D-Day

by Bob Mayer

  “Gentlemen,” Delafield called out, surveying the field in the growing light of dawn. “What are we about this morning?”

  Surprisingly, it was Jackson who spoke up. “I wanted my friends to join me in praising our Most Holy Father as the glory of His day begins, Major. And what better place than here in the midst of His glorious nature?”

  Delafield stared at Jackson for a moment. “A better place would be within limits, in your rooms, in the barracks, getting ready for reveille formation. You have been very studious of late, Mister Jackson, and have improved your class standing greatly. We wouldn’t want that hard work to go to waste.” He glanced over. “Good morning, Mister Havens. Were you protecting these worshipping cadets from wild beasts?”

  Havens tucked the pistol in his belt. “Indeed, sir, indeed. I thought I heard me some wolves howling in the forest.”

  Delafield remained still for a few more moments. He looked across the river and nodded. “It is indeed a splendid sunrise, worthy of praise. But there is also a storm coming, so I suggest all return to barracks before it breaks upon us.”

  Then he rode off with the duty officer.

  The cadets began to disperse.

  Ivar half-expected to be pulled back, his mission done, although he knew it was never this easy. A fellow could hope.

  “Plebe.” Grant was beckoning to him.

  Ivar walked over.

  “You show an aptitude for battlefield tactics,” Grant said. “How many days ago did you arrive, as I have not seen you prior to this evening?”

  Ivar had no clue, although the download informed him that the new class of ’47 would straggle into the Academy all summer. “This past week, sir.”

  “You handle yourself well, Mister...?”

  “Ivar, sir.”

  “Mister Ivar.” Grant nodded. “It’s a steep walk up to the Academy, and you might not be familiar with the way, since Mister McClelland saw fit to have you accompany him with a hood over your head; a foolish tradition for a plebe’s first visit to Benny Havens. Why don’t you ride with Mister Jackson and me? York can easily carry all three of us, since even combined, we weigh less than Major Delafield.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ivar said. He looked over, and the only person left besides Jackson with the horse, was Benny Havens, who looked very old and very tired in the dawn light.

  The innkeeper caught Ivar’s eye and nodded. “Good job, lad. But keep your eyes open.”

  Chauvet Cave, Southern France, 6 June 32,415 Years B.P. (Before Present)

  “‘Hello darkness, my old friend’,” Moms whispered, lying on her belly and peering down from the western slope of the valley.

  Night vision goggles would be nice, but there was just enough visibility for her to see what she needed to. The glow from the fire lit up the entrance. What had taken her a while to determine was the location of the five warriors and the woman. They were in a cleft on the valley wall, about two hundred meters from the cave. One of them had overwatch, with observation on the cave. The others were hunkered down, hidden from the cave by a spur of rock. Waiting.

  The woman was a little distance from the men, leaning back on her pack, the classic rucksack flop, so still, she might have been part of the rock.

  Moms could hear the echo of voices from the mouth of the cave, but it was nothing she could process. It sounded like grunts and groans, but there was a pattern underneath it, something that tingled her consciousness.

  They can speak, but they cannot read, because they cannot write, Moms thought. The art. She remembered how the Time Patrol used a form of hieroglyphics as its written language, spanning all the eras. Images as words. Edith was right. The art was important. The art was the important part of getting concepts from one person’s mind into the minds of others beyond direct conversation.

  Moms rubbed her eyes. The mission.

  As long as there were voices, Moms figured the intruders wouldn’t attack. But once silence came and the fire died down, it didn’t take much imagination to figure out what would happen.

  Moms slid out of position and began to crawl along the side of the valley, using every technique she’d learned over the years to remain unseen and, more importantly, unheard.

  It took two hours for her to get within ten meters of the intruders’ position. The noise from the cave had died down to an occasional grunt, mainly from two distinct voices. Discussing caveman philosophy? Quantum physics? Moms stifled a giggle. The fire was still going, although not as brightly as before. Moms had the intruders directly between her position and the cave.

