“Anyway,” Juice finally panted, “in the ZA, everyone is likely to be on their way out soon. And when they do cross over that border, they’re going to try to reach back and take you with them. Which makes people who seem weak the scariest of all – they’re about five seconds from joining the other team, and becoming part of your nightmare.”
At this, Pred grunted, and flashed back to their ribbing of Sarah Cameron’s husband and son – and the way Handon had torn them new orifices for it. Maybe that’s exactly what they’d been doing – distancing themselves from the weak. When of course it was exactly their job to protect them.
As usual, Pred thought, Handon has a point. Even if, also as usual, it took them too long to catch on to it.
The two of them barreled around the island, scattering a group of maintenance guys doing something with a tractor.
Ironically, as all quarter-ton-plus of them blasted into the turn at the fantail, the one person who didn’t leap out of their way went only about 5’4” and 115lb. It was Emily. She was now wearing a set of Ali’s workout clothes, which were a little on the baggy side, and running the edge of the flight deck in the opposite direction, her thin limbs pistoning and flapping.
All three of them slowed as they approached, finally stopping and regarding one another, right at the back end of the ship, where a crew was still disassembling the platform from the committal ceremony.
“Hey,” Predator said. “Good for you,” he added, nodding in approval at her self-directed PT.
Emily nodded back. “I used to play field hockey, which always gave me a reason to stay in shape.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I also coached a girls’ team sometimes.”
“Nice.”
She nodded. “It was kind of the one decent thing I had in the shitty little town I grew up in. I miss it.”
The two big men smiled easily. Emily’s fair hair seemed to collect light from the sun, which was nearly overhead now, in a sky mostly free of cloud. That and the crisp ocean breeze – generated by the ship’s massive forward momentum – made for a seriously pleasant day. The three of them stood sucking wind and just enjoying the feeling of being alive.
Emily had also clocked Predator’s limping stride, and pointed at his knee brace. “Should you be running on that?”
“I’m gonna to have to deploy and fight on it soon. May as well get used to it.”
“And I guess it’s not like you can just let your cardio fall off. Not in your line of work.”
Pred shrugged. Smart girl. He didn’t bother adding that everyone in his line of work had, at one point or another, done a hell of a lot more in much worse condition. Anyway, he was pretty sure all of them were going to be nursing their injuries and limping through this campaign – all the way to the bitter end.
Those of them that made it that far.
Juice said to Emily, “You got yourself a job yet?”
“Kind of.” She’d been in the military world for about five seconds, but she got it – she knew she would have to pull her weight. “I’ve been doing clerical stuff for Fick and the Marines. And some babysitting for Homer’s kids – though he doesn’t leave them alone much yet.”
She paused and squinted through the slanting sunlight back at Juice. He was smiling at her. But was there something, she wasn’t sure, maybe kind of… sad and pleading, underneath that? It seemed to be lurking down behind the Oakleys, and behind the big puffy beard. She hardly knew the man, of course. But there was something going on. She could tell.
Pred interrupted her reverie with his rumbling basso. “Yeah, well as soon as Fick steps over the line, you come find me. I’m not sure mucking in with a bunch of Marines is a safe environment for a virtuous young woman like yourself.”
Emily almost laughed. Even before she’d gone to work for him, she and Fick kept having these weird, awkward, random moments together. But she really liked him. He was like the strange, gruff old uncle she never had – except a profoundly good guy. If she’d ever actually had an uncle like that, he would have been drunk all the time, lived in a trailer, and made terribly inappropriate comments to her.
“Okay, then,” Pred said finally, and he snapped a lazy salute, making her laugh. “You have a good ’un,” he added, as the two giant Norse Gods resumed running one way, and the small, fair, young woman the other.
* * *
Sarah finished manhandling a bulky, and currently unused, oscilloscope over to a power outlet where it could be turned on. She was only a little bigger than Park physically. But she was a lot stronger – plus generally handier around the lab, at least with non-specialized tools and equipment.
After straightening the device, plugging it in, and checking it by powering it up and down again, she looked at her watch, then turned to face her lab partner.
“I guess that about gets us to lunch. Assuming we can afford breaks?”
Park nodded. “Until I get some samples, there’s actually not all that much more we can do. Let’s eat while we can.”
“Okay, come on, then. I’m buying.”
* * *
Handon looked up at Fick from over the sandboard table. This was a small scale model of the Port of Aden, which they were currently planning to infiltrate, or perhaps invade. It had been made out of little model buildings, trees, vehicles, and human figures, with the terrain features formed out of sand. It had been based on archived satellite photos and more recent aerial imagery. Sand-table models were an essential, and early, part of the mission planning process.
Fick actually heard Handon’s stomach rumble and said, “Yeah, I could eat the ass end out of a dead hippo.”
Handon laughed. “That image isn’t going to help me fire my food down as quickly as I might have hoped.”
Fick pushed a big open binder away from him on the table. “Then we’ll take our time. C’mon, lunch is on me.”
* * *
Ali and Henno had decided to work straight through, while Pred and Juice did road work, or rather flight-deck work. There was, as usual, too much to do. But PT was a permissible excuse for putting work on hold. Lunch, also as usual, really wasn’t.
