Midnight Skills

by William Allen

  And on top of everything else, Chambers continued to demonstrate just how much shielded ordnance and equipment his department had managed to squirrel away. The drones might be the most obvious and painful example, but the armor and advanced weapons systems still made Fisher more than a little envious. Who knew you could shield a whole fucking MLRS system underground, for instance. That had been a painful lesson for the Allied States, one that’d cost his company nearly half their men, and ended up claiming over two hundred soldiers killed that dreadful day.

  Unaware that his lieutenant was busy woolgathering, Master Sergeant Knolls’ reply caught him off-guard.

  “If Messner’s good, we’ll be glad to have him. If he’s not, he won’t last long with Hernandez. Our recon boys are always on the sharp end.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “Rise and shine, kid!”

  The call caught Luke on the edge of sleep, resting on a field cot in the transient enlisted men’s barracks, which was a nice way of saying ‘big-ass circus tent’. Staggering to his feet, Luke slipped his boots on and grabbed the pack and his rifle. The new uniform felt prickly against Luke’s arms and legs, but he was beyond the point of bitching about too much starch in his laundry.

  Checking at his waist, he felt the pistol and the rest of his belt gear still in place. After feeling the bite of the holster at his hip all night, Luke suspected that was the case, but a quick status check with knowing fingers confirmed the obvious.

  With the sun still behind the horizon, the first light of false dawn cast long shadows when Luke stepped out of the tent and into the cold, wet gloom. Glancing around, Luke felt some surprise he was alone with the young corporal who’d roused him this morning. The corporal was about twenty, maybe more, with tanned skin and dark eyes, and a dusting of whiskers that reminded Luke he needed to shave again sometime soon.

  “Somebody sent you just to get me?” Luke asked.

  “You are Private Messner, right? I did roust the right bunk?”

  “That’s correct. Lucas Messner. Friends call me Luke.”

  “I’m Mansour. Yeah, only got word to grab you, so I guess that makes you special. You just get in?” the young corporal asked, clearly curious.

  “Yesterday morning. Went through the pop quiz and sent to the bunks.”

  “Well, Sergeant Hernandez wants to see you this morning, so let’s go see what Gilberto wants, shall we?” Mansour quipped, and Luke fell in behind the young man.

  The corporal led the way as the duo approached an ancient, primer-gray Chevy pickup lacking the passenger side door and back glass.

  “This thing run?” Luke asked, more to make conversation than anything else.

  “No, kid, I’m just fucking with you,” the corporal replied with exaggerated scorn. “Of course it works. Now stow your gear, shut your mouth, and mount up.”

  “Aren’t you worried about drones?” Luke asked.

  “Man, if the Commies have enough stockpiled to go wasting a missile on this piece of crap, we are screwed anyway. Nah, this is the platoon transport for that reason. We go most everywhere on foot, but this truck allows the LT to haul a few extra bags of mush, spare ammo, and the medic.”

  Dismissing Mansour and his surly attitude, Luke did as he was ordered and tried to scan his surroundings with care when the truck belched its way to life. The truck rode rough, with a suspension that needed work, but Luke barely registered the bounce as he stared out the cracked windshield and gawked as the small city of Joplin, MO rolled into view.

  “It’s like nothing ever happened,” Luke announced with a sigh. “The buildings are all still standing, and people are just walking the streets.”

  “Yeah, they’ve had it easy,” Mansour replied sourly. “But that’s all about to change. Chambers wants this town and their power plant, and he’ll do anything to get it.”

  “They really have power? I don’t see any lights on right now,” Luke inquired, his eyes still on the move. He saw plenty of houses and several businesses boasting smoking chimneys but other than wood stoves and fireplaces, Luke didn’t know how they were heating their buildings. The cold wasn’t severe today, hovering just above freezing, the young man thought, but still chilly with the missing truck door.

  Mansour gave Luke a dismissive wave and a snort.

