Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

Sully says, “Yeah, they’ve been hiding well for ten years. Almost as good as the Navy. And we’re the ones out there getting crisped and lased, while they eat all this good food and don’t do shit.”

  Even though I’m warm, comfortable, and about the best fed I’ve been in a very long time, I can’t let this pass. “Sullivan, that’s not true.”

  “The hell it isn’t, Sergeant Knox.”

  “More than a month ago, when the Creepers’ Orbital Battle Station got blasted, who do you think did that? Peru? No, it was the Air Force.”

  Balatnic says, “So what. They were able to toss a few missiles up there and caught them napping. That doesn’t mean anything.”

  I look to all of their satisfied yet defiant faces, and say, “Wait. You don’t know the details of the attack? You really don’t?”

  De Los Santos adjusts his eye patch. “What details? In case you haven’t noticed, Sarge, we’re sort of a mobile unit.”

  “You just think it was missiles that went up and destroyed the station?”

  A voice up the table. “That’s what we heard.”

  I say, “You heard wrong, then.”

  By now everyone’s looking at me, as the mess crew gather up the serving platters and plates. I say, “Right after the invasion, the Air Force got orders to destroy that station, any way they could. Standard missiles and Earth-to-orbit satellite killers didn’t work. They were too complicated, had too many electronics. Anything shot up there got burnt out of the sky.”

  Sully says, “They figure out a way to shield them, then?”

  “No,” I say. “They figured out a way to make the missiles simpler. They recovered some old solid-fuel rocket boosters, dragged them by horses to an abandoned base, somewhere in Utah, I think. Worked for years to design them and make them work, because they were sure they only had one chance. And they were right. And nearly two months ago, they launched.”

  Sully says, “Yeah? So?”

  I rub the top of Thor’s head. “You didn’t hear how they made them simpler then, less complex.”

  Nobody says anything.

  “They were manned,” I say. “Each rocket had a warhead, and each rocket was piloted by a volunteer from the Air Force. Eight rockets were launched. One blew up after taking off, and there were no parachutes or escape rockets. Our military got word via telegraph to other countries, to shoot off diversionary ICBMs at the time the Air Force launched. They did that. Six of the rockets found their target, destroyed it.”

  “What happened to the seventh one?” Balatnic asks. “Did that one make it into orbit?”

  “Yes, it did,” I say. “It was the squadron commander. A Colonel Victor Minh. His job was to escort them to the orbital battle station, see their attack, and return to Earth. His rocket didn’t have a warhead. It had a heat shield, so he could get back safely. The other six pilots, the other six volunteers…it was a one-way mission, and they knew it.”

  Another Humvee moves toward the hangar entrance, to fuel up. Sully says, “Bullshit. How the hell do you know that, Sergeant?”

  “I just know.”

  “And I still call bullshit,” Sully persists. “How the hell would you know something like that, all those details, you being a Nat Guard soldier from New Hampshire?”

  I still have my platoon’s attention, but the attention is a bit hostile. With reluctance I say, “Because I was there, at the Red House, when the President awarded him the Medal of Honor. That’s why.”

  “Wait,” De Los Santos says. “You were there in Albany, before it got smoked?”

  “That’s right,” I say. “I heard him tell the story, right there. From his own mouth.”

  I shift my gaze around the table, make sure everyone sees my look. “So knock off the chatter about the Air Force being cowards, not eager to fight, all of that crap. The first year or two of the war, their pilots and crews knew that every mission they flew was most likely going to be a suicide mission. Remember that.”

  There’s quiet for a bit, and Sully says, “Hold on, hold on. I read a bit about that in the Daily Gazette, just a paragraph or two. Yeah. Air Force guy got the Medal of Honor, something to do with knocking off the orbital battle station. But it also said some sergeant got the Silver Star. A sergeant in the National Guard.”

  I don’t like the attention I’m getting, but before I can say anything, Balatnic says, “Was that you, Sergeant Knox?”

  “Yeah, I guess it was.”

  “What did you get it for?” she asks.

  “For getting in the way of things.”