Henno looked up, after checking the seals and serial numbers on a crate of FGM-172 SRAW missiles. He dropped his tablet on top, wiped his forehead, and said, “Sod this. Let’s get a brew on.”
Ali smiled. She knew Henno came from a very strange land. And that what he wanted was a cup of tea.
“Sounds good. It’s my round.”
That meant she would pay.
* * *
Predator and Juice ran into Emily three times more as they circled the flight deck in opposite directions. Each time, they met at almost the same place, at the stern. This meant Emily was matching their pace – which was slightly less impressive in light of how much less mass she was pushing – or else somebody was cutting off corners.
Which no one was.
On their fourth encounter, they all slowed again, seemingly spontaneously.
After panting for a few seconds, grabbing knees and stretching hamstrings, Pred finally grumbled, “I’m starving.” He sounded dangerously cranky, which no one wanted.
“Exactly,” Emily said.
“C’mon,” Juice said. “My treat.”
Judy
JFK - 02 Deck Mess
No one had to pay for anything – it was a military mess, and everything was free. Which was kind of the joke they’d all been making. On the other hand, not everyone got as much food as they might have liked. The shortages were finally starting to bite, and rationing was going into effect. Least pleased with this was Predator, due to the fact that maintaining his gigantic bulk required competitive-eating levels of consumption.
“This is some bullshit,” he said, sitting down and balefully regarding the meager contents of his tray.
Ali touched his thigh-sized forearm and said, “I’ll get you another one in a minute.” She had only a mug of tea in front of her, as did Henno, opposite.
They had all arrived in the same mess at virtually the same time, and had now corralled most of one big table for themselves. Sarah and Handon sat side by side, Emily grabbed a seat down from Juice and Pred, and directly across from Fick. Park was at the end, beside Ali and across from Henno.
But before they could really start catching up, in pairs and with the larger group… Homer came in and stole the show – and the hearts of everyone present.
“Hey, guys,” he said, over the din of the big room, which was packed with sailors at lunchtime. “Let me belatedly but officially present Benjamin and Isabel. Ben, Izzy, say hi.” The two small children obediently and politely did so. Ben was seven and Isabel four. Both had angelic blond hair, and their fair skin seemed to glow slightly. Ali was thinking you really didn’t want to send either of these two out in the sun unprotected.
She also noticed that both favored their father – though the girl more so. They looked a little overawed by the bustling place and all the big, strange people. But, then again, they looked like they were coping. And Ali knew they must have coped with much more, and much worse, to have survived the last two years without their parents. Now, they looked up at their father, and then locked eyes, seemingly unafraid, with each of the team members at the table, as Homer recited the names of everyone for their benefit.
And Ali realized, looking around, that she had never seen the people in this particular group smile so big, or so goofily, in all the time she had known them.
The children were like a tonic.
One that nobody had experienced for a long time.
Ben and Isabel were like visitors from the future, which the grizzled warriors could now almost believe was a real place. And one that maybe they themselves might even make it to, and get to live in, one day.
* * *
Everyone had scrunched down to make room for Homer and the kids in the middle of the table. They all wanted to talk with the two young ones. Everyone was laughing and chatting easily – more easily now than they could remember. But then Handon made some small joke – and Sarah put her hand on his arm and leaned in toward him. If she had been planning to kiss him, she caught herself in time.
But not in time to stop Henno seeing it. “Have it your own way,” he said, leaning slightly across the table. “Make love and get it over. We’re in hell; my turn will come.”
Predator said, “What the fu—” All of them were now constantly cutting themselves off before cursing, with the unaccustomed addition of minors. He straightened up and rephrased: “What the heck does that mean?”
Henno just leaned back, smiled, and blew on his tea.
“It’s Sartre,” Ali said. “From No Exit.”
Great, Predator thought, wiping up the last bits of anything on his tray with a hunk of bread. Smart-ass British special operators, quoting existentialist French collaborators at me…
For Ali’s part, she had to carefully mask her reaction to this. Because some part of her, one she was not real proud of, felt profoundly relieved and grateful – that Sarah and Handon had been the target, and not her and Homer. She knew the two of them stood every bit as exposed to this kind of attack.
And part of her could feel it gathering.
Handon also stopped himself from frowning in response. He was still worried about Henno, not to mention his relationship with him. The British hard man had always been pretty self-contained. But, with Ainsley’s death, it was getting too much like Henno was a separate unit within Alpha – a detachment of one. And the two of them still had unresolved differences over Handon’s decisions and leadership style. But he knew it was still absolutely critical that they continue to operate together effectively. He also knew that Henno’s tactical skills, resilience, caginess, and general toughness were huge assets to the team – ones Handon didn’t want to go into Somalia without.
Finally, Handon knew that leadership was often about humility – and about making the gesture. Remembering that Henno had been fairly renowned as a ladies’ man back in the world, he said, “How about you, Henno? I thought by now you would have picked out a nice lady signal officer or aviation warfare specialist or someone.”
