt. Rainier, up past the Yakima valley, and then back through the I-5 corridor if you have any left. Be sparing.”
Blake actually laughed as he read it. “April 1st citizens assembly? Go to your nearest CEF controlled town and register for the census? Elect new leadership? Seriously? Who came up with this shit?”
Chapter 104
The bike hurt his leg, but he ignored it. This was the fourth homestead Blake had stopped at, nearly thirty miles from his home, and it was the last for the day.
“What do
you mean, the war started again?” The farmer was wary; his child peeked out from behind her mother’s skirts, maybe three years old.
“I mean, John, that we’ve kicked the Invy’s ass all over the place, thrown them out of the towns, and destroyed most of their bases.” Blake knew the man slightly; he’d seen him in town at the market and traded with him for miscellaneous equipment. He seemed to be having a hard time with the whole concept, though, and kept staring at the CEF soldier’s uniform, and looking at the motorcycle.
Blake sighed and turned to the man’s wife, who had a much more intelligent look on her face. “Ma’am, take this, see that it gets to your neighbors,” he said, handing her a flyer. “It means…that you can have more children, without the threat of the Invy taking them away.”
“John,” she said to her husband, “run off down to the Carsons’ and take this flyer with you.”
“OK, honey. I’ll go get the horse.” He nodded to Blake and went out back.
The woman, maybe in her mid-twenties but looking far older, said, “He’s not a bad man, but he was in the Army in the war, and something happened to his head. Concussion, or what the doc in town called a “TBI”, whatever that is. He just takes some time to think, but I know what this means. Thank you.” And she leaned over and kissed his cheek.
Blake blushed; despite her years of toil, she was actually quite pretty in a plain sort of way. “Thanks, and in a few weeks, there might be some CEF trucks coming through, collecting supplies. Give them what you can, but hide as much as you need.”
He started the bike again and left them behind. The next farm was more than five miles up the road, but it was getting dark, and he wanted to camp outdoors. No one would take him into their homestead; the rule of three still held sway over them, and they wouldn’t want to risk Invy retaliation over an as-yet unreal CEF.
He made camp high up on an outcrop of rock, building a small fire and setting up his tent. For a while he just sat and watched the stars, seeing one of the remaining orbitals pass overhead, wondering who controlled it, when there was a streak of light from the south, and a brilliant flash. Then individual paths of re-entry as the shattered pieces fell into the atmosphere, far to the east. I guess that answers that, he thought. For the rest of the night, restless and worried about his son, he lay in the tent listening to the wolves howl to each other.
The next day he visited a dozen more homesteads and farms, then turned eastward. He didn’t ride more than ten miles per hour, careful to avoid potholes in the crumbling highway, detouring around wrecked cars. Route 12 led up into the mountains, climbing high up onto the shoulder of Mount Rainier. He would take the road over the pass to Yakima, where there was another Invy town that had been taken back by the CEF. Supplies and rest, then continue onward to loop north around Seattle, coming back over 1-90. This late in October, he had to be careful not to get caught in early snows over the passes.
When he reached what had been the town of Mossy Rock, he had to stop. The road was lined with burned cars and bleached bones, thousands of them, all caught fleeing into the mountains. He’d had to detour around an orbital strike crater that had cut the road and didn’t realize what he was coming up to. The people in the cars had panicked, descending on the town like a horde, and the town had fought back. Many of the bones showed evidence of bullet holes, accurate ones. That was how it had been back then, after the space battles and before the Invy had descended to occupy. Humans fighting humans, civil order breaking down, and the Invaders occasionally dropping an orbital strike on any place they thought might be a threat. Teaching humanity who was their master now.
The sergeant was lost in thought, trying to avoid actually driving over any bones, and had just swerved to miss one, when a plasma bolt ripped past his head. He spilled the bike, cursing at the pain that jarred his still-healing leg, and low crawled behind a wreck as more shots came his way. Barks and yips of several Wolverines echoed across the road as he pondered what to do. It was probably a patrol that had been moving between towns when the attack came. Now they were out wandering the wilds, probably with no idea what to do. He knew, though, that he was kinda screwed. A patrol usually consisted of five or more, with a Hashut, or NCO, a tracker, and three troopers. More than he could take on. He cursed again, trying to think of a way to escape and evade, but knew that once a Wolverine was on his track, there was no stopping it.
His thoughts of imminent death were interrupted by a volley of gunfire, a mix of semi-automatics he recognized as older M-4 carbines and AKs, and some heavier stuff he assumed were hunting rifles. Knowing that trying to join in might just get him shot, he crouched as low as he could behind the wreck. There was a sustained firefight that lasted for almost a minute, an eternity in combat, followed by pistol shots that he assumed were to the Wolverines’ heads, dead or not.
