Pete clapped his hands twice and the dull roar of the nervous chatter in the theater subsided. He looked at a few of the women in the front, noting how proud they looked to be here, defending their country along with their brothers. Though there had been much debate in and outside the military about allowing women to serve in direct combat, Pete found inspiration in it. Those women fought harder to get here than the bigger men next to them, and he wagered their inner strength might make them more dependable when the time came.
Smaller bodies might even be an asset in close combat in a razed city. You want to provide the enemy with smaller targets in a shootout, as long as they carried the same guns to battle. Nobody knew exactly what they’d face out there, so maybe mental toughness would make the difference. Maybe nothing would.
“Listen up!” The room was nearly silent already anyway, but Pete needed to establish dominance and respect early. Nobody should call him Petey ever again after this!
“I was a friend to some of you and a stranger to most. As of today I’m neither. I know two weeks ago some of you were breaking bread with me as equals, but the Corps has seen fit to make me a major, and that means you’re all under my command. Respect that and I’ll respect you.
“For those of you who consider me a stranger: Hello, my name is Major Pete Thompson. I was born in Boston and raised in San Francisco, thus my love of giant red socks.” Pete pulled up his pants leg to reveal a high red sock, not military issue, but scuttling petty rules is an old wartime privilege; nobody checked for contraband in the Higgins boats at Normandy. The anxious privates, on the cusp of a battle perhaps more deadly and more important than D-Day, were more than happy to chuckle a bit before getting to the gritty mission details.
“Good, now that pleasantries are out of the way . . .” Pete signaled a private in the projection booth. The room darkened and a hastily-prepared digital slideshow began on the theater’s giant screen. Pete described several photographs and tactical outlines as they flipped by. He detailed what the enemy looked like, their weapons and ships capabilities, spy plane photographs of the landing sites, water collection, and disintegrated animals in China, Canada, and Australia.
Pete detailed the plan of attack for Operation Cold Flash, which would be mirrored worldwide: surround the ships as they flew through the Wilshire corridor for a surprise first-strike offensive. A cache of Stinger missiles and heavy artillery had been chopper-dropped in and waited along the street with instructions to expend every piece of ammunition necessary.
The primary goal was to block the water-stealing ships from the ocean, to ground the visitors and see how they fought when separated from the mother ship in the Mojave; a test of their vulnerability and battle tactics before ordering an all-out assault on the giant desert compound. Pete suspected the mission was set up to fail; otherwise, the brass would learn nothing useful. But he couldn’t let his troops guess it.
He pressed his clicker again, letting a single slide remain for a few seconds without speaking. It was hard to tell what it was until the major zoomed in. What at first looked like more dead animals next to a lake were dead monks. Hundreds of them had made a quest to Ayakum Lake, forty miles north of the Tibetan border. All that remained were burnt yellow robes and charred bones.
“We don’t know what the monks were doing there. Perhaps it was a small showing of resistance to China. They were likely unaware that the aliens had landed in XinJiang. We can suppose they showed no resistance. This hasn’t circulated far, even inside the armed forces, but the president authorized us to show you this for a bit of motivation.
“I’ve heard the chatter as much as you: ‘what if they’re peaceful? They haven’t killed anybody yet.’ Well now we can quell the rumors that they ‘came in peace’ and all the KIAs so far were ‘misunderstandings.’ You’ve seen the bodies for yourselves. Not since our grandparents fought the Nazis have we seen such indiscriminate and inhumane actions. We need to teach them what it means to be human!”
‘But perhaps not humane,’ Pete thought. Something about shooting first and asking the visitors questions later made him very uncomfortable. That sort of plan only works if you have an overwhelming advantage. Teaching aliens the need for revenge might not be wise.
