She says, “Are you sure? Are you sure it was a blue flare?”
“Yes, Cap’n,” the soldier says, and now I realize he’s a she, but I don’t have time to process that, for Wallace pulls a flare gun from her MOLLE vest and holds it up and pulls the trigger. A soft plop! and the flare shoots up, and it’s a blue one as well, and by God, a blue flare answers the Captain’s shot not more than five seconds later.
She whirls and says, “Platoon leaders, get your people ready to move. Now!”
I don’t know what the hell she means by that, or what the blue flares indicate, but I start toward the trenchline where First Platoon is located, and then a sudden roaring noise and bright lights overwhelm me.
I turn back to the CP. Something has risen up in the distance and is approaching. I bring up my M-4, don’t fire, because I don’t know what I see. A base part of my mind thinks it’s a huge Creeper, jumping up or flying in the air, and then the object and its accompanying noise grows bigger and louder, and dirt is flying off in clouds, and it swoops and whirls and in the dim light of the setting sun, I see an Air Force insignia stenciled on…what?
Then it snaps into view, and I lower my M-4.
It’s a V-22 Boeing Osprey, a twin-engine troop transport aircraft that can fly or hover, and it’s safely hovering down near the CP, its rear lamp lowering down, and there’s a shout, “Wounded! Get the wounded on board! Third Platoon, prepare for departure!”
My M-4 is at my side.
I still can’t believe what I see.
We’ve been saved.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Third Platoon races up to the CP, and there’s a lot of confused and hurried movement, but the walking wounded are being led to the V-22, and the stretchers with the other wounded are being hustled over as well, and then the survivors from Third Platoon. I start bawling, not crying out or anything, but I’m positive that one of those stretchers was carrying Dad.
Then the ramp swings up and the V-22 takes off and dips off to the right, without once being fired upon, and now it strikes me—Stratton Air Force Base, where that Creeper is prisoner, is also a research facility—and now we’re seeing the fruits of their labor.
V-22s that are shielded from the Creepers’ sensors.
Another V-22 comes up and rotates and lowers itself down to the cleared hilltop, and through my tears I whisper, “I’ll be damned.”
Now I know why Captain Wallace had the fire tower destroyed when we got here. She was preparing an LZ for us, just in case, with the blue flare telling her a rescue mission was nearby if she needed it.
Damn.
Maybe grown-ups aren’t so dumb after all.
The V-22 lands and its ramp lowers down, and the first sergeant yells, “Second Platoon, move!”
And he doesn’t have to yell that blessed order twice, and Second Platoon and more walking wounded get on board, and in a minute or two, the V-22 takes off, the ramp closing down as it lifts and speeds off the hill.
Quick silence. I clear my throat. “First Platoon! Hustle up! Prepare for departure!”
I lead them out of our trench and Thor comes right with me, and there’s the roar of another Osprey coming at us, and I glance back, and through the widening smoke clouds I hear something.
Click-click.
Click-click.
Click-click.
They’re coming up the hill.
I have my M-10 over one shoulder, M-4 on the other, my battlepack in hand, and Thor’s whimpering, afraid, I’m sure, of these giant flying machines, but I’m not about to let him go. I grab his collar and make sure he keeps up with me as we race with the others to the left side of the CP. There, Hesketh is arguing something awful with Captain Wallace, and he turns his back on her—what the hell?—and then he—
—goes to the broken antenna complex at the CP’s side, scrambles up it, and then pulls down the flag. He starts down and there’s a laser line—easy to see in the growing darkness and the smoke—that almost takes his head off, but he jumps to the ground and stuffs the colors into the front of his Firebiter vest, and damned if Wallace doesn’t kiss him on the cheek.
The Osprey rotates and lands like its two brethren, and the ramp whines down, and Wallace and Hesketh are there, shoving and pushing the soldiers in, and they move pretty damn quick. I stay at the rear of my guys and girls, making sure no one’s behind me—doubtful, I know—and I move up and there’s Hesketh, Wallace, Serena and Buddy, and Serena goes in and turns around, to help Buddy, and—
Buddy screams something awful, loud and bloodcurdling, and he won’t go into the Osprey.
