Grunt Life

by Weston Ochse

  Which never came.

  I counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty.

  “Base, I read the device as green. How do you have it?”

  The voice from the TOC was perplexed. “We have green as well.” There was a pause. “We don’t suppose you could go back and check the device.”

  We all turned and glanced at the mound. There were about a hundred Cray circling, soaking in the morning sun that had just crested the horizon.

  “You want us to check the device?” Olivares strained to keep his voice steady. “Do I read you clear?”

  “Affirmative. If you could... check the connections once more.”

  I got to my feet. This was stupid. The damn thing could blow any second.

  MacKenzie scrambled up from where he’d skidded in front of me and began to jog back towards the hive.

  “Where are you going?” I demanded.

  “To fix the focking piece of shit bomb.”

  I scanned the sky. “I’m coming with you.” There was no way I could let him go alone. As far as I knew, we’d get within ten feet and the thing would explode. But on the off-chance it didn’t, someone needed to cover MacKenzie from air attack.

  “What are you two doing?” Olivares asked.

  Now running side-by-side, MacKenzie and I turned to each other and grinned.

  “Can’t hear you, sergeant,” I said.

  “Breaking up.” MacKenzie made false ‘static’ noises with his mouth. “We must be going through a tunnel.”

  I laughed. This was too much fun. Olivares was going to be so pissed at us, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t leave a man behind.

  We slowed to a walk as we approached the bomb. We didn’t want to seem to be in too big of a rush. We were extremely aware of the growing number of Cray above us. One had to wonder what they were thinking.

  Suddenly Olivares was jogging to a stop between us.

  “A tunnel, huh?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” MacKenzie said straight-faced. “It was a big focking tunnel right back there. You couldn’t have missed it.”

  Olivares looked up. “I wonder what they see when they look down at us.”

  “Cockroaches, probably,” MacKenzie said.

  “Hope not. Don’t want them stomping us out. Break. Break. Base, this is Romeo Three. Prepare Vulcan for ground to air support.”

  “WILCO.”

  “So one of three things is going to happen, boys,” Olivares said. We only had a football field’s length between us and the device. “One, we’re going to walk another hundred meters and get blown to smithereens. Two, I’m going to attach whatever wire is messed up and we’re going to get back to base in time for a tasty brunch.” He paused long enough for us to wonder if he was going to finish. Then he said, “Or three, really bad shit happens.”

  None of us needed any explanation about what that really bad shit was. Romeo One had given us plenty of their own memories, just in case we didn’t have enough of our own.

  “Okay, you grunts,” Olivares said, running the last few feet and dropping to a knee in front of the device. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

  Both MacKenzie and I trained our miniguns toward the sky.

  Telemetry told me there were now one-hundred and thirty-seven Cray above us. They were all between eleven hundred and thirteen hundred feet over our position, which was exactly where I wanted them.

  “Know what I wonder?” MacKenzie asked.

  “What?”

  “What or who were the Smithereens? I mean no one wants to get blown up like them. Makes you wonder if it wasn’t some unlucky family or something, maybe bombed in the Blitz or something.”

  “Comes from the Irish word, smidirin. Means many small pieces,” Olivares said. “Had to look it up once. Break. Break. Base, provide schematic overlay.”

  “Focking Irish. Figures it’s an Irish word. Probably stole it from smidgen.”

  The Cray had descended to nine hundred feet. I readied my Mini-Hydra and re-checked to make sure my minigun was in the green. “Never heard anyone say they didn’t want to get blown to a smidgen, Mac, sorry.”

  “Of course not. We’re not that stupid. I still say it was probably a family named Smithereen. They were probably Irish.”

  My HUD suddenly lit up.

  “Here they come!”

  The Vulcans unzipped the morning with a thousand rounds and more, pouring into the phalanx of incoming drones.

  I held my aim until I saw who’d survived the Vulcan rounds and unloaded my remaining complement of missiles. Once spent, I fired my minigun in controlled bursts.