The troops shouted and clapped. Of course, Pete had no evidence that this too wasn’t a case of monks being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the way he’d worded it would leave no doubt that the aliens were here to kill indiscriminately, and to survive, his troops couldn’t leave anything on the table. They might feel guilty about a sneak attack on a human army, passing through American airspace or not. A fair fight didn’t seem necessary against an opponent that came across space, and perhaps time, to steal the most precious resource the Earth had left. Peaceful or not, these interstellar thugs never asked permission, never stopped to barter for what they wanted. They just started taking, and Pete’s troops would give their lives to stop it. He waved his hands to quiet them again.
“There can be no hesitation in our resolve. Today these bastards want a clear path to water. Tomorrow they’ll want to clear a path for themselves through our entire country.
“There is good news, though.” he clicked again and a new slide came up. More dead bodies, but this time they were small and furry. “Just a few hours ago, not far from here, at the alien infestation in the Mojave, the president ordered a Trident strike. This is the result. Your enemy bleeds. Your enemy dies. We can and will win this fight!”
In the hooting and hollering that followed nobody mentioned the curious lack of blood among smoking remnants of furry limbs scattered to the desert. Nor did they question the seemingly untouched black complex nearby, still reaching into the sky. Pete took his opportunity and ran with it. He didn’t quiet them this time, taking out a megaphone and shouting.
“You’ve all been given a front row seat and a part to play in cutting these ugly sons-a-bitches off at the knees. The Chinese, Australians, Canadians, French and the rest are launching similar surprise attacks. We’re going to cut them off, cut ‘em up, and send them packing! The whole world is watching, who’s with me?”
The theater erupted in a glorious “Oorah!”
Chapter 4
A bird ruffled its feathers and pecked at a beam overhead. Ben, a young soldier seeing action for the first time, pointed his rifle at the gray-plumed hawk. Maybe it was normally a red-tailed hawk, but so much dust from rubble choked the natural color of everything in Los Angeles. Newer constructed buildings, miles inland, kept skeletons unsnapped by the tsunami and ensuing earthquakes. Their all-glass exteriors had shattered, leaving behind abstractions of architecture inhabited now by more birds than humans. The only color on the bird was its crimson beak. Blood, and Ben didn’t want to think about what from.
“How much longer, Silversun?” Leto asked, stroking his red beard.
“Patience, Ledesma,” she said without looking up.
“You’re the one with the interface, rest of us are getting jumpy just sitting here waiting; feels like Ramadi patrol all over again. How do we know they’re not ambushing us?”
Amanda made a few taps and looked up from her field tablet. “Should be here soon.” She snapped the tablet closed and gave Leto a stern look. “This’ll be over in minutes, not years, stop stressing.”
“You think it’s true, what the major said?” asked Ben. “We’ve got a chance?”
Amanda snorted and slapped Ben on the back. “We’ve got a job to do.” She put the tablet in her pack and tightened the straps.
Leto mumbled, “Sounds more like Ramadi all the time. What if we’re bait?”
“Bait?” Ben asked.
“He means: what if we’re the cheese in a big alien rat trap,” Amanda answered. “Our role might be to down a few of these spider-bear-alien-nasty-looking-whatevers, distracting them long enough to stay in place for a Trident to come down everything.”
“Or a nuke,” Leto chuckled. “That’d be different than Ramadi.”
&nbs
p; “We’re dead either way.” Amanda looked grim. “Not worth thinking about.”
“Oops-rah?” Ben said sarcastically under his breath, shifting to peek out from the snapped girder he hid behind.
The three privates hid inside a derelict office building, crouching in the shadows and coming to terms with what might be a quick death. Occasionally other soldiers would peek out from similar shadowed cover along the Wilshire corridor, assuring each other that they wouldn’t die alone.
Ben decided this was a great opportunity to brush up on his Morse code, chatting in flashlight clicks with a hidden soldier across the street about who might win the playoffs if the games could resume. They both agreed the Marines had a better chance of beating the aliens than the Browns had of winning an AFC championship.
