by John Murphy
Killian was at a loss. He couldn’t think of anyone to write his note to. He decided to write to Captain Leon. His parents would never have approved of him taking this course in life, anyway. They’d been distraught when Killian’s brother, Joe, had chosen the military.
Five years older than Killian, Joe had always been in conflict with his parents and had come to represent family discord. He and Vaughn had never been close. It seemed like a century ago that they’d lived in Washington, DC. Vaughn hadn’t been around when his brother left, and they’d never said good-bye. Considering that Vaughn thought the world was at war, he figured his brother was dead.
Of anyone, he wished Captain Leon could see him now. He hoped to live up to the expectations and ideals that Captain Leon had represented. He thought a message to a dead man was probably ridiculous, but it was heartfelt. Better a dead man he’d known and respected then a brother he’d barely known—dead or alive.
* * *
As Houlihan continued to bark orders to the candidates, Commanders Burdette and Connor conferred off to the side.
Connor gave Burdette a half-crooked smile. “So, Burdie, care to take any bets?”
Because they were of equal rank and similar billets, they were accustomed to calling each other by nicknames or first names.
“Alex, you know the rules about betting on candidates. They’re not racehorses,” Burdette said.
“I know, I know. No money. Just a validation of each other’s…professional intuition. I can tell by looking in their eyes who is going to make it and who is going to flake. Houlihan can, too. He can really shake ’em up.”
“I can’t play with you on this cycle. It’s about much more than who’s qualified.”
“Is this about the vice president’s son?”
“I can’t say anything without tainting your normal methods of evaluation.”
“I see,” Connor said. “Well, I’m more than happy to stay out of the politics of it. My interest is in finding good operatives. I’ll leave the cloak-and-dagger stuff to you. But I do have my intuitions. Let’s hope there are no casualties this cycle.”
“Are your intuitions telling you something?”
Commander Connor pressed her lips together but said nothing.
Burdette refocused on the candidates, who were still receiving instructions.
“Stash all of your gear in your lockers,” Houlihan said. “You will shower off your nasty hibernation funk, and you will be issued all the necessary specialized clothing and gear. You will take with you only what we give you, no exceptions. No personal weapons, no mementos, no lucky rabbits’ feet.”
Burdette sighed. “I hope they all come back…”
* * *
Amelia Goreman entered the locker room from the individual stall showers with a towel in her hand and another wrapped expertly around her head. Her bare breasts swayed gently as she sashayed down the center aisle between the gear stalls, like a model on a runway. With her headwrap, she looked like an exotic princess. Her dark-lashed eyes stared ahead, seemingly unaware of those around her. She found her designated stall and hung her towel. She unwrapped her hair, and her wet locks fell to her shoulders and chest. She rubbed her hair with the towel, causing her breasts to shimmy.
All male eyes locked on her “exhibition.”
Basic training was gender divided by way of sleeping quarters. Males often walked around such segregated shower rooms and lavatories in the nude. In mixed-gender environments, it was common modesty for males to wrap towels around their waists and females under their arms. But there was no set rule against nudity in the locker room, however attractive and provocative an individual might be.
The males couldn’t help their furtive glances. The females scowled and averted their eyes in disgust.
“Forgotten how to use a towel, have you?” Carmen asked.
Spalding stared openly at Goreman’s nude body. “Oh, thank you, God! I am so going to love this trip.”
“That behavior is completely inappropriate,” Dohrn hissed. “Would you drool like that over one of the men?”
“If he had tits like that, yes.”
“Shut up, you sexist pervert!”
While everyone was focused on Goreman, Killian slipped into the locker room. His eyes flickered over Goreman as he moved quietly to his gear stall.
All the candidates except Spalding tried to pretend they’d not seen what they’d seen. They pulled on their supraskin bottoms, tops, and footies.
The last one to emerge from the shower was Benson, delayed by having to shave his downy, adolescent beard. He stopped behind Killian with a shocked look. “Damn! What is with your back?”
Damn it, Killian thought.
The question was so loud that no one could ignore it. All eyes turned to Killian—or rather, his back. Scars cut diagonally from his left shoulder to his right flank.
Killian slipped on his supraskin bottoms. “Car accident,” he said matter of factly.
“Holy shit,” Sowell said. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“Must have been some accident. Did you go through the windshield or something?” Benson asked.
“My parents died in the accident. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Kerrington came over to inspect. “Those scars look a little unusual for a car accident. What happened to the restraining systems?”
“They don’t have the same kind of standards in Bangkok,” Killian explained without looking up.
Sowell frowned. “I thought you were from Sacramento.”
Shit!
“I was in Bangkok with my parents before moving to Sacramento.”
“Where’d your parents die, Bangkok or Sacramento?” Kerrington asked, digging deeper.
Shit! Shit!
Usually the mention of his parents dying cut the conversation short. “Bangkok,” Killian replied.
“So how did you get such freakish scars?” Kerrington asked, coming closer. “Did you go through the windshield?”