  “Jeez, kid, they got power, but most of the transformers are still shot,” Mansour chided the teenaged soldier. “That one power plant doesn’t have enough juice to light up the city anyway, and the coal stocks might run out before spring. Like I said, shit’s about to get real here. If their local cops and the city and county executives hadn’t acted fast like they did, this whole place would have been gone in a pillar of smoke.”

  While Mansour continued deeper into the city, Luke saw more adaptations to the current situation when Mansour steered around a couple of sandbagged redoubts and a car park occupied with over a dozen howitzers spread out into camouflaged revetments. Three times, Mansour stopped at military checkpoints and three times, they were cleared after a quick inspection of the truck and a glance at Mansour’s handwritten orders.

  “Security lax, or do the guards all know you?” Luke asked, finally getting over his excitement at seeing the mostly intact city.

  “This ain’t lax, kid, and I do a bit of traveling for the Lieutenant. Comes with being in Second Squad. We’re his eyes and ears.”

  On the north side of town, the corporal steered the slow-moving truck off to the side of the road and eased the rattle-trap vehicle into a detached carport nestled up next to a dilapidated old crackerbox-style house. The whole area had a deserted air to it, and Luke felt his hackles rise.

  “Evacuated?” he asked, and the older man just nodded while he began unloading his gear from the truck, and Luke quietly followed suit. He slung on the heavy pack, snapping on the carry straps, and secured the adjustable sling on his rifle to hang under his right arm. When Mansour stepped off at a ground-eating pace, Luke made sure to follow, but kept up a five-meter interval.

  The duo walked in silence for nearly twenty minutes, crossing the deserted northern edge of town and approached the perimeter of another smaller camp encircled with Hesco barriers. Mansour led them to a manned checkpoint, this one looking more serious, and one man checked Mansour’s papers while the other three guards kept up a cautious watch on the surrounding streets. Judging from their actions, these men either had reason to be spooked or were simply new to their jobs. Luke guessed it was the former.

  Luke realized he was now on the Joplin Line. The line, which Luke quickly realized, amounted to a series of concentric trenches and constantly upgraded bastions, representing the jagged edge where Commie and Allied forces ground against each other. This was the front, and everywhere he looked, Luke saw signs of the conflict as he rolled past blasted ruins that used to be homes and frost-rimmed craters marking the near misses. Luke thought he would feel fear at the grim monuments, but the numb ache he carried inside kept his nerves steady.

  Once inside the tight compound, Mansour conducted Luke in a detour around a canvas-draped motor pool. A quick peek revealed a large number of what Luke realized were semi rigs attached to metal-sided cattle trailers. These trucks made a tempting target for the other side, and Luke couldn’t help glancing skyward. Finally, Luke had to ask about this.

  “That our transport into battle?”

  Mansour looked over and shook his head before answering.

  “No. Like I said, other than that one truck, we go everywhere on foot. Old school infantry. No, that’s for evacuating civilians.” Mansour caught Luke’s eye, and for once, the condescending act disappeared. “We hold here while the standby drivers fall back to the occupied neighborhoods. In case we have a breakthrough somewhere along the line. These bastards have a track record of massacring non-combatants, you know.”

  Luke did know, and felt the familiar anger burning in his belly. He’d felt cooped up and useless this last week, and he wanted an opportunity to prove himself to these men. A
chance to earn his way into the fight, if that was what he had to do.

  After taking another path away from the main collection of warehouses, Mansour guided Luke to a small, metal-sided building that looked like an enclosed garage, and stopped at the side door. Knocking sharply on the door twice, then pausing, then knocking three times rapidly, Mansour stepped back and gave Luke a warning look.

  When the door cracked open, Luke saw the sentry carried a short-barreled carbine at low ready. Giving Mansour a cutting look, the guard then turned his attention to Luke.

  “You got a name?”

  “Private Messner,” Luke replied.

  “Sarge wants to see you,” he announced unnecessarily and took a step back, beckoning Luke and his escort inside.

  The interior of the small shop consisted of four open car bays, separated by rolling tool boxes and equipment stands. Doing a quick headcount, Luke saw there were approximately thirty bedrolls laid out and realized this was a platoon barracks. Trailing Mansour, Luke found himself being led to a small grouping of three other men and he took the few seconds to study them in detail.

