by J. F. Holmes
“Nick Agostine,” he said, with a firm grip.
“Dale Jonas, but just call me Jonas, everyone does,” he replied. “I ran a farm for a dozen years before the plague. This your place?”
“Yep. I’ve got four hundred acres in corn and silage, sell a lot of the hay to the Army, and the corn, well you can make just about anything with it.” The look of pride on the man’s face told of his love for his land.
“So then, said Jonas, “you probably got the ass with all these soldiers coming in here and camping out on your land. I tried farming a bit after, but them Mounties came in and first ate everything, then trampled everything, then took everything.”
Agostine cast a glance about, as if realizing for the first time that there actually WERE soldiers camped out in a field next to his house. “Oh, them?” he said, “Cause enough trouble, and I’ll just have them shot. Or maybe hang them.”
Jonas laughed, for a moment taking it as a joke, but then stopped. He took in the rifle strapped to the tractor and the pistol holster riding low on the man’s leg. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Well, since I’m also their new commander, temporarily, yes, of course I’m serious.”
At that moment, a young boy came running from the house. He tore across the field and stopped dead in front of the tractor. “DAD!” he exclaimed breathlessly, “UNCLE ZIV BEAT THE SHIT OUTTA ONE THE NOOBS! AND MOM SAID TO GET YOUR ASS BACK TO THE HOUSE AND DO PAPERWORK AND STOP FUCKING AROUND ON THAT GODDAMNED TRACTOR!”
Agostine squatted down, looked the boy in the eye, and said, “Listen to me very carefully. That had better be a direct quote from your mother, or you’re going to be in serious trouble.”
“Uh, yessir. That’s exactly the way she said it,” said his seven-year-old son.
“And the beat the shit out part?”
The boy started to turn red, but answered, “Well, he did. That grumpy bastard Cahill. I done seen it.”
“You SAW it, not ‘done seen’ it. Now get back to the house and tell Brit I’ll be along presently.”
The boy spun on his heel and raced back, and Jonas could see the love the man had for his son in the smile on an otherwise harsh face.
“Seems like a good boy,” said Jonas.
“He is. But he’s too much like his mother. A little bit of an impulse control problem.”
“Never had none myself, too much to do on the farm and then, well, I didn’t think it was right to bring kids into this world,” said the new civilian recruit.
Agostine pondered that for a bit, then said, “Well, you’re here to join the scout teams, correct?”
“If I make the cut. And I won’t serve without my partner.”
“That would be Sister Mary?”
Jonas looked at him, and Agostine laughed. “I’ve read all your files, and I understand how important a team is. If you can hack it physically, and you can shoot, you should be fine. I have a lot more faith in civilian survivors, who are used to operating alone in the wild, than in soldiers who are part of a machine.”
“Well, it was hard, I ain’t gonna lie.”
The soldier nodded and said in agreement, “Life is hard, Jonas. And if you’re not hard yourself, well, you’re dead.”
“Agreed. Can I ask you favor? When we aren’t doing whatever it is, mind if I come back here and farm with you?”
“You’re my kind of man. Let’s go back to the house, and you can meet my wife.”
The two men started off across the field, and Jonas noticed that Agostine, even here in the safety of his farm, never stopped scanning his surroundings. Every now and then he answered some calls on the radio, in a quiet military tone, and Jonas really believed that he would, indeed, be capable of shooting or hanging people.
Chapter 297
Later that night there was a knock on the door of the small office in the farmhouse. Agostine liked to keep his military work separate from his family life, but anyone in his family, or the small group he called friends, could come and go as they wished. If it was a knock, that meant someone from outside. Probably one of the scout candidates.
Though they didn’t know it, their selection phase was going to start at exactly at 02:47 this morning, with a forced ruck march of some thirty miles. Not that they knew how far it would be, but that was the most he could do before his stump really started to irritate him, and it would be inflamed for the next few days after that.
“Come in!” he called, and the door opened.
