Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

  Wallace takes a flashlight off her MOLLE vest and goes to the edge of the pit. Flicks on the light, and we all lean over and check it out. My M-10 is up, just in case…Well, just in case.

  Nothing to be seen. It’s a rectangular bunker, the dirt and floor having been fused into something like cement, it looks like. I kneel down, touch the surface. Rough but firm. Creeper technology of some sort, sprayed over the dirt, freezing it into place.

  “Interesting,” Wallace says.

  “Quite,” Dad says.

  They get up, Wallace turns her flashlight off, puts it back on her vest. There’s the second pit but we leave it alone. The two dead Creepers haven’t moved, which makes me very happy indeed. Dad walks back and stares up at the frozen legs.

  Dad says, “These exoskeletons need to be examined by an Exploitation Unit, soonest.”

  “Agreed, Colonel,” Wallace says, voice tired. “But we’ve got more immediate problems to face. Let’s head back.”

  I turn and start back to First Platoon, and Wallace says, “Where you going, Sergeant Knox?”

  “Ma’am?”

  She crooks a finger at me. “I still want you with me. Come along.”

  I know better than to ask anything, so I walk with Dad, Wallace and Thor, as the four of us trudge across the sodden field, the heavy rain still falling, and about the only good thing about the walk is that it gets us away from the stench of the two dead Creepers.

  Then we encounter another smell, of burnt rubber and burnt something else.

  We climb over the wall and Wallace starts to slip, and Dad catches her upper arm, stopping her from falling into the mud. She smiles at Dad. I think it’s the first real smile I’ve seen the captain give since I hooked up with her unit. The two of them get over and Thor stops, looks at me.

  “Really?” I ask. “Not even going to make the effort?”

  His eyes just look at me mournfully, and I grab him and hoist him over, and he trots off after Dad and Wallace. The two of them are headed to the damaged Stryker. There are fresh scorch marks on the port side, and two of the three tires on that side have been hit. The lead tire is a melted, charred mess, and the second tire is flat, looking like it was cut open by a laser beam from one of the attacking Creepers.

  But Wallace ignores all that and walks to the front. An injured soldier is leaning up against the front starboard tire, grimacing. Dr. Pulaski is working on his right arm, which is gone from the elbow down. His helmet is off and the sleeve on his jacket has been cut away.

  He says, “Damn it, Doc, can’t you do something for the damn pain?”

  “Once we get you stabilized, Hernandez, we’ll do that.”

  He sobs. “Damn it to hell…How am I gonna work the farm with only one damn arm?”

  Pulaski sprays something on the stump, which has instantly been cauterized by the Creeper’s laser. She waits, and then sprays something else, as the other soldier works on the wounded man’s remaining arm—also cut free from its jacket—sliding in an IV needle attached to a plastic tube and old fashioned IV bottle. The bottle is hung from a chain that’s holding up the Creeper’s arthropod head.

  “Shit,” Hernandez whispers. “Oh shit…”

  Pulaski says, soothingly, “Hernandez, you just relax, okay? You still got your elbow left. That’ll mean a lot when the VA fits you out for a prosthetic.”

  “But the farm…”

  “Screw the farm,” Pulaski says. “Worry about getting better. Besides, there’s government programs that help out injured vets. You know how it is. You won’t be alone.”

  Hernandez opens his mouth, his eyes waver, and he passes out, the tire holding him up pretty well. Wallace says, “Doc?”

  Pulaski is working on a bandage. “We got to him pretty quick. The bugs clipped him off, sealed the wound. Right now shock and infection are his worse enemies. We’re pumping him up with fluids. He should pull through, but we need to get him to a hospital or MASH unit, soon as we can.”

  Wallace says, “Yeah, well, that’s a problem right now, Doc.”

  She goes around to the damaged side of the Stryker, where a sergeant with a wrench in one hand and oil stained rags in the other is kneeling down, examining the large tires. Two soldiers are behind him with open tool kits.

  “Sergeant Merlino,” Wallace asks. “What’s the situation?”

