by C J Klinger
She was surprised at his candid confession and appreciated his willing to face the truth. “Why did you?” she asked, anxious to understand his reasoning.
He looked at the concern on her face and said, “Pentagon pressure and my lack of understanding of the Mecrats’ limitations. It isn’t going to happen again, at least not as long as I’m there commander.”
His answer was the right one. She relaxed and said, “Sit back, soldier. I’m going to give you a bath.”
She poured some shampoo into her hand and began to wash Greg’s hair. After he rinsed the soap out she took a wash cloth and a bar of soap and began to wash his chest and arms. When she got to his groin, she said “You want to?”
He smiled for the second time that day and said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She laughed and said, “I didn’t think so, but I was just checking.” She washed him gently and watched the biological miracle of his erection grow at her touch. “My, my, Major, you’re coming up in the world.”
“Want to join me?” he asked, the lust obvious in his eyes.
“Why don’t you just sit back and let me play,” she said, resisting the urge to climb in the tub and get on top of him.
Greg sat back and closed his eyes as Cathy stroked him slowly and them with increasing intensity. He arched his back and ejaculated in an orgasm that seemed to drain all the battle tension out of him, a scene that had been repeated tens of thousands of times in the past when soldiers returned to their loved ones.
At night fall, the Mecrats assembled outside the hanger, Colonel Bridges, along with a number of base personnel personally escorted Jerry’s coffin to the Mecrats hanger. Cathy was appreciative to the men who had been so accommodating to the scientists who had invaded their base. Greg helped Cathy up into his pulpit and the Mecrats started at a slow run toward the dark papoose mountains. They were plugged into Randy’s commo unit and listened as the nine Mecrats mentally sang all the marching ditties they knew. Cathy began to understand the bond between soldiers. They were united in a common life and death cause, something that was rare in human society. It transcended family, clan, nations and all other organized efforts. She felt privileged to be a part of it.
The burial was a simple affair. Few words were spoken; none were really needed. They placed the small wood coffin in a depression and covered it with several thousand pounds of stone. Jerry would lie undisturbed for many eons.
Chapter 34
General Emerson was jubilant. The Kurds had let it be publically known that a band of American “super soldiers” had been instrumental in freeing the villagers at Karemlesh. They had described them as armored infantry, three meters tall, capable of running at incredible speeds and able to carry heavy machine guns. Fortunately they had not mentioned one of them had been killed in the raid.
The world press immediately connected the incident with the recent rumors about a pentagon program to develop a robotic warrior. The President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff agreed it was time to take the lid off the highly successful program and let the American people see what their tax dollars were buying. The President was up for reelection and needed the good press. The Pentagon decided to let the project developer, General Emerson be the one to introduce his warriors to the public.
Major Arneau Labour sat with the smiling general at his conference table going over the details of how to take advantage of the windfall opportunity. Major Labour said, “Share the credit, but be sure to emphasize your roll as the leader of the effort. Talk about individual decisions you made that eventually affected the outcome, especially the two raids.”
The general was in a mood to listen. So far, Arneau had been right on the money with his political, tactical recommendations. His decision to let the feisty Doctor Williamson take on his upcoming opponent without any support from his office had been the right choice. Senator Webber had managed to make a fool of himself, which served General Emerson’s future campaign strategy, the competent general versus an incompetent, self-serving politician. The nagging thought that he might be a candidate for the Joint Chiefs of Staff would have to be addressed soon. Privately, he considered pursuing it and then in four years run for the presidency, but no president in history had ever come directly from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Senate seemed a much better platform for his higher ambitions.
After the general was satisfied with Arneau’s political plans, the rest of his staff joined him to plan the Mecrats’ introduction to the public. It was obvious it couldn’t be held at Groom Lake, so a better venue had to be selected. The general’s choice was his home state of Maryland where, if all things went as planned he would be their next Senator. The discussion was brief, the staff had enough experience to know if the general suggested Maryland, it was a waste of time to even suggest another site. In the end they decided to select one Mecrat, Doctor Williamson and Major Donavan to be the ones to appear in public. They planned the initial appearance at Andrews Air Force Base to give the Washington brass an opportunity to see their legislative efforts in action. A second appearance was planned for Baltimore. An appropriate site would have to be selected.
That night, the general sat with his wife and discussed what the Joint Chiefs of Staff had decided and how he planned to take political advantage of the situation to eventually get them moved to Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue. He allowed himself a second glass of single malt scotch, something he rarely did.
Chapter 35
Marshall Washington eased his year old BMW into a parking spot in front of his mother’s apartment building. He warily eyed two young neighborhood toughs who were sizing up his car like a butcher looking at a side of beef. Five years of prison had made Marshall tougher than these two punks and one, quietly delivered sentenced convinced the two wannabes to take their ambitions someplace else. He watched them leave the area before looking around at his old ‘hood. The sight of the place brought back painful memories, which he quickly dismissed. He had moved on to a different life.
