MISSION VERITAS (Black Saber Novels Book 1)

by John Murphy

  By now he had his lane to himself. He flew through it, then rejoined the rest of the platoon. He was swift and his time would still garner a perfect score, but it would clearly be his worst time ever.

  Patinka was there, looking smug, hands on her hips. The other drill sergeants were openly chuckling.

  “Private Killian. You look a little tired. Why don’t you take a nap while the platoon goes for a run?”

  * * *

  “Hey! Hey! It’s the cheetah!” Peterson chided as he took the sink next to Killian.

  Killian didn’t look away from his shaving. “Piss off.”

  “How’d you do on your final PFT? Oh, that’s right. You were taking a nap. I thought you looked really well rested tonight.”

  Killian knew that ordinarily, evening showers and free time were filled with insulting banter among the male recruits. But this time it stung.

  “Fuck yourself,” Killian said. He usually savored being clean every night, but tonight he wrangled with how he’d be able to recover after being excluded from completing the final PFT.

  “Don’t worry, man,” Peterson said. “They’ll either let you take a make-up test, or just figure you’d pass anyway. Patinka’s just fuckin’ with your head.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Killian said. Yet it didn’t ease his mind.

  “I got a three hundred—perfect score, thanks for asking.” Peterson lathered his face.

  “Good to know,” Killian said, as he did whenever he didn’t feel like talking. He stopped and stared into the sink, worrying, unable to look into his own eyes in the mirror.

  “I heard they’re handing out duty assignments tomorrow,” Peterson said.

  Killian rinsed his face. “Yeah?”

  “But, the cheetah’s probably fucked, anyway.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Killian said. He started brushing his teeth.

  “Cheetah, cheetah, cheetah!”

  “Fuck you,” Killian said, his mouth full of toothpaste.

  “It’s better than calling you ‘scar,’” Peterson said.

  Killian spit. “I’d rather you call me that.”

  Word about the scars that covered his body had made it through the entire company. A handler at the veterans’ hospital gave him a plausible cover story—that he’d been injured in the car accident that had taken his parents’ lives. Given an ID and documentation to back it up, the story worked well, especially after the sensitivity training classes. Not only did people stop asking, but it helped to explain his solemn nature. Some even expressed sympathy for him.

  “So, what’s the cheetah’s dream job?” asked Peterson.

  Being part of the “mystery team” that had rescued him in Bangkok flashed through his mind. However, he couldn’t explain that.

  “There’s only one place for me,” Killian said. “Infantry.”

  “Ah, infantry. Home of the knuckle-draggers.”

  “Yeah,” Killian chuffed in amusement, “that’s me.”

  “You and Swanson.”

  Killian rolled his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

  “I heard that some rich kids have their parents bribe their way out of shit duty. They get a sponsor by greasing politicians’ palms, and then they get marching band or embassy duty, or get stationed in Hawaii. Shit like that.”

  Killian rinsed his face again and looked at Peterson out of the corner of his eye. “I suspect embassy duty in some places is tougher than you think.”

  “Maybe. But there’s no rolling in dirt, and you wear clean uniforms and sleep in clean sheets every night. And you get to go drinking and screwing in some foreign country.”

  Sometimes you get dead, too.

  Killian stared into the sink. “Well, I don’t have a sponsor, so infantry is all I got.”

  “Me? I put in for computers, logistics, and cook, in that order,” said Peterson. “I want something that will get me a job in the real world when my two years are up.”

  “Good to know.”

  The real world, Killian thought. He felt like he’d left reality back in Bangkok. Basic training seemed nothing short of fantasyland.

  * * *

  “Anderson!” Drill Sergeant Patinka held up a tri-folded piece of paper. “Logistics!” She handed him the orders for his job specialty training school.

  “All right!” he rasped.

  “Good job, soldier,” another recruit cheered from the formation behind him.

  The platoon stood at parade rest in front of the barracks, the morning sun already hot on the recruits’ backs.

  “Balkazar, Medical Support!” Patinka gave out the next set of orders.

  And so it went for each recruit. The degree of excitement varied according to each job assignment and the individual’s popularity. The females squealed for one another, especially for assignments overseas. Patinka tolerated all the enthusiasm and jumping up and down, even the sporadic hugs. She waited until the excitement subsided before handing out the next assignment. It made for a very long roster.

  Killian shifted nervously. No infantry assignments had been handed out. His mind searched for an explanation. Maybe they were holding back until the end.

  “Jensen, Global Alliance Contingent.”

  Jensen growled a victorious, “Yes!” with his fists up in the air, as if he’d won a race.

  Oh God. Hopefully, they’re not going to put me in with the Global Alliance. Killian’s mind raced. He would decline. He’d find a way out of that assignment.

  “Leeland, Communications.” Patinka moved right past Killian.

  He wondered if she had slipped his orders to the end of the stack. Aside from him, she kept going in alphabetical order.

  “Peterson, Computer Support!”

  Peterson had gotten his dream job. It gave Killian a glimmer of hope. They must be saving infantry for last.

