The Retreat (Book 5): Crucible

by Knight, Stephen

  “Be careful,” she snapped. “He could be infected.”

  “Get her out, Muldoon,” Cassidy said again. He was bleeding badly, and as he spoke, Cassidy probed his wounds with one hand. He raised it to his face, and saw it was covered with blood. “Well, fuck me,” he said softly.

  “We’ll get you out of here too, sir,” Muldoon said, slinging his rifle. He reached down for Cassidy, but the man slapped his big hands away.

  “Finish the mission!” he shouted. “Don’t worry about me, I’m lights out! Get Moreau out of here!”

  Campbell stirred slightly. “You guys can take me, too,” she said. “I’m still alive. In case anyone was curious or anything.”

  Muldoon wasn’t giving up. “Come on, sir. We got you.” He reached down and grabbed Cassidy under the armpits. The lieutenant’s head lolled, just like Nutter’s had a few moments before. “Sir? Sir?”

  “He’s dead, Muldoon,” Rawlings said.

  “At least he got to see.” This came from Doctor Moreau. She sat on the ground next to Campbell, hands in her lap, watching everything without any sign of emotion behind her mask and facial armor.

  Rawlings walked up and kicked her right in the face. Moreau cried out as she fell backward.

  “That’s it, sister,” Campbell said.

  “Knock the shit off! Let’s get out of here!” Muldoon left Cassidy’s side and strode over to Moreau. He grabbed one of her arms and pulled her to her feet. He was none too gentle about it. The truth of the matter was, he would be more than happy to stomp the shit out of the prissy little bitch himself.

  “Roger’s down,” Rawlings said, looking up for the first time. As Muldoon shoved Moreau against the line of HESCOs and pinned her in place, he looked over. Boats hadn’t been aiming for Muldoon after all. He’d taken down Roger, and each of his shots had wound up in the big black NCO’s face.

  Damn. Old son could really shoot.

  “Campbell, can you walk?” he asked. He looked down at the small, scrappy National Guardsman.

  “Fucker, I can even run,” Campbell said as she groped her way back to her feet. Her metal armor had taken most of the punishment, but Muldoon doubted she was feeling that great. Her movements were slow, a little disorganized, but she still managed to get upright and grab her rifle.

  “Rawlings, check the RTO. Get his radio,” he said.

  Rawlings bent over the radio operator and checked for any signs of life. She shook her head to herself, then unstrapped the MBITR from his harness. She clipped it onto her own, then pulled off the man’s headset. It took a few moments for her to do this as she had to pull off his MOPP overgarment’s hood, mask, and helmet. The RTO looked to be about nineteen or twenty, with scarcely a beard. His eyes were pale, and they were open and staring.

  “Got it all,” Rawlings said. She didn’t bother putting on the headset, just slung it around her neck. She looked past Roger’s and Boats’s bodies suddenly and pulled in her rifle. “Movement!”

  Muldoon spun around. More figures in MOPP were approaching, and Muldoon had no trouble seeing the somewhat simian movements of First Sergeant Urena. Accompanying him were Garza, Hackett, and Ivy. Urena had brought half of what was left of the Bushmasters into Stewart.

  “Hey, First Sergeant,” Muldoon said. “Fancy seeing you around here.”

  “Who do we have here?” Urena looked down at the bodies. “Fuck, is that Boats?”

  “He got turned into a klown,” Rawlings said. “They’re using mortars that can deliver the bug, and it gets through our mask filters.” She pointed at Moreau. “She helped design it.”

  “Fucking bitch,” Urena growled. “God damn, you are one lucky cunt, girl. Can’t believe some four-star god wants your nasty ass anywhere near him.”

  “He must have taste,” Moreau said simply.

  “She says she’s immune, First Sergeant,” Rawlings said. “We need to keep her alive.”

  “Immune, huh?” Urena peered at Moreau from behind his mask’s lenses. “You’ll have to tell me about that later, Rawlings.”

  “What, you understand science stuff, First Sergeant?” Muldoon asked. He didn’t even try to achieve a jocular tone. There was no chance he could pull it off.

  “Duke, is that Nutter?” Garza asked. “Holy fuck, really?”

  “It is the colonel himself, Garza.” Muldoon turned and regarded the small man’s body for a moment. Before Boston, he’d always thought Nutter was something of a fuckoff. That he died the way he did was tragically unfair, but in a way also heroic. To Urena: “We need to get the fuck out of here right now, First Sergeant. I think we were hit by those mortars by mistake. They don’t give a fuck about us—they want the artillery guys. And if those guys get turned, none of us are getting out of here alive.”

  “Fuckin’ A!” Urena turned and fired off a knife-hand back the way he and the other troops had come. “Let’s roll out of here! Secure the prisoner, we’re leaving right now!”

