Free Stories 2018

by Baen Books

  One of the Navy’s harbormasters came up to me, and she said, “Looks like our Russian friends have arrived.”

  The harbormaster was cute, wearing a khaki blouse and pants, and a blue baseball cap covering her blonde hair. She seemed to be about my age, 16 or so. Per her nametag, her name was COOK.

  “What’s the flag?”

  She had a pair of binoculars hanging from a leather strap around her neck, and brought them up. One of the lenses was missing.

  “Russian Imperial flag,” she said. “The Russians now have a czar again.”

  Two launches slipped out from the dock, being rowed by six crewmen each, and in a few minutes, they were coming back, the boats riding lower in the water. There were large containers in the center of the first boat, and two passengers riding in the rear, and four other Russians in the other.

  “This way,” the harbormaster said, and I followed her to the end of the dock. The first launch came around and there was a flurry of lines being tossed, oars being raised, and a couple of beefy guys managed to unload the containers—made out of scuffed black plastic—and then two individuals stepped out, wearing dark blue uniforms of a type I had never seen before, with garrison caps with badges on their heads. The near individual was a heavy-set man, with a big smiling face and close-cropped hair. He turned and spoke to the person behind him, who turned out to be a young Russian woman, and she smiled at me, and I fell in love at that very moment.

  She quickly walked up to me and extended her hand, which I quickly shook. She was about my height, wearing the same uniform as her male comrade, but she looked nothing like her fellow officer. She was slim, pretty, with bobbed blonde hair, wide smile, blue eyes, and clear skin.

  “Good day,” she said, speaking fine English with a Russian accent.

  “Hi,” I said, knowing, at that moment, I sounded like a moron.

  She let me hand go, gestured to her companion. “This is Senior Lieutenant Kosanskey, Imperial Russian Navy.”

  He smiled, saluted, and I saluted back, realizing that while these two had probably traveled for weeks across the Atlantic and looked like a Russian Navy recruiting poster, I was dressed in mended and slightly dirty Army fatigues.

  He said something quickly in Russian, and the woman said, “Yuri extends his deepest greetings in fraternal thanks to the American Army. I’m sorry, he doesn’t speak English.”

  “That’s all right, I don’t speak Russian.”

  “Ah,” she said, “my apologies. “Captain Lieutenant Ludmilla Petrov. Glad to meet your acquaintance.”

  Then I realized, like a dummy, that it was my turn, and I said, “Sergeant Walter Hart, 2nd Infantry Brigade Combat Team, New York National Guard. I’m your escort for your mission.

  Ludmilla smiled, revealing dimples on both cheeks. “So happy to greet you, Sergeant Hart.”

  Yuri stepped forward, smiling, and slapped me on my shoulders. I winced. He rattled off something in Russian, and Ludmilla said, “Yuri says . . . after many weeks . . . so glad to be in America, so glad to help you kill the . . . nasekomyye.”

  “The what?”

  “The nasekomyye,” she said. “The insects. The bugs.”

  “The Creepers,” I said. “Thank you for coming here, to kill our Creepers.”

  They had some more gear to get off their boat, and there were more Russian naval officers that came ashore to meet the senior officers of the Mitchel Joint Navy-Army station. A photographer from Stars & Stripes was also there, and after a while, I got them secured in their temporary quarters, and their gear was placed under guard in an adjacent small warehouse.

  I was heading back to my quarters when I got word that there was a dinner being held at the Officer’s Mess to honor our Russian allies, and I got an invite, which surprised me, because I was listed as an NCO, despite my Intelligence Officer position. But a meal was a meal, and I managed to get something resembling a dress uniform together and got to the mess hall.

  I was late, so it meant I sat in the back, near the swinging doors leading to the kitchen, but the meal was pretty good, pre-war canned stew that had made it through in reasonable shape, along with homemade bread, and there was a speech by both of the base’s commanders—Army and Navy—and dessert was chocolate chip cookies, and after it broke up, I was mingling around, leaning on my cane, when there was a tap on my shoulder.

