I tend to Thor and then a sergeant comes to me and says, “You Sergeant Knox? The colonel and my company commander need to see you.”
“Just a sec,” I say, as I reattach a bandage to the side of Thor.
“Hey, pal, that was no request,” says the sergeant, whose name is BRONSON. I’m pretty sure he’s about my age—sixteen—and is olive-skinned, with bulky shoulders that mean he likes working out a lot in his down time. “That’s an order.”
“I’ve been following orders for four years, and I know what they mean,” I say back, “and you’re not my pal. Lead on. Thor, stay.”
Thor is better at following orders than me, and he gratefully rolls back down on the ground, in the shade of the Humvee I had sort of stolen (or requisitioned) back in Troy. With M-10 in hand, I walk to a command Humvee that has a huddle of troops around it. Two of them are my dad and Serena’s dad, and the other is an old, white-haired man wearing the stripes of a company first sergeant, and all of them are paying attention to a slim captain who’s gesturing to a topo map spread over the hood of the Humvee. She has close-cropped bright red hair, burn tissue along one cheek, and flashing, strong green eyes. Her nametag says WALLACE. On one shoulder is the crossed bayonets marking the 10th Mountain Division, one of the ghost divisions from after the war started.
I catch her eye and she nods to me. “You’re Sergeant Knox?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“What unit?”
“Second Recon Rangers,” I say. “First Battalion, New Hampshire Army National Guard, attached to the 26th Division. Stationed at Fort St. Paul in Concord. Ma’am.”
From near me Sergeant Bronson snorts, and I know why. Even though there’s not much difference between regular Army and National Guard, there’s still a bit of rivalry, with the Army thinking we Guardsmen are only good for putting down disturbances or escorting food convoys, while we think the Army is always first, second, and third in line for the best in food, gear and transport.
“New Hampshire?” she asks. “Far from home. Colonel Knox…any relation?”
“My son,” he says, with about two tons of pride in each word, but Captain Wallace doesn’t seem impressed.
“Good for you,” she says. “Stationed?”
“Intelligence, Fort St. Paul as well.”
“Hunh.” She rubs at her chin and I note that two fingers of her right hand have been mangled. “If I had my way, I’d make sure relatives don’t get assigned to the same units. Cuts down on a lot of grief down the road. Major, if I may…”
“I’m assigned to Special Projects, up at Jackson Labs, in Maine.” He pointed out to the field. “That’s my daughter, Serena, a specialist, and my son, Buddy…who’s on medical leave from the Observation Corps.”
“Christ on a crutch,” the first sergeant comments with a harsh whisper. His throat is a scarred mess. “What the hell is this, a family freakin’ reunion?”
Dad smiles thinly. “It sure does look that way, doesn’t it? But we could be a USO roadshow and what’s out there remains the same, Captain. Seven surrendered aliens, and an open alien base.”
“And how in hell did you get those Creepers to surrender?”
Surprise of surprises, Serena’s dad speaks up, and beneath that wounded, half-dressed scientist, exists a real live Army major. “Captain, we’re wasting valuable time. You’re to set up a perimeter-in-depth around this entire vicinity. Keep civilians and any members of the press outside. You’re to also extend communications to the nearest Exploitation Unit and get them here soonest. Also notify…Wait, not the New England Command…”
“Upstate New York Command,” she helpfully replies, though her voice is strong and even.
“That’s right,” Serena’s dad says, nodding. “Upstate New York Command. We need to flood this area with resources. We’ve gained a tremendous advantage here, and we can’t afford to lose it.”
“I see,” Wallace says, and she gently and carefully folds up her topo map, and right then and there, I’m so glad I’m an NCO and not in the view of those green eyes. She hands her map over to the old and scarred first sergeant.
“Special Projects, am I correct, Major?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m so impressed. Up in Maine, if I recall correctly?”
Major Coulson hesitates. “Yes, Captain, that’s correct.”
She turns her attention to my dad. “And you’re stationed at Fort St. Paul, in New Hampshire.”
“That’s right, Captain.”