  Muldoon grabbed Moreau by the back of the neck, jerking her along after him. “I’ve got her. Consider her secured. Hey, Rawlings?” Muldoon turned toward her, his Jane Wayne. “Help Campbell, okay? I kinda like her, she can be our new mascot.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN.

  “Colonel, Eyes is out and waiting for Inveigle. They have the package under their control. Lost Eyes Six and several others—there was a mortar attack against them.” Walker listened to the report over his headset, and his eyes grew suddenly wide. “Sir, the mortars weren’t conventional. They were biological. They delivered the bug, and it was able to turn a few men into klowns even through their masks.”

  Lee’s blood ran cold. Cassidy had passed back the intel that there was a possible alteration to the bug after his interview with Doctor Moreau, so it wasn’t an unanticipated development. He was just a surprise it had already happened so quickly, and that the bug had been sufficiently miniaturized to the point to where it could be delivered via what he presumed would be an eighty-one-millimeter mortar round.

  “So the girl wasn’t lying,” he said. “Hadn’t figured the stuff was out in the wild yet. Notify Raptor—he needs to button up his ASP and get word to his troops. They can’t operate in the open while that mortar unit is still out there. If they can run a trajectory tracking mission for us, we can get Thunder to hit them with counter-battery fire.”

  “On it, sir.”

  “After that, fold up the tents. We can’t afford to be here if Raptor does get compromised—we’ll be a target. Expedite Inveigle and Desperado.”

  “Roger, sir,” Walker said, turning back to the radios.

  “Colonel Lee,” came a voice.

  Lee turned to find Tackaberry standing in the doorway. He had a bandage on his head, and several cuts that looked to have been merely treated with antiseptic. He looked like hell, but he’d also been through it and came out on the other side still living and not laughing. “Colonel, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s the other way around, son. I heard the last bit of that exchange with Walker. Am I to understand the klowns have been able to successfully deliver the agent via artillery?”

  “That is correct, sir. Colonel, I’m sorry, but we have a shit ton of work to do—”

  “Let my guys take one of your five-tons down the rail line. We can pick up your men and bring them back. No sense in waiting for the rest of your troops to synchronize, they can just come straight in from wherever they are. Sounds like the element inside Stewart needs to be extracted, so let’s get that done ASAP.”

  “That’s klown country out there, Colonel. A single five-ton isn’t going to last very long, even if it has an M240 in its gunnery ring.”

  “I obviously understand the risks here, Colonel. I’m offering you a way to speed things along. They way I understand it, your forces aren’t aligned in a serial formation, so they’ll have to maneuver on foot to consolidate and move on. Of course, there will be some delays, especially since they’ll have to not only identify themselves to each other but prove
they’re not crazy. It’s going to take a while for a couple of hundred Joes to get themselves squared away, even if they’re still operating at peak discipline. Let me and my guys take some of the heat off.” Tackaberry stopped and waited for Lee to respond.

  The clock is ticking here, Lee told himself.

  “Not so sure it’s a great idea for you guys to go out there by yourselves,” Lee said. “I’d have to detail some lightfighters to go along for security.”

  “You already have some lightfighters heading out, Colonel. A different vintage than what you might be used to, but hey...it cuts both ways.” Tackaberry pointed at Lee’s insignia of rank. “Realistically, you should be closer to my age than my son’s, but I’ll let that pass. And if you’re worried about losing your vehicle? The truth of the matter is, we start getting smoked by artillery, you’re not going to miss your five-ton truck all that much.”

  “I’m sure of that,” Lee said.

  Tackaberry tried to close the deal with, “Turner would go for it.”

  “Turner’s not here,” Lee replied.

  “Yeah, I’d noticed.” Tackaberry seemed unhappy with the response he’d received. “I’m helping you out here, Lee. My guys gave you advance warning of the attack against this assembly area and managed to coordinate strikes against the enemy even though it meant their own lives. If we haven’t proven our utility to you at this point in time, then you are one stupid son of a bitch.”

  Lee and Tackaberry faced off for a long moment while Walker continued working the radios. The truth of the matter was, Lee felt lacking when Tackaberry was around. He was a full colonel, had put in his time, and despite the passing of years still knew his shit. That was when an idea arose in his mind, and for an instant he felt like a kid finishing a complex jigsaw puzzle he’d been working at for a week.

  “I’ll cut you a deal, sir. You send your guys out in a five-ton to extract my troops and the package they’re carrying. You probably realize those men aren’t going to come back, but they’ll have the chance to change things up in our favor, and maybe that’s worth more to you than you’re letting on.”

  “It’s worth a hell of a lot to a bunch of guys who aren’t present for the conversation, Colonel Lee. Tell me who to talk to in order to get the truck, and I’m gone.”

