One other odd thing about Mr. Cranston. During the introductions, he said, “Hoyt Cranston, Langley,” which didn’t make a lot of sense to me, since the CIA headquarters there in Virginia has been a series of water-filled pits for ten years. Later Dad explained to me that the surviving CIA officers, intelligence analysts and interpreters considered themselves to be like monks, in service to their nation, and that Langley was their long lost temple or shrine.
It sounded like a lot of adult hooey to me, but since nobody asked me for my opinion, I kept it to myself.
Mr. Cranston then goes to the edge of the canopy tent, slowly shakes his head as he scans the open Dome in the distance and the surrendered seven Creepers, right there in a row. The Special Forces soldiers that have just arrived are gingerly approaching the silent and unmoving line of aliens. Cranston puts his hands on his hips and turns his head. His voice is thick, like the emotions racing inside of him are threatening to silence him.
“This…this is unbelievable,” he says, looking back at us. “I…I never thought I’d live long enough to see this. Seven battle Creepers, lined up like this, like they’re ready for review or something.”
He turns back. The wind shifts and the strong scent of cinnamon returns. His shoulders move, and then Serena walks in, holding Buddy’s hand. Cranston raises a hand to his face, and I realize he’s weeping.
Cranston coughs, turns back again. “Who did this? Who’s the soldier who did this?”
I start to say that Buddy Coulson had done it, all with his translation abilities, but Major Coulson shoves me forward. “This one did it. Sergeant Knox.”
The man from Langley comes to me, opens his arms, grabs me in a bear hug, and starts sobbing.
Chapter Three
The interior of the Winnebago is clean, warm and spacious, and Cranston takes me to a center where there’s a round table, comfortable padded chairs, filing cabinets, and a civilian woman sitting behind a manual typewriter at a typing stand. There’s an area forward that has two large padded seats, like something from the inside of those luxury airliners that used to fly around the globe when I was a six-year-old boy. Beyond the center space is a narrow hallway, a kitchen, and closed doors that probably lead to bedrooms or something.
Cranston sits me down and the civvie woman gets up, returning shortly from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee and something black on two plates. I look at the plates and see that it’s cake. Cake! The last time I had cake was on my thirteenth birthday, and it looks delicious. My mouth waters.
Silverware, a small metal container with milk, and another with sugar, appear on the table. Cranston gestures to the luxurious spread. “A little snack while we debrief, is that all right?”
“That…that’d be fine,” I say, staring at the thick slice of chocolate cake. “But really, it was Buddy Coulson, the private. He’s the one that did it all. He’s the one that knows the Creeper language. I was just there.”
He laughs and works on his coffee mug, brings it up to his lips. “Right. Just there. That’s not what I heard. I heard that you dragged the boy to the Creeper Dome, threatened to kill him unless the Creepers came out and surrendered…and when they did come out, you killed one of the Creepers for not moving fast enough. True?”
By now the woman—in her mid-fifties, wearing a black jumpsuit like Cranston—is typing fast along, and now I know that everything I say here is being transcribed. It’s a feeling both creepy and prideful: creepy that my words are being captured, and prideful that someday, historians might read these words.
“Fairly true,” I say. I pick up a fork, take a small piece of the cake, and bring it to my mouth. The chocolate taste barrels right through my mouth with a burst of joy, and memories roar in as well, not only from my thirteenth birthday, but earlier…much earlier. I remember running through a large house, chasing my older sister Melissa, laughing because I have a piece of cake in my hand and I’m going to rub it in her hair, and Mom is there, sitting with a laptop in her hand, raising her hand, laughing, saying, “Oh, you two…”
I swallow the cake. I try to hold onto the taste, hold onto the memory. Mom and Melissa, dead right after the war began.
I take another piece of cake, not wanting to speak right away, wanting to gather my thoughts, my emotions. I sip from the too hot but very tasty coffee and say, “I was looking for my dad, and Specialist Coulson’s dad. We were able to track them to this Dome…and I was able to free them both before they were taken into the Dome.”
