The Soldier

by Terrance Mulloy

  Ong pulled up outside the heavily sand-bagged entrance where two more mechanized guards eyed the vehicle. A thirty-something Lieutenant with razor-thin glasses stood nearby, patiently waiting on Matt like a hotel concierge. The Lieutenant’s crisp uniform, sharp eyes, and rigid posture screamed career military.

  As Matt hopped out and grabbed his haversack and rifle, Ong turned to him. “Good luck, private.”

  Matt was slightly taken back by the comment, but appreciated it, nonetheless. “Thank you, sir.” After they saluted each other, Ong performed a sharp U-turn and headed back to the main checkpoint.

  Matt slung his haversack over his shoulders as the Lieutenant approached, all business. “Private, Reeves, I’m Lieutenant Parker. Please wear this at all times.” He handed Matt a lanyard with his access card attached to it. “This way, please.”

  Matt draped it over his neck and was escorted through the accordion metal doors into a small foyer, which fed into a much larger operations tent.

  It was buzzing with muted activity. Rows of tech and support personnel sat in front of massive holoscreens that towered up to the ceiling, each one monitoring various missions in real-time throughout the region. There were also live audio and real-time video feeds with encrypted uplinks to other bases and field commanders.

  As Lieutenant Parker led him deeper through the complex, giving the occasional cursory nod whenever a familiar face passed them, they entered another large tent where personnel worked at screens displaying audio feeds of a different kind.

  The visuals bounced and fluctuated weirdly across the screens, leading Matt to assume these might have been intercepted communications from the enemy. Perhaps the personnel in this section of the facility were part of the USC’s secret decryption unit he had heard about.

  He knew better than to ask questions about anything he was seeing, so he kept trailing closely behind Parker, careful not to lag too far behind. He could sense multiple sets of eyes tracking him, both real and digital as they came to a guarded door. Now cotton-mouthed with nerves, Matt took a deep breath and forced himself to focus.

  Lieutenant Parker nodded at the two guards then turned to Matt. “I’m not authorized beyond this point.”

  “OK, so where am I going?”

  “Walk straight through to the mess tent, grab some chow, then head out to the assembly area. Your team will be waiting for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Matt saluted the Lieutenant before gingerly stepping into a sealed airlock that connected the corridor to the next tent module. There was a green laser grid that silently washed over him as he walked through. Matt figured it was a verification scan of some type, or possibly a scanning procedure for any undesirable microbes.

  The mess tent at the end of the airlock was tiny in comparison to the giant circus tent he had been using each day. But like most things on this side of the fence, it looked way nicer – akin to a breakfast buffet one might enjoy while staying at a Hilton.

  Various military and tech personnel sat around stainless-steel communal tables alongside hard-looking special forces types. They feasted on American-style breakfasts that consisted of real bacon and fresh, free-range eggs that had been vacuum-frozen before the trip out, with thick sourdough toast, beans, hash browns, waffles, fried chicken, and of course, pancakes and maple syrup. There was even candied bacon and cinnamon-crusted French fries.

  The finely grounded coffee here was also real. There was a selection of mild, dark, and full-blended roasts. None of that instant freeze-dried crap Matt had been subjected to every morning since arriving here. During their trip to Camp Rhino, Maynard had warned him that the coffee here was probably going to be horrible. She was right. And as a native New Yorker, as far as she was concerned, being served bad coffee was an unforgivable crime against humanity. This, however, was another world altogether. When the smell of fresh coffee and hot food hit Matt’s nose, he thought he heard his stomach audibly grumble out of sheer pleasure.

  Some of the patrons and cooks watched him with slight confusion as he grabbed a plastic tray and headed over to the large bain-marie, filling his plate up with enough food to feed three adults. The people in here had no idea why a greenie was in this section of the base, let alone freely gorging on food that was only meant for special operations personnel.

  Nevertheless, Matt found a quiet table in the corner of the tent and scoffed down his breakfast with absolute glee. For a fleeting moment, he felt like he was back home.