Killian had to do a better job of keeping control of his story. He turned to face Kerrington. “Why do you want to know so bad?”
“I think it’s important that we know everything about any potential disabilities of anyone on the team. Maybe you shook a screw loose going through the windshield. Maybe you’re physically—or mentally impaired.”
“If I was impaired, do you think I’d be here?”
Kerrington squinted. “I think you’re lying.”
Sowell stepped in. “Come on, man. The guy’s parents died. Leave him alone.”
Killian stared at Kerrington, not acknowledging Sowell.
“It sounds a little fishy to me,” Kerrington said. “Some of your scars look old, some pretty recent. I think you’re hiding something.”
Killian stood fast, staring into Kerrington’s eyes without flinching.
“I think you’re afraid of something,” Kerrington said. “What are you afraid of?”
Killian’s eyes darted to the others, who returned looks of curiosity. Goreman, wrapped in her towel, watched the exchange with a seductively amused look.
Killian slowly drew his eyes back to Kerrington. “Certainly not you.”
Kerrington stepped in close. “Oh? You think you can take me because you’re bigger?”
“Don’t tempt me.” Killian resisted the urge to shove him away. He didn’t want to risk getting kicked out for fighting.
Sowell put a hand on Kerrington’s shoulder. “Come on, Kerrington. No need to start anything.”
Kerrington shook him off. “I’m not starting anything. I just think General Issue here is holding back on something. We’re all about truth on this mission. Don’t you think it’s important we know the truth about each other?”
Killian could no longer resist the urge to shut him down.
“You want the truth?” Killian asked. “I got these scars in a street fight. Now are you happy?”
“Bullshit! Where?”
“In Bangkok.”
“Bang…cock!” Spalding said in his parrot voice.
“Street fight, my ass. You’re so full of shit.”
“You should have seen the other guy,” Sowell said, attempting humor. “Now, let’s just stand down here.”
“Is that so?” Kerrington scoffed, not breaking eye contact with Killian. “What did happen to the other guy in your fictitious little street fight?”
Killian fought against his pumping adrenaline. Behind gritted teeth, he said, “He died of his injuries.”
“You killed him?”
“I said he died of his injuries.”
“That’s fucking bullshit! If you killed someone, you sure as shit wouldn’t be here. You’d be in prison.”
“Aren’t they training us to kill?” Tucker asked. “Like Houlihan said.”
Kerrington turned to him. “Can it, ginger! This is an elite outfit. They wouldn’t let some street punk even try out for this.”
“Let’s give it a rest,” Sowell said. “He is here, so he must be qualified.”
“Bang…cock!” Spalding repeated.
Kerrington scoffed. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that you flew around the world with a cape. I don’t believe you.”
“Then don’t.” Killian turned away and snatched his supraskin shirt off the shelf.
“I call your bullshit. There’s no way you’d be a candidate for Black Saber. You’d be in prison.”
“You gotta be pretty good to get selected for this,” Vasquez said.
“And score really high on intelligence tests,” Mitchell chimed in. “It seems inconsistent with someone who would be involved in a street fight, let alone kill someone.”
“There’s no way street scum like you would be selected for Black Saber,” Kerrington insisted.
“And yet here I am,” Killian said, pulling the shirt over his head and holding his arms out, “scum and all.”
“Well, you don’t belong here, General Issue.” Kerrington turned away and threw his shirt back at his gear stall. “They wouldn’t let a street thug into my Black Saber. This is an elite unit, not a prison-release program. You’ve got to be lying. Either way, you don’t belong.”
“If anyone’s out of place,” Tucker commented toward Kerrington, “it’s you.”
“Fuck yourself, ginger. I can kick your ass, too,” Kerrington said, then yanked his remaining garments on in a flurry and left the room.
Sowell returned to his gear locker and resumed putting on his supraskin. “Once we get on the planet’s surface, I guess we’ll find out the truth.”
Spalding followed Kerrington out the door, but not before uttering one final “Bang…cock!”
The others resumed their preparations in an uncomfortable silence. Killian calmed himself and behaved as if nothing had happened, yet felt like he was swirling down a toilet. The exchange had been disastrous. He’d have to steel himself against the atmosphere and what it might do.
Sowell approached him. “Don’t let him bother you, man. He thinks he’s king shit, but he’s just a spoiled brat.”
Killian stared at the empty hall where Kerrington had just departed. “I know. So was I.”
* * *
“When your helmet face shield is down, comms are on, and you can communicate with the rest of your team,” Crewman Foster instructed.
The candidates stood in loose formation on the flight deck.
“Put your face shield up, and you’ll be off comms. You can whine freely, and we don’t have to listen to you.”
The candidates received lightweight red-and-white body armor. Constructed of high-strength plastic embedded with titanium filaments on top of dense foam padding, the armor could withstand and absorb combat-related impacts but was light enough that the wearer didn’t feel encumbered. Gray woven carbon fiber fabric held the protective pieces together. It stretched easily, allowing a full range of motion. The entire suit, boots and helmet included, weighed less than ten pounds.