“Glad to get that out of the way.” She runs a hand through her short red hair, slowly puts her helmet back on, readjusts the chinstrap. “Let’s get a couple of things clear. You’re both out of your Area of Responsibility. You’re not in my chain of command. Unless I’m convinced that my superiors are dead, captured, or otherwise engaged, I don’t recognize your authority. Got it?”
Dad steps forward. “Captain, please, this is an important situation and—”
From the tree line I make out the sound of engines, and Wallace says, “What I have here is a situation I’ve never encountered. And I’m going to do it my way.”
A crashing of trees and two shapes emerge, and if I was standing still earlier, I’m now frozen to the muddy ground. Two six-wheeled armored Stryker vehicles emerge from the woods, take up position on either side of the command Humvee. They’re mud-splattered, worn, with black scorch marks along the side. From poles at the rear, each is flying a tattered American flag, and the Stryker on the left is also flying a New York State flag while the other Stryker is displaying a blue flag with a white cross on it. The St. Andrew’s Cross, the flag of Scotland.
Their engines slow down to a grumble and on each vehicle, in addition to a fifty-caliber machine gun, each Stryker also carries a an Mk-19 grenade launcher. I’ve heard that these grenade launchers have been converted to fire the same ammunition as the Colt M-10 I carry. M-10 rounds contain the binary gas canisters that are the only reliable weapon—besides nukes—that can kill Creepers.
Impressive enough, but what really impresses me is the front of each Stryker: the upper head segment of a main Creeper arthropod has been chained over the hull, like some ancient war trophy. I carry my own trophy around, a broken-off toe joint, but seeing the empty head segments strikes at me, hard and deep, and although I’m tired, achy, could use a hot shower and a good meal, I feel like I’d follow Captain Wallace and her crew anywhere.
But it’s a brief feeling. I want to go back to Concord, back to my buds, back to where I belong.
She says, “My way starts with protecting my own. So yes, the perimeter’s being set up, and first things first, it’s going to aim at those Creepers, and if anything makes the hint of a threatening move, then my people are going to croak it dead.”
“But—”
Wallace fastens her chinstrap even harder. “When I got word from the county militia about your situation here, I also sent couriers to my own commanders, as well as the nearest Exploitation Unit. The EU should be here before nightfall. Is that satisfactory, gentlemen?”
Dad and Major Coulson look slightly embarrassed, like they had been caught at playing soldier. My dad says, “Quite satisfactory, Captain.”
She grins. “No worries, Colonel Knox, Major Coulson. It’s been a long, rough day, and we were on our way to support relief efforts for Albany’s suburbs when I was told to detour here. I thought it was the craziest damn story I’ve ever heard, but I still had to check it out.”
Major Coulson nods and shivers for a moment. “Albany…have you heard if the President and the Cabinet escaped?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. No word on that, though I’d imagine some senators and reps managed to get out. Some of those slugs always manage to survive. And the President, hell, it’d be a pity if he got smoked, wouldn’t it? He’s that close to serving out a full term. First Sergeant.”
“Ma’am,” he says, stepping forward, and I see his nametag says HESKETH.
She turn
s and looks over at the field. “I want to speak to the platoon leaders in fifteen minutes.”
“Ma’am.”
“In the meantime, if Doc isn’t busy vaccinating the nearest cow, have her come over and check out the major. Also get some food and water for these…folks, as well as fresh clothing.”
“Ma’am.”
“If we hear back from any courier, I want to know soonest. And…one more thing.”
Wallace looks closely at the ground around us. I look too, seeing the churned up soil, the old collapsed trench lines, the broken and melted weapons, and the bones. Lots and lots of bones.
“Tom, if we have a spare courier—”
“I don’t think we do, ma’am.”
“All right, send out a volunteer runner to the nearest Graves Registration unit. Might be one hanging around in Schenectady. I want a detail to come back here and…make things right.”
First Sergeant Hesketh takes a glance at the field. “I’m sure it’s on their site list, Captain.”
“Then pass them along a cheery note from this unit, saying this field gets up to the top of the list, or I’m gonna come up there personally and pluck out their eyeballs with my nail clippers.”
He nods, says, “Yes, ma’am,” and slips away.