It was Sunday and his Mom had asked him to come to dinner. She was cooking his favorite dish, roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, a Sunday staple whenever the family had been able to afford it. He had tried to beg off, but she had been insistent as only a mother can be. Being around his Mom and younger brother was a troublesome reminder that these where the kind of people he had set himself to destroy. Not them specifically, but Americans in general. He shook off the thought and focused on what he had to do, pump his brother, Raymond for more information. His employers, those still in jail and those on the outside had sent an urgent request for him to get as much information as possible about the upcoming public appearances of one of the Mecrats his brother had mentioned last month.
“Nice wheels, Marshall. That job of yours must be a good one,” Ray said as Marshall opened the entrance door. He had been standing in the apartment building entrance and had seen Marshall deal with two of the neighborhood’s known trouble makers. He didn’t know what his brother told them, but he very surprised to see how quickly they had backed off.
“It’s nothing special, Bro. It’s an old used one,” Marshall countered, not wanting to get into a discussion of how much money he was actually making.
They rode up the elevator together and when he walked in the apartment, the aroma of his mother’s cooking brought back another rush of memories, this time better ones. “Smells good,” he said putting his arm around his younger brother’s shoulder.
“It’s Sunday,” Ray said. “It always smells good around here on Sunday.”
Marshall was about to counter that. The memory of those days when he tried to earn enough money to help his mom put food on the table still haunted him. He decided against saying anything. Ray had been young and unaware of his older brother’s struggle to become the man of the house.
When he entered the kitchen, Marshall was immediately enveloped into his mother’s ample bosom. “How are you, Baby?” She asked and pushed him back to examine her first born as
if to make sure he was in one piece.
“I’m hungry, that’s what I am,” Marshall said.
It was the right thing to say. If her boy was hungry, he was okay. “Well, sit down, it’s ready.”
Dinner was enjoyable. They ate and traded stories and Marshall told them of the funny things that had happened in prison, glossing over the awful things that happened far more often. Over apple pie, an unheard of luxury when he was a teenager he sked Ray the question he had been waiting to ask, “Is it true we’re finally going to get to see these ‘Mecrats’ you talked about, Ray?”
“Well, only one of them,” Ray answered. “And Doctor Williamson, the lady I told you about who gave my boss, Senator Webber such a fit.”
“Where are they going to be? I’d like to see them.”
Ray hesitated; the second Mecrats appearance was not going to be announced in advance. The first appearance was scheduled for Andrews Air Force base where the military, politicians and the President would get an opportunity to meet one of the Mecrats for the first time. The second one was going to be a surprise appearance in downtown Baltimore on the USS Constellation pier. That one would be announced the morning of the appearance. One of the Mecrats along with Doctor Williamson and the Mecrats commanding officer would fly in by helicopter and be greeted by the Baltimore press. The Pentagon brass who had been the project leader would hold a news conference.
“Ray?” Marshall asked, prompting his brother to answer.
The younger man shrugged his shoulders and gave in, He told Marshall about the second appearance and that it was supposed to be a secret for security purposes.
“Are you going to be there?” Raymond asked, hoping his younger brother would be miles away on that day. He suspected his employers’ interest was more than mild curiosity and didn’t want Ray to become a victim of any plans they may have to extract vengeance for their brothers in Iraq.
“No,” Ray said, chest fallen. “It’s the first day of school and I cannot miss it.”
Marshall was relieved. “Well, if I can get off work, I’ll go and tell you all about it.”
Ray brightened up. “Thanks, Marshall. Be sure to take some pictures.”
“Will do, buddy,” he said and rose to leave. He kissed his mother and slapped his younger brother on the back. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. I’ve got to go back to work.”
“On Sunday?” she asked incredulously,
“It’s that kind of job,” he explained and left before she could grill him any further. It was that kind of job and he had news to report.
Chapter 36
The loss of Jerry Billingsworth had not been the only casualty suffered by the Mecrats. All of them had some form of damage to their mechanical bodies, some more serious than others. Most of the damage was to their artificial muscle tissue from the impact of rounds hitting their protective covering. A few had skeletal damage, which required repairing a leg or arm structure.
Marty Welkins, 7Rat was getting his left leg repaired when he asked Greg, “Sir, does this mean I qualify for another Purple Heart?” He was sitting on a work bench watching a technician replace a damaged calf muscle. The other eight Rats in the room were going through some form of repair or renovation. 7Rat’s question started a chain of off-color comments as only soldiers dealing with dangerous situation will do.
“Maybe it should be called a ‘Fender-Bender’ award,” Randy said, adding to the growing list of descriptions for a Mecrats’ Purple Heart.
“I still like the ‘Bend-Over-you-are fucked’ award the best,” Manuel Escobedo, 6Rat said.
“You don’t have an ass hole, Manny, you are one,” jibbed Angela Gonzales, 3Rat. The two of them often traded insults in Spanish and were teaching the other Mecrats all the Spanish curse words they knew.
Randy said, “Clean it up guys, Mom and Dad Rats are here.”
Greg acted like he hadn’t heard any of the exchange, but privately he agreed with Manny. If they didn’t do something to improve the Mecrats armor, it would be just a matter of time before they all ended up like Jerry. The enemy would discover how susceptible they were to fifty caliber fire and start targeting them with heavy caliber sniper rounds. One, well-placed round would kill a nine hundred pound Mecrat as easily as a thousand pound IED. One of the reasons he had come to the repair lab was to talk to Dr. Bill Lenkowski, the scientists who had been responsible for the Mecrats’ skeletal and structural design. Greg has asked Cathy to accompany him.
