“Major?” Tackaberry demanded.
“Sir, Colonel, whoever you are—I don’t think so. Colonel Lee is a busy man, and—”
“Walker, you’re what? An AI or something?” Tackaberry asked. “I mean, does your entire life experience exist in a conf file somewhere?”
Walker was truly confused. “Sorry?”
Tackaberry stepped toward him, allowing his at least six-foot-three-inch frame to tower over Walker. The old man looked down at him, and in the growing light, Walker could see his almost pitiable smile.
“Walker, you are one hundred percent Blue Falcon. I can see it. Turner can see it. Everyone you meet can see it. You’re a backstabbing prick, and you’ve been withholding the retention issue from your commanding officer, because you don’t want him to get sidetracked. Right?”
Walker was scandalized. “Listen, I don’t have to take that shit from you—”
“Are you sure?” Tackaberry leaned in close then, until his face was within inches from Walker’s. “Are you completely sure you don’t have to take it from me? Do you think you’re the first buddy fucker I’ve ever met?” The tall man receded then, stepping back a foot or so. “You think your CO doesn’t know what you are? You think you’re that good at fooling people?” To Turner: “Sarmajor, this man pull the wool over your eyes?”
Turner’s silence was damning.
Tackaberry smirked as the sun crested the horizon. He glared down at Walker. “I’ll meet with your CO as soon as his schedule allows,” he intoned. “Set it up, Walker.”
“Yes, sir,” Walker said automatically.
FIVE.
Lee was on his way to the lift that would take him to the great vault door that served as the base’s primary exit when one of the Third Infantrymen pounded up.
“Colonel! Wait!”
Lee turned. He didn’t recognize the man, but he was as young and fresh-faced as anyone who had spent weeks fighting the klowns could be. That the klowns in question had been members of Congress and the president’s detail didn’t seem relevant at the moment.
“What’s the problem, Sergeant?”
“General Reynolds needs to speak with you in comms,” the tall, lanky soldier told him. Like most of the Old Guard, he’d been recruited for his height. In the past, the Third was a mostly ceremonial unit, the division that tended to Arlington National Cemetery. It was only after Afghanistan and Iraq had boiled up that they’d been returned to a more traditional active duty status. The Third’s past didn’t bother Lee. He knew the troops in its ranks had seen some serious duty, and they’d proven that to him personally in trying to keep the facility from being overrun.
“When?” Lee asked.
“Now, sir,” the soldier replied.
Lee snorted. “You mean Reynolds is waiting for me? I’ve got to write this one down.”
If the soldier caught the sarcastic humor, he didn’t let it show. “Yes, sir. He’s waiting for you right now.”
“Okay. Let’s see what he wants.”
Lee followed the big soldier back down the corridor and down a narrow flight of stairs. The command center was a fairly large room, dominated by workstations and video screens. When he had first seen it, the room was mostly deserted. Now, troops from the Third and liberated civilians from the secure quarters below were present, operating High Point’s various systems. The command center had been the scene of several bloody battles, and the pockmarked walls gave silent testimony to the fact that some pitched fighting had occurred inside its confines. Some of Lee’s own men had died trying to take and hold the center, and he felt their loss keenly.
It wasn’t the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff who was waiting for him, but his attaché, a full bird colonel named Stewart. Stewart was a lean and rangy officer, the kind of leader who looked more comfortable in an office environment than in the TOC of a combat brigade. Lee tried hard not to prejudge the man, but when contemplating Stewart’s sallow visage on one of the big flat-screen monitors, it was hard not to picture him acting the part of the rear echelon commando.
“Lee, glad I could catch you,” Stewart said when Lee sat down in front of the monitor and its attached camera. “Things holding up at High Point?”
“We’re good to go here, sir. Enemy contacts are sporadic, and the facility remains under uninfected control.”
“That’s excellent news, Lee. You lightfighters really saved some serious bacon down there.”
“Thank you, sir. Uh, I was told General Reynolds wanted to see me?”
“He does—he’s getting a last-minute briefing. We didn’t expect you to be local to the comms center so quickly. I have eyes on, he’ll be with you momentarily. Ahead of that, you have your current stores inventory?”
