by Lee Stephen
Catalina sighed and eased her stance.
Mark went on. “Rules say we can’t bash a locked door. Leslie Kelly, get over here.”
According to exercise protocol, a locked door could only be opened by a technician, thus giving them a purpose in training situations like these. At the Academy, there were real things for technicians to deal with, such as genuine alien control panels and door mechanisms. But for something like this, it was all about role playing. At least Leslie would get to do something now. In preparation for Leslie’s entrance, Catalina turned back to the front door.
It hit her dead in the face—an eruption of yellow paint that enveloped her visor, completely blocking out her visibility. Catalina jumped; it felt like her heart leapt out of her throat.
“You’re down,” said Tacker. “Go outside.”
It took the Canadian a moment to realize what had happened. Tacker had come in from outside. He’d completely flanked everyone. And just like that, she was out of the fight.
Tacker was followed by two other men, neither of whom Catalina recognized. Without so much as a glance to her, they stalked past her in pursuit of Mark and Javon. Furious and frustrated, she ripped off her paint-covered helmet.
Gunfire erupted from the far end of the building, where Donald’s team had come. They’d been flanked, too, probably from the other half of Tacker’s squad. But Catalina was too livid to care.
Walking out through the door, she slammed her helmet to the mud. The rain was still steady, but now she didn’t care. Gun at her side, she stormed toward the concrete pillars. Leslie was there, sitting rain-soaked in the mud. The technician’s paint-splattered helmet was sheltered under her arm.
“You too?” asked Catalina.
Leslie smiled sadly. “They actually came out of the roof. Shot me before I even realized what was happening. They got Frank, too.”
Wiping her hair back, Catalina looked across the muddy field at Frank. The medic was laying back in the mud, helmet on, sprawled out like a snow angel. “How the hell’d they come out the roof?”
“Musta been a door leading to the roof from inside. I didn’t even see them until they got me.”
Gunfire raged on in the building. Catalina wondered how many Charlie Squadders had been killed, and if Mark and Javon were still holding on. But now her sense of camaraderie was gone. Now she wanted them to die.
“Have a seat,” Leslie said, patting the mud.
“I want to stand.” Catalina’s eyes stayed fixated on the wooden building. “I can’t believe I was the first to get dropped in there.” It enraged her. “I know what’s coming, too. I know what Tacker’s going to say, that this was the same way I almost got killed on that mission, from behind by a necrilid. God, that makes me so mad! How many did Tacker have with him?”
“Looked like six. Half of ’em went to the back.”
Catalina watched as her teammates walked out the front door, their armor stained with yellow spots from head to toe. It was no mystery as to who won the battle. Their body language screamed their defeat.
Tacker’s voice came over the comm. He didn’t sound pleased or frustrated. Just matter-of-fact. “Everybody, form a row.”
Leslie stood up, slipping on her helmet. “Time to get yelled at.”
Tacker emerged behind the Charlie Squadders, engaged in what appeared to be a jovial conversation with one of his fellow “aliens.” She’d never seen the man before, and could say the same thing about all of Tacker’s comrades for the exercise. She only knew they weren’t in Falcon Platoon. As Tacker’s counterpart neared, she glanced at his nametag. Donner. Never heard of him.
Tacker shook the man’s hand. “Until next time, lieutenant.”
“Lookin’ forward to it, major.”
Donner walked away, the other hostiles following behind him, leaving Tacker alone with Charlie. Tacker’s stare found Catalina, who was the only one not fully geared. “Where’s your helmet?”
Before she could explain that she’d chunked it in the mud, Mark walked past her and slammed it in her hands. It was a violent motion, one indicative of displeasure. It also made it more than obvious that in the mind of the red-haired smart aleck, the failed mission was on her. Catalina glared at him as he fell in line.
“There’s not much to be said,” said Tacker. He didn’t sound as angry as he did unsurprised. “We killed all of you, you killed two of us. You outnumbered us nine to six. I didn’t set this thing up. Grade yourselves.” With that, Tacker stepped back, turned around, and walked away. He didn’t even formally dismiss them. His manner of departure was statement enough.