  “There you are, you little fucker.” I glanced down at Olivares as he reattached a wire and snapped a panel back in place.

  When he stood, he snapped his minigun into position and yelled, “Get to backs.”

  We all formed on each other, standing back-to-back as best we could, just as MacKenzie released the last of his missiles. We moved like a six-legged crab towards friendly lines, spinning slightly clockwise as we went. When he was to the rear of our formation, Olivares would release missiles, until he was out, too.

  We alternated fire to conserve ammunition. My telemetry counted forty-three Cray still airborne. It was only a matter of time before the rest came out to join the fun.

  “We’re going to need to run in a moment, gentlemen,” Olivares said. “We have fifty seconds to detonation and need to make a lot more distance than we’re making now.”

  It was my turn to fire and I began to take out the Cray in bursts. My bullets smashed through heads, chests and wings.

  “When do we need to start running?” I asked. It was beginning to dawn on me that I’d need to draw my blade soon.

  “Now!” Olivares shouted and took off.

  MacKenzie and I exchanged a frenzied look and bounded after him.

  As I ran, I fired blindly into the air behind me, spitting out the last of my ammunition. One five-hundred round magazine emptied, then there was a whine as the barrels spun and the feed mechanism moved to the next magazine. Realizing how little effect I was having, I let the minigun swing back out of the way and pulled free my blade.

  “Get those focking Vulcans crackin’!” MacKenzie cried.

  I glanced over to him, only to see a pair of Cray holding him by the head and arms. I spun and ran back for him, then leaped, catching a hold of his leg, our combined weight pulling him back to earth.

  One of the Cray had let go, but the other doggedly hung on. I swung and removed its arm.

  MacKenzie turned to grin at me and then he was gone again.

  I jerked my gaze upwards and saw him rising straight up, a drone gripping his helmet. I was about to scream his name, when I felt myself jerked into the air. I swung madly with my blade, frantic in my attempts to be free. I hit something and felt myself falling.

  I slammed into the ground and all the air left my body. I tried to get up quickly, but could only manage to move my limbs one at a time. My servos were still functioning, but the adrenalin surge had left my body like stone. An alarm went off in my helmet. My telemetry was warning me of an incoming mass.

  I managed to stagger to the side just as MacKenzie hit the earth with a sickening sound.

  I screamed as the reality of his death hit me. A Cray came at me, wings spread, claws out, and I brought my blade around.

  Then the device blew.

  The world became a tornado of earth, wind, fire and body parts, with me caught in the centre of the maelstrom. I lost my grip on my blade as I tumbled. I closed my eyes in anticipation of pain, but my suit took most of the force of the explosion. I hit the ground at an angle and began to roll end over end. My servos jerked my arms and legs into my body, making me somersault across the ground. As I slowed, I opened my eyes. My HUD flashed green and red; beyond it, ground and debris tumbled past.

  When I finally came to a rest, blood was dripping down my visor. I tried to stand but felt an immense weight on my back. My telemetry was inoperative. Acce
ss to the other team members’ feeds was down. My suit and servos read green. Unless a building had fallen on me, I should be able to get up.

  I placed my hands on the ground and, using my knees as a fulcrum, I pushed my upper body up. The weight on my back shifted and I dropped down and rolled to my right, coming face to face with a Cray. I lashed out and drove my fingers into the clump of eyes at the center of its triangular head. It jerked back and I staggered to my feet, looking around for anything I could use as a weapon. Amidst the debris, I found a piece of Cray claw large enough to wield as a club, picked it up and stalked after the wounded drone.

  It stood, slightly hunched over. It was missing an arm, and bleeding from a dozen wounds. Its wings had been ripped away. It made a pathetic sight as it hobbled back towards the mound.

  I held the arm out and shook it. “Hey! Are you forgetting something? Is this yours, you motherfucker?”

  It turned and seemed to study me, before it charged.