  “Cap,” he says, without getting up. “Situation is, this here Stryker is going to be blocking traffic for a number of hours. That is, if there was any traffic.”

  “Go on.”

  He taps the first melted tire with the wrench. “The book says it takes about two hours to change out a damaged or destroyed tire. But the book was written before those buggy bastards landed here. This tire’s been melted right onto the rim, burnt right into the frame. It’s gonna take a half day at least to get it off and get it cleaned up to take the spare.”

  “I see.”

  “But that there’s the problem, Cap,” he goes on. “We got this tire here, split by a laser. No problem, if we had a second spare. But we ain’t got one. Tommy’s Stryker used his spare a week ago.”

  Wallace squats down next to the sergeant. “Can it be repaired?”

  The sergeant slowly gets up, Wallace joining him. “Yeah, it can be repaired, Cap. I can’t guarantee how long it’ll last, the roads being in the shitty condition they are. But that’s another couple of hours.”

  Wallace takes in the surroundings. Two dead Creepers, the rest of the company, the tail-end Stryker, and now the grumbling of engines, as the Humvees and trucks make their way to join up.

  “We’ll need to disperse, Sergeant Merlino,” Wallace says. “But before we do, we’ll set up some netting.”

  Merlino shakes his head, wipes his hands again. His face is leathery, with white bristles. “Ma’am, with all due respect, that don’t make no sense. It’s gonna take time to get the netting out, the support poles, and the ropes…and that’s time better spent for the rest of the company to get dispersed, and for me and my boys to get this job done.”

  “Sergeant Merlino…”

  “Ma’am, please, time…okay? Let me and the boys get the tires changed out, you and the rest of the company, go where you can stay out of view of the killer stealth sats, all right? You know it makes sense. Ma’am.”

  Wallace stares at him, chews her lower lip, and I recall that phrase, again and again taught to me back at school: the burden of command.

  Merlino’s right, as much as Wallace doesn’t like to admit it.

  “First Sergeant Hesketh.”

  “Ma’am,” he says, stepping forward.

  “Have the platoon leaders get their people squared away. About a half klick up this road, if I recall right, there’s a wooded area where we can hole up for the day. Get a move on.”

  Hesketh salutes, says, “Yes, ma’am,” and he starts yelling, motioning. I make to move and Wallace says, “Sergeant, still with me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Merlino says, “Don’t you worry none, ma’am. We’ll be along. Those bugs won’t bother with a small target like us.”

  Wallace says, “Make it quick.”

  “We’ll make it quick and right.” Merlino adjusts the wrench in his hand, and notices Thor for the first time. “Damn, that’s one fine-looking dog. That’s the one that told us about the Creepers ’fore the ambush, gave us time to set up, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  He squats down, holds out a hand, lets Thor sniff it. “Mind if I pat ’em?”

  “Go right ahead,” I say, as soldiers start gathering up the gear and making their way to the trucks and Humvees.

  He rubs Thor’s head and says, “German Shepherd?”

  “Belgian Malinois.”

  “Yeah, they do look alike, don’t they,” he says, voice soft. Two soldiers come out of the rear of the Stryker, carrying tools, and Merlino says, “Had a cute German Shepherd when I was younger, back in college. Guy’s name was Frankie. Good dog. When our fami
ly bailed out of Chicago when it got hit, Mom insisted Frankie stay with us…and he did…for two years until…until…well, I don’t want to think about it.”

  A corporal comes forward, with a schematic map. “Sergeant?”

  Merlino gets up, wipes at his eyes. “Too many memories that won’t get forgotten. Thanks for letting me pet your boy.”

  “Glad to do it,” I say, and I’m also glad to leave.

  Chapter Twelve

  In a couple of hours we’re set up in what was once an apple orchard, and the trees are high enough to provide overhead shelter. The remaining Stryker covers a dirt road leading to the orchard, and there are dried apples on the ground that a squad is detailed to pick up to supplement our rations. The rain is now a steady drizzle.