That was just fine with Catalina. Pulling off her helmet again, she marched toward Mark. “Way to make it not look like my fault, you dregg.”
Mark pulled off his own helmet. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was it someone else who was supposed to be watching the rear?”
Javon stepped in. “This don’t help, guys.”
“Keep it out, J,” Tom said, approaching them. “Tramp the reason we dead.”
Catalina’s mouth fell. “What did you say?”
“You heard me, rock star. We had our six covered ’till you got your boys gassed. Scat, who you think got all our kills?”
“I bet it was you, Tom,” she spat back.
“Veckin’ straight, me and D!” Tom looked back at Demorian. “Tramp can’t check her six, get us all killed!”
“Back off her, Tom,” said Mark.
Tom turned Mark’s way. “You tellin’ me to back off? What about you? You can call it like it is, but a black man gotta be quiet?”
“Guys,” Javon said, “y’all need to calm down.”
Tom shook Javon off. “No, I wanna hear this lava-top cracka. Why you can call it like it is but a black man gotta be quiet?”
“Don’t even try to pull me into that racism crap,” said Mark.
“Wait, wait,” interrupted Demorian, speaking for the first time. “Racism crap?”
“Funny thing we only heard Peters over the comm from y’all end,” said Tom, glaring at Mark. “I guess Javon never had a chance to lead, huh? Sucks to be a brother in a team full of tighty-whities.”
Mark’s rebuttal came quickly. “Command was never even a question. Javon could have taken it, but he didn’t. How’s that my fault?”
“How come you can call it like it is with your little witch, but a black man gotta be quiet? Answer that, homie.”
“I’m about to give you more than an answer.”
“I’ll bust you in your mouth.”
Catalina stepped between them. “Okay, timeout—”
Without warning, Tom slapped her in the face. She gaped in disbelief; everyone else froze.
Tom looked squarely at Mark. “I guess a black man can’t do that either, huh?”
That was all it took. Mark launched himself, veins bulging, straight into Tom’s chest. Tom landed flat on his back in the mud. The melee began.
Mark landed two punches on Tom’s nose. Leonard grabbed Mark and flung him to the ground. Demorian leapt atop him.
Catalina screamed and tried to pull Demorian off, but Tom grabbed her from behind and threw her aside, only to be grabbed himself by Javon. Everything was happening at once. It was out of control.
“What the hell is going on?”
The crew of Charlie Squad, strewn about in the mud, quickly looked up. It was Tacker. His nostrils were flared like a horse’s.
“Get up! King, get up! Peters, Mott! Shivers! What in the hell?”
The mud-covered operatives snapped to attention.
“It’s not shameful enough that you can’t pass a simple breaching exercise? You have to degenerate into this?” His veins bulged. “You can’t succeed in the field, you can’t succeed as a team. What can you succeed at?” None of the operatives breathed. “I’ve been in EDEN for seven vecking years, and I have never—never—been this ashamed to be a part of a unit. You think this is a joke? You think you’re in college, you think this is a frat party? We’re
defending the Earth!”
Catalina stared down. Raindrops rippled across the puddles beneath her. She felt totally vulnerable.
Tacker pointed at the ground by their feet. “Pick up your gear, clean yourselves off, and get to your rooms.”
She felt like a child being scolded by her father. Her sunken eyes lifted just enough to stare at the wooden building behind Tacker. The whole purpose of this had been to grow as a team—to learn. She couldn’t blame Tacker for a thing he was saying. Her focus shifted to him again, just briefly, just enough to see the look on his face as he turned to walk away for a second time. She’d never seen him like that before.
As instructed, the muddy operatives of Charlie Squad picked up their gear and made their way to their quarters. This time, no one said a thing.
* * *
LILAN’S BOOTS clopped as he walked through the command wing. He was one hour away from an appointment with Strom Faerber, son of the legendary Vector Squad captain. The meeting had weighed heavily on his mind since its first being mentioned, not because of who Strom was, but because of what it meant for Lilan himself. Hutchin’s words to Lilan had been to keep Strom “clean.” Keep a potentially elite soldier out of combat.