  The woman would have to go first. After that, Moms knew it would be a free-for-all. The range of the Naga was a bit more than that of the spears the warriors carried. And it would slice through their weapons, another advantage.

  But one couldn’t argue numbers.

  Six to one.

  That was reality.

  Moms waited, poised for any advantage.

  One of the warriors got up and walked past the woman. Her head swiveled to follow him, then turned back toward the man on watch. The man was unfastening his pants so he could urinate.

  Moms took his head off with a swipe of the Naga. Before the head hit the ground, she jabbed at the woman’s chest, and that’s when Murphy came into play. The tip of the Naga skidded on some sort of armor underneath the woman’s tunic, going to the right, slashing into the woman’s arm and then away.

  Moms didn’t have time to correct her first mistake as the warriors charged. She spun, the Naga level, and gutted the fastest two with one sweep of the blade. She kept moving, charging, staying on the offensive, seeing the woman doing something in the corner of her eye, but focused on the next two warriors as they simultaneously jabbed with their spears.

  Moms blocked one, tried to duck the other, then felt the sear of pain on her right arm as the point of the spear sliced her flesh.

  She jabbed the point of the Naga into the neck of the warrior on the left and was rewarded with a blossom of blood from the jugular (should have done that to the woman, a small part of Moms’s brain chastised). Moms rolled forward, bringing the Naga up.

  The next warrior had his spear over his head for a thrust, but his momentum was his downfall as he was spitted on the Naga.

  Moms twisted the Naga, trying to get his body off the blade. She finally got the blade free then faced the last warrior who’d been on overwatch, knowing she was running out of time since the woman was only wounded.

  The last warrior thrust with his spear. Moms blocked, slicing through the spear two feet from the tip. He dropped it, then drew his sword. Moms took advantage, jabbing him in the gut, rewarded with the solid thump of metal into flesh. He grunted, the first sound anyone had made, and staggered back, dropping his sword.

  Moms was slammed in the back of the left shoulder. She whirled about. The woman was notching another arrow, and Moms knew the first was in the back of her shoulder, but there was no time for that now. Moms charged, aiming the tip of the Naga for the bow, not the person.

  It was the right move as the woman released, the tip of the arrow hitting the Naga blade, ricocheting away. Moms didn’t slow down, slamming the point directly into the woman’s face, then through it, pinning her to the rock wall behind her.

  Moms tried to pull the Naga back, but it was stuck, so she went to one knee, spinning about, hands raised defensively, because the overwatch was still alive.

  He wasn’t there. Four warrior bodies. The overwatch was gone.

  Moms stood and walked to where she’d wounded him. A copious blood trail headed away.

  He was gutted, Moms knew. She’d seen it before.

  He was a dead man crawling.

  She was wounded, too, but it wasn’t fatal.

  First things first.

  She turned back to the woman pinned to the rock wall.

  The Present

  Our Present.

  Area 51

  EAGLE GLANCED ACROSS the cockpit at Orlando. “Are you sure?”

/>   Orlando shrugged. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Someone dies.”

  “People die every day.”

  “We could all die,” Eagle said.

  “That’s the whole point of the test.” Orlando pulled an oversized flask out of his pocket, unscrewed the lid, took a deep drink, then offered it to Eagle.

  “I’m flying,” Eagle said. He had the Snake at 10,000 feet altitude, having taken off as soon as the three Russians boarded. Orlando had unbuckled the arms of the young woman’s straitjacket, then directed all three to go up the ramp into the cargo bay. Eagle had then flown the Snake, almost vertical, gaining altitude and circling, but not moving away from the position over the airfield.

  “In the old days,” Orlando said, “pilots had balls. Big brass ones. A little drink wouldn’t have scared them. Hell, they were supposed to drink.”

  “My shoulder is killing me,” Eagle said. “I should be on painkillers, but I’m not. You think I’m going to take a drink if I can’t take something for the pain?”

  “You could take something for the pain,” Orlando pointed out, waggling the flask. “You choose not to.”

  Eagle shook his head.