Master Sergeant Cahill strode in and planted his hands on the desk, leaning forward aggressively. “I want to know who the hell is running this bullshit school. One of the so-called instructors sucker punched me today, and if I see his ass again, I’m going to beat it! I’ve been getting the complete runaround, and the only person I’ve seen here in a uniform is a female Infantry Major and Staff Sergeant Yasser, neither of whom would give me a straight answer!”
“Sit down, Master Sergeant,” said Agostine, motioning to a chair. The NCO ignored him, just leaning on the desk, glaring at him. His jaw was a mass of bruises, turning purple.
“That wasn’t a request; that was an order. Sit. Down. Or would you rather we did this with you at Parade Rest? Your choice. I’m only a Brevet Colonel; my actual rank is Sergeant Major. So we can do this politely, or I can take off my eagle, put on my stipes, and beat the shit out of you. Again, your choice.”
“Uh,” muttered Cahill, catching a glimpse of the framed medal hanging on the wall, taking in the pale blue cord and smattering of embroidered white stars over the upside-down metal one. There was another one underneath that. TWO Medals of Honor. He sat down.
“Listen, Master Sergeant,” said Agostine. “I’m going to explain this once, out of respect for your rank. I’ve read your file; you’re a good soldier. One tour in Afghanistan before the plague, ten years of continuous combat since then. I get that, and I admire you for it. However, you volunteered for the scouts; nobody sent you here. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, uh, Yes Sir.”
“Call me Nick; I’m a lot more comfortable being an NCO than an officer.”
“OK,” said Cahill. He wasn’t going to take him up on that yet.
“We do things a bit differently here than you’re used to on The Line. I get it; you need iron discipline in the face of a horde, and you work like a machine, like clockwork. In fact, I think line units have more in common with the Roman Army than with the old American Army.”
“I’m not following you,” said the Master Sergeant.
Agostine shook his head and said, “Never mind. The point is, here in the Scouts, we’re a team of independent thinkers. You may find yourself, at any time, cut off from everyone and everything, surrounded by hostiles, both living and undead. That rigid line way of thinking, ‘Do as you’re told’, doesn’t cut it with us.”
“But how do you function without, without, I don’t know, without leadership?” The man genuinely looked confused, and Agostine felt a bit sorry for him.
“There’s leadership, and there’s discipline. It’s actually a bit more severe than in line units. Let me ask you, how many of your soldiers have you had to shoot on the spot?”
Cahill looked horrified. “None! Even the ones that broke on the line, we threw them back and they got flogged.”
“And those who broke twice?”
“Well, the MPs, well…”
Agostine nodded. “The MPs shot them. Or hung them, after trial.”
“So what’s your point? They got a trial.” Cahill was a bit mystified.
“And you won’t. Myself, Ziv, Boz, Brit, Shona, Staff Sergeant Yasser, or Captain Redshirt will shoot you on the spot if you endanger the mission. Especially Brit.”
“Who?”
“The redhead in the kitchen. My wife.”
“Your WIFE is on the scout teams?”
Agostine laughed and said, “Not so much anymore, with three kids to raise. I don’t go out much either, myself.”
He could see it was to
o much for Cahill to handle, so he said, “Listen, Master Sergeant, you can go out and ring the bell right now if you think this isn’t for you.”
The man was silent for a moment, pondering. Finally, he said, “Well, I’ve never backed down from any challenge, and I can see the necessity of the Scouts. But your man Zivcovic and I are going to have a serious discussion about the shit he pulled today.”
“No you’re not, for two reasons,” answered Agostine. “First, he was acting on my orders. Second, I wouldn’t recommend it, unless you want to wind up disabled or dead. I’ve only ever seen one man beat him in unarmed combat, and that was the guy in the cutoffs and flip flops.”
“That old bastard? I thought he as some kind of drunk!” exclaimed Cahill.
“No, Sergeant Major Bozelli is not a drunk, but he can be a bastard, I’ll grant you that. Now unless you have anything else, I need to get this paperwork done, and you should get some rest. Selection begins tomorrow.”