  “Shit, no,” Sully says, leaning back in his chair, his eyes widening. “There was something about that in the story, too. The sergeant who got the Silver Star, it said he got it for killing a Creeper. By himself. With a goddamn knife.”

  The back of my head is warm and there’s a bunch of questions coming at me, and I’m saved by a young airman who comes up to our table and says, “Anybody know where I can find a Sergeant Knox?”

  “Right here,” I say, standing up.

  “Very well,” he says. “I got a message from a Colonel Knox, requiring your presence. Will you please come with me?”

  I don’t like being dragged away like this, but Dad must have something going on. “I guess so.”

  He nods. His cheeks are scarred with acne. “Also, Colonel Knox requested that your K-9 unit be left behind.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “You know why?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  I just gather up my belongings, and say, “Sergeant Bronson?”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep an eye on things while I’m away. Thor, stay.”

  “Sure,” he says, and adds with a smart-ass smile. “Mind asking the Air Force if they have any ice cream they can spare?”

  Laughter, and I say, “I’ll see what I can do,” and I follow the young airman.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I follow the airman through the door at the rear of the hangar. We enter a large room with a scuffed tiled floor, and a segmented door with a sign overhead saying 173RD AIRLIFT WING, ANY WEATHER, ANY TIME. Unlike the signage outside and in the hangar, it’s hung correctly and is in good shape.

  The airman inserts a key into a panel by the segmented door, and turns it. The doors separate and open up, and I recognize what it is: an elevator, like the one I rode back at the V.A. hospital outside of Albany. I confidently step in and say, “This is my second ride in an elevator.”

  “Good for you, Sergeant,” he wrinkles his nose, and I know why. I must smell pretty ripe from my own exertions, plus the sweat and blood on my Firebiter vest. Too bad, I think, them’s the smelly fortunes of war. Inside the car there’s a little square box with numerals on it adjacent to the open doors. He stands in front of it to block my view and quickly punches in a number sequence, and an old memory comes back to me:

  Keypad.

  The doors slide shut, there’s a lurch as we descend, and then the doors open up to reveal—

  Paradise.

  Right in front of us is a pad to—get this—wipe our feet, and there’s dark green carpeting extending in all directions. Overhead lights are burning brightly and the air feels crisp and clean. Sitting in a desk just outside the pad is an older, tough-looking Air Force NCO in BDUs, white hair cut high and tight, suspicious eyes squinting at me. The Air Force has its own set of chevrons, shaped like blue and white wings, and I can’t quite get which kind of sergeant is sitting in front of us, but sergeants are sergeants all over the world, especially this one, with a clipboard before him next to an unholstered Model 1911 Colt .45 pistol.

  “Identification, please, Sergeant Knox.”

  I take in the luxurious atmosphere of the place. There are three corridors, running to the left, right, and middle, and there are closed doors, plenty of bright lights, and other Air Force personnel walking along, none of them looking particularly tired, burned, scared or hungry.

  “You want my ID?” I ask.


  “That’s right,” he says. “Now, if you please.”

  I get the feeling it would make his day to pick up the pistol and blow my head off, but I dig through my pockets in my worn and muddy BDUs, in my jacket underneath my vest—finding the dog biscuit that’s reserved for Thor one of these days—and then I locate my thin leather wallet, from which I pull my official Armed Services Identification.

  The Air Force sergeant snorts, takes it from my hand, writes something down on the clipboard, and says, “Perkins, you know where to take our guest?”

  “Yes, Master Sergeant.”

  “Then run him along, then.”

  “Yes, Master Sergeant.” Perkins points to the center corridor, and we walk briskly along, and the cleanliness of everything just stuns me. Who knew all of this luxury was buried underneath the destroyed base overhead?

  Dad, I think. Dad knew.

  “Right here,” he says, stopping at a door marked CONF 112. He knocks twice on the door, opens it up, and in I go.

  There are four people in the conference room, sitting in leather chairs around a brightly polished wooden table, and three of them don’t look happy at all. Along the walls are old framed photos of Air Force aircraft in the air, back in the day when Air Force aircraft could actually fly.