  “It’s always about choice,” Orlando said. “Remember that. And hell, this thing can fly itself on autopilot.” He stood up from the co-pilot’s seat, which reminded Eagle he’d never buckled in on takeoff or put on his parachute as per SOP.

  Eagle sighed and flipped on the autopilot.

  Orlando stood in the passageway between the cockpit and the cargo hold. “Yo!” he yelled to be heard over the sound of the two jet engines. “Listen up.”

  Boris, Princess, and Lara were on the red web jump seats along the outer edge of the bay. Boris and Princess sat on the same side, but with enough distance between them to indicate they wanted nothing to do with each other. Lara sat on the other, cross-legged, eyes closed. She didn’t open them at Orlando’s shout. The harness was still around her body even though her hands were free. She seemed used to it.

  “Why are we here?” Boris shouted back.

  “They didn’t tell you?” Orlando said. “Oh, that’s right. They weren’t supposed to tell you. You’ve all volunteered to try out for the most super-secret, best of the best, covert unit in the world.”

  “I did not volunteer,” Princess complained.

  “Who does?” Orlando said. “If you really were volunteers, we wouldn’t want you. It would mean you’re stupid. We don’t do stupid here.”

  “Where is here?” Boris demanded. “What is this Area 51?”

  “Now, thirty years ago,” Orlando said, “that question might be sorta legit. But seriously, son. You don’t follow the news? You didn’t see Independence Day? The original or the sequel? I hate sequels, although Aliens was pretty good. And the second Godfather. That was good too. Maybe better, but it’s debatable.” Orlando pointed. “That way is the Nevada Test Site. Seven-hundred and thirty-nine—”

  “Seven-hundred and forty,” Eagle corrected him, remembering their last Nightstalker mission, after the Cluster-Frak in Nebraska.

  “Seven-hundred and forty nuclear weapons have gone off there,” Orlando said. “Pretty good barrier. Area 51 is just about below us. Groom Lake. Big runway. Air Force and NASA test their high-speed stuff out here since it’s pretty far from anywhere. Vegas is that way,” Orlando pointed in a different direction, and Eagle didn’t have the heart to tell him he was off. It really didn’t matter. “I have a theory,” Orlando said. “People go to L.A., to suffer, and Vegas to die.”

  Boris and Princess exchanged confused glances. Lara still hadn’t opened her eyes or indicate she heard any of this.

  “Y’all want to go to Vegas?” Orlando asked. “Or do you want to go to L.A.?”

  Boris stood up. “I do not like this.”

  “I was just joking,” Orlando said. “You’re not going to either place.” He looked at Boris. “And no one gives a rat’s ass what you like or don’t like.” He reached up and hit a button.

  The noise level in the cargo bay increased dramatically as a crack appeared in the back. The ramp lowered, while the top portion went up into the tail section. Both moved until the ramp was level and locked in place.

  Boris looked at that, then back at Eagle and Orlando. “What is this?” he yelled.

  Princess edged away from the ramp toward the cockpit. One of her hands was tight to her side.

  “She’s got a knife,” Eagle yelled into Orlando’s ear, the equivalent of a whisper.

  “I know,” Orlando said. “Saw her take it off Lara’s guard. Idiot didn’t even know she lifted it.”

  Orlando pulled a grenade out of his pocket then held it up so they could all see it. “Choices!” he yelled, then he pulled the pin, knelt, and rolled it to the center of the cargo bay.

  Everyone was frozen for a moment.

  Princess ran for the cockpit, away from the grenade. Boris was frozen, eyes wide, staring at it, less than five feet in front of him.

  Lara darted forward, scooped it up, then continued her run and swan-dived off the back ramp, grenade in hand.

  “That was different,” Orlando said, reaching for his flask.

  The Missions Phase III

  Normandy France, 6 June 1944 A.D.

  AFTER HOLSTERING THE .45, Mac discovered a chocolate bar in one of the bulging pockets on his fatigue shirt. It was broken, but edible. “I found breakfast.”

  She was sitting next to the shovel, staring at the body of her father.