  Fifteen

  Once finished, Matt grabbed his gear and headed out to a dusty compound yard that was the primary assembly area for this mission. It looked like he had just entered a cross between a fully functional trucking depot, and some backwater military compound.

  There were several low-roofed office buildings, with a sprawling tent city behind it that housed all the civilian staff and logistics personnel. Many of the American truckers and mechanics were big, greasy sons of bitches, adorned in Caterpillar caps and tactical workwear. They were out here exclusively for the danger pay. There was a good reason why.

  One full tour driving supply rigs could earn them enough to comfortably retire for life, and then some. The only catch was staying alive until they cycled out. Much easier said than done. That still did not stop the endless flow of civilian contractors coming out here to make big money. Back on Earth, the USC could barely keep up with its application load.

  Matt watched some military mechanics working in a hangar shop nearby, engulfed in a shower of sparks as they pounded and welded steel reinforcements onto the skeletal frame of a huge twenty-wheeler rig. It looked like they were performing some type of resurrection ritual on a giant war robot.

  There were also fleets of TAVs parked alongside these massive vehicles. Matt thought they seemed to defy logic as to how these things could even move, they were that big.

  A multi-latticed chain-link fence surrounded the entire compound, with armed guards at the main gate. Perched above the seemingly endless rolls of razor-wire was the USC flag, along with the stars and stripes of the USA. The flags whipped in the hot wind, a constant reminder to anyone entering or leaving that this place was exclusively Uncle Sam’s turf.

  In the far western corner of the compound was an expansive, low-ceilinged dispatch center. The windows were slightly tinted to reflect the harsh sun, but from what Matt could see inside, the complex was buzzing with activity. He thought he spied a large digital map of Epsilon, showing various convoy locations and GPS routes.

  Attached outside the building, nestled among the high-gain fractal antenna arrays, was a screen displaying the current temperature. At present, it was 96 degrees Fahrenheit and climbing.

  Matt glanced at his watch. It was only a few minutes past dawn. Today was already set to be another scorcher. He was dying to put his combat helmet on and get some cool air flowing.

  Matt turned and caught sight of some Praetorians lounging on nearby chairs, swigging bottles of ice-cold water. Some were breaking down their weapons, cleaning the dust from them. These men and women appeared weary and bedraggled. Forever exhausted, even at rest. They still wore their op camos, which were dirty and smelly, with dried sulfur deposits appearing through the grime and sweat. They eyed him curiously as he approached, wondering how the hell a greenie had managed to enter this compound without being arrested or shot dead.

  “I’m looking for Captain Mace.”

  Without saying a word, one of the Praetorians pointed towards the main gate.

  Hearing a deep rumble, Matt turned to see a lone TAV barrel into the compound, dragging a large dust cloud along with it. This vehicle was a battered heap of steel, carrying the scars of the previous night’s op. Its reinforced windshield was cracked, its grills buckled, and the armored plating that encased it was pock-marked and charred. After a single night beyond the wire, it looked as if it was barely able to hold itself together.

  Upon watching the giant vehicle come to a halt, the true realization of what Matt had signed up for,
hit him like a brick in the face.

  Several Praetorians jumped out with their weapons and gear, offering Matt a fleeting glimpse of the vehicle’s cramped interior. He watched as the Praetorians tore off their helmets and headed towards the mess tent. They ranged in age and sex, but they all shared the commonality of battle-worn exhaustion. These soldiers were also a lot meaner looking to what Matt had seen on his side of the base. It was as if the horrors of this war had been directly imprinted onto their sweaty faces. These soldiers weren’t just fighting a war; they were living it.

  Matt continued watching as the last Praetorian jumped out and ripped off his scuffed helmet, barking something into the comms unit on his forearm. He was a scowling bull of a man, late-forties-early-fifties, with feral eyes that looked older than he was. Matt could tell, just by his purposeful gait, that he alone was the one who held this court.