  The fourth person is Buddy Coulson, who looks as impassive as ever. Next to him is his sister, and then Dad, and sitting at the head of the table is Colonel Laughton. Not a smile or relaxed look among the three of them.

  Dad says, “Sergeant Knox, take a seat.”

  “Yes, sir,” and I do so. Damn, the chair feels nice.

  The colonel glares at Dad. “Go on, Colonel, say what you want to say.”

  Dad clears his throat. “We have a situation, Sergeant Knox. I’m working with Colonel Laughton on a matter, and have asked Specialist Coulson and her brother to assist. Specialist Coulson says she won’t cooperate unless you join her.”

  Serena looks to me, eyes nervous, her usually fine blonde hair still a mess, smudges of dirt on her face and hands. I say, “Is that right?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  Colonel Laughton interrupts. “It’s a threat, and I don’t like threats.”

  Serena says, “It’s no threat, Colonel. It’s the truth. Sergeant Knox will be with my brother and me, or I’ll tell Buddy not to cooperate.”

  Laughton says to Dad, “Don’t you have any influence over this boy?”

  Dad says, “I do. In part.”

  Laughton says, “Then I refuse—”

  Serena says, “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. Either Randy comes with me, remains at my side, or I’ll tell Buddy a coded message that will stop him. Block him. Everything he’s learned about Creeper language and everything else will be gone. Wiped. Forgotten. Do you want that on your record, Colonel? Or your conscience?”

  The only sound now is the hum from the overhead lights. Even that little noise brings back memories of being with Mom, in a supermarket filled with everything. The lights overhead glowing so bright and so soft.

  Laughton’s face is like stone but he says, “I guess not.”

  Dad says, “Sergeant Knox, are you all right with this arrangement?”

  Serena’s face is still troubled. I say, “Absolutely. I’ll do as Specialist Coulson requests, and as Colonel Knox requests. But in exchange, I want hot showers and clean clothes for all of Company K. Including the specialist and her brother.”

  Laughton says, “Damn it, Colonel Knox, what kind of goddamn outfit is this? We don’t have the time!”

  “Make the time, Colonel,” I suggest.

  “Shut up,” Laughton snaps at me. “Colonel Knox, I’ve had quite enough from these…kids. Kids making demands, ordering me around, being royal pains in—”

  Serena takes Buddy’s hand. “Buddy, it’s me. Can you hear me? Buddy, Authorization—”

  “Stop that!” Dad yells. “Colonel Laughton, are you out of your mind? You’re going to threaten all we’ve learned, all we can manage, because of your damn Air Force pride?”

  Laughton’s face is bright red and his fists are clenched, but he nods. “All right…We’ll set up showers, laundry facilities, do what we can.”

  I say, “Specialist Coulson and her brother. They go first.”

  “And you?” Laughton says. “You want to be next?”

  “Nope,” I say. “I’m a platoon leader. I can wait.”

  * * *

  So wait I do, and I try to ask Dad what the hell is going on, but he scurries away with Laughton, and I’m escorted to a waiting area. Some area. It’s a small room, two chairs, and a round little table in the center. A little concrete cube, with framed photos again of aircraft that haven’t successfully flown in a decade.

  On the table is an old prewar magazine called Time. On the cover is a photo of a young woman accused of killing her two children in some sort on inheritance scheme. I flip through the bright photos and pages, past lots of pages about sports and movie stars I’ve never heard of, and I note a couple of news stories about troubles in the Mideast—I’m sure that any tribes still alive in the Mideast are still causing trouble with each other—and in the back is a small story about the oddly shaped Comet Yoko Imai making an approach to Earth. The story quotes a cult leader stating that the comet was a sign from aliens, and a scientist is quoted saying that the comet’s arrival would be spectacular.

  Funny how they both turned out to be right.

  I put the magazine down, see there’s a bunch of brochures, all the same. I pick one up. Very slick and bright, showing a jet aircraft shooting up into the sky.