Cahill stood up, ramrod straight, and saluted. “Yes, Sir!” he barked and spun on his heel, striding out. Agostine sighed and shook his head.
A few minutes later the door opened again, and his wife walked in holding two mugs. Steam drifted out of one; that was tea for him. The other, he knew, held a shot of whiskey for her. The redhead carefully placed the mug down; her prosthetic right hand was still a bit tricky to use. In her usual blunt way, she said, “Did you take the stick out of Mister Regular Army’s ass?”
“Maybe. Do me a favor, don’t antagonize him. I’m under a lot of pressure from JSOC to make this school idea work.”
She brushed her hair away from her one bright blue eye, looking at him intently. “If it does work, we’re done, right? Retired?”
“I hope so,” he answered, and in his heart, he truly did. For the most part. She sipped from her mug and looked at him until he grew uncomfortable under her gaze. Somehow, his wife always knew what he was thinking, could always see right through him.
Finally she broke the silence with a sigh. “You know, Captain America, eventually someone else is going have to take over. Or you’re going to get your ticket punched.”
“Brit…” he started to say, but she cut him off.
“Nick, I love you, for all that you are, but your fanatic devotion to duty scares me, it really does. You’re not going to save the country single-handedly.”
He pointed back over his shoulder to the Medals of Honor on the wall. “I already did, twice.”
“And that’s not going to mean shit when I tell the kids that their father isn’t coming home.”
They’d had this argument a hundred times before, and he knew she was right. How many of the original team were left? With a start, he realized that he was the last. Doc, Ahmed, Jones, Rabinowitz. Well, the Rabbi was still alive, but as a cripple. How many others over the last ten years? He’d lost count, but he remembered all the names.
“Let’s get through the next week, shall we? I hope you’ve got some surprises cooked up for them.”
A look of glee passed over her beautiful face. “Oh you bet I do!” she answered, and laughed her slightly maniacal laugh.
Chapter 298
“STAND TO! STAND TO!” crackled over the speakers mounted in the tents, and Paul Badger jumped out of his bunk, reaching for his weapon, forgetting that it had been turned in to the armory tent the night before. He looked at his watch, noting the time as he pulled on his boots. 02:47. Oh-dark-thirty. The veteran sergeant groaned and muttered, “Crap!” under his breath.
The speaker barked again, a woman’s voice this time. “All personnel report to the armory tent for issue of weapons by 02:50. If you don’t make it by then, you’re cut from the program.”
“Shit,” he muttered, trying to lace his boot in the dark. Around him other men and women were expressing pretty much the same sentiment, but they were soldiers, used to getting up at all kinds of strange hours. He grabbed his blouse, and as an afterthought, his camelback filled with water and pogey bait.
Badger nearly collided with a woman who was trying to get through the tent flap at the same time and cursed at her when she shoved him to the side, making him trip over a tent rope. She laughed and hauled ass toward the field. He untangled himself and got across a white line on the ground just as a whistle blew.
“STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!” yelled a soldier with an artificial leg showing plainly, amplifying the command with a bullhorn. Everyone froze under the floodlights that snapped on, the fog from the river casting eerie shadows around them. “If you’re not past the white tape, go back to your tent, pack your shit, and go down to the landing. There’ll be a barge there at first light to take you back to Albany.”
Muttered groans and protests erupted from the half dozen soldiers and three civilians that were caught on the other side of the line. The protests were ignored, and the man with the artificial leg continued to speak over them with the bullhorn. Badger was glad he’d picked a bunk near the entrance.
“For those of you who don’t know me, I am Colonel Nicholas Agostine, and I’m in charge of this school. Fall in around me, and I’ll introduce my staff.” The officer introduced the soldiers who were responsible for each of the logistical and staff areas of the school, then ordered the recruits to form a line.
“I just want to welcome you to the Scout selection phase. It’ll be short, but it’ll be hard, and will simulate as best we can the conditions you may face in the field. Safety is, of course, a priority, but if you get injured or killed here, well, it just means you’re not good enough to be an Irregular Scout.” There was a slight laugh from the gathered recruits, and he continued after a moment.