  “Ramsey, Infantry!”

  Killian’s ears perked up. Damn it! What was going on?

  “Stevenson, Armored Vehicles!”

  “Swanson, Culinary Services!”

  Thank God, Killian thought.

  “Terry, Infantry!”

  Killian’s mind raced over the possibilities. Why would she put him last? Why was he not getting infantry?

  “Zimmerman, Infantry!” Patinka handed out the last letter of orders.

  Before Killian could raise his hand to inquire about the oversight, Patinka called out, “If you have not received orders, I want you to stand fast. The rest of you, go get in your PT gear and be back out here in fifteen minutes. We’re going to celebrate our destinies with a little motivational run! Fall out!”

  The platoon cheered and clapped one another on the shoulders excitedly. Killian suspected he and the others were being kept back for something more important.

  The crowd moved into its barracks. Killian turned to see who else was going to get a special assignment.

  There was no one else. Cold flushed through his body. Something was very wrong.

  Drill Sergeant Patinka turned to him, gesturing to a woman standing off to the side. “Private Killian, this is Officer Gritvicken. She’s going to escort you to the battalion commanding officer. Do you understand?”

  He looked at the short, stocky woman wearing a gray suit. She was the political officer from the Global Alliance. She had no official capacity, but would often watch the recruits train from a distance. Killian didn’t know her name, but when he’d seen her, he’d always thought of Officer Assecula at the embassy, and how she had let the anarchists in through the front door.

  “Come with me, please, Private,” Officer Gritvicken said.

  It felt like there was icy water sloshing around the inside of Killian’s legs.

  “What’s this about?” he asked, catching up to her.

  “We need to have this discussion in the pre
sence of your commanding officer,” she said, without looking at him.

  He fell in line and matched her waddling footsteps, as was military courtesy.

  As he walked, Killian tried to think through the possibilities. If he had been chosen for Global Alliance Contingent, he would have gotten his order, right along with Jensen. He would have to decline, he reminded himself. What if it were some special unit within the Global Alliance? That would be the worst! He’d be fighting inside the group he had just been fighting against.

  Then it struck him like a jolt of electricity: he’d been found out. He wasn’t getting an assignment at all.

  He was going to prison.

  * * *

  Killian stood at attention as the commanding officer entered and sat at his desk. A tremor raced through Killian’s legs, his stomach knotting up.

  “At ease, soldie—Private,” the commanding officer said, looking down at a wafer-thin computer screen on his desk. His head looked as hard as marble. It even had a glossy sheen, but his forehead was deeply furrowed. “Corporal Lopez,” he said, “close the door, please.”

  A corporal closed the door but remained in the room, standing at parade rest behind Officer Gritvicken.

  The commanding officer focused on Killian. “This is a discharge hearing for Private Vaughn Everett Killian,” the CO said, his voice being recorded on the computer. “I am Major William Strunk, commanding officer of the Sixth Training Battalion in Modesto, California.”

  Discharge?

  Had he not suspected he was going to prison, this news would have come as a kick in the balls. He knew he was miles better than 95 percent of the dopey recruits. Relief washed over him despite the insult. Maybe getting out of this farce would lessen his chances of being discovered. Or, the thought crept in, perhaps this was merely a prelude to prison.

  Strunk went on with the introductory formalities of date and time, training platoon, and so on. He introduced Officer Gritvicken, who represented the Global Alliance, and Corporal Lopez, the US military witness.

  “Private Killian, please verify for me the induction information we have on record. Theodore and Darla Killian are your parents?”

  “Yes, sir. Both are deceased,” Killian said.

  “It says here they died in a car crash.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that you experienced amnesia as a result of that same car crash.”

  “Yes, sir, temporarily—after the car accident, but only a few months, really.” It had been a spontaneous excuse given to the recruiters at the induction center to explain his lack of prior whereabouts.

  “Joseph Killian is your brother?”

  “Yes, sir. Also deceased.” He had no idea where his brother was, though he speculated about it occasionally. The thought of his brother as a fat sergeant in this military embarrassed him. Deceased was easier.

  “I see. Do you have any other family?”

  “None that I know of, sir.” His father had been the youngest of eight, but Killian didn’t know his relatives. He didn’t want to have the military chase them down.

  “I see.” Strunk typed on the screen before him. “No known relatives…”

  The proceeding’s slow pace was in sharp contrast with Killian’s racing mind. The tick, tick, tick of Strunk’s typing was all he could hear.

  He began to wonder if they’d found out about his time in Bangkok at all. He hoped bureaucratic incompetence was in his favor. At the very least, they must have figured out his mother had been the ambassador.

  With over five million eighteen-year-olds signing up for compulsory service each year, and less than one percent choosing military service, they’d seemed eager to have him.

  Possibly, his handler had scrubbed everything clean.

  “Private Killian,” Strunk continued, “your physical fitness scores are excellent; your intelligence scores, excellent—but you are aware of your PMA scores, are you not?”