Greg had met with Bill several times and liked him. He was a practical man with little signs of ego. If it was wrong, he was the first to accept responsibility. He had taken the failure of the Mecrats’ Kevlar skin as a personal failure and had been working tirelessly for two weeks to come up with a better solution.
“What have you come up with, Bill?” Greg asked when he saw the doctor handling a piece of black material.
“An answer, I believe, Major.” He handed the piece to Greg to feel. It was approximately one inch thick, jet black, flexible in an odd way and slightly spongy.
“What the heck is it?” Greg asked, genuinely baffled. He handed it to Cathy, who examined it with equal curiosity.
Bill smiled, “Graphene, or rather a hybrid version of it.”
Greg knew about some of the properties of graphene from his studies in physics. One of its characteristics was great strength, but Kevlar also had great strength and had failed. The problem was something else.
Bill seemed to have read his mind. He said, “The problem is not the strength of the Kevlar material. Armor has to be able to do two things in sequence in order to be effective, dissipate the kinetic energy of the incoming object enough to keep it from penetrating the object being hit.”
Greg’s thought processes were primarily military and he instantly focused on the primary requirement. “And this dissipates the energy,” he stated factually.
“Unbelievably so,” Bill answered with satisfaction. “It dissipates energy at the rate of twenty-one kilometers a second,” he added with a smile.
The Mecrats who were able to walk gathered around to listen to the conversation. “Could you explain that, Doc?” Randy asked.
Bill looked around at the Mecrats. He was pleased they were listening. It was their life on the line. “A fifty caliber round has a kinetic force of up to fifteen thousand pounds. That’s like getting hit by a pickup truck traveling at forty miles an hour. Kevlar has excellent anti-penetration qualities, but it can’t dissipate the energy quickly enough to completely stop the bullet from a fifty caliber machine gun. Graphene however spreads the impact force over the surface of the material almost instantly. ”
Cathy had been handling the black material while listening to Bill’s explanation. In her quiet voice she said, “The combination of the two would be very strong.”
Bill bowed slightly, “Very good, Dr. Williamson. That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“How?” Greg asked, again focusing on the solution.
Our supplier is going to fabricate a suit made of a combination of graphene material and Kevlar that will fit entirely over the Mecrats’ body, like a wetsuit.” Silence followed his statement as everyone visualized his solution.
Randy the wit said, “We’re going to look like we’re dressed in muscle suits.”
Angela chimed in, “What are you going to do, Randy, go pick up girls at the beach?”
Not to be outdone, Randy said, “Yes, so I can deliver them to you, Angie.”
“That’ll be great. None of you guys have shown me anything,” Angela retorted.
Greg did a slicing motion at his throat and said, “Knock it off. Let the Doc talk.”
Bill nodded his head at Randy and said, “10Rat is correct. It will look like a muscle suit. We’ve been assured its flexible enough not to interfere with your movement.”
“When do we get them?” Greg asked, always looking for bottom line answers.
“The first one will be here later this week,” Bill answered.
>
Greg smiled. “Great. Randy, you get to wear it for your appearance in Maryland.”
Randy’s laugh rumbled through the lab, “Hey guys, I’m going on leave.”
Later that evening Greg and Cathy went over the plans for the upcoming trip. Earlier Greg had voiced his concern about introducing America’s best kept military secret in such an open environment, but he was told the general wanted his day in the sun and this location was where it was going to happen.
“General Emerson wants to portray the Mecrats as remotely controlled robotic warriors,” Greg told Cathy. “He’s not sure the American public is ready to accept the idea of using mortally wounded soldiers’ brains to run a combat machine.”
Cathy was surprised. “When does he plan to tell them the truth?”
Greg laughed. “He said that’s a job for the politicians, specifically your old buddy, Senator Webber.”
Cathy was silent for a moment then observed, “I’m beginning to believe the general is a better politician than the senator.”
“Well, it’s their call, not mine. It’s not our problem as long as they don’t use us as pawns in whatever game they’re playing.”
Cathy didn’t say anything, but having encountered both men, she was afraid that was exactly what was happening.
Later that week, Bill’s description proved to be accurate; the graphene-Kevlar suit did resemble a wet suit. Randy struggled to put it on, but after fifteen minutes he stood up and said, “Behold it is I, Wet-Man.” He suffered ten minutes of kidding from his eight comrades about needing a diaper, but the kidding was coupled with a close examination of the adaptation that could considerably improve their chances of survival. Short of an actual test, it gained the Mecrats approval.
Greg joined his men examining the suit. “When can we expect the rest of them?” His question was more than rhetorical; he expected the Pentagon to put the Mecrats to use again very soon. The uneasy coexistence between the Islamic State and the rest of the world seemed to be unraveling. For reason the Pentagon hadn’t been able to figure out, the Islamic State seemed hell-bent on provoking America into a direct confrontation. That meant boots on the ground and the Mecrats wore the biggest boots in the military.