He freezes!
Serena yells, “Buddy, it’s okay, it’s okay!” but Buddy breaks away from her, runs away in terror from the Osprey, and barrels down the slope, into the darkness and smoke clouds.
* * *
I swear and get to the lip of the ramp, toss my weapons and battlepack into the crowded rear of the aircraft, and God help me, it takes every bit of energy and effort to turn my back on that rescue aircraft, ready to bring me and the others away from this barbecue pit and off to safety.
But turn I do, and I yell, “Buddy! Get back here!” and run into the darkness as well, and Thor’s by my side, and I skitter to a halt, make sure he has my attention, and I say, “Thor, hunt Buddy. Got it? Find Buddy!”
He races past me into the darkness, and I try to follow him, best as I can, and I trip and fall into the trench we were just defending a few minutes ago, and I scream because I’ve fallen on a poncho-wrapped body of some dead Third Platoon member, and I scramble out, and—
The world lights up. Criss-crossing laser beams, bursts of flame illuminating the smoke clouds. The Creepers seem to be firing blind into the twilight and smoke, and it’d just take one lucky shot to destroy the V-22.
It should be taking off.
It should.
So why isn’t it?
Growling and barking up ahead. I push on, yelling something nasty, because I’ve twisted my ankle, and a bright burst of flame overhead warms my face and hands and also lights up the ground.
Thor has his teeth around Buddy’s pants leg, trying to pull him back.
Buddy screams again.
I get to him, grab his shoulders, “Buddy, c’mon, we’ve got to get moving!”
And the kid turns around and slugs me.
I fall down.
Thor is growling, still working, and Buddy screams again, and I get up, grab his waist, but sweet Jesus, for a kid he’s putting up one hell of a fight, one hell of a struggle, and I’m aware that precious seconds are burning away, that I’m still hearing the V-22’s twin engines and I’m expecting to hear them grow louder as it finally takes off, and somebody crashes into me, and I fall down again.
Shit!
I get up and there’s another soldier there, and I’m thinking it’s Serena, or Balatnic, or even First Sergeant Hesketh, but no, it’s none of them.
It’s Sergeant Bronson.
He has one of Buddy’s arms and I grab the other, and with Thor tugging at his leg, we start back up the hillside. Bronson yells, “This kid, he can talk to the Creepers, right?”
“Yeah,” I yell back.
Bronson shouts something and says, “Those damn bugs killed near everyone I’ve ever known, every friend, every family member. If this kid can end this friggin’ war…”
More laser flashes overhead. The CP is burning. The lights from the open hull of the Osprey come into view. Wallace and Hesketh are at the end of the ramp, Serena next to them, all of them gesturing and screaming and yelling. Bronson and I push Buddy in front of us and Hesketh practically tackles him, and with Serena’s help, drags him forward into the well-lit interior, First Platoon members sitting upright on folded-down seats.
It’s me, Wallace, and Bronson, and we move forward, and I’m blinded by a laser flash. There’s a scream.
We start taking off.
Wallace is behind me, dragging me into the Osprey, and I flip over and there’
s Bronson, on his face, dangling out of the lowered ramp. I push forward—working against the Captain’s attempts to drag me in—and I grab his jacket collar, drag him in, wondering why I’m doing it so easily, and as I drag him in, I quickly realize why.
That last Creeper laser beam had cut him in half, right below his belly.
The ramp rises up and I let go, and Sergeant Bronson’s body slips off into the darkness.
* * *
Thor comes to me, licking my face and hands as I sit up, the ramp finally closing. There are whoops and hollers from the other First Platoon members, and Wallace pats the top of my helmet, Serena bustles through and hugs and kisses me, and I close my eyes and open them up, and then everything just clears up, and I’ll be damned.
I’m flying.
I’m really flying.