  AIR FORCE: AIM HIGH.

  I gently put the folder back down.

  Aim high.

  I take one more glance around the bunker. Some aiming high. Poor guys haven’t been doing that for years, save that suicide mission last month.

  The floor here is carpeted. I push the chairs aside, stretch out on the floor, and almost instantly go to sleep.

  * * *

  The door opening wakes me right up, and my hand is on my holstered 9 mm before I’m even off the floor. The same airman from before is there, sniffing again at what he smells—me—and says, “Colonel Laughton and Colonel Knox want to see you now, Sergeant. I’ll take you to them.”

  “Thanks,” I say, get up, stretch some, think I could really go for a cup of coffee, knowing the Air Force probably has some very fine coffee, but I try to be a good soldier and I walk with the airman as we go down one corridor, then another, and we go to another set of doors. An elevator. Once more, a key is used, we step in, and the airman punches the numbers.

  “You ever forget the numbers?”

  “Never,” he says.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure,” he says. “You screw something like that, you get transferred to a unit topside. Nobody wants that.”

  “Gee,” I say. “Nice to have a choice.”

  The airman says nothing. The doors open up.

  Here the floor is bare concrete. The lights are dimmer. It’s also cooler.

  “There you go,” he says.

  “You’re not escorting me?”

  Terror seems to lift right out of his voice. “You got that friggin’ right. Sergeant. Go down this hallway, you’ll be greeted.”

  I step out and the airman pushes buttons so hard I think he’s trying to break a finger.

  The doors slide shut with a heavy thud.

  I wait. And then I stroll down the corridor. It’s wide and the concrete is scuffed, like heavy equipment has been dragged back and forth. The corridor then makes a sharp left, and there’s a cluster of military personnel there, and all look at me as I approach. Dad. Colonel Laughton. Serena. Buddy. And an Air Force officer—a major?—in BDU pants and a white coat. All are standing in front of a metal door that looks like it belongs to a vault.

  Laughton says, “Nice of you to join us, Sergeant Knox.”

  “Got here as quick as I could,” I say.

  Dad
says, “This is Major Paternoster. Once we get beyond this door, he will be in charge of everyone, including me. Do you understand, Sergeant Knox?”

  No, I didn’t, but I wasn’t going to say that. “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Good. Major?”

  The major has black bushy eyebrows, a sharp hawk-like nose, and his hair is a gray-black flattop. He looks nervous. “Colonel, really, to access this area, it requires a thorough background check of the visitor. This is highly irregular.”

  “I take responsibility,” Laughton says.

  “Good,” Paternoster says. “Someone should.”

  Serena turns and offers a slight smile. Her skin is freshly washed, as is her hair. Buddy looks good, too. Their clothes are either freshly issued or washed. Serena says, “Randy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Stand with us, won’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Paternoster says, “Everybody move back, please.”

  Then I notice a painted area on the floor, black and yellow stripes, and there’s another access box or keypad, and Paternoster punches in the numbers, and there’s a loud hissing noise, and a thunk/click, and the door slowly starts to open up, swinging to the left. It moves slowly and I’m stunned at how thick the door is, almost a third of a meter thick. It moves slowly and then halts.

  There’s a rectangle shape of darkness before us.

  “Is this where we’re going?” I ask.

  Dad says, “That’s right.”

  I take Serena’s hand. “All right, let’s do it.”

  I walk to the darkness.

  * * *

  But there’s light, dim as it is. We’re in a large room, from what I can tell. A bell rings somewhere and the door starts to move back. I sense other people in the room, and I see they’re sitting in opposite corners. Soldiers, it seems like, sitting down.

  The door gently slaps shut, there’s another thunk/click.

  I’m smelling something.

  God help me, I’m smelling something.

  Paternoster quietly says, “Lights, please.”

  The lights gently brighten. The floor is still concrete. There’s a quiet armed man at either corner, and they’re not soldiers, they look like Air Force Special Ops, and they’re wearing body armor, armed with modified Colt M-10s, and neither one of them is looking at us.