  I stay with Wallace, although I don’t know why until she has a tarpaulin set up near her command Humvee. Dad is with an older woman who’s a corporal, with thick fingers and equally thick black hair, and she’s sketching something as Dad talks to her, describing the enhanced arthropod joints that we’ve encountered.

  Under the tarpaulin there’s a table and three folding chairs. Wallace and First Sergeant Hesketh take two chairs and gesture for me to sit down. I do, helmet in my lap, M-10 leaning against the front of the Humvee. Thor lies down and flops on his side, pants with contentment.

  “Sergeant Knox,” Wallace says.

  “Ma’am.”

  “That was a good move back there, stopping the convoy. Allowed us to put ourselves in a good defensive position when the Creepers attacked. Otherwise…they would have T-boned us as we went by.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  Her eyes glower. “But to do that, you had to threaten a fellow soldier with shooting him in the head, am I correct?”

  “Sort of, ma’am.”

  “What do you mean, sort of?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly mean that I would do it,” I say. “I just wanted to get his attention, make him aware of the tactical situation. After he had stopped, I meant to apologize to him.”

  Hesketh has a hand in front of his face. Wallace’s eyes, though, are still glowering. “Did you apologize to him?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t have the time. Ma’am.”

  “I see,” she says. She looks to First Sergeant Hesketh and back to me, and says, “There’s going to be a slight change, and you’re going to be part of it.”

  “Very good, ma’am,” I say, and then I freeze at her next words.

  “You’re taking command of First Platoon.”

  * * *

  Lots of thoughts go stampeding through my mind. I’m not trained for commanding a platoon. I’m just a sergeant; most platoons are led by lieutenants. I’m a Recon Ranger, used to working at the squad level or by myself. I’ve been with Company K for just a couple of days. I don’t know the other platoon leaders, or the dynamics of the organization. And the biggest thought of all is that I’m a stranger, an outsider, someone from away. How will these soldiers react to somebody outside of their company stepping in to take command?

  I clear my throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good,” she says. “First Sergeant will take care of anything you need.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, what about Sergeant Bronson? He’s not going to like being demoted. I can put him somewhere else in the company.”

  Another quick thought and I say, “That’s fine, ma’am. He can stay in First. I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”

  A sliver of a smile. “I’m sure. Now, one more thing before you leave. Second Platoon took a hit at the skirmish back at the old horse farm, and Third Platoon is our Stryker force and heavy weapons platoon, such as it is. They’re going to be tapped out when night falls. So First Platoon will have picket duty tonight. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Very well,” she says. “Get to work.”

  * * *

  I trudge back to where First Platoon is set up, and I see Sergeant Bronson, leaning against a Humvee fender, drinking something from a cracked red plastic cup that’s probably been washed and rewashed since the war started. Other members are sprawled out, cleaning weapons, doing a bit of kit work, or just curled up, sleeping. He says, “Well, about time our golden child got back.”

  “Stow it, Sergeant Bronson,” I say. “You and I need to talk. Let’s find someplace quiet.”

  “Nah,” he says. “I like it here.”

  I say, “Not going to happen.”

  He finishes off his drink, crumples up the precious plastic cup. “You’re going to make me, is that it?”

  I sense other members of the platoon are now keying in to what’s going on, and I say, “Fine, have it your way. There’s been a reassignment. Captain Wallace has put me in command of the First. You’re my platoon sergeant.”

  He tosses the plastic trash to the ground. “The hell you say.”

  “No, I’m just passing news along.”

  “The hell with you,” he says.

  I step closer to him, and closer, and get inches away from his face. “Sergeant, I understand you’re upset, you’re confused, and you don’t like what’s going on. Fair enough. I’m giving you a bit of leeway in that, but that bit is done, consumed and gone. I’m in charge here, and I won’t tolerate any more lip. Do I have your full and complete understanding?”

  Now all of the other platoon members are on their feet, watching this little drama take place. Bronson stares at me and I give it right back to him. “Sergeant Bronson, I asked you a question. Do I have your complete and full understanding?”

  He licks his lip. “Yes, you do.”

  “Yes you do, what?”