A grinding thumping noise rattles through the interior, and I guess it’s the wheels underneath us—landing gear?—have finally come up and closed inside. I get to my knees and take in my surroundings. Two rows of folded seats stretching up forward, and I can make out the cockpit, as the pilot and copilot fly the machine. Two gals in Air Force BDUs move up and down the crowded hull, trying to get us to buckle in. Overhead there’s a massive tangle of cables and wiring. Near me is a very small window and I peer out. Hard to say but it looks like there are two little sets of lights out there, heading away from us, and then the lights blink off.
Heading away from us.
Wallace is up forward, wearing a headset, talking to the pilots. Hesketh joins in, and whatever they’re discussing is quickly decided. I step forward, over rucksacks and battlepacks, and poor Thor is huddled along the side, a puddle of urine near him. I pat his head and Wallace spots me, and I raise my hand, and she moves to me, cocks her head, and I yell in her ear, “Where are we going?”
Wallace moves her head to my mine, luckily picking my good ear. “What?”
Another movement, and I yell, “The other two Ospreys are going away from us. So where are we going?”
She moves her head around, “One last debt to settle.”
Wallace moves back, a grim look on her face, and I know “Kara’s Killers” have one more mission to complete tonight.
* * *
The travel time is only a few minutes, and I find myself enjoying those few minutes. I’ve always been terrified of heights, but this is my first true flight—although Dad told me that I had been on a couple of flights when I was much younger, before the war began—and it doesn’t scare me at all. If anything, I find it exhilarating.
Who knew?
The pilots keep us close to the ground, sweeping and diving, and I hold onto the overhead cables to keep myself upright, and then there’s a pitch change in the engines, as the two propellers begin to swivel to bring us into a hovering movement, and then there are thumping noises as the wheels or undercarriage or whatever is lowered from the hull, and with a gentle thump, we land.
The rear ramp whines itself down, and Hesketh is the first off, yelling, “Follow me!”
We do just that, Thor very glad to be on solid ground, and we’re at some military base, with fencing in the distance and no lights, and Wallace goes by, and she sees me and says, “Welcome to Naval Support Activity Saratoga Springs.”
The name means nothing to me, but it sure as hell means something to Serena, who’s near me, holding Buddy’s hand. “Randy…this is the place…this is where we were kept prisoner.” She sobs. “This is where they killed Dad.”
I unlimber my M-4, check to make sure I have a spare magazine, and I run with the rest of my platoon, as the Osprey takes off and leaves us be, far away from the Creepers, and right in the middle of another battle.
* * *
Wallace knows where to go, where to send the troops, and maybe I should be upset that she’s taken control of First Platoon but I’m not. The burden lifts off my shoulders and flies away, leaving me free to concentrate on the weapon in my hands and the dog at my side.
We barrel through a double-glass door, knocking over two men in Navy uniforms who start to yell and then shut up when they feel the business ends of our M-4s. Wallace continues to move down a hallway, followed by Hesketh, me, Balatnic, and Melendez. We smash straight into a small office, and then, a door connecting to the office swings open, and there’s Hoyt Cranston, in black jumpsuit, Kevlar vest, and slippers—honest to Christ—coming out of a small bedroom. His white hair is as unruly as I remember, but there’s no cheery smile or look on his face. He has a holstered pistol at his side, and he lowers a hand and just as quickly, I lift up my M-4 and point it right at his shiny forehead. His hand pulls away from his pistol.
“Captain…Wallace,” he says. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Wallace steps forward so quickly I think she’s going to punch him out, but in a clipped voice, says, “Surprising you, no doubt. Since you sent my company and some good soldiers into an ambush. You son of a bitch.”
We all turn as another man enters the office, and I see it’s General Brad Scopes of Intelligence, who was also back at the initial surrender site. He has BDUs on and he’s yawning, rubbing at his eyes, and even with thick gray hair parted on one side, he looks like he’s just woken up.
“Captain Wallace,” he says.
“General,” she replies, and says, “With all due respect, this is not your concern.” She turns to the man from Langley and says, “You knew there were two Creeper Domes there, not one. And you knew that PsyOps Humvee didn’t have any recording of that young Coulson boy. It had an insult, a Creeper insult, and resulted in lots of good soldiers getting scorched or lased. We weren’t sent there to have them surrender to us. We were sacrificed…and for what?”
