Then a gentle tap pressed on her shoulder. “I'm right here.”
Emily twisted around. “Okay, you're really starting to freak me out. How'd you know I was looking for you?”
Sarah also turned. Her coy smile informed Emily about the addition of Matt to the little game.
“You stared at the people who rode with us,” he said. “I'm the only one you hadn't seen. The rest became obvious.” He leaned closer. “Besides, I doubt you made a bunch of new friends, especially out in the hall.”
“You saw that?”
“He was about to flatten you.”
“And you didn't do anything?” Sarah asked.
“The officer had it under control.”
Emily rolled her eyes. “At least you would have been there to pick my bloody corpse off the floor.”
“Or watch you puke up twenty-five shakes.”
“Ass,” Emily said.
The room suddenly fell silent, and everyone faced forward to watch an officer, distinguished, gray-haired with a moustache to match, walk in and stop behind the podium. His medal lapel clinked against his chest when he pulled the microphone closer. “Good morning. Welcome to Greaver Advanced Infantry Training. I'm Colonel Moore. I'll be your instructor during the first day of your orientation.”
“Prepare for the brainwashing,” Sarah whispered.
“Why does the Army need you?” Moore continued. “I'm sure all of you have asked yourself this question many times over the last few months. Before I answer, let's start at the beginning.” Moore adjusted a small microphone attached to his collar and paced in front of the podium. “For years, the United States has possessed the greatest military force the world has ever seen. We have spent trillions of dollars on advances in stealth technology, more precise munitions and deadlier weaponry. Our near-limitless spending made our country the standard in military effectiveness. Around the world, nations were awed by our might.
“Today, we have almost lost that advantage. Our potential enemies are deploying readily available technology to neutralize our strengths. Their air forces and naval fleets are approaching an imminent level of threat. Nuclear weaponry is becoming commonplace for any country with a single physicist who attended an American university. The combination of these circumstances will eventually lead to an inevitable outcome—a ground war, a war of attrition. Under the current status quo, such a scenario is not in our best interests. We cannot compete with the potential numbers of the Chinese and Indian forces or many of the other countries exceeding our population growth. To combat this disadvantage, we must rely on our training.”
Moore dimmed the lights, flipped on the projector and started a video. On the screen, a young man in a hospital gown walked slowly across a room. “This is Patrick. Like all of you, he survived the Washington bombing. Like all of you, he received a lethal dose of radiation.” The video fast-forwarded. Patrick moved about the room at an inhuman pace, and then the video slowed to normal speed. Patrick now hung his head over a toilet bowl, the sound of his heaves blasting from the speakers. Emily's stomach churned, while Sarah cringed when the vomit splashed in the water. “But unlike all of you, he refused the choice we offered him.”
The video fast-forwarded again. Now Patrick lay in a hospital bed. Open boils covered his arms and neck, and most of his hair was gone except for a few wiry, blond strands. “Patrick's family watched him suffer a horrible death, one which could have been avoided. Unlike him, you all made the correct choice.”
Moore switched the screen to a picture of a Jacuzzi-like white tub. It brimmed with a crystal-clear, gelatinous liquid, and electronics and wires surrounded the outside porcelain. “This is why you are here. We need you to test the future of military training. This is the beginning of a six-month trial.
“Employing the latest in neuro-technology, the ACES—that's Advanced Combat Evaluation Simulator—creates the illusion of battlefield conditions.” The screen changed to a view of a cobblestone street. Dirt and debris riddled the sidewalks of the abandoned suburb. Bodies of soldiers lay in pools of blood. A window-shattering explosion rocked the buildings, and plumes of dust rose from the rooftops. The camera swung around, zooming in on the street, where a black-suited soldier fired his weapon in random directions. Then a crimson mist puffed out of his chest. He screamed, crumpling to the ground.
A collective gasp overtook the silence.
“And you will experience all of this: the sounds, smells, sights, tastes and feelings. As in war, your training, skill and conditioning will decide how long you live. The ACES unit is designed to hone your combat skills, but it will also insert you onto the battlefield with an accurate recreation of your physical attributes.”