Amanda shushed Ben’s giggling. He looked over his shoulder like a scolded schoolboy. She felt guilty; it might be his last opportunity to feel joy, and she’d squashed it. But orders were orders. The major’s last text was an ‘all quiet’ order across the Miracle Mile.
Radio chatter subsided, as if everyone else had heard Amanda’s brunt shushing. The three privates quietly waited, as did thousands of others, like scattered leaves biding time for a strong wind to rise up and fly again. Most of the soldiers hunkered down in Miracle Mile were praying it earned that name today. Amanda and Leto had an Iraq tour under their belts, but most of the soldiers were barely old enough to vote and might never get the chance.
A faint siren broke the silence, reverberating through the evacuated city. It was the sign they waited for.
“This is it,” Amanda said. “That’s the KoreaTown lookout.”
“You almost sound excited,” Leto joked.
“Aren’t you?” she answered, accusingly. “Our mission is clear this time. This is World War III, our Omaha Beach.”
“Into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell, rode the six hundred,” Leto grimly quoted.
“Six hundred?” Ben asked, eyes full of fear.
“It’s Tennyson,” Amanda told him, “though not far off!”
“Does your husband know you’re this excited to die?” Ben asked. “Can’t imagine it’d be flattering.”
“You’re married?” Leto asked, surprised.
“Wrong finger, dipshit,” she held up the unadorned finger on her left hand, then raised the other one, to show the swirling platinum band there. “Gift from my grandpa. Got it in Korea from one of their soldiers. Said it was blessed for good luck. Got him through the Korean War, my dad through Vietnam, and worked so far for me.”
“Well I hope some of your luck rubs off on me,” Ben said. “I couldn’t even sign my enlistment papers without getting a paper cut.”
Amanda leaned close to Ben. “Look Private Preston, not everyone out here is fresh out of boot camp. That riot control detail in the Presidio was a shitty warm-up for you. What it didn’t teach you noobs is how to mentally prepare. I can’t teach you either; you gotta live through that fear the first time, learn to survive on your own terms. Some people yell bloody murder till the gunfire subsides, others shit their pants. I pretend this old ring makes me invincible and try to enjoy it. Find something like that for yourself. I don’t care what works for you as long as you stay alive and don’t fuck this mission up!”
She grabbed Ben’s arm and lowered her voice. “I want to go home when this is over just as much as you do. Husband or not.”
“Aye,” Ben said, trying his hardest to act tough.
Pete’s voice buzzed over the radio. “Rockets and sniper rifles at the ready. You are free to shoot when you have a clear shot. Keep all firing below a thirty degree angle to your horizontal position, we’re all over, and you’re not alone. Remember that. Good luck.”
“They told us at boot camp Marines don’t need luck,” Ben pointed out.
“Take what you can get, kid,” countered Leto. “Stay close to the one ring over there and you’ll be fine.”
“Shut up,” Amanda whispered, gesturing for them to crouch back in hiding and get their gun sights ready. “Remember the cross points.”
Leto helped Ben put the Stinger on his shoulder. As Ben shifted, the long stalk of the launcher knocked over a loose bit of rubble behind. The sound bounced back and forth with the still-oscillating siren.
Both were replaced by a new sound-a din from the east.
“The first volleys have begun!” Amanda whispered with excitement and patted the others on the back before finding her own station for the organized crossfire. She settled in and craned her ear towards the empty space where large windows once hung. The approaching sounds grew louder and stranger. The aliens were coming.
“Forward Company Eight got off a shot!” Amanda shouted over the growing clamber. They couldn’t see anything yet, but the reverberations of the first strike up the road were coming faster and louder every second.
“Your Stinger’s next, Preston! Ready . . . ready . . .” Amanda repeated to him under her breath, crouching tighter with her hands on her rifle and eye on the scope. She didn’t allow herself even to blink, knowing they might only get one shot.