Babysit.
Underneath Lilan’s own feelings of uselessness was disdain for the preferential treatment Strom was receiving. While his other operatives would be risking their necks on the battlefield, Strom was supposed to be kept clean? He was relatively sure that Charlie Squad wasn’t concerned about “staying clean” while they were outside training in the monsoon. The contrast made Lilan sick.
The colonel was about to round a corner when one of the glass doorways in the building swung open. He glanced habitually in its direction, pausing only when he saw who stormed through it. It was Tacker. The major was soaking wet, mud splattering his boots and uniform. He looked rabid. “John?”
Tacker’s glare found Lilan immediately. “I want out.” He marched past Lilan with neither pause nor salute.
Lilan blinked. “What?”
Tacker continued walking away.
“John? John!” Lilan’s voice rose. “Major Tacker!”
Tacker stopped and turned around, his glare matching Lilan’s tone. “I want a transfer—I want out. Demote me to lieutenant and ship me to Young’s platoon, I don’t care. I’m not doing this anymore.”
Lilan stared silently.
“You had an opportunity to do something with your career,” Tacker said. “You could retire tomorrow and spend the rest of your life knowing you made a difference. What can I say? That I wasted my time trying to train children?” He pointed back to the door as if to identify the accused. “I’ve tolerated more than my fair share in this platoon. I put up with you when you lost command’s trust. I put up with Hutchin while he defecated on everything we accomplished. I put up with missions better suited for cadets than soldiers.”
“John—”
“If you respect me, if you care at all about the loyalty I’ve shown you for years, sticking with you when others would have bailed out months ago, then send me somewhere where I can actually make a difference.”
An ache crawled from Lilan’s stomach up into his throat. It was like his thoughts coming to life—his relevance crumbling in the span of a tirade. Everything Tacker was saying was absolutely true. Lilan’s unit was green. He was babysitting celebrities. He was going nowhere. How could he force Tacker—a good soldier and a better man—to share that same fate? Slowly, Lilan nodded his head.
Tacker exhaled quietly. As if in relief. “Thank you, sir.” Shouldering his still-dripping training rifle, the major turned and walked away.
When Lilan walked into his office, he closed and locked the door. He had forty-five minutes before Strom was scheduled to meet him, but now the appointment was the last thing on his mind.
He stood in the middle of his office, his gaze floating over the rows of photographs that adorned his walls. There were no pictures of a family. None of a wife—not even a dog. Every single photograph was of Falcon Platoon. And there was one that stood out above them all. It was a picture of Falcon Platoon’s last true command staff, before the once-proud unit had been decimated in Cleveland over a year ago. There, near the center of the picture, stood a young then-commander with a sniper rifle. His was the most familiar face the colonel knew.
Walking gingerly to his desk, Lilan lowered himself into his chair. He placed his elbow on the chair’s armrest, propping his fist against his mouth as his teeth clenched behind closed lips. His jaw quivered as his aching grew worse. Then, for a second time, he found a photograph—this one on his desktop. But it wasn’t the photo itself that captured his attention. It was his own reflection in the surface of the glass. As he stared at the fatigued look in his eyes, a hard realization came to him. One that’d never come quite this way before: he was old.
Sucking in gently, he pushed back his chair and opened his drawer, pulling out a form on a single sheet of paper. A transfer request.
He filled it out with trembling hands.
12
MONDAY, MARCH 12TH, 0012 NE
1000 HOURS
FORTY MINUTES LATER
LILAN’S DETACHMENT finally ended when a knock came to his door. Standing quickly from his chair, he grabbed the sides of his uniform and tugged down hard. He cleared his throat. “Come in.” He could see the blurry form of Strom’s well-framed figure through the door’s frosted glass. The boy was big.