“Great,” Emily whispered. “Now a machine's going to tell me I'm out of shape.”
“You?” Sarah said. “I was gasping for air on my way to the shower, and don't even ask me about the morning run.”
“Make no mistake,” Moore continued. “This simulation isn't for lunatics who want to learn from reckless decisions. If you choose that tactic, suffering will not be optional. When you are shot, you feel the pain course through your body. If a grenade detonates near you, the heat will scorch your flesh. A reminder of those wounds will follow you into the real world.”
“Make sure I thank my mom for my delicate skin,” Emily said.
“Don't feel bad,” Sarah said. “My last boyfriend wasn't a nice guy. I've dealt with my fair share of black eyes.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Which is why I'm going to find a nice soldier boy here.” Sarah tilted her head back three times. “At least I can take one name off my list.”
“Tomorrow,” Moore continued, “you will enter the Sim for the first time. The enemy won't know you are new, and they will not care. Their sole objective is to eliminate any threat to their position. You are the threat.”
The screen switched to an empty urban center of markets and restaurants. “Here's how it works.” Four black-fatigue-wearing soldiers appeared on screen. “The computer will randomly place you in a squad of four soldiers, each represented by the numbers one through four. In the ACES module, you will have access to the Avatar Field Helmet, which also conceals your face, so use the numbers as call signs. Number one is the squad leader. Every session you spend in the ACES lowers your number until it becomes your turn to lead. After you do, the number will reset to four the next night.”
On the screen the four soldiers ducked low and hustled through an empty warehouse. “During classroom sessions, you will learn the basics of maneuvers, tactics and available weaponry. In the ACES, you will implement what you have learned. Doing so can mean the difference between success and failure.” The four soldiers carelessly ran into the street amidst a hail of gunfire. One by one, bullets sliced through their flesh, and they fell in a pool of their own blood. “Now you are dead.”
The screen faded to black.
“Not only will these four soldiers feel the effects of their wounds, they will do so in silence, blinded until the ACES ends. If you fail miserably like our unfortunate quartet, expect a long night. If you achieve any portion of your objective, the waiting decreases. But if your squad completes the entire objective, the ACES module ends for your entire team, even the dead members. You are then free to do whatever you want for the rest of the night, be it sleep, eat or read—anything you enjoy. Questions?”
Damon's hand shot in the air. “What time tomorrow?”
“Nineteen-hundred hours. The elevators to the underground Sim complex are located in the Northwest wing.” Moore glanced around the auditorium. “Does anyone else have a question?” He waited a few seconds, but no one else spoke. “Value your life in the ACES module. I'll now turn the room over to Major Rogers. Good luck, privates.”
A murmur of whispering soldiers broke the silence, and Emily's eyes wandered. The faces of the soldiers near her appeared a shade paler, as if the summer sun had never come and gone, and a girl in the center row leaned against her
knees. The sound of dry coughs reverberated across the room. Emily's stomach answered the sickly heaves with a high-pitched squeal. Sweat condensed on her forehead.
An officer marched toward the podium and thumped his baton against the microphone. Sound blared from the speakers, silencing the whispers. “Listen up, maggots.” He paused. “On your feet when I'm speaking.”
Before anyone else moved, Emily was out of her seat. Way out of her seat. Her momentum continued forward. She reached for the chair-back but missed by a foot. Matt grabbed her shirt and pulled her upright. “This is getting old,” she said.
“Better,” Rogers said. “Now, maggots, lucky for you this isn't the real Army, and you aren't real privates, although you will answer to that rank. The commanders have graciously decided to give you wastes-of-oxygen more freedom. We don't have a basic training regimen. No one is going to tell you when to sleep. If you aren't required to be somewhere, you can wander the base at will.” Rogers shook his head. “That makes me sick. But we still have rules. If you abuse, break or even think about bending them—well, I'll leave the rest to the imagination.” He grinned. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” everyone replied in unison.