  This was Captain Todd Mace.

  “Thought you got smoked again, cap,” yelled a Mechanic Sergeant who was crawling out from underneath a big cylindrical cage attached to the TAV he’d been working on. His beige coverall uniform was caked in sweat and grease. “Devil watches over his own, I guess.”

  “Give it time, Sergeant,” Mace replied, smirking at the bleak humor. “Got another baby that needs a tune up.”

  “I’ll add it to the repair cue,” replied the mechanic, looking at the ruined vehicle Mace had just driven into the yard. “Must be getting worse out there, huh?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Every TAV we send out barely makes it back in one piece.”

  “War’s starting to heat up, Sergeant.”

  “Funny, I heard someone say the exact same thing when I got here three years ago.”

  Mace held a rueful grin while he examined the suspended vehicle in repair. Heavy tools clattered and sparks showered as a crew of mechanics and technicians bustled underneath hydraulic repair cranes, working tirelessly in the morning heat to get it operational again “So, how’s this one coming along?”

  The mechanic wiped the grease from his calloused hands and looked up at the wounded beast that was being worked on, inspecting its battered carcass with the care of a surgeon. It had clearly taken a lot of punishment on its last mission. “Well, I got a fried circuit in the master ignition switch. Steering linkage is rattling like a tin can. Engine’s somehow losing compression. She desperately needs new rubber, and there’s a gouge on the primary turret that’ll take at least thirty pounds of welding rod to fill in. In short, she’s a fucking mess. So’s my crew. We’ve been going for two nights straight now.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  “Cap, I’ll be honest, we’re struggling to keep up with the repair load. I’ll need a bit more time until this one’s whole again.”

  Mace’s expression suddenly turned all business. “My team don’t plan on walking out there today, Sergeant. Get it done. I need her ready by 0700.”

  “Yessir! Fuck my life!” The mechanic spun on his heels and went back to work as Mace shouldered his assault rifle and continued making his way across the busy compound.

  “Captain Mace?” Matt said from behind, walking fast to catch up with him.

  “Maybe. Who the fuck’s asking?”

  “I’m Private Reeves from the 22nd Division. I was ordered by Colonel Tapscott to report to you this morning. I’ll be assisting you on today’s relief op.”

  Mace spun to Matt with a dubious glare, unsure who would have the guile to screw with him like this. “Tapscott still pissed at me for hogging those ANOC assets?”

  Being this close to Mace, Matt could see how years of battle had carved deep canyons into his face. This was a tough and merciless man, forged by war’s unforgiving hammer. “I’m sorry, sir. I— I don’t know anything about that—”

  “Hang on, this is not a joke?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  Mace shook his head with weary dismay, turned, and walked off. “Go back to your barracks, private. I’ll inform the Colonel he made a mistake.”

  “Sir, I’m under strict orders. I have them here in my log.”

  Mace spat a thick wad of chaw at the ground and wheeled to Matt, his patience teetering on the brink of evaporation. “Gimmie a look at that!”

  Matt swiped his forearm console and tossed a small ball of data over to Mace.

  It instantly appeared above Mace’s own forearm console. He tapped the hovering ball of light and it expanded into a holographic document. It looked official. With growing annoyance, his flinty eyes scanned the document. Once finished, he killed the image and looked at Matt like he was a bug smear underneath his boot. “I’ll make this real simple for you, private. Fuck off. This is not your corner of the yard.”

  As Mace turned once again to head off, Matt followed, refusing to back down. He had his orders. “Sir, I can’t do that, and you know it.”

  “Not sure why Tapscott never told you this, but Praetorians don’t babysit greenies.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir. I’m only here to assist you.”

  Mace spun to him like a bullwhip, his eyes now burning with fury. “With what? Shaking my dick after I take a leak? What could you possibly assist me with, private?”

  “Ask me and you’ll find out, sir.”