Even with me pointing my M-4 at Cranston, he manages to keep his cool and says, “You troops in the field, you had one success, and you think you know everything? Do you? This is a war that’s been going on for years, including every nation in the world. It has killed billions, and you think you can end it in a few days?”
I speak up. “Why not? Somebody had to do it.”
Cranston looks like I’ve just done on his shoes what Thor had done on the Osprey. With a dismissive tone he says, “Don’t you know your history, kid? ‘War is too important to be left to the generals.’”
I keep my M-4 rock steady. “With all due respect, sir, that’s not right. Clemenceau said, ‘War is too serious a matter to entrust to military men.’ If you’re going to toss quotes at us, at least make them accurate.”
Cranston laughs. “Shut up, kid. There are other negotiations going on, other parties involved. You think the Chinese and Russians are going to let us talk alone with the Creepers to end this war? Do you?”
Wallace says, “That’s neither here nor there, Mr. Cranston.”
No more laughing from the man from Langley, and his voice lowers. “We have choices, and we have to make the right one. Maybe we should end the war on our terms, and not bother the rest of the world. Maybe we should do what we can to benefit the United States, and the hell with the rest of the world. And do you think the Creepers, they all speak as one? Even as interstellar creatures, don’t you think they have factions, tribes, alliances? Shouldn’t we get this all settled before you…kids go out to play diplomats?”
Wallace steps closer, and I really think she’s about to slug him. “And by sabotaging our efforts here, that’s in the best interest of our country and the world?”
“Above your pay grade, Captain,” Cranston says. “Did you really think something as important as ending the Creeper War would be left to children and a few grown-ups playing soldier? You had to be…ignored. Removed. So the big picture wouldn’t be upset.”
Before Wallace says anything, Cranston goes on. “You’re going to leave this base, and go back to your war. Oh, I believe that Coulson and his sister are with you? True?”
Wallace doesn’t say anything, but the expression on her face says it all. How the hell did this creep know the whereabouts of Serena and Budd
y?
Because, I think, he’s a Langley man, that’s why.
“Very well,” Cranston says. “Now. You’re going to leave, and you’re going to leave the Coulson boy and his sister behind. Understand? You’re going away and we’re going to use that freak to our best advantage. I’ve served this nation in Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen and Nigeria. It’s going to be up to the experts, it’s going to be up to me. I have had too much invested in this to let you…dirty grunts take it away from me.”
My turn, my M-4 still pointing at him. “No offense, but that really isn’t an impressive honor roll. For decades you adults knew we were being watched, evaluated, targeted…and you did nothing. And even though we outnumber you in the field, doing the fighting and bleeding and scarring, you think you know it all. You don’t!”
Cranston shakes his head. “I’m not going to stand around and listen to this nonsense. I’m leaving.”
Wallace snaps. “No, you’re not leaving. There has to be a reckoning, a resolution, for what happened to our troops and the civilians who were killed because of what you did, because of your thickheadedness and narcissism.”
Cranston nods in the direction of Scopes. “General? Could you explain to Wallace the true circumstances?”
General Scopes says, with reluctance in his voice, “Stand down, Captain. Deputy Director Cranston has had operational control of your unit from the very start.”
There’s a lot of shouting, arguing, finger-pointing, and when there’s a slight pause in the action, I say, “General Scopes?”
He seems surprised I’m reaching out to him. “Er, Sergeant?”
“General Scopes, is Mr. Cranston the senior CIA official on base?”
Scopes says, “Yes, he is.”
“And you, Captain Wallace, and all of her troops, are all under his command. Correct?”
With a smirk on his face, Cranston says, “That’s right, kiddo. You want me to draw you a picture?”
I keep my M-4 aimed right at Cranston but turn to Wallace. “Captain, do you remember what you told me up on that hilltop? When I wanted to leave? You said I was under your command, until you released me. Correct?”
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