Lee frowned. “On me? No sir, I do not.” He paused for a moment. “Are you going to plus us up here?”
“That’s what the general is being briefed on. We do have some capacity right now, and we’re trying to break something free for the Fifty-Fifth. We’ll need a list though. Not immediately, but soon. Good copy?”
“Roger that, sir. Good copy.”
Stewart looked away from the camera for a moment, then turned back to Lee. “All right, the general’s on his way over. Good luck, Lee.”
“Thank you, sir,” though Lee had no idea why Stewart was wishing him luck.
Stewart hoisted himself out of the chair he’d been sitting in and moved out of the flat-screen display’s frame. A moment later, General Armand Reynolds, USMC and current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, lowered himself into the chair’s confines. Reynolds looked every bit the prototypical Marine: craggy, timeworn, and without regrets. The general regarded the screen before him, and Lee suddenly wished he’d shaved a little more closely before starting his trek to the surface.
“Sleep well, Harry?” Reynolds asked.
“As well as anyone can these days, sir. Yourself?”
“Sleep and I aren’t on speaking terms, son. I overhead Stewart giving you a quick pulse on what’s going on down here. Thing is, I can send two C-15s your way with six pallets of whatever you might need. They’re on their way to DC to resupply the Eighty-Second, and we have just enough room left over to give the Fifty-Fifth a little early Christmas gift. These aircraft go wheels up in thirty-five minutes. You have ten to get your list to me.”
“Sir, we’ll take two pallets of Class VIII a and b, one pallet of Class I, and the rest should be all Class V,” Lee said immediately, even though he was flabbergasted at the sudden offer. “We could also use some fuel for the vehicles, so if you can find your way to make a Class III drop, I’ll ransack the nearest liquor store and send you whatever it is you want.”
“Colonel Stewart is writing this down as you speak,” Reynolds said. “Define the Class V.”
“Rifle ammunition, pistol ammunition, HE rounds for the mortar team,” Lee replied. “We have a MANPADS unit attached, they could use some new shots. Forty mike-mike and fifty cal would be a great add-on.”
“Try not to look a gift horse in the mouth here, Lee. This isn’t a mercy mission, and I have only so much supplies to pull on this end. We’ll do our best, but this might not be a white Christmas for you.”
“Understood, sir. Anything you can spare. The munitions are most immediate, and then the medical supplies. Especially the blood products. Chow we can go without if necessary; we can scrounge what we need off the land.”
“Lee, tell me what you’re going to do with the civilians under your control,” Reynolds asked.
“We’ve moved them into quarters here, sir. It’s safer than keeping them aboveground, and there’s suddenly a surfeit of room at High Point. We’ve eradicated all the klowns, and the Third is standing tall keeping the peace. There won’t be another outbreak here. No one’s going to take that chance. Anyone who shows any sign of infection is immediately quarantined, and if the infection manifests itself...the infected are killed. No questions asked.”
“Tough rule,” Reynolds said, “but t
he only safe course right now. How’s the Third holding up?”
“There’s enough of them left to still be effective, sir. We’ve plussed them up with representatives from the Pennsylvania Guard. Effectively, there are about seventy shooters down here at all times. More than enough for a quick reaction force.”
“That’s all good news, Lee. So you’re getting everything squared away down there? What about Major Scott?”
Lee hesitated a moment too long. “Sir?”
“Major Scott,” Reynolds said, and there was an undercurrent of impatience to his voice. “The ranking officer with the Third. What did you do about Scott? Was his request accommodated by you or one of your men?”
Lee didn’t know what to say. Major Scott was the ranking office with the Third Infantry unit on station at High Point, and he’d been infected during the original outbreak. The one thing that kept the officer from flying off the rails were the razor blades embedded in the chair he was restrained in. The pain had provided enough of a focal point for the man to stay focused and on target, but even those had been becoming less dependable. In the few days since the Fifty-Fifth had retaken the contingency site and begun enacting stabilization operations, Scott’s ability to withstand the effects of the madness virus had begun to degrade.