Another crewman helped the candidates make any necessary adjustments. A third crewman printed off stickers with their names on them and stuck them to their chest plates, helmets, and the back of their packs for easy visual identification.
The candidates punched each other’s arms, shoulders, and heads, testing the shock absorption. They were almost giddy, like children with new toys.
“As cool as you think this armor is,” Foster said, “it is only training gear. Actual Black Saber gear is a lot more sophisticated and classified. Thank your lucky stars you’ll only be carrying food and water, and not a full complement of ammo and sundry devices.”
The candidates were given instructions on how to remove their packs and put them back on. Light sticks sheathed in the packs could be used in place, raised above head height, or removed and carried like a torch. They had three modes: dim, bright, and strobe. The candidates practiced with the light sticks, and then sheathed them.
Their oxygen supplement came from chalky tablets in a special compartment in their packs. The tablets dissolved slowly when exposed to air. The candidates had supply enough for four days on the planet’s surface. Their helmets were connected to the compartment by orange tubes that detached from the helmet when it was removed. The packs contained food bars and twelve quart-sized packets of water. The packs weighed a little more than thirty pounds.
“You will be issued plasma rifles upon reaching the planet’s surface,” Foster continued. “They are simple to use, lightweight, and durable. Just the same, try not to drop them. When you need your hands free, affix the plasmas to a latch on the front of your chest, here…” He pulled Carmen from the group and pointed to the mechanism on her chest plate. He spun her around and indicated an identical mechanism on her backpack. “Or here. Make sure you feel the rifle snap into place so that it doesn’t swing or fall off.”
Foster moved to the center of the formation. “All right, straighten up. Everyone put your face shields down. I’m going to point at you, and I want you to say your name, first and last, so I can make sure I can hear you over comms and ensure it matches up with both your name tags and your comm signals.”
He started at the tall end, pointing at the first candidate.
“Thomas Sowell.”
“Good,” Foster said, then pointed at Vasquez.
Killian twisted and rotated his arms and legs inside the armor. It felt good and flexible around his joints, and there was no binding. He thought of his previous battle wear: tattered rags that bunched and chaffed and were typically wet and full of dirt. He imagined how well he could move and fight in this gear, and yet it was only training armor. He thought of the invading team in Bangkok and how swiftly they had moved. He craved to know what full battle gear felt like.
He already felt invincible.
CHAPTER 13
“LOOK ALIVE, EARTHWORMS!” Master Sergeant Houlihan shouted as he came up the ramp of the surface shuttle Valley Forge wearing a flight suit and helmet.
“Clear!” a crewman behind him called. A mechanical whirring signaled the aft ramp was closing. The candidates watched the deck crew outside, who were in helmeted pressure suits, and issued arm gestures as they prepared for launch and watched the ramp close. One saluted, turned, and dashed to safety.
The candidates were strapped into seats on either side of the center aisle. The seatbacks were cupped to allow passengers to wear packs and depart the shuttle quickly.
“Listen up!” Houlihan said, his voice deafening over the comms. “Go ahead and lift your face shields. That will cut your comms so you can whine freely to each other and we don’t have to listen to you.”
Killian thought of the many well-worn phrases in the military, funny only th
e first time.
In a few moments, all face shields were up. The ship’s engines whirred and increased in pitch. The candidates could see nothing outside, but felt the ship moving. Houlihan remained standing, hanging on to a pole overhead, while the crewman scurried about, clicking latches and zipping straps. Killian felt jostling as the shuttle flew up and out the hangar door. Things quieted considerably once they were spaceborne.
“Welcome to Mission Veritas,” Houlihan shouted. “You have seventy-two hours from touchdown to accomplish your mission.”
“From the landing zone,” he continued, “you will traverse a variety of terrain on a predetermined route for approximately one hundred kilometers, or sixty-five miles, to an abandoned mineral mine. This is your target. Your objective is to find the control room, plant a timed explosive device, and exit the mine before it blows. You will then make your way to the landing pad previously utilized for mining operations, where you will be extracted. You cannot miss it. It’s as simple as that.”
It sounded too simple to Killian, especially considering the military was using this as a qualifying operation for an elite unit.
“This is a non-intervention mission. This craft will not return for any reason whatsoever until the seventy-two hours are up. You are on your own. You got that?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant Houlihan!” the candidates called out.
“If you fail to be at the landing pad in seventy-two hours, you fail the mission. You got that?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant Houlihan!”
“Due to the slow rotation, the angle of the planetary axis, and latitude, you will experience two very long days and two short nights during your mission. You will be thoroughly exhausted, pushed to your physical and psychological limits. You will have to take rest breaks along the way. However, do not delay any longer than necessary, as you are on a timed schedule.
“You will conduct yourselves as you would on a real combat mission, with discipline and attention to safety for yourself and your fellow candidates. There are no enemy combatants, but the environment and the indigenous species can be dangerous. Avoid animal life forms whenever possible.