  He offered it to her. She looked at it blankly, then took it. She broke it in half and held the rest up for him. “We have not had chocolate in five years.”

  “You keep it,” Mac said.

  She stuffed the rest into a pocket. Mac took that as a positive sign, that she felt there was a future when she would eat it. The most positive sign he’d noted since appearing here.

  “What is your name, madame?”

  “Mademoiselle,” she corrected. “My name is Brigit.”

  “Hey, Bridget. I’m Mac.”

  “No. Bree-geet.”

  “Right. Brigit.” Mac sat next to her, trying to ignore the ticking clock of the mission and the passing darkness. “Do you know what time it is?”

  She leaned forward and reached into her father’s vest, retrieving a pocket watch. “I would have forgotten it. I never liked the watch much. He was always living according to it, making us live our lives according to it. Does time matter to him now?” Nevertheless, she angled the surface so she could see in the moonlight. “Two and a half hours past midnight.”

  Several hours of darkness left. The download tried to intrude with the exact time the mission should be done, but Mac was finding it easy to block the information intrusions. This mission was off the rails, pun intended, and he was going to have to do a lot of improvising. From what he’d seen of Edith Frobish, improvising wasn’t one of her fortes, so the download was less of a priority.

  Brigit put the watch back into her father’s vest. “Mac? Short for something?”

  “No. Just Mac,” he said. “How come the Germans didn’t get you?”

  “Because I was hiding in the trees,” Brigit said as if explaining to an idiot. She had a vacant stare, although her eyes were on her father’s body, as she murmured: “‘Wound my heart with a monotonous languor.’”

  It sounded so much better in French, Mac thought. The stanza of poetry by Paul Verlaine that was broadcast to let the Resistance know the invasion would begin within twenty-four hours. He repeated it, feeling the words roll off his tongue. “Blessent mon cœur d’une langueur monotone.”

  “What does that even mean?” Brigit asked. “I told my father not to go after he heard the transmission. But he took out his watch, and with that, I knew he would go. I begged him not to take Louis. But Louis insisted. It was his chance to be in the war. To be a hero. You men, fooling yourselves with talk of heroism and bravery and honor. Isn’t every war like that? Talk of bravery and
heroism and ending in dirt? Now, Louis will become dirt, become part of the farm that he should have had one day. Raised a family on. Now, there is only me.”

  “Why did you tell them not to go?” Mac asked.

  She turned to him. “I am not a coward. I have been part of seven raids. I have placed the explosives myself. Because of that, I have killed. Not just the Germans on the trains, but the French who work them. That is another great lie men tell. That war is black-and-white. That things are clear-cut. We are all dirty. We have killed men who were just trying to earn a paycheck so their families could eat. But this time? I felt we should not go.”

  “What did you feel?”

  “Danger. A trap. I cannot explain it. Just a woman’s feeling. Not something that a man like my father would pay attention to. I begged Louis.” A single tear, all her body could spare, slid down the clean pathway the previous tears had cleared. “I went but stayed in the trees with Maurice and the cart. There were too many soldiers. Nothing I could do. So, here I am. Alive. Alone. With the last mule. And I have to finish burying my father with my brothers, because they, too, believed the lie that all would be well.”

  Mac looked at the barn with the roof half-collapsed. A bomb had landed behind the house, collapsing a wall and blasting the interior. Probably from the air raids that had been conducted all along the coast of France in preparation for the invasion. Not just here in Normandy, but everywhere, so the Germans wouldn’t know where it was coming. Civilians were killed, their houses destroyed, just to keep the Germans guessing.

  “‘In wartime, truth is so precious she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies’,” Mac quoted. “Churchill said that.”

  “Churchill would say that,” Brigit said. “Men like him always find wonderful things to say to make it appear they are doing something good while others do the dying.”

  “When the bombing started, why did you stay here?” Mac asked. “Why not move inland?”

  “I was here waiting to get you out of the well,” Brigit said, and she finally cracked a smile, which transformed her face for a moment, making her much younger.