  The oldest of the three men looked to be in his early thirties, with dark smudges under his brown eyes and an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Luke couldn’t gauge his height with the man sitting, but he could tell the soldier had a squat build like a powerlifter. Like everybody else, he wore his issue combat gear as if he were ready to roll in an instant, rifle suspended in front on a tactical sling. The other two soldiers looked younger, with uniforms that looked fairly fresh-issued. Suddenly, Luke realized what he was missing when he noticed none of the men wore body armor. From this observation, Luke concluded they had access to some military stores, but not everything available to a Regular Army unit.

  “You Messner?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Luke replied, refocusing his attention.

  “I’m Hernandez. Lieutenant Fisher has me ramrodding Second Squad. He said you’ve got some militia experience and training. He thinks you may be able to contribute with minimal lead time.”

  “We call it the Home Guard, Sergeant. Militia just sounds so…anti-government,” Luke replied with a faint smile. “And I’ve done a little private military contracting before that.”

  Hernandez gave Luke a stone-faced response, his faint grunt the only indication he’d heard Luke’s words.

  “You get your issue gear yet?”

  “No, Sergeant. This is all personal items. Most of it came dead Commies, though.”

  Hernandez tilted his head at Luke’s words, as if reassessing something, before he spoke again.

  “Second Squad does most of the scouting for Third Platoon, Charlie Company. We’re heading out in thirty minutes. Dig out and stow whatever you don’t want to hump, then Mansour will go through your pack to make sure you’re squared away. Any questions?”

  “No, Sergeant. Ready to get to work.”

  Luke had already spent time winnowing down his pack. With his father a basket-case and Mike not much better, he’d consulted with David over what he should take. The answer, of course, was every force multiplier he had in his arsenal, and plenty of batteries.

  “What’s in this box? And this one? And why do you have all these batteries?”

  Mansour dug through the kid’s massive civilian-style backpack and found an odd assortment of items from the mundane to the lethal, and on to the plain inexplicable.

  “That’s a set of night vision goggles,” Luke explained patiently, not bothering to explain why he’d brought two of them, “and that is a thermal scope for my rifle. Those batteries are for the boxed items. They eat them like candy, unfortunately. That pistol stays, since it is both my second backup and it has sentimental value.”

  “Okay, but just remember, you’re going to be hauling all this shit for fifteen, twenty miles today and tonight. Quietly. That extra hydration bladder is probably a good idea,” Mansour said approvingly, “and so are the spare socks. Can’t have too many pairs of dry socks. But you aren’t approved to have these goggles or that thermal scope. Where’d you get them, anyway? I don’t think this generation of night vision is even approved for civilian sales.”

  Luke, feeling a bit peevish at this soldier pawing through his pack, gave a low growl when he answered. “Same place I got most of this stuff. Like I told Master Sergeant Knolls, I got it off dead Commie stormtroopers. Back when we just called them Homeland Security and figured that was close enough. Nobody gave me shit, and nobody is taking my gear.”

  “All right, all right,” Mansour held up a placating hand. This kid had some good loot, and he wouldn’t be needing it when he was dead, so best let him carry it for the time being. Plenty of time to pick it up, later, when the newbie wouldn’t be needing it.

  Once Mansour decided he’d seen everything there was to see, he sent Luke over to grab a patch of ground and a bowl of mush for breakfast, while he and Hernandez went over the map set for this day’s scouting run. The new kid and the other two greenies, fresh out of the abbreviated boot camp, just needed to follow the lead of their betters, and this operation would go down as another win in the lieutenant’s book.

  Twenty minutes later, the five soldiers headed out. Mansour walked point while the three new guys marched along in the middle with Sergeant Hernandez covered their rear. They all wore the makeshift white smocks, made from formerly white sheets split and stitched, inexpertly, into ponchos. Luke claimed one from a pile, only to find a red stain in the middle, partially washed out to a dull rose color. He didn’t have to ask what’d happened to the former owner, but he took a second to rub some dirt on the cantaloupe-sized discoloration.