“Then what?”
“Then I found out about Dad and Major Coulson’s research into the Creepers…their motives…and why they were here on Earth.”
“I see,” Cranston says. “And what did they tell you?”
I open my mouth, hesitate for the briefest moment, and say, “It was pretty confusing. Something about the Creepers coming here for some sort of religious reason. Or a belief system. I don’t understand. But Buddy…supposedly he was good at learning the Creeper language. He was…”
A prophet, that’s what Dad said. A prophet.
But what would the man from Langley think about that?
“He was something to the Creepers. Because he could speak their lingo. So I dragged him out to the field, and told the Creepers that unless they surrendered right now, stopped the war, that I’d kill him.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“You brought that young boy out there, thinking the Creepers would value him so much that they would stop fighting. What made you think that?”
“Because…he was valuable. He could speak the language. It was…a gamble, I guess.”
His face widened in a grin, his white hair still sticking up, and he says, “A gamble all right. A gamble that really paid off.”
“Mr. Cranston…”
“Yes?”
“Does this mean…the war? Is it really over?”
The woman typing away stops. Cranston takes another healthy sip from his coffee. “Let’s go back to what happened when you first arrived in the field.”
* * *
The questioning goes on and on, and I do my best to keep up, but I’m also growing wary of Cranston. He’s friendly enough, very courteous, but I get the feeling what would make him happy would be to trip me up on some aspect of what I had done earlier today. So I keep my answers simple and to the point, hoping he comes away from our conversation thinking that all that happened here today was due to the luck and thickness of a sixteen-year-old National Guard sergeant from New Hampshire.
Boy, I wish my dad was with me.
Or Thor.
Then he looks down at his handwritten notes and says, “Well, Sergeant Knox, I guess we’re through here. I have to commend you on your courage and quick thinking.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He finishes off his coffee—I had done the same much earlier, along with the cake, and I did my best to ignore the urge to pick up the plate and lick it clean—and says, “You were awarded the Silver Star a few days ago, weren’t you? From the President.”
“I was.”
“And for what?”
“I’m sure you know,” I say.
He laughs. “I do. I know many, many things…which sometimes makes it hard to sleep at night. All those secrets I keep, from my first days with the Company, dealing with countries that barely exist anymore, like Iran, Iraq, Nigeria, Afghanistan…and for the past decade, this…this challenge.”
I’m not sure what to make of that, because his voice gets more meditative. “I’ve made arrangements for you, your father, Major Coulson and his children to stay at a lodging facility about a half hour away, which we use sometimes for the Company’s guests.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. From what I had done in Albany and Troy the previous days, from stealing a civilian car and a Marine unit’s Humvee and weapons, I was fairly sure I’d be going to the closest stockade.
Cranston’s arrangements sound so much better.
He gets
up and says, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Sergeant?”
I look to the hallway and say, “May I use your latrine, Mr. Cranston?”
He smiles, waves an arm. “Go right ahead.”
I get up and go past him, and sure enough, past the kitchen area, there’s a closed door that opens into a small bathroom. I use the facilities—steal a small wrapped piece of soap—and then go out. I spot Cranston chatting with his typist, going over some sheets of paper, and I also spot a round dish with more cake on it.
Why not? I slice off a chunk, wrap it in a piece of paper, and slide it into my other pocket, making sure it doesn’t share space with the stolen soap.
* * *
I ask around and find Dad back in the woods. The two Strykers have moved around and are now hull-down, facing the surrendered Creepers and the open Dome. Camouflaged netting covers them both, keeping them from being easily spotted by our constant eyes-in-the-skies, the Creepers’ killer stealth satellites. They can fire lasers or metal rods to destroy anything using electronics, anything flying, or anything else that gets their attention.