  He blinks slowly. “Yes, you do, Sergeant Knox.”

  “Very good,” I say. “I want a quick look-see over our supply situation, and then there’s a platoon meeting in fifteen minutes. Got it?”

  “Yes…Sergeant Knox.”

  * * *

  The supply inspection is pretty quick, for all we have are a few spare bits of uniform, iron rations, first aid kits, ammunition for the M-4, and some spare rounds for the M-10, under lock and key in a red-painted footlocker. Pretty pathetic, actually, and all bundled in the back of one Humvee.

  I ask, “What’s with the M-10 round box? Why is it locked?”

  Bronson says, “You know how much stolen M-10 rounds can get out there in civvie land?”

  “I can imagine. Who has the key?”

  “I do.”

  “Hand it over.”

  He reaches with two hands around his neck, pulls out a thin chain with a key dangling from the other end. I unlock the box, slip the lock off, lift up the cover. There’s foam padding inside, with twenty-four M-10 rounds nestled within. I snap the lock shut, toss the key and the lock inside the box, and close the lid.

  “We’re in the middle of a firefight,” I say. “I’m not going to waste time trying to get that damn box undone.”

  Bronson says, “Very well, Sergeant Knox. It’s your responsibility.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need a refresher course in responsibility.”

  * * *

  I make the platoon meeting quick. There are just twelve of us, pretty understrength for a platoon, but that’s been the case since I was six years old, so why make a fuss over it. I know some of them already—Sully, De Los Santos, Balatnic—and I know I’ll have to learn everyone’s name and rank within the hour.

  I make my talk quick. I say I’m from another unit, temporarily assigned here, but I’ve seen them in action and they’re as good as any I’ve served with. Sergeant Bronson is my deputy, but if there’s a problem or concern, feel free to take it to me. Any questions?

  None.

  I say, “Later on tonight, we’ve drawn picket duty.”

  A couple of groans. “Second Platoon is still pretty thin after that farmhouse attack, and Third Platoon has its hands full getting that first Stryker back in the line. Sergeant
Bronson.”

  “Sergeant Knox,” he says, with a touch of sullen in his voice.

  “Work up a schedule,” I say. “We’re taking turns tonight, First Squad and then Second Squad. Plan the perimeter accordingly, and then get back to me.”

  Bronson says, “Which squad goes first?”

  “Flip a coin,” I say. “If you can’t find a coin, a rock or a stick will work. Use your best judgment.”

  * * *

  Later I introduce myself to Second Platoon Lieutenant Morneau, the tall blonde woman, and she’s all brisk and professional, and says, “You got a good platoon over there, Sergeant, but they can be sloppy. If we set up a line, sometimes we don’t have contact on the flank with your guys. That leaves a big damn hole. Fix that, will you?”

  I say, “I’ll be on it. Do you know where Lieutenant Jackson is?”

  “He’s with the disabled Stryker, helping out.”

  “I see.”

  “Yeah,” she says, looking over my shoulder to the area where the road is, and then lifting her head up to look at the overcast sky. “Hell of a thing, to be working out in the open like that. Knowing any second a killer stealth satellite can nail you with a laser shot, particle beam, or kinetic rod.”

  “Hell of a thing,” I agree, and I check out the perimeter myself, seeing what’s what, and note we’re in an orchard that butts up against a wood line that slopes down to a river at its western end. Up on the northern end of the orchard is a flattened farmhouse. I can’t tell if it’s been that way for ten years or twenty, and decide it doesn’t make any difference.

  A mess tent has been set up and as I go there with Thor, there’s an ear-splitting crackBOOM! and an accompanying flash of light from the direction of the road that makes everybody drop and kiss the ground. The sound of the explosion echoes and reechoes, and we all slowly get up. A killer stealth satellite shot, no doubt about it. Nearby are two soldiers from Second Platoon and one says to the other, “Shit, we just lost the Stryker.”

  “Damn,” the other soldier says, brushing mud off his knees. “Perez is over there. Guy still owes me a buck from last week’s poker game.”