* * *
At one of the old 6x6 trucks, a quartermaster corporal gets me some fresh clothes, though I’m careful to transfer my unit insignia and name patch to the new stuff. The corporal’s a skinny girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and her own clothes seem two sizes too large. Her nametag says CELLUCCI. As I slip on my patches, I see Serena’s dad being escorted into an electric van that’s been painted in Army colors and has the Red Cross on its side. A short, plump woman wearing a white lab coat is leading Major Coulson in, accompanied by Serena and Buddy.
“Hey, Corporal?”
“What’s up, Sergeant?” Cellucci replies, checking off something on a clipboard. She’s sitting on the tail of the truck, legs dangling, cardboard boxes full of gear behind her.
“Earlier, your captain, she said something about your unit’s doc not being busy vaccinating a cow or something. What did she mean about that?”
“Oh, that means Doc Pulaski, before she joined up, she was trained as a vet.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, for real,” she says, looking up. “She’s a good doc, knows a lot. Besides, it’s tougher being a vet. You gotta figure out what’s wrong with your patient without being able to talk to them.”
“Maybe she’ll be asked to treat the Creepers.”
“Yeah, sure,” she says. “Treat them each with an M-10 round or a Stryker burst.”
“But they’ve surrendered.”
She looks up at me, and even with her slight build and skinny frame, there’s something hard and solid behind her look. “They’re bugs; they’re aliens. What, you don’t think they’re smart enough to pretend to surrender? We scrubbed their orbital base last month, and a few days ago, they scorched Albany and thousands of civvies. Doesn’t sound like an outfit ready to surrender.”
I don’t know what to say, so I ask where the field mess is, and Cellucci says, “Follow your nose,” which is what I do, but not before grabbing Thor and bringing him along.
* * *
I get a dented and scratched white plastic tray, and under a canopy tent about twenty meters into the wood line, I grab some chow. It’s black bread with rehydrated potatoes and some stew with gravy that tastes like it’s real beef, and with a metal cup of water, I find a wide pine tree trunk to sit against while I eat. Guys and gals about my age—with a few younger and a few older—slide in and out of the mess tent, and it’s nice to be hanging around with a unit that looks tight. The past couple of weeks I’ve been mostly on my own, and I don’t like it. I’ve felt alone, exposed and right out there at the point of the damn spear, and I’m tired of it all. I want to go home and let the rest of the Army take care of the Creepers.
I slip some bits of stew to Thor, and he gently takes it from my fingertips and licks my fingers clean.
“Hey.” I look over and it’s Sergeant Bronson, standing over me, looking down.
“Hey yourself,” I say.
“You look pretty comfy. Who said you could get our BDUs, eat our chow?”
I spoon up the potatoes. Rehydrated but I have to give the company’s cook credit, for he or she had spiced it up some so it’s damn right tasty.
“Your company commander,” I say. “The lady with the red hair, big helmet, captain’s flashes on her uniform. Ask around, I’m sure you’ll find her.”
He says, “Your mutt. He shouldn’t be eating food from the mess tent.”
“He’s not,” I say, giving him another piece of meat. “He’s eating from my tray. Look, what’s your problem, Bronson?”
“Who says I have a problem, Knox?”
“Me,” I say. “I’m a good judge of character. You’ve been one pissy bastard since you folks showed up.”
His face tightens, and I don’t think he likes being talked to like that, which causes me maybe a nanosecond of concern, and he says, “I don’t like being pulled away from a mission to come to the rescue of…a gang like you.”
“Them’s the breaks,” I say. “Sometimes a unit’s in trouble, you have to help out.”
A slight laugh, his fists on his hips. “Unit? I don’t see any unit. I see a couple of old guys that managed to keep their heads down during the past ten years, a pretty girl and her younger, dumber, brother, and a mutt.”
A pause. “And the mutt has a dog with him.”
When I finish with my tray, I hold it out to Thor. He cleans the tray with four big laps, looks at me with that look of sweet accusation—“Is that all you’ve got?”—and then he lays back down.
I’m at a disadvantage, being on the ground, Bronson looking down at me, and with several of his guys within easy sprinting distance.