  I turned and it was Ludmilla, smiling at me.

  I leaned into my cane, something in my chest going thump-a-lump.

  “Thank you for welcoming us,” she said.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “You are taking us to the Dome tomorrow, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  Damn, those dimples looked so sweet.

  She leaned over to me and said, “There’s a . . . what you call. Association. Get-together.”

  “A party?”

  Ludmilla quickly nodded her head. “Yes. A party. Please join us.”

  I had reports to type up, laundry to do, and a review of incoming telegraph traffic from other intelligence battalions in New England, but I instantly said, “I’d love to.”

  The party was in an abandoned building on the edge of the old landing strip, and was made up of a bunch of Americans and Russians from the ship, which I learned was named the HMS Alexander III. An American flag and Russian flag had been nailed on a wall, and somebody had rustled up an old stereo that played records.

  Lots of loud music, some snacks, and the Russians had brought along a case of their vodka, which tasted a hell of a lot better and sharper than our Long Island stuff, made from damaged or surplus potatoes. There were lots of toasts, laughter, and I danced as best as I could with Ludmilla, using my cane, and at one point, I needed to go outside and get some fresh air.

  Even on this lonely stretch of the base, there were gas lamps, illuminating the cracked roads and sidewalks, and overhead was the never-ending light show of pieces of space junk burning up as they re-entered Earth’s atmosphere. A lot of the debris came from satellites and the old ISS that had been destroyed when the Creepers had invaded, and for the past several weeks, some of the larger chunks had come from the Orbital Battle Station, destroyed in some desperate attack by what was left of the Air Force.

  It was supposedly the end of the war, our ultimate victory, but like the earlier nightmare of alien invasion, a sequel had been planned.

  The war wasn’t over.

  Not with a second Orbital Battle Station suddenly appearing in the sky more than a month ago.

  “Enjoying yourself?” a woman’s voice spoke up, making me jump.

  I turned and it was Cook, the assistant harbormaster. She was dressed in patched jeans and a very faded New York Giants T-shirt, and she lit up a cigarette. She offered me a puff and I declined, thinking of the irony of it all, and I said, “Very much so.”

  “Yeah, I can tell,” she said. “Can I give you a word of advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “Me and about half the base can see you mooning over the Russian blonde chick. Don’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  She took a quick puff. “Really? You don’t know why? I thought you were in intelligence.”

  “The best around,” I said.

  “Hardly,” she said. “Ludmilla and her bulky friend? They’re the team that’s going to bring the bomb components next to the Creeper Dome and set it off. Both of them will be dead in a few days.”

  The next morning I was ordered to take Ludmilla and Yuri as close as possible to the Creeper Dome, and I got a chit to sign out an electric Humvee from the motor pool, but it was in the middle of being overhauled so I had to make do with a quartermaster’s horse and carriage, with two old dark brown farm horses taking us out to the west. A young Explorer Scout with a bad complexion who was doing an internship with the motor pool was our driver.

  In a few minutes we were on old Route 25, going along the remains of small businesses and single-family homes that were abandoned after the
war began. Other wagons and carriages were on the road, along with horses, bicycles, some old cars that had basic engines that weren’t fried ten years ago, and a couple of Humvees trundling along on routine patrol. Ten-year-old hulks of abandoned cars and trucks were on either side of the road, where they had been dragged over in the past years.

  I managed to sit across from Ludmilla, and Yuri sat next to her, smiling and looking around at the old desolation. Both were dressed in denim workpants and blue-and-white long-sleeved shirts.

  I tried very hard not to recall what Cook had told me last night, not wanting to think of this pretty young girl across from me and her large friend dying in a nuclear flash.

  Ludmilla said, “All the people who lived here . . . where are they?”

  “Refugees or dead,” I said. “The bugs dropped an asteroid near Staten Island, and in the middle of Long Island Sound. That meant New York City was drowned and a lot of the towns on the Connecticut coastline and here were washed away. The survivors eventually left, either on their own or via the National Guard. Pre-war, the population of Long Island was about eight million. Now? Maybe eighty thousand, if that.”