A flaming thing appeared in her scope, followed by several more.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
She squeezed off three shots without knowing it. Leto’s rifle fired less frequently, each round larger and more valuable than Amanda’s, and held higher hopes for a direct hit. Amanda kept shooting until she exhausted her first magazine, but the invaders kept streaming through the choke point, taking little notice of their henpecks. It was time.
“Blow it!” she yelled over her shoulder to Ben without looking.
The rocket took off with a shout and tossed Ben backwards. He cleared the dust from his eyes in time to see a broiling orange explosion. Alien craft tumbled to the ground as green and black shrapnel pounded the steel girders protecting the privates. Other Stingers were hitting marks as well, as more alien craft crashed in a cacophony of sound that numbed all else.
Amanda and the other two privates made eye contact. She pointed west. “The regroup point, go!”
“They’re getting through!” Leto yelled, still at the busted windows.
“Too many of them!” Ben yelled. “We’ve used all our missiles and they’re going right past. Why not stay here until they’re gone?”
“Artillery is going to level this place in three minutes, take care of anything we didn’t kill!” screamed Amanda as she left the room and skidded down a girder.
“What!” Ben yelled back.
“They don’t want these fucks going back home to tell their fucking friends how we fucked with them,” Leto screamed.
“Say fuck one more time and maybe Private Preston will get moving,” Amanda shouted from outside the building.
Ben finally hopped to, clomping down on the uneven street and sprinting to keep up, joining many other soldiers. They struggled to run through the rubble of a sidewalk on what was once a street filled with posh pedestrians and gaudy luxury vehicles. Overhead, alien craft streamed on, ignoring the soldiers.
The broken city was tough to navigate and they barely moved a full block before the thundering started. Heavy artillery lit up the Miracle Mile behind them, creeping closer. Alien craft still came through, undaunted by the man-made cataclysms in their way.
Leto pointed. “The street!”
Some of the other soldiers had abandoned the craggy sidewalks for the more even pavement in the middle of the wide boulevard. In the street they’d be easy fodder for the aliens if they ever took an interest in gunning down soldiers. If they stayed on what used to pass for sidewalks the advancing artillery would mow them down soon.
They climbed over flipped cars and uprooted trees, leapt over cracks in the pavement and downed stoplights, and ran down the center of Wilshire Boulevard. The alien craft above seemed to whistle by slower as the crashing behind them got louder.
The alien ships appeared bizarre from below. Undercarriages consisted of undulating puddles, upside down tar pit
s complete with bubbles. Although they only caught the tail ends, above puddles sat long thin strips the size of a melted school bus, probably housing the pilots. The source of locomotion was a mystery, but the vulnerability of the top-side was obvious; a WWII half-track carried more armor.
After many blocks, the privates running in the road spotted Pete. Hundreds of soldiers had joined them in the marathon down Wilshire. Pete motioned them to the side as the alien craft buzzed fifty feet overhead. He ushered the soldiers into the remains of a nightclub, its disco ball still spinning. Strangely, it had been saved by more destruction in the tsunami when a tall building fell sideways into another just overhead and behind, creating a little cave. Its dropped dance floor was still flooded inside, but the walls stood, and that was enough.
Pete waited until most of the remaining company had joined, then spoke swiftly. “We’ve taken out a good forty or so, but the enemy continues to breach our lines. We’ve seen no deviation from their original flight plan regardless of our assault, leading us to believe they may be drones. That’s the good news.
“The bad news is something else is coming-new ships the generals didn’t know about or didn’t tell us about. Our enemy is sending in reinforcements.”
“Yeah, now that we’re out of ammo!” a soldier from the back of the crowd shouted.
“We’re no longer on a confront and destroy mission,” Pete replied. “We successfully flushed them out, got their attention. Now we evacuate. Airlift commences in an hour from Beverly Hills High School football field.
“Artillery will rain at specific positions north, south and east of us, a smokescreen allowing us to cut through the grid-path of homes north of Olympic Boulevard en route to the school. Break into teams, starting at Beverly Drive proceeding down a different streets.
The Filter Trap Page 26