The Special Forces soldiers are gathered in front of the Creepers, and I briefly think of the aliens contained within. What must they be thinking, pondering, considering, as they stay frozen in one place, while their human enemies move around in front of them?
I recall a piece of history, when Cornwallis surrendered to Washington at Yorktown. The British band played “The World Turned Upside Down,” and if the Creepers played music, or enjoyed music, I’m sure they’d be tuning up the Creeper equivalent right about now.
Dad is in a large tent, with canvas on the floor, chairs and tables set up, and he’s eating a meal with Captain Wallace. The two of them are laughing at something.
I don’t like the view.
But Thor sees me and trots over, tail wagging, limping slightly, and I rub the top of Thor’s head. Dad turns and says, “Randy, how goes it?”
“Goes fine,” I say, and I duck my way into the tent. Wallace smiles up at me and says, “I hear the President made it out of Albany, and that he awarded you the Silver Star a few days ago.”
“He sure did.”
Before them are two white plates, empty of whatever meal they’ve just had. From my coat pocket, I take out the wrapped piece of chocolate cake. Dad loves chocolate, and lots of times over the years, I’ve secretly given him my chocolate ration, even though he’s never really noticed it.
His eyes widen as he sees the crushed cake. “Where did you get this?”
“From Mr. Cranston,” I say. “He gave me a piece. I thought you’d like one, too.”
He gingerly picks up the cake, tastes a crumb, and he looks like he’s never tasted anything so fine. I feel pretty good, and a second later, I feel like crap.
Dad slides the cake and the smeared paper napkin over to Wallace. “Kara, I’m stuffed to the gills. Would you like this?”
Wallace grins, picks up a fork. “Would I ever…Thanks, Henry.”
Kara’s a captain, and Dad’s a colonel. And now they’re on a first-name basis.
She gives up a slight moan of delight and I turn, and Thor follows right along, and Dad says, “Where you off to, Randy?”
“Wherever Langley wants me,” I say.
* * *
It takes some digging around, but I locate my M-4 and my Colt M-10 and battlepack, and with Thor at my side, I feel pretty set. Most of the soldiers have pulled away from the perimeter and are in the woods, and there’s an odd tension in the air. Having the Creepers staying still like this is too much for most of them to handle, I guess, so they’re keeping busy cleaning weapons, grabbing something to eat, and trying to goof off without their platoon sergeants noticing.
I try to overlook the thought of Dad giving up that piece of chocolate cake, and I hear a friendly voice. “Randy!”
It’s Serena Coulson, alone this time, and she comes over and tears come to her eyes. She’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and the past couple of days on the run haven’t changed my view. Her smooth face is streaked some with soot, her fine blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing plain BDUs, but she still catches my eye.
“Hey, Serena,” I say, and I sit down on the chunks of an old stone wall while Thor gives a friendly bark and goes over to greet her.
“You okay?”
I lie and say, “No complaints. Hey, where’s your brother?”
“Buddy’s with my dad, and both of them are with Hoyt Cranston, being debriefed.” She plays a bit with her ponytail and says, “You’ll be joining us later, right? At the place…the lodging facility Cranston’s set up for us.”
Thor flops down at my feet, bandages still in place. He’s breathing easy, and his tail thumps twice. “I don’t think so.”
Serena sits down next to me. “Why not? It sounds lovely. Soft bed, hot water, free meals.”
“It sure does, but I think I’ll sack out with these guys,” I say. “Just find a place to curl up with Thor, get up tomorrow morning, and try to find transportation back east.”
“But…you can’t do that,” she says. “You’re famous.”
“No, your brother Buddy is famous,” I reply. “He’s the one that knows some of the Creeper language. He’s the one the Creepers see as…hell, I don’t know, prophet, ambassador, representative of mankind. All I do know is that he got those battle Creepers to surrender, and to keep their Dome open.”
“You were there with him.”
“Yeah, I was there all right,” I say, “threatening to blow his head off, convince the Creepers to listen to him. And if I remember right, you didn’t like that approach. You damn near busted my jaw.”