“The Team’s mission is to go out and explore, find pathways for the various services to advance into undead and enemy-held territory, and collect information. Our job is NOT to rack up a kill count. Anyone who’s here for that can transfer to the Line. Do I make myself clear?”
There were muttered assents, and one soldier raised his hand. “Go ahead,” said Agostine.
“Sir, what exactly are a buncha civilians gonna do for us? They’ll just be in the way, and I don’t see them following orders.”
“They’re going to save your life, Staff Sergeant. These people are the subject-matter experts on staying alive out in the wild. If you can’t build a working relationship with them, you’re going to die, or worse, become undead.”
He waited for that to sink in, then said, “The Scouts have been involved in every advance the military has made, fought and died in the Second Civil War, and remained loyal to a man during the coup attempt. Our allegiance is given to this country, ladies and gentlemen, and you’ll be given every opportunity to prove that. Good luck.”
Their next task consisted of them going from station to station while individual school cadre completed a task. The first was run by a Sergeant Cagle, standing in front of piles of clothes. “All right ladies and gentlemen, all you soldiers, unass yourself from those uniforms!” he drawled with a thick Cajun accent. “NOW!” he barked when a few showed some hesitation. He started calling out sizes, telling them to raise their hands for what they needed, and threw out used pants and shirts. Badger got a pair of jeans that fit OK, but the shirt was way too tight.
“What the hell is this for?” growled Master Sergeant Cahill.
“Sometimes our missions require us to blend into the civilian population,” answered Bozelli, who was actually wearing a uniform and had shaved his beard off. His dark grey Scout beret was cocked at a rakish angle on his head, and beside him stood Zivcovic. The Serb didn’t wear any uniform, but was in full kit, AK-12 on a tactical sling, and body armor. Bozelli’s gear was in a pile at his feet.
“Hey darling,” said Cagle to the female soldier who’d shoved Badger out of her way, “You’ve seen the laundry part of Laundry and Bath Specialist, how about a scrub down with me sometime?”
She drew back her fist and punched straight out, hitting him in the jaw. Cagle fell backward, barely catching himself
on the table. He wiped off his bloody lip, grinned, and said, “Where I come from, that means yes! How about tomorrow night?” The woman grinned and called him something not very polite in Spanish.
“Let’s go, hustle up!” said Bozelli, shoving the woman along, and he pointed to another table. “Sergeant Johnson will issue one MRE each; do what you want with it.”
Badger saw that the civilians had already gone through that station. He stood in line, trying to stretch the uncomfortable t-shirt, and blanched when he saw that he’d been issued a tuna with noodles MRE. “How old IS this shit?”
“Trade you for it, tight ass,” said the female who had pushed him aside. She held up a five fingers of death, hot dogs.
“Nope,” he answered, and turned away from her. Screw her if she wanted to play passive aggressive games. He turned back to the cook, who’d seemed a little friendly the night before when they ate dinner. “Sergeant Johnson, got anything that isn’t twenty years old?”
“I’d kill for a twenty-year-old, buddy!” cracked the cook.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant,” said Sergeant Johnson, “and no, this is what we’ve got. Hope it doesn’t make you sick!” laughed the NCO, and at that point Badger really started to wonder what he’d gotten himself into.
They were issued their own personal weapons back by Bozelli and a female specialist. “You should have your individual weapons zeroed already. If you don’t,” she said, “sucks to be you.” Along with the rifles, they were given chemlights, but no ammo.
The last station was a series of rucksacks laid out on the ground. Zivcovic barked at them, “You have one minute to adjust the packs to your size.”
Badger was a veteran infantryman; putting a pack on was no problem for him. Likewise, most of the soldiers were also infantry, and easily hoisted the loads, which he estimated were about fifty pounds. One of the females, though, struggled to put it on her back, finally giving up. She turned to ask the man next to her for help, and a red laser pointer appeared on her, wavering back and forth.