  The objective, as the sergeant explained in his five-minute briefing, was a lumberyard situated five miles to the east, and about a half mile inside what they thought was Committee territory. The idea was to simply hold up there for twenty-four hours and observe the area for enemy activity. If the enemy made a move in strength on the two-lane road that ran north and south in front of the store, their orders required a coded transmission before falling back to their lines.

  Luke carried his own map for the Newton County area, and he thought about Mansour’s warning of a long march. He quickly realized the corporal’s route took them well to the south and the five men looped around the most likely avenue for running into enemy scouts. Five miles in a straight line morphed into a solid twelve miles of hiking, with frequent breaks to scan their surroundings for signs of the enemy having passed this way.

  For Luke, it was an excruciatingly slow pace. Not that he’d earned his forest ninja badge yet, but for Luke, the other four men, including Sergeant Hernandez, seemed incapable of scanning the woods while moving. Silcott showed the most aptitude, but he still kept his head down too much. Like walking and chewing bubble gum, this task eluded their skillset.

  Nearly halfway to their objective, Luke caught a glimpse of something in the weeds alongside their path. Despite Luke’s urging, Sergeant Hernandez insisted the squad use a narrow game path that ran roughly parallel to the route he wanted anyway. The mission was on a timeline and Hernandez wanted to be able to report in as directed, using the ancient PRC-77 radio hauled around by Beatty. Luke thought he knew Master Sergeant Knolls, and by extension, Lieutenant Fisher, well enough to believe neither man wanted their squad sacrificed for no other reason than to make an arbitrary deadline.

  Signaling a halt, using the clenched fist sign, Luke dropped to one knee and carefully examined the piece of trash that’d caught his eye. Gesturing to a frowning Hernandez, he spoke softly, his voice too faint to carry on the breeze.

  “Somebody came through within the last three hours,” Luke explained.

  “How can you tell from a piece of trash?” Hernandez demanded.

  Mansour, aware of something to the rear, abandoned his job of watching their front and began to drift back and closed on their formation. Luke, catching the movement, shook his head. Amateurs, he thought.

  “I can tel
l because this piece of paper is not damp with dew, and it is the top from an MRE box, Sergeant,” Luke explained slowly. No sense in creating any more confusion.

  “So, where are they now?” Hernandez demanded.

  “Probably another thousand meters up this trail, setting up an ambush for us,” Luke replied grimly.

  “Why? They’re heading in the wrong direction to be an enemy unit,” Mansour insisted.

  “Not if they were scouting us last night, and now the team is heading in to report. If they’re on to us, it would be prudent to set an ambush to dissuade pursuit,” Luke explained, suddenly wondering where the hell these scouts had been hiding out during this fight. Luke was still new to this whole organized mayhem business, but ambushing the enemy just made sense. This whole campaign around Joplin had been building in size, if not intensity for months, so he figured they would be more savvy in their tactics.

  The mention of an ambush took the wind out of Mansour’s sails, and Hernandez gestured for Luke to continue. Glancing around, Luke gestured for the other men to step off the trail. If they were going to bunch up like a gaggle of honking geese, the least Luke could do was take them out of the most obvious path. Closing his eyes and pinching his brow, Luke once again reconsidered his idea for adding his strength to the fight here.

  Once the five men assumed a circular kneeling formation behind a tiny clot of dead berry bushes, Hernandez resumed quizzing Luke over his arbitrary decision to stop the patrol and deviate from their mapped and plotted trail. He kept his voice low, but the intensity remained high.

  “Okay,” Luke finally conceded, and he drew in a slow breath. “Sergeant, can the men take the thirty-minute lunch break here, instead of at the next waypoint?”

  That was something else Luke had never seen before. Lunchbreak? The plan didn’t label the half hour pause as such, but Luke heard the men discussing the chance to heat their precious MREs and take their boots off for a few blessed minutes and rest. From what Luke had been taught, these men seemed to be missing some key points.