“Regulations. Address officers as sir or ma'am. Never skip meals. My favorite part of the day is when I get to force-feed an insubordinate soldier. If you can't live without mommy or daddy, mail is in the south wing. If you're drug dependent, get your meds at the pharmacy.”
Emily rubbed the outline of the empty inhaler in her pocket.
“And don't be late, not to class, not to Sim training, not to meals, not ever. Your instructors might take it easy on you, but I won't if I find out later.” Rogers walked to the exit and threw open the door. “Assemble in the mess hall for chow, maggots. Dismissed.”
Emily readied to leave, but Sarah stayed motionless. Her skin dulled to almost pure white. “Are you okay?” Emily asked.
Sarah glanced up and seemed to force the smile against the wishes of her rattling teeth. “I was contemplating how much fun this place is going to be.” She slowly stood, swaying back and forth in a nauseating motion. “I can't wait to see the crap they feed us today.”
On the way to the mess hall, Matt and Emily steadied Sarah, but she stumbled ahead, twice almost knocking herself out against the wall and once against a stray soldier. Matt had to calm the guy, who shared a few choice words with Sarah.
Halfway to the mess hall, she leaned over and placed her hands on her knees. “Go on without me.”
“Are you sure?” Emily asked.
“If they're going to make me eat, I'd rather take it slow. Maybe I'll have an appetite by the time I get there.”
After filling their trays, Matt and Emily went to the back table, where Damon gorged himself. Raven, however, dangled her fork in front of her lips, moving it side to side as if she counted down the launch of the space shuttle. Two bruised soldiers were turning green from Damon's display of gluttony. The rest of the table ate in silence.
Emily divided her pile of goo in four circles, but it put up a wicked fight, spreading out and coalescing into one bubbling mound. “My mom always told me not play with my food, but what happens if this stuff starts to play back?”
Raven took three quick bites. “I'm just happy this day is almost over.”
“Tomorrow, they'll show us the simulators,” Damon said.
Raven dropped the fork on her plate.
He eyed her uneaten slop. “Do you mind?”
“Be my guest,” Raven said, and scooted her tray in front of him.
Another tray clanged in front of Damon, and a wobbling Sarah stood behind him. “Have mine, too.”
His eyes lit up as if he were a little boy on Christmas. “Thanks.”
Emily glanced at Matt. He hadn't said a word since they sat, and a half-eaten pile of food remained on his plate. “What about yours?” she asked.
“It's not so bad.” Then his stomach growled and squealed.
“You sure?”
“How can you stand this crap?” Raven asked Damon. “My boyfriend will eat anything, but I don't believe even he'd touch this stuff.”
Sarah chuckled. “Just think. He's enjoying Chicken-A-la-King while you get to eat Chicken-A-la-Crap.”
“I don't believe this is chicken,” Emily said. “At least not any part of a chicken I'd want to eat.”
Damon looked at his mountain of goo, his eyes showing a hint of disgust. Then he shrugged and shoved a massive pile into his mouth. The table went quiet except for Sarah, who chuckled to herself.
“What's so funny?” Raven asked.
“Cradle robber,” Sarah blurted out.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“She thinks your boyfriend is a bit on the young side,” Emily said. “She's just messing with you.”
“He's eighteen—a mature eighteen, thank you very much. I'm eighteen, too.” Her lips formed a tiny smile. “He asked me to marry him before I left. We plan to once I get out. If I get out. I didn't want him to buy me a ring, though. Once I put it on, I'm not taking it off, but here they'd probably make me.”
“Aww,” Sarah said. “Make sure you have the ceremony the day after you get out. That way, your children can see your black eyes when you show them your wedding album.”
Raven crossed her arms and leaned back.
“I'm kidding. Besides, any man who still wants to marry a girl with the face of a raccoon is a keeper.”