  Ludmilla shook her head, spoke to Yuri and pointed at the passing landscape. Yuri’s face colored, he shook his head, and then spoke quickly to Ludmilla. She turned to me and said, “Yuri says . . . he’s happy to be here . . . to help avenge all those who have died . . .”

  I nod but I want to ask, but what about you? How can you come so far to die on a foreign land?

  After about an hour we came to a checkpoint, and after showing my ID and orders, we were passed through. The checkpoint was an old mobile home trailer shoved across the road, with an armored-up Humvee keeping watch. The top of the Dome was now in view, and the horses started whinnying and shaking.

  The Explorer scout up forward turned, reins in hands, and said, “As far as I can go, Sergeant.”

  “All right,” I said, “we’ll hoof it from here.”

  I got out of the carriage, wincing when my fake leg hit the cracked pavement first, shooting pain up my right stump. Yuri got off, helping Ludmilla, and each grabbed a canvas satchel, and started following me.

  I took my time, walking along the path, using my cane, and here the pavement was torn up, melted in places, the homes and businesses either crushed or burned. The air seemed off, still, and I knew it was from the presence of the Dome, which also caused the absence of any wildlife. Two soldiers on patrol gave us a wave, and the near one said, “Hey, folks, don’t get scorched, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  But when they spotted Ludmilla, they stopped and smiled and just stood still as we went by.

  Up ahead, there was a cleared area, and then a high berm made of plowed-up dirt, asphalt, and concrete, with carcasses of old trucks, cars, and vehicles. There was a stairway made of wood and metal, and I said, “This’ll give us a good view. Watch your step. This stairway is pretty beat-up and old.”

  Yuri went up first, Ludmilla followed, and I took up the rear, moving as well as I could with one leg. At the top platform there was a soldier I knew, a Corporal Tanner, who was sitting on an old folding chair and with a spotter scope on a tripod set before him. At his feet was a small knapsack, and next to it, a field telephone with a phone line stretching out all the way back to the checkpoint.

  He turned and said, “Hey, Sarge. What’s going on?”

  “VIPs,” I said. “Russian Navy, here to check out our neighbors.”

  Tanner whistled. “Sure came a long way to spot bugs. Don’t you have enough back home?”

  Ludmilla said, “Yes, but we’re here . . . diplomacy mission. We’re here to destroy this Dome.”

  Tanner said, “Have at it. Here, want to take a look?”

  So he stood up and Ludmilla bent over to the spotting scope, and then she called over Yuri, and for a few minutes, they talked to each other in Russian, and then took turns looking out over the field to the Creeper Dome. It was its usual perfect dome shape, colored a dark gray-blue, and from the dirt berm before us, the land sloped down and across to the structure. The land was torn, blackened and blasted, with foundations of destroyed houses, burnt cars and trucks, and the rusting carcasses of artillery pieces and M1-A1 tanks.

  Yuri said something to Ludmilla, who in turn said to Tanner, “How active is this Dome? Have a census been taken? How often do the bugs come out?”

  Tanner grinned, scratched at his ear. “Active? Not very. The bugs come out when they want to . . . no set schedule that anybody knows of. And census? What’s that?”

  Ludmilla looked serious. “You don’t do census? A count?”

  Tanner looked to me, and then to Ludmilla. “They all look the same. How can you do a count?”

  She said, “There are three classes of Creepers, da? But in each type of Creeper, there are differences . . . marks on the legs, scorches on the abdomen, worn bits of armor. That way . . . you know how many bugs are in the Dome.”

  “But why?” I asked.

  Ludmilla smiled. “So you know how many is there when you kill them all.”

  Yuri said something to Ludmilla, she said “Da,” picked up her bag. Yuri picked up his bag, and then they climbed over the berm and started heading to the dome.

  “Hey!” I yelled out, and Tanner said, “Crap, what the hell are they doing?”