  I brought its severed arm around, swinging like I was Babe Ruth channeling Sammy Sosa. The arm broke across the creature’s head and it fell sideways. I fell onto the creature and began hammering it over and over with my fists. I remembered the death of MacKenzie, my rage driving me on. Was this the Cray who’d taken him? My breath clouded the inside of my face shield until I couldn’t see anything past my own blood-red fog.

  I felt my arms being pulled back and turned and swung, but a Romeo caught my fist in his own.

  He screamed at me through his mask.

  I could barely hear him.

  He screamed louder.

  “We... Romeo Seven... follow... back... TOC...”

  I understood enough and started to move towards friendly lines, but my legs gave way. Another scout from Romeo Seven joined the first, and both of them helped me back. When we finally arrived, I was greeted by the rest of Romeo Three, and was lowered into their arms. I felt a surge of pride. I loved my grunts. I was so happy I almost forgot that MacKenzie was dead.

  Almost.

  For funerals where there is a separate firing party, once the casket is borne between the firing party members, and taken into the chapel, the NCOIC commands Order ARMS. The firing party departs under the control of the firing party commander and travels to the gravesite. Once at the gravesite, the firing party makes preparations for the gravesite ceremony. The bugler, if not already at the gravesite, travels with the firing party.

  U.S. Army Training Circular 3-21.5

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  MACKENZIE’S DEATH HIT me hard. It wasn’t like D’Ambrosio or the others. With them I’d felt a sense of helplessness, unable to change a course of events that began when God woke up and decided we were going to have a bad day. This was different. For one, I hadn’t been in charge of the mission. The orders hadn’t flown through me. I was a mere grunt, just as MacKenzie had been. In fact, we shouldn’t have been there. The mission should have been over. Had we not gone back, we’d have been safe, watching the effects of the explosion in plasma TV clarity.

  Being a leader, I was alone in my decisions and removed, to some degree, from the deaths of my soldiers. Where before I’d been someone to blame, now I was someone who wanted to blame someone. Sure, it could have been anyone who’d died. Sure, we could have lost someone sooner. Sure. Sure. Sure. But none of those things mattered. MacKenzie was my friend and I didn’t want him to be dead. The truth of it was that I’d have traded any one of the grunts I didn’t know just so the smiling Scotsman could still be alive. I’d even play Poof with him, whatever that was.

  We’d brought him in two hours before. His body had ended up a mile from the trenches. The Cray were too busy taking care of their own dead to care about us anyway.

  We laid MacKenzie out on the bench in the middle of the squad bay and gently removed the suit, careful of the damage that had been done. Even with the EXO’s protection, he’d been dropped from such a great height that his insides had liquefied. The bones in his legs had shattered so completely that his limbs were like rubber.

  Even with all of this damage, however, his face remained virtually unscathed. I could almost picture him waking up and calling us a bunch of focking wankers for acting all weepy-eyed. I knew he wouldn’t have wanted this impromptu wake, but it was more about us than him.

  I caught myself staring at Olivares during our vigil. He waited until we’d finished attending to MacKenzie’s body and after the surgeon had removed him before saying anything to me about it.

  I’d cleaned up and was getting ready to change back into my fatigues when he sat next to me on the bench.

  “He was a good grunt,” he said.

  “That he was.” I pulled my socks on, then my pants.

  “We’ve all lost friends.”

  I pulled on a t-shirt, tucked it in, then buttoned up my top while I thought about what I was going to say. I could get angry, but what would be the point? We were the ones who had fucked up. MacKenzie and I had chosen to go on our own and disobey an order. I grudgingly acknowledged that with a shake of my head and the words, “It was nothing you did, Sarge. It was just stupid-ass bad luck, is all.”

  I could feel him watching me as I pulled my boots on and laced them up.

  “That’s what war is.” He stood up. “One stupid never-ending piece of bad luck.” He headed towards the door, then paused. “We have a meeting in thirty minutes, and then your time is your own for the next eight hours. At tonight’s memorial we’ll read MacKenzie’s honors. You going to be there?”

  I nodded, not sure if I could actually speak.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod back. Then he turned and left.