Now Raven giggled. “He is. Either I got lucky with my memory loss or he's perfect. I don't remember a bad thing about our relationship. Not a fight or argument one. My mom even said she couldn't recall a moment when he and I seemed mad at each other.”
“Almost too good to be true?” Matt said.
“I guess I hit the jackpot.”
For a while the table went quiet as everyone watched Damon drop the last bite of slop into his mouth. “Done,” he said. “Time to get out of here.”
“So what do we do for the rest of the day?” Raven asked.
“Yeah?” Emily asked. “Why do they wake us up so early for such a short orientation?”
“They're getting you accustomed to the routine,” Matt said. “Do whatever you want for now. I doubt we'll be able later.”
“I'm going to the gym,” Damon said. “Then I'll probably get some shut-eye.”
“I need to get my meds,” Emily replied, and stared at Matt. She nudged him in the ribs. “But you already knew that, didn't you?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “Doubtful.”
He stared right back as if he wanted her to test him.
“All right, Mr. Observant, what's wrong with me?”
“Asthma,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “How the—no, wait. Let me guess. You heard me wheezing?”
He tapped Emily's empty pocket. “I saw the outline of your inhaler yesterday.”
“You were checking her out,” Sarah said.
A crimson hue climbed Matt's cheeks. “I saw it right there in her pocket when she was checking on Raven. Anyone would have noticed.”
With the tray in hand, Emily slid off the bench. “You're a terrible liar.” She flipped her wrist toward everyone else in a half-hearted wave. “See the rest of you tomorrow.”
“I'm coming with you,” Sarah said. “I want to see if they have any pain pills. They might appreciate my preemptive strike and give me some.”
“Unlikely,” Matt said. He slapped her on the backside and winked. “Not pills at least.”
Sarah tilted her head and froze. Any witty comeback seemed lost to her confusion.
Emily tugged on Sarah's shirt. “Come on.”
As they dropped their trays off with the dishwasher, Sarah looked at Emily. “Was he hitting on me? He slapped my ass.”
Emily shrugged.
After about a mile of hiking through deserted halls, Emily located the pharmacy deep in the south wing. It consisted of a single sliding-glass wi
ndow next to the clinic but not much else. Behind the counter, an obese woman worked on a crossword puzzle. She glanced at Emily and Sarah, her eyes devoid of any emotion. “Name?”
“Emily Heath.”
The nurse turned and sifted through a plastic blue container with the letter H prominently displayed. “Right here,” she said, and slid a white envelope across the counter. “Anything else?”
Sarah inched closer to the nurse. “Can I get some pain meds?”
The nurse's eyes gleamed, and her lips creased into an exaggerated smile. “Are you in pain?”
Sarah glanced around and seemed to wonder if anyone might question her motives. “Yes. I'm hurting.”
“How bad?”
Sarah rubbed her shoulder and scrunched her face. “Bad.”
“Coming right up.” The nurse bent down, reaching beneath the counter. A moment later she popped back up and brandished a six-inch-long syringe. Clear liquid dripped from the tip and glistened under the fluorescent lights.
“Oh shit,” Emily said.
“Come through the door and drop your pants.”
Sarah's bottom lip quivered, and her wide eyes reflected a perfect image of the needle. “I'm feeling better all of a sudden.” Her voice was monotone.
“We have a struggler,” the nurse shouted over her shoulder.
A green blur rushed out the door, and Emily stared up at the MP's rigid face. He was easily six-six and two hundred and fifty pounds. His eyes hopped from girl to girl. “Which one?”
Sarah cowered behind Emily's back, which gave the soldier his answer. “I feel fine,” she said. “Really. Look.” She performed three jumping jacks.
The nurse chuckled.
The MP grabbed a wad of Sarah's shirt, and Sarah clutched Emily's arm. “No,” Sarah screamed. “I feel fine. I promise.” The brute strength of the MP dragged Sarah inside the clinic, and Sarah's death grip took Emily along for the ride. He yanked Sarah's pants down to her ankles. She looked at Emily through fresh tears.
Walking Ghost Phase Page 8