  PMA stood for “Participation, Motivation, and Attitude.” Yes, he was aware that they’d tried to “Penetrate My Ass,” as they’d called it, and that he’d resisted.

  “No, sir. I’m not aware of any performance issues,” he said. He wasn’t going to give in.

  Strunk frowned. “Hmm…I have page after page of incident reports by Drill Sergeant Patinka that you would, and I quote, ‘outwardly show reluctance to participate in team bonding exercises, emotive communications circles, interpersonal esteem sensitivity training, and id, ego, and superego exploration.’ The list goes on, citing specific dates and sessions. Tell me, Private Killian, is Drill Sergeant Patinka accurate, or is she making this up?”

  A discharge was far better than prison. However, the pettiness of the charges was infuriating.

  “I’d have to see the citations and compare them with my own notes, sir.”

  “Very funny, Private. I’ll take that as a confirmation that what Drill Sergeant Patinka says is accurate.”

  “She does seem very much by the book, sir, if that is of value.”

  “Yes, well, a lot of experience and careful thought went into creating the book. Adhering to it makes a great deal more sense than trying to accommodate the individualistic and inexperienced whims of those being trained. Our job is to get thousands of brash, know-it-all recruits to march to the same drummer.”

  “An admirable mission to be certain, sir.”

  “You see? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. That’s what I call good, old-fashioned, disrespectful sass. Why do you insist on behaving this way?”

  “Sir, if I thought the training worthy of respect, then I would, without doubt, demonstrate more respect.” At least Killian was sincere about that.

  “And what, exactly, do you think respect-worthy training looks like?”

  “When I think of military training, sir, I think of learning how to fight and how to wage war, not how to prop up one another’s self-esteem.”

  Officer Gritvicken stepped closer. “It’s that very cowboy mentality that we have worked hard to drive out of the military, Private Killian. Young boys have grand delusions of battles, honor, and glory. What we have managed to create is a military that is about respect and service for the good of the people. At the center of that are teamwork, interpersonal communications, and understanding of those who think differently than you.”

  “I agree with Officer Gritvicken 100 percent, Private Killian,” Strunk said. “This is no longer your father’s military. Our priorities have evolved. We’ve come a long way from our barbaric past. Our focus is on peace, not war. We are peacekeepers, son.”

  Killian’s face twisted with confusion and concealed anger. “If I may ask, sir, how does the military go about keeping the peace if not through acts of war? What is the need for a military?”

  Officer Gritvicken turned to the CO. “Major Strunk, may I?”

  Strunk waved for her to continue. Gritvicken, in turn, motioned toward two chairs. “Private Killian, please, have a seat.”

  Killian sat reluctantly. Gritvicken sat on the chair next to him, her knees almost touching his. She took his hand and held it in hers. Killian squirmed inside at the thought of being treated like a child. His hands had killed people. They didn’t need comforting. He gritted his teeth at her attempt to console him.

  “Vaughn—may I call you that?”

  Killian nodded, despite his disgust.

  She continued, “Vaughn, the world is at peace under the Global Alliance. The Carthenogens have taught us a great deal about cooperation and sitting down and talking things out.”

  Killian swallowed dryly. He had endured torture, he reminded himself; he could endure this.

  “I can certainly understand how you might dream of battles, whooping and hollering, shooting guns, and glory. It’s every boy’s dream. But war is an awful thing and to be avoided at all costs.”

 
The savagery of war had never been his dream. Now it was the only thing he knew, and he wanted back in.

  “So why have a military at all?” he asked.

  Strunk interjected, “I can see where you’re coming from, Vaughn. Our new mission is to provide humanitarian aid and security in those efforts. When natural disasters occur, for example, a great deal of looting and interpersonal exploitation erupts from the less fortunate in society. Our military mission is to protect the civilians until things are brought back into order. We have weapons to suppress that kind of exploitation—to keep the peace.”

  Killian knew firsthand about suppression. He’d also witnessed exploitation and atrocities by the Global Alliance soldiers that defied such a simplistic explanation. If he had lived a normal life, like his fellow recruits, he would have bought this line. But he hadn’t lived a normal life, and the discrepancy between what they said and what he’d lived made him want to tear his own eyes out.

  “What happens when one country invades another?” he asked, his tone respectful despite his frustration.

  “That’s the beauty of the Global Alliance!” Gritvicken said. “In our charter, we insist that sovereign nations maintain their own military organizations for humanitarian assistance and security. The Global Alliance Defense Force has taken on the responsibility of ‘keeping the peace,’ to use the major’s words, between disagreeing nations. We intervene in cases of aggressive conflicts to bring the parties into common understanding and agreement.”

  “So the Global Alliance decides what is right and wrong, and who is right and who is wrong?”

  “Yes!” Gritvicken said. “Peace is right and war is wrong. We help the disagreeing parties to come to a peaceful agreement!”

  Killian sat back in his seat, withdrawing his hand from Gritvicken’s. “And uses force when one or the other doesn’t comply?”