  I slammed my fist into the wall locker and left it there, embedded in the thin metal. Finally, I wiped away the wetness that had somehow appeared on my face and slid on my dog tags. I was about to head out for something to eat when my gaze was drawn by something playing on the television.

  They were replaying the mission. The screen showed me beating the Cray to death with its own arm. I sat down and waited for it to end, knowing it would soon start to replay from the beginning. Like old TV shows, you could count on it starting over again. I could see MacKenzie. I could see him smile. Then I could see him die.

  Again and again and again.

  Ten minutes later I walked out, the bench only slightly worse for wear from where I’d used it to bash in the screen.

  I ignored the looks from the others. I was in my own world, my own Hollywood blockbuster, one in which me and Romeo Three existed and everyone else was an extra. Everyone knew extras didn’t talk, so I didn’t talk to them.

  I sat at an empty table with three bottles of water and a cup of coffee. Three people came by to talk to me. I ignored them all. It wasn’t until the fourth that I even looked up.

  Aquinas dropped a note on the table and kept going. I watched her leave, wondering what that was all about. I opened the paper, feeling a little like I was back in high school, although I reminded myself that back then I never would have gotten close to a girl like her. I turned it several times before I realized that it was a map of the base. On it was an X. The only other directions were the words After the Meeting!

  I suddenly realized I was late for the briefing. I shoved the note in my pocket, slugged back the now-lukewarm coffee, and took the bottles of water with me. I hurried, but I didn’t run. I entered the room with my head down, aware of the eyes that turned towards me. I didn’t want any more attention. I really just wanted to get this over with so I could get some rack time.

  “Thanks for joining us, Mason,” said a voice I knew. “I was wondering if you were feeling up to this.”

  Mr. Pink was back. His was the voice I’d heard on the comms. Now he stood in front of me, looking more like his namesake every day. His face was haggard and wan, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He wore fatigue pants and boots with a tucked-in black TF OMBRA polo shirt. A red beret with the TF insignia finished the look.

  I felt an unusual sense o
f pleasure at seeing him standing before the row of tables. I could trace many of my worst moments to this man, but we had history, and in the military, this was something akin to brotherhood.

  Instead of saying anything, I merely nodded, sharing the briefest eye contact.

  The rest of Romeo Three were already present and seated. Behind Mr. Pink were two large maps and a blown-up panoramic photo. The photo was a triptych of the side view of the mound, taken from three different angles. One of the maps was a pre-invasion satellite representation of the area without the hive, but with curious blotches running from white to red. The second map was a wire diagram and could have been anything.

  “As I was saying,” he resumed, nodding politely in my direction, “You’re not the first squad I’m giving this briefing to. We’ve learned a lot in the last few weeks.” He went to the satellite map and began pointing to the mysterious blobs.

  “This is a pre-invasion photo. These heat overlays show us pockets of lava beneath Kilimanjaro and this plain. It’s what geologists call a stratovolcano. Kilimanjaro consists of three cones. Two of them, Shira and Mawenzi, are extinct, but the third, Kibo, is merely dormant. Fumaroles in its crater still emit volcanic gasses; these are deadly and contain vaporized sulfuric acid, so even getting near it will kill you.

  “Add to that the fact that Kilimanjaro is the highest mountain in Africa. It’s just shy of six thousand meters above sea level and topped with an ice cap. Thanks to intense study, we not only have maps of the dormant cones, but also of the Kibo caldera, although it’s filled with a pile of volcanic ash to an unknown depth.”

  Olivares raised a hand. “We appreciate the geology lesson, Captain Science, but what does it have to do with us? We’re grunts, not geologists.”

  Mr. Pink nodded and continued, undeterred. He moved to the panoramic photo. “This is a triptych of the outside of the mound. As you can see, we’ve done little damage to it. We’ve detected traces of crystallized iridium from the mound’s surface, which is probably the reason for its almost impenetrable hardness. Note that our highly-skilled artillerymen have been trying desperately to get a shot into one of these launch tubes, but so far they are 0 and 724 and the chances don’t look like it will get any better.”