Which is why I smile up at him, slowly get to my feet, and then snap up the hard plastic tray so it goes between his legs and hits something he’s terribly fond of.
He drops back, hands dropping to his crotch, and says, “You son of a bitch!”
I stand at ready, tray in hand, and say, “You’re repeating yourself.”
“What?”
“You called me a mutt earlier, and now you’re calling me an SOB. Both dog-related. You’re repeating yourself.”
His face reddens, fists clench, and I know he’s a second or two from coming right at me, but Thor notices this too, and he’s on alert, staring, a low, grumbling growl that you can feel in your chest, the fur along his back bristling.
Bronson takes a breath. “Call your dog off.”
“Off from what?” I ask. “He’s just standing there, clearing his throat.”
“You know what I mean,” he says. “This isn’t fair. You and your dog.”
I toss the tray aside. “You want fair? I’ll tell him to freeze, and while we’re dancing, he won’t even move.”
“Good.”
A runner scrambles to us, breathing hard. He looks like a new recruit, maybe twelve or so. “Sergeant Knox?”
“That’s me.”
“The captain wants you to join her,” he says, panting between each phrase. “The Exploitation Unit is approaching.”
I squat down, pick up the tray, head back over to the mess tent. “I’ll be right there.”
Bronson calls out. “I’ll be waiting for you, Knox.”
“Don’t wait too long,” I call back.
* * *
Back at the command Humvee—which now has a canopy tent erected nearby—Captain Wallace is sitting on a folding stool, with my dad and Major Coulson, around a table covered again with a topo map. Wallace has her helmet off and my dad and Coulson look much better in their new uniforms, though Coulson’s arm is in a sling. Something else I notice straight off is my dad’s black-rimmed Army-issue eyeglasses. One stem’s always been fixed to the frame with white tape, but no longer. Seems like in C
aptain Wallace’s unit, even a set of eyeglasses can be repaired.
Regular Army. I’m impressed.
I slide in under the tent, and there’s another low growl of vehicles approaching. Wallace looks over and says, “My, summer camp sure is getting crowded.”
Two up-armored Humvees come through the tree line, followed by—of all things—a diesel-powered Winnebago RV that’s been painted Army green—and behind that, a heavy truck that has a refrigeration unit hanging over the front cab. An Exploitation Unit, used to respond any time there’s the possibility of a captured Creeper, or a damaged Dome that can be examined. Scary, complex work. The Humvees stop, and heavily armed soldiers, bearded and wearing bandanas around their heads, bail out and take position.
“Special Forces,” Major Coulson says.
“The same,” Wallace says. “Guys who’ve got the guts, or the craziness, to go into Creeper Domes.”
I say, “They look pretty sharp.”
Dad says, “They’re all orphans, Randy.”
I turn to Dad and he continues. “Orphans. Their immediate families…all have to have been killed by Creepers. That way, they have the…tenacity to get the job done. And they sign up, knowing that for the most part, it’s a posting that doesn’t have much of a shelf life.”
The RV comes to a halt and two more soldiers exit, followed by two older men. One is in BDUs, with a single star on his rank strip—a brigadier general—and the other is a short, plump man in a black jumpsuit, zippered up the front, with a holstered pistol strapped across his chest. They both start walking with determination to the tent and we all stand up. Wallace says, “Young man.”
“Ma’am?”
“You ever meet a spook before?”
I’m not sure what she means, and my dad helps me out. “From the CIA, Randy. Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Not that I know.”
Wallace says, “The short guy to the right. He’s CIA. Hoyt Cranston. And…that’s General Brad Scopes, next to him. They’re in charge of exploitation and intelligence in this part of the Empire State. Colonel Knox, do you know General Scopes?”
“No, not really,” and then the men come in, and there’s a flurry of introductions. General Scopes is in his forties, tired-looking—come to think of it, every adult I know is tired-looking—with thick gray hair, parted to one side. His companion, Mr. Cranston from the CIA, is about a foot shorter, with a wide smile, twinkling eyes, and thin, unruly white hair that springs up like it’s constantly receiving an electrical current.
Red Vengeance Page 2