Grayman Book One: Acts of War

by Michael Rizzo

Part Four: Faith-Based Initiatives

  1

  March 1st, 2020.

  Matt Burke:

  “Major Powell…”

  Shit.

  “Major Burke,” he purrs at me like he’s actually glad to see me (and it strikes me that he just may be that clueless). “Congrats on the promotion. Nice to see a friendly. Some setup you got here…”

  It must be the VR drugs. He’s probably just come off two months of them, considering where he’s at in the training pipe. He can’t be that bushy to just throw small talk at me like we’re bros, not after what happened the last time I got stuck with his company.

  “So you’ve got Charlie Company?” I try the civil route. Like I need to ask: I just got the new rosters flashed to me, which is what made me run down here early, while the fresh-from-sim cherries were still getting suited for their first live-fires. I was hoping it was a mistake, that maybe there was some other Powell, Marcus. What the fuck is he doing here?

  “Yeah,” he confirms casually, like this is just another assignment, and he hasn’t just spent eight weeks immersed in Psycho Sim Training World, and he isn’t standing in a secret bunker wearing sixty-plus pounds of battle armor and computer-driven weaponry. “At least the first two squads that have finished sim-phase.”

  He’s at least visibly nervous about seeing me, though—I can read it in his body language and the awkward pauses between the pally chatter.

  “Yeah…” I repeat back, which I realize is about all I have to say to the guy after all this time.

  “I was just introducing myself to the next batch,” he manages awkwardly, trying to convince me he’s settling in, nodding through the plexi of the Monitors’ booth as another young international sampling gets clamped in for their next spin in the VR webs.

  “Remind you of anything?” I can’t resist. “The old ‘It’s a Small World’ ride at Classic Disney?”

  “I’ve got Sanderson,” he plays civilly. “Remember him? The Coalition Brit we ran that mountain hike with—what?—three, four years ago? And Forest is in Major Manning’s unit.”

  “Forest, huh?” I also do my best to play nice. Badly. “We should do a reunion.”

  I obviously don’t sound convincing, because he takes a hard breath and pulls me out into the hall, out of direct sight-line of the sentry monitors (he checks).

  “Please don’t play me, Matt,” he does the quiet and serious. “I was there, too, and not in the way you apparently think I was. I heard the word on you, and I won’t say it here, but let’s just say you just beat the rest of us to it.”

  He’s almost convincing, but he can’t quite look me steady.

  “If you say so, Major.”

  I do the walk-away, and not because I’m due in Livefire.

  When I get to the Kill-Room, it gets worse.

  It’s not just because Team One is a piece of history, broken up and farmed off to their own commands. That was the plan all along. But now that the rosters are up, I feel like I’ve had reality ripped out from under me.

  Seeing Powell’s name—and as a company commander, no less, even though he’s as cherry as the candidates in his barely-filled-out unit—only got me sick. I didn’t really start shaking until I noticed which names were missing.

  Manning—freshly promoted—got Bravo Company as promised. Ivan’s got Dog (he chose “Dog” over “Delta”—apparently he liked the sound of it) and Ibrahim (also bounced up a rank) is putting together Easy (appropriate) while I defaulted to Alpha. And that’s about all that’s right with the world.

  I find Manning in Staging, making sure his own teams are ready to get shot at for real—some of them for the first time. He breaks from armor checks when he sees me come in, then hits me with my own question (or one of them, anyway):

  “Any news on Abbas?” he keeps it low-volume.

  I shake my head.

  “Still listed as ‘on leave’,” I give him what little I have, “supposedly until we get a platoon or two worthy of him. Feels like an excuse. The Iraqis may be getting ambivalent.”

  “They have pretty good bullshit detectors,” he agrees. Then he tries to brighten my day: “I see you got Lieutenant Biggs. He’ll be a good platoon leader. Marine, spent a lot of time in the Stans, played against us in one of the live-fire games—that little mortar-shower we took in the Nevada desert nine months ago. And you got your first girl.”

  Lieutenant Wise. I check her from a distance: short dark hair, fair skin, tight lines but not butch. Definitely not. She’s sealing up her armor so I can’t tell much more—doesn’t seem to mind the weight of it, though, which is kinda scary.

  “Israeli,” he tells me what I know from her file. “Top scores in VR. Tough as a goddamn honey badger.” He shakes his head like the world’s moved on without him. “I’ve got two women in my teams now. New guy—Powell—has one. Ivan has three. I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised we’re finally putting women on the line.”

  “New war, new rules.” I realize I probably sound like Henderson and hate myself for a fraction. “A lot of female soldiers have been waiting a long time for something like this to open.”

  “But Spec-Ops?” he tries not to grimace.

  “You were Spec-Ops,” I remind him. “Would you consider what we do in-suit Spec-Ops?”

  He hesitates before he shakes his head, like he’s never stopped to think about what he’s been doing all these months. Yes, we’re finally putting women in combat. But in armor and with Dee watching over them, they’ll probably be safer than they’ve ever been in so-called non-combat postings.

  I switch gears, get to the one question that’s really got me sweating:

  “Where’s Ram?” Because he’s not on the lists anywhere. He was supposed to be running Able with me.

  Manning takes his time responding. I’m not sure if he doesn’t know or doesn’t want to say. Then he just covertly points his thumb up at the Observation Deck. I look up.

  It reminds me immediately of a scene out of the original “Star Wars”: Michael’s up there, with Richards standing over his shoulder (looking about as happy with life as he usually does), both in neat blacks, and snake-grinning Henderson kicked back in a chair looking like the evil emperor in a gunmetal sportcoat.

  “Shields up, ladies and gentlemen…” I get another shock when the voice over the PA isn’t Doc. It’s Amber. Why is she playing Monitor? “More practice trap-shooting incoming mortars and RPGs. This will be rapid and random. You need to up your scores—guarantee the opposition will field hotter ordnance once they see you shake off the standard antipersonnel—and it’ll give the newbees some quality break-in. Alpha Company: You’re up first.”

  I catch Michael looking down at me, just for a second, before the free-fire shutters close. I can’t read what the hell’s in his eyes, but it justifies the sick I’ve got going in my gut.

  And where the hell is Doc?

  No time to think about it right now. I jerk on my helmet, seal my visor, check it, light up my weapon. Dee flashes us a “go”, and I lead my cherries into the big free-fire chamber like it’s a Rad stronghold. The blast doors seal behind us, and the incoming starts flying…