And Scott knew it. Resisting the effect of the bug had taken an enormous toll on him, but he still remained operational for as long as he could. He had been asking, begging for his final release for days. Lee wanted no part in that, but the truth of the matter was, the officer was a klown. There was no getting better, there was no path to recovery, there was no Twelve Steps program.
“I took care of him myself, sir,” Lee said finally. “There was no other way out for him, and he was suffering.”
Reynolds took that in for a moment then nodded. “I didn’t know him personally, but it seems to me that he was in a neverending cycle of torture. Scott was a warfighter, despite his condition, and he should have been killed by one of his own. I’m glad you manned up and took care of that, Lee. It had to be done, not because of imminent danger, but because it’s the only humane thing to be done.”
“It wasn’t all that easy, sir. Even if he was a klown.”
“The only easy day was yesterday, Harry. But it’s been done, and I thank you for it. Now: I need to give your unit a mission.”
Lee stirred uncomfortably in his chair. “Roger that, sir. Go ahead.”
“I need the Fifty-Fifth at Fort Stewart as soon as you can get it there. Conduct forced entry operations and locate and obtain a specific individual. It’s going to be bloody, lightfighter. I know you’ve seen it before, breaking out of Boston and up at Drum. This is going to be no different, but there’s a greater concentration of infantry there.” Reynolds paused for a moment. “On both sides.”
Outwardly, Lee tried to present the air of a calm, cool military officer. Inwardly, the sudden tasking made him seethe. The First Battalion was being ground into dust already. What Reynolds was instructing him to do would likely see to its final demise.
“Understood, sir,” he said regardless. “What do you need us to do? Who is the objective?”
“The objective is one of the individuals who created the bug. She was taken by federal authorities in Georgia almost six weeks ago. She was supposed to be held at Stewart only temporarily, but then things flipped on us. To be honest, she’s been mostly forgotten about until just recently, which is why you and I are having this chat,” Reynolds said. “A lot’s falling through the cracks here, Lee. A lot.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir. Can you give me the individual’s name and location?” As he spoke, Lee reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small personal memo pad. There was a pen attached to it. He slipped it out of its cap, flipped open the pad, and began writing.
“Courtney Moreau. Apparently the most junior member of the team that created the bug, but from what I’ve heard, about as mad as a hatter. We need her where we can get to her, Lee. And we can’t get to Stewart right now—that post is about to be overrun. You heard any of the broadcasts?”
“Broadcasts?”
“The president is broadcasting over every radio station that’s still operational. Urging the infected to march on Stewart and take Moreau back. Whatever her disposition is, Doctor Moreau is now considered a national asset, and we need to get to her first. Stewart’s closer to us than to you, but right now, we can’t spare the manpower. All my ground combatants are holding the line against a very determined enemy, and I can’t break out a silver bullet unit right now. All our special operations forces are engaged elsewhere, so giving them a snatch and grab is out of the question. We figure the battalion can make it to Stewart in twelve hours max. You’ll need to plan the movement and get underway as quickly as possible.”
Lee felt a sharp pain in his gut, both at the fact President Marion Gray was still trying to drive a stake through the battalion’s heart, and at the unconscious notion Reynolds might just be helping her to do just that. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have the OPORDs sent to a secure FAX there, so you don’t need to write anything down. Save yourself the trouble. I’ll also have all the salient intel we have sent over from SOCOM—General Stanton’s running herd on that. We have aerial recce of the Fort Stewart area, and it’s not pretty right now. I’m sorry to tell you, son, it’s not going to get any prettier before you lightfighters get there. We’ll do what we can, but right now, intermittent close air is about the best we can do.”
“I guess I appreciate that, sir.”
Reynolds glared at Lee over the video conference gear for a moment. “I know it’s a shit sandwich and your battalion’s about all run out, Lee. But you still wear a uniform and you’re still operational. Get with the program. Act like a field grade officer and execute your orders.”
Lee felt his face flush with embarrassment. “I’m sorry if I seem put out, sir. The First will do whatever you need the First to do.”