  “Are you fucking trying to get cute with me?”

  “No sir.”

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like out there beyond those gates?”

  “I have some idea, sir. After we broke atmo, my team made contact with the enemy.”

  “Well, fuck me. Let me just take a moment here to catch my breath and allow the bad-assery to waft over me. I’m speechless. I’m fucking astonished. Would you like me to recommend you for a combat medal?”

  Matt held Mace’s gaze, determined to weather the tirade of sarcastic insults from this grizzled Mustang.

  “Says in that document you were a cop back home?”

  “Yes, sir. Harrisonville, Kentucky. Before and after the invasion.”

  “Pro tip: No one gives a shit. You know how many cops I’ve seen come through here, all gung-ho and ready to kick ass, only to get their asses whipped on their first day? Listen, no shield is gonna save your ass out there. There’s no blue honor, or valor, or any of that rah-rah-rah, thin blue line, brothers-in-arms bullshit. There’s nothing out there but war. That’s it. You fight it until you die or cycle out. And right now, we’re fighting against an entire population that’s militarized with a single purpose. Only God’s morbid idea of grace and a shit-ton of training will get you through each day. Training you haven’t had yet. Training you most likely will never have. That’s why Praetorians across the entire front only number in the hundreds. We’re an endangered species that’s on the brink of extinction. You know why? Because most wide-eyed greenies such as yourself don’t return from their first op. They never make it past the first day, let alone the first week or month. So, I ask you - are you ready to die, Private Reeves? Have you made peace with that? Because I fucking have!”

  “I made peace with it the day I enlisted, sir.”

  “Are you a man of faith?”

  “You could say that, sir.”

  “Well, you best prepare to have that faith tested beyond mortal measure. Just wait until you see what those bastards can do to a human body.”

  “I already have, sir.”

  Mace took a deep breath through his nose, clenching his jaw as his eyes ticked over Matt with intense scrutiny. This private was holding his own. Maybe there was a legitimate reason why Tapscott recommended him. Maybe he was a notch above. “This isn’t like the enemy we fought back home. We’re on their turf now. Let me tell you - these are some evil SOBs, and they’re outmanning and outsmarting us at every turn.”

  “I believe that is why Colonel Tapscott suggested I ride along with you on this mission, sir.”

  “What, so now you’re some kind of genius ex-cop, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “You wouldn
’t say that, what?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, sir.”

  “You really want to ride with us, greenie?”

  “I have my orders, sir. I plan to fulfill them.”

  “Oh, what a good little puppy you are.” With his jaw still grit hard, Mace breathed through his nose and stepped closer to Matt, getting right into his personal space. “Listen, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, so we’re already off to a bad start. That’s fine. But I only have one rule, private: do as your told. You disobey me, endanger my team, or fuck up out there in any way, I will put you up against the first wall I find and execute you myself. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal, sir.”

  Mace pointed to the op tent behind him. “We brief-up in thirty minutes. Go get some chow into you. The grub here is quite good.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve already eaten.”

  “Then go take a dump or keep standing there like a fucking moron. I don’t care. Just be ready to roll on my command.” And with that, Mace turned and walked off to grab some breakfast. “Who knows, greenie, maybe you’ll live long enough to make yourself useful.”

  Sixteen

  Twenty-five minutes later, Matt entered the operations tent to see a small group of Praetorians, along with support staff, all seated on plastic chairs.

  Some of the steely-eyed faces he recognized earlier from outside, but most were unfamiliar. These soldiers wore tactical vests over their uniforms, with drop-leg holsters, and sleek assault rifles by their side. Matt got the impression the combat gear they were wearing was light in comparison to the full kit they would most likely be utilizing today in the field.

  At the front of the room, Matt spied a young technician wearing an opaque visor. She stood before a large holoscreen, slowly clawing at the air like she was engaged in some type of Tai Chi maneuver. Matt figured she was probably dissecting mission images in real-time, preparing them for Mace’s briefing.