Henno sipped his tea, continuing to lean back. “Next time one of ’em gets her husband killed,” he drawled, “I’ll be quicker to get in the queue.”
Holy shit, thought Ali – as did more than one other person at the table. And on top of the general mortification, a couple of them also had to stop themselves from laughing. As horrible as the crack was, it was also kind of funny. Or so thought at least Pred and Juice.
And there it is, thought Sarah, just looking away stoically.
Ali knew this tension had to break, in one direction of the other. She decided to control it. “Jesus, Henno,” she said. “When was the last time you got some? Because I’m starting to smell the desperation on you.”
The others felt reasonably safe laughing at that. And it allowed them all to get past it.
For now.
Ali blinked heavily, trying not to panic at the feeling of her own vulnerability with Homer. Instead, she looked down to the end of the table, to see how Emily was doing. She and Gunny Fick were leaning across the table, heads slightly bowed, and talking in a way that seemed engaged and intent. Ali was glad Emily had found a friend.
And it looked like they had missed the whole drama.
* * *
“Puppy!”
Isabel spotted it before anyone else. They all turned and saw the British security dude, whom they had first met at their Op Secunda Mortem briefing about a thousand years ago, walking in – with a large German Shepherd trotting by his side. He looked totally relaxed, as if a belowdecks mess on a carrier was a completely natural place to be walking his dog.
He didn’t even have it on a leash.
Maybe he was just brazening it out.
When the little girl squealed, and her brother swung one leg over the bench, it was pretty much a done deal that Wesley had to head in their direction. The kids, and the dog, as out of place as they all were here, were tailor-made for each other. As the kids hopped up and over, and the dog trotted up, the petting and baby-talk commenced.
Even Henno lightened up, and scratched the dog under the chin. “Nice pup,” he said. “Sweet pup.”
“What’s its name?” Ben asked, looking up at Wesley.
“Dunno,” Wesley said. “I think she needs one.”
“Where did she come from?” asked Isabel.
Wesley squatted down to answer on her level. “Well, I found her living on a boat.”
“All by herself?”
“Afraid so,” Wesley said.
Predator grunted in appreciation as he took the plate of additional food that Ali handed off to him. As he cut up everything in advance, the quicker to fire it all down, he said, “I like German Shepherds. The sturdy body, dense coat, fierce head, bright eyes. The tall ears. Always alert. Like a furry missile of potential energy.”
Juice squinted across at the animal, who was very sleek since Wesley had cleaned her up. “How did she make it all that time on her own? Two years of surviving the dead, surviving no food, surviving the other survivors – who I’m sure would have been happy to turn her into a meal.”
Handon looked over his own shoulder. “Wait a second,” he said, twisting around at the waist. The dog seemed to lock eyes with him. She then looked around at the other operators around the table, her tail wagging happily. “Sit,” Handon said. The dog instantly did so.
"Oh, yeah," said Wesley. "She responds to sit and—"
Speaking in clear, sharp tones, Handon said, “Building search.” The dog stood again, alert as hell – but then looked around, as if waiting to be pointed at something. Which is exactly what she was waiting for.
“Heel,” he said. The dog sat down again. “Stand off,” he said, and pointed at Henno. The dog leapt to her feet, showing her bared teeth to Henno, and leaning forward at him, growling slightly. It was as if only some invisible leash prevente
d her from blasting forward and attacking. In reality, it wasn’t the leash – it was the absence of the next command in the chain of aggression.
“Nice one,” Henno said, setting his mug down.
“Heel,” Handon said, causing the dog to disarm herself. He looked up at Wesley. “This is a working military dog.”
“And that’s how she survived,” Juice said, wiping his mouth and putting his napkin on his tray. “Military training.”
Wesley nodded in understanding. He watched the dog looking happily at the operators. “She seems to like you lot.”
Handon shrugged. “We probably smell like her previous handler.”
“Plus,” Juice added, “grunts always recognize other grunts. Where’d you find her, specifically?”
“Not far from Naval Air Station Oceana, actually. She was hiding in the boat we escaped on. I’d say from the mess in there that she’d been holed up in the place for a good while.”
“That’s it, then,” Juice said. “She probably stayed near the base – waiting two years for her handler to come home. He never did. I bet there’s even a decent chance we can guess her name for you.”
“Oh,” Wesley said. “How’s that?”
“Military K-9 guys aren’t always all that creative. Plus they’re tradition-bound. Certain famous military dog names have a way of always coming back around.” Juice leaned toward the animal. “Chesty?” he tried. “Chips?” Nothing. He shrugged, then explained to Wesley, “Marine mascot, and the most decorated dog of World War Two, respectively.”
Predator threw in. “Gunner? Horrie the Wog Dog?” Nothing.
“She’s a girl,” Ali said, “you dipsh— you fools.” She leaned over. “Smoky? Are you named Smoky?”
Before Ali could try again, Henno spoke up. “Smoky was a Yorkshire Terrier. This is no Yorkie.” He screwed up his face and looked thoughtful, finally pronouncing: “Judy.”
The dog looked him in the face and barked.
“Judy,” Henno said again, obviously pleased with himself.
Arisen, Book Six - The Horizon Page 12