“OPORDs are being transmitted now. Return your shopping list to the sending station. You have SATCOM gear there on the site—take some with you so we can stay in contact during your movement. Call sign here in ops is Rock. Out here.”
With that, the screen went as black as Lee’s mood.
SIX.
Sandra Rawlings watched as Muldoon harassed his lightfighters and the other troops supporting them. Three five-ton trucks sat at the edge of a small clearing, their empty beds pointed toward the field, heavy tailgates lowered. The small collection was guarded by one of the remaining Stryker combat vehicles that stood off fifty yards or so, its diesel engine idling. The eight-wheeled infantry combat vehicle was adorned with a GAU-19 .50-caliber Gatling gun mounted in a remote-controlled Protector turret, one of two that remained in service with the battalion. Rawlings didn’t care much for the Stryker as a platform in general—it was a bitch to work on, and as a former wrench turner she hated shit that was difficult to care for—but the tri-barreled GAU-19 was another matter entirely. The weapon was a wonder of engineering, and the amount of lead that thing could emit was truly terrifying.
Except to the klowns, she reminded herself.
She hefted her M4 and watched as Muldoon walked over to Nutter, who was busily spooning food into his mouth from a glass jar. That was an oddity; Army chow rarely if ever came packaged in glass, so she surmised it was something he’d rat-fucked from the dining facility in High Point. Muldoon approached from behind, so Nutter didn’t see him coming. And even though the grass was tall in this meadow she stood in, Rawlings didn’t hear Muldoon make a sound. Despite his size, he moved with the grace of a ninja.
“Colonel Nutter, sir!” Muldoon barked.
Nutter kind of choked at the sound of Muldoon’s voice and turned toward him, a stricken expression on his face. As Muldoon shot the smaller man a jaunty salute—right from his crotch—all Nutter did was quickly chew and swallow whatever was in his mouth.
“Oh hey, Duke,” he said.
“Whatcha
eatin’ there, Slick? Buffalo balls or something?”
“Um—no, they’re not buffalo balls, Duke.”
Muldoon stopped in front of Nutter and looked down at him, a half-smile on his face, hands on his hips even though they should have been around his M4. Rawlings knew Muldoon was making a statement with his easy stance. Everything was cool. The big NCO’s eyes were unreadable behind his sunglasses.
“Well, if they’re not buffalo balls...what are they?”
“Uh, they’re marinated mushrooms.” Nutter cleared his throat. “You, ah, want some?”
“Mushrooms?” Muldoon took half a step back and grinned. “Mushrooms? Hey, Rawlings, you hear this shit, ba—” At the very last moment, Muldoon censured himself. The last thing Rawlings wanted to hear was a man like Muldoon call her “babe.”
“I can hear fine from where I am,” Rawlings replied. “Guarding my lane and all.”
Muldoon snorted and looked back at Nutter. “So, Colonel. Where did you get marinated mushrooms from? Are they funny mushrooms? Laced with PCP or something?”
“No, no. Just plain old marinated mushrooms, Duke.”
“I think the bigger question here leads us to matters of class, Nutter. Why are you eating marinated mushrooms? Were you short of, like, the rest of the salad they should garnish? I mean, really, you have to admit. A soldier eating marinated mushrooms in a combat zone is some pretty weird shit, right?”
“Come on, Duke. They taste great. Not like something we’d get in an MRE.” Nutter paused. “Well, except for maybe the jalapeno cheese, but no one will trade me for any of that stuff. It’s like the currency of a new nation, you know? So a man has to make do with what a man has. Am I right?”
“I’ve honestly never had a marinated mushroom that I can recall,” Muldoon said. “Am I missing out on some great delicacy, Colonel? Were you going to slalom all those down your little gibbon monkey neck without offering any to the rest of us?”
Nutter shifted about on his feet for a moment. “Well, listen. I’d be happy to give you one, Duke.” With that, Nutter poked his fork into the jar, speared a glistening mushroom, and held it out to Muldoon. The big NCO regarded it like it was an alien life form for a long moment, then snatched the entire jar out of Nutter’s hand in a flash.
The Retreat #5: Crucible Page 2