She smiles, leans into me. Even in her BDUs, it’s a nice feeling. “What do you expect? That was my brother. I just saw my dad get scorched. That was hard to handle, after just getting out of Albany before it got blasted.”
I keep quiet. I like the idea of bivouacking with this company, going back to the world where I grew up and where I belong.
Something warm is on top of my hand, my dirty, scarred hand, with its broken and blackened fingernails.
Serena’s hand, with nice red nail polish. She slides her hand into mine, gently entangles my fingers, and says, “Please. Will you do it for me? No offense, if you stay back, it’ll be me, Buddy, and our two dads. I’ll be bored out of my mind.”
Well. I squeeze her fingers. Out there a sergeant is yelling something about setting up a KP detail, and the wind brings the familiar stench of cinnamon, of Creepers.
“I suppose I could stick around for a bit.”
That earns me another lean of her body into mine. Thor looks up, gazes at me with those firm dark brown eyes, and then flops back down.
* * *
The lodging the man from Langley has set up for us is a quiet-looking yellow house, built in the nineteenth-century Victorian style, with a front porch and turrets and black shutters. We are driven over in a 1960s Lincoln four-door sedan by a Special Forces soldier who has a patch over one eye and two hook prosthetics at the end of his forearms.
Smoke rises up from two chimneys, and there are two young men in gray work slacks, white aprons and white cook blouses, sharing a cigarette and eyeing us as we exit the Lincoln. Both have sidearms at their waists. A slim woman steps out of the front door and says, “Welcome to the Drake House.” She’s dressed in clean yellow slacks, a white turtleneck sweater, and has thick, well-trimmed black hair. Looking at our motley crew, she manages to keep a wide smile as her two kitchen workers go back inside.
And motley it is, consisting of me, Thor, my dad, Major Coulson, Buddy and Serena. We’re all in BDUs, including the silent Buddy, and our luggage consists of battlepacks, reused plastic bags, and one knapsack. Thor is off leash. He sniffs at a juniper bush, raises his right leg, and lets loose a stream of urine.
The woman steps down, still smiling. “I’m Lucianne Drake, your hostess. I’ve been told to treat you ve
ry special, because you’ve all done something quite heroic.”
Serena’s dad says, “We’re ending this day alive, which is pretty heroic, I guess.”
Thor sniffs at her feet and she says, “What a beautiful dog. We have a shed out back that’ll be just perfect for him.”
I say, “Is there a cot and mattress back there?”
Lucianne clasps her hands together, sounds confused. “I…no. But there are some old blankets and hay. I’m sure that’ll be comfortable enough.”
I pick up my battlepack with my two weapons—the M-4 and the M-10—attached by straps, and I say, “I’m sure it will be, because where my dog goes, that’s where I go.”
Lucianne’s smile seems like it’s drifting to a grimace, and she nods. “That won’t be necessary. Won’t you all step in?”
Serena winks at me and loops an arm through mine, and the three of us—me, she, and Thor—go up the front stairs as one.
* * *
We get a room on the second floor with a real bed, a bureau, AM radio, private bath, and a window overlooking the rear yard, which—incredibly—looks like it’s mowed and maintained. Outstanding. In the bureau are two spare wool blankets, which I carefully fold up and lay out on the hardwood floor. Thor sniffs the blankets and then jumps up on the bed, rotates three times, and settles down. He wiggles some, lowers his head, and lets out a heavy sigh.
“Yeah, bud,” I say. “Rough life.”
I enter the bathroom, see there’s no shower but one of those real old bathtubs with claw feet. I run the water and it comes out pretty hot. I slide in and clean up the best I can, washing with the lodging house’s soap, not using the one I stole from Cranston, the man from Langley. I’m saving that for later.
That makes me think of Dad again, and the cake, and Captain Wallace, and I scrub some more while listening to my dog snore.
Red Vengeance Page 3