  Ludmilla and Yuri walked a few meters and then dropped down, and I did my best to follow them, although with my fake leg and cane, it took a while. I fell, crawled, and stumbled, and when I got to them, their satchels were open and they were staring at the dome with binoculars, making marks on a notebook, talking to each other low.

  I slid in behind them and said, “Are you two out of your freakin’ minds?”

  Yuri grinned. Ludmilla said, “Out? No, we’re surveying. Doing our jobs.”

  “You . . .”

  Yuri said a series of words, and Ludmilla said, “The dilation. Opening into the dome. Where does it usually appear?”

  “Straight ahead,” I said. “That’s why we have a spotter there, keeping an eye on what’s going on.”

  “Ah,” Ludmilla said.

  She and Yuri went back to work, and I tugged at her near boot and said, “You’ve got to get out of here, now! This whole area is a killing zone.”

  Ludmilla smiled and I couldn’t be angry with her any more.

  “Da, and we’re here to kill them.”

  Two more days followed where I escorted Ludmilla and Yuri around the Dome, where they made drawings, took measurements, and otherwise scoped out the Dome and its surroundings. I kept up as best as I could, though my right stump ached something fierce and twice when I was out with Ludmilla, I doubled over with nausea and vomited with no warning. Luckily, though, she never saw me in distress.

  But on the third day, everything went wrong.

  I rolled out of my bunk and the door to my room opened up, with a young orderly standing there, looking at my cluttered quarters and then at me, trying to put on my wooden and metal prosthetic.

  “Yeah?” I said. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” she said, staring at my stump. “Lieutenant Juarez needs to see you, soonest.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Now get the hell out so I can get dressed.”

  And about fifteen minutes later, I was in Lieutenant Juarez’s office, and she said without hesitation, “We’ve got a problem. One of the Russians is missing. Deserted.”

  Something went thud in my chest. “Which one?”

  “The male,” she said. “Yuri. Ran off last night.”

  Then I hated myself right then, because I was torn. If one of the Russians had indeed deserted, I would want Ludmilla to have been the one. But by staying behind . . . I could see her again.

  And maybe she would abandon her mission.

  And live.

  “Go see her,” Juarez said. “See what we can do . . . if anything.”

  Ludmilla was in her own quarters, and it
was crowded because there were four of the large black plastic cases that had come ashore when they had first landed. The tops of the cases were open and Ludmilla seemed to be checking the complicated gear and electronics nestled in dry black foam.

  “Yes?” she said, still looking at the pages in a thick manual written in the odd-looking Russian-looking letters. “What is it, Walter?”

  “I . . . sorry to hear about Yuri.”

  She shrugged. “A temptation . . . being here in America, battered as you are. He and I, everyone else, they are volunteers.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Ludmilla looked at me like I had just suggested we flap our arms and go up to the Creepers’ Orbital Battle Station. “My duty, of course. I am going to do my duty.”

  I leaned on my cane. “But I thought it took two . . . persons to do the job.”

  “Da, yes, usual. But this is not usual, correct? I have sworn to my family’s memory, to the Czar and my God, that I will do this mission. I will find a way.”

  I said, “Ludmilla . . . don’t.”

  “Don’t ask me that again. I have no choice.”

  “But if you do it yourself, you might not make it.”

  “What other choice do I have?”

  My gut is churning, from fear and something else.

  “I have an idea.”

  She looked at me from her manual. “What is that, Walter?”

  “I volunteer,” I said. “I’ll take Yuri’s place.”

  After two day’s worth of arguing, meetings, more arguing, finally permission was granted.

  And it all came down to our unit’s medic, who said to Lieutenant Juarez and myself the day before I was deployed, “I’m not sure how advanced the tumor is in Sergeant Hart’s stomach, but I know its inoperable and untreatable. Even in the best times, before pre-war, Sergeant Hart’s case would be a difficult one for long-term survival. Now . . .”

  I didn’t need to hear any more.