Blake stood, holding his hands up in the air, and shouted, “CEF SOLDIER, HOLD YOUR FIRE!” A half dozen men and women swung their guns around to face him, though he noted that two more kept security, and another two were looting the bodies quickly and efficiently.
“Unsling your weapon, place it on the ground, and come forward real slow,” said one woman, older and with an air of authority. Blake did as she said, careful not to make any sudden movements. Then he walked forward slowly, hands in the air, until he was about twenty feet away.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I’m no threat, and I’m grateful for your assistance. These Invy had me dead square. If I could put my hands down, I’d appreciate it.”
“How about you keep them up for now?” said a big, younger man armed with a pump shotgun. It was still directed at Blake’s stomach.
“Cut the shit, Roger,” said the woman. “He’s wearing a CEF uniform, and he was riding a motorcycle.”
Blake could see there was obvious tension between the two. How old would the man have been when the Invy came? Maybe twelve, thirteen. Maybe younger. He wouldn’t remember a whole hell of a lot about the world before.
‘Roger’ confirmed it by saying, “That doesn’t mean shit, and you know it. All we know is that the drones stopped flying. Still patrols out.”
“And why didn’t that patrol have any armor? I bet they were fleeing something over the mountain in Yakima,” said the woman. “You know their SOP.”
“That’s right, ma’am,” interjected Blake, “one of our Operational Detachments took the town two days ago. We’ve also taken SeaTac Airbase and shot down the orbit—”
He was interrupted by the young man, who gestured angrily with the shotgun and told him to shut the fuck up. “I’m the leader here, and I’ll say what we’re going to do!”
The soldier was starting to see the dynamic now. There had been, always were, groups who operated much like the Scouts, in ones and twos, coming together when they could to attack the Invy. More often, it was just to act as raiders and pick off outlying farms. They took their chances when they got together with more than three people, but he guessed they’d been emboldened over the last few days. Blake pointedly noted that the rest of them were ignoring both of the principal people in the group. He felt, looking at them, that they believed more in the older woman, but were afraid of the man. Except that guy over to the right. He had a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Now, soldier boy,” said Roger, matching his friend’s grin, “strip, and make it quick. We’re taking your stuff, and that’s being polite.”
Blake sighed and lowered his hands to unclip his harness over his body armor. “I have to unsecure my gear,” he said, “I can always get more, and if you’re going to fight the Invy, you’re going to need it. In fact, I have a lot more on my bike,” he said, slightly turning and gesturing toward where it lay on the ground, not taking his eyes off the shotgun. As he swung back around, his right hand slipped behind his back and drew a Glock 36. The shotgun holder had taken his eyes off Blake to try and look past him at the bike. The CEF soldier sidestepped, lined up the sights, and shot him in the face. The man screamed, the .45 calib
er bullet tearing through his cheekbone and exiting out the side of his mouth, and dropped the shotgun to clutch at the bloody mess.
The second shot should have been into the head of the wounded man, but instead caught his buddy with the smirk in the chest, just as he started to raise his rifle. Blake fired again, catching the man in the throat, blowing out his spine, and he went straight down like a sack of potatoes.
“HOLD!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, pointing his weapon at the ground in a two-handed grip. The woman hadn’t moved, and neither had any of the others. The first man he’d shot rolled on the ground, holding his face in his hands and screaming. The second was dead. Blake gestured to the woman, waving the pistol in the man’s general direction. “If I’m right, I just did you a favor.” He placed his gun back in the holster, and slowly backed up to where his carbine was, picking it up. The group was all staring at the woman now, even the ones who were supposed to be pulling security.
Rifle in hand, the CEF soldier said, “I’ll be on my way,” and that seemed to break the spell. The woman walked over to the screaming man and shot him in the head from far enough away that the back splatter didn’t land on her boots.
“You’ll be doing us a favor if you can spend the night and tell us what’s going on,” she said, coming over and holding out her hand. “Kim Delano, late of Seattle, Washington and these parts here abouts. I was in charge of this group until a year ago; I guess I am again. Is it true?”
“Is what?” asked Blake. Now that he was closer, he could see beneath the ponytail of jet-black hair was a pair of startling blue eyes, and they distracted him. He could also see that, beneath the dirt smeared on her face for camouflage, she was actually about his own age.
“Is the war on again? We can fight?” When she asked, there were murmurs of assent from the rest of her group.