It had taken almost the full duration of Lilan’s time alone to fill out Tacker’s transfer request. What little time that remained had been spent in quiet reflection. Despite what his schedule demanded, the last thing on Lilan’s mind was Strom Faerber. He knew that General Hutchin saw this meeting as important—it meant a lot that Strom would be garrisoned at Richmond. But even that bothered Lilan. No soldier—son of a legend or not—should have been above an entire base. There were better things Lilan could have been doing with his time, such as training his operatives. Perhaps, had he been working with Charlie Squad instead of Tacker, the major wouldn’t have wanted to leave in the first place.
When Strom walked through the door, Lilan’s jaw almost dropped. It wasn’t the fact that Strom was a spitting image of his father, from his squared jaw, to his blond crew cut, to his bright blue eyes. It wasn’t the fact that Strom literally had rectangular shoulders. Neither of those things caught Lilan off guard. What caught him off guard was that Strom was in a suit. A black-on-black, high-fashion suit, complete with matching black tie and gray dress shirt. He looked like a CEO.
Strom closed the door, then turned to face Lilan. He assumed an attention stance that looked as awkward as it did inappropriate for his wardrobe. His expression was reserved.
Lilan couldn’t stifle his words. “Why the hell are you in a suit?”
Strom shifted uncomfortably. “It’s for the press.” His German accent, though there, was not as deep as his father’s. He spoke English almost as well as an American.
“The press?”
Strom’s voice was subdued. “Yes, sir. The media wants me to do a press conference after our meeting. They found out I’d be stationed here this morning and wanted me to address them...unless ordered otherwise.”
Lilan laughed in amazement. “You mean to tell me you intend to go straight from our meeting—your first meeting with your commanding officer—to a doggone press conference?”
The German angled his head purposefully. “Yes, sir...unless ordered otherwise...”
At the repetition of those three words—unless ordered otherwise—Lilan looked at Strom strangely. Each word had been carefully emphasized, willingly laid on the table for Lilan to dissect. Strom was giving him a hint.
For the first time, the colonel scrutinized Strom’s expression. There was something buried beneath the soldier’s confidently reserved exterior. Expectancy—with a pinch of hopefulness. All of a sudden, the truth couldn’t have been more evident. Strom had absolutely no desire to go to a p
ress conference. Not one iota. “You hate this, don’t you?”
Strom nodded his head. “Yes, sir. Very much, sir.”
Arms crossed, Lilan stared at the soldier. His preconceived perception of Strom Faerber faded. “Why are you here, private?”
“To fight,” Strom answered immediately. “To be a soldier. To become more than my father ever dreamt of becoming. And to win this war.”
There, standing in front of Lilan, was the son of Klaus Faerber. Hyped. Glorified. And in an ironic twist of fate, undervalued. What Lilan saw on Strom’s face was deeply-seeded frustration. A young man who knew his potential, but wasn’t being allowed to reach for it. He saw someone being forced into a role he was better than. Just like a certain old colonel. “You know,” said Lilan, arms still folded, “the general told me to keep you clean.”
Strom smiled pathetically.
“Get out of that suit and into training gear, and yes, that’s an order. No press conferences today.”
“Yes, sir, thank you.” The German’s grin widened genuinely. Offering a closing salute, he quickly stepped from the room.
Lilan could hear the rain pounding outside. Strom had stayed dry so far. But that was going to change. The day was young, and the training grounds were muddy. Keep Strom clean? Not a chance.
He had a feeling the young German wouldn’t mind.
* * *
CATALINA OPENED Room 419’s door and tossed down the damp towel she’d used to dry her hair. She waved lethargically as Tiffany looked from her bunk.
“Where have you been?”
Closing the door, Catalina padded to the sink. “Taking a shower.”
“Duh, I meant all day.”
“We did some training this morning. I told you that yesterday.” Looking in the mirror, Catalina eyed the pimple sprouting on her cheek. “I’m about to just pop this thing.”
“Don’t pop it. Use one of my pads.”
Pulling out the sink drawer, Catalina removed a cleaning pad. She caressed the pimple.
“So how did training go?”
“Terrible. I don’t even want to talk about it.”