  “That’s just it, sir. You’re not going anywhere.” Lee pointed to the command sergeant major’s workstation. “You’re going to have a seat here and give me full access to your historical knowledge, and you’re going to help us work through not just today, but every day it takes until we cross the forward line of troops around Florida. You’re not an O-6 anymore; you’re now demoted to an E-9. Have what it takes to assume the roles and responsibilities of a command sergeant major?”

  “I presume you mean acting E-9, as Turner isn’t dead,” Tackaberry said.

  “Indeed, sir. Or at least until one of my senior NCOs who can assume the role returns from the field,” Lee said.

  Tackaberry smiled. “You’re one crazy motherfucker, Lee. I like that.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a battered MBITR from his pack and showed it to Lee. “With your permission, I’d like to present this to Chief Master Sergeant Linton. He’s my element senior NCO, and he’ll need commo that can actually talk to people in this TOC.”

  “Where did you get that?” Lee asked.

  “I pulled it off Turner and have been monitoring your conversations ever since,” Tackaberry said. His smile grew more predatory. “Knowledge is the key to victory in almost every battlefield circumstance, Lee.”

  Lee smiled back. “Do that, sir. Then come back here so we can get to work.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT.

  After passing through the fighting positions and going to ground inside the trees, Urena crawled over to where Muldoon lay with the prisoner. Muldoon watched him approach, moving slowly and carefully through the brush. The old dog still had some soldierly skills.

  “Got a message from Wizard,” Urena whispered to him when he was close enough.

  “Okay. Is it ‘fuck you’?”

  “Nah. That would be from me. We have a truck rolling to our position to pick us up. Lee’s folding up the tents and moving out. We’re to get in and ride back to the assembly area in true style.”

  Muldoon snorted behind his mask. “Lee loves me.”

  Urena pointed at Moreau. “She’s the one he’s worried about, Muldoon.”

  “How long?”

  “Five, six minutes. A bunch of civilians are on the op. I guess there aren’t enough of our guys left to go around. Anyway, giving you the heads up. I’ve got to pass it on to some of the other guys. Get your people ready to move.” With that, Urena crawled off, heading for another group of soldiers that were arranged in a firing line.

  Muldoon briefed Rawlings and Campbell, all while keeping a hand on Moreau. He wasn’t going to let the bitch go anywhere. Rawlings in turn filled in Garza and Hackett. After she was done, she returned to her previous position, eyes out, rifle ready.

  “Campbell, you good?” Muldoon asked quietly. There was a momentary lull in the firing around them, as forces took a quick break to reconsolidate and reload.

  “Dreamy,” Campbell said.

  “Just asking. Haven’t seen too many people shake off a couple of rifle rounds before.”

  “Cuz you haven’t met anyone like me, Muldoon.”

  Muldoon chuckled and looked over at Rawlings. “Don’t get all delusional, Campbell. You’re just not that special.”

  The mortar position fired off again, a long volley of ten rounds. Muldoon tensed when he heard the weapons cracking away in the distance but nothing impacted in their area, and none of the queer white mist was visible. He also didn’t feel much like laughing at the moment, so that was probably a good thing. He swept his gaze over the troops around him, checking them out. They all acted normal. He looked at Rawlings again. If she turned into a klown, would he really be able to shoot her dead?

  You’d better, buddy. Because she’ll do it to you if you don’t.

  The fighting started again, somewhere inside Stewart. It started small, then blew up into something big. Muldoon figured the klown mortar attack had finally landed in a big concentration of fights, and now they were turning on each other. He mentally urged whomever was driving the five-ton out to them to put their foot to the metal.

  It took more like seven minutes for the five-ton to arrive, and when it did, it was one severely shot up motherfucker. But it still ran, and a man with a white handlebar mustache stood in the gunnery ring, slinging the M240 machine gun there like he knew what the hell he was doing. The rig shuddered to a halt a few dozen yards away, and the old man on the machine gun kept it trained on them as Urena slowly emerged from the pine barrens, hands where the guy could see them.

  “Inveigle?” This came from the man sitting in the truck’s cab. Muldoon couldn’t see much of him, as the windshield was scarred from multiple bullet strikes. Still, he had the deep delivery of a noncommissioned officer, and Muldoon figured he was probably a tough SOB to be horsing a five-ton through a combat zone with only an M240 for deterring attack.

  “You got it. We’re all good, no infections here. You must be Geezer,” Urena said.

  “Roger that. Get in, and make it fucking quick, soldier!”

  “How the hell do we know these guys are who they say they are?” Campbell asked.

  “Watch and wait,” Muldoon said. “If they’re nutjobs, they aren’t going to be able to stay off the trigger for long.”

  The lightfighters ran toward the idling truck and climbed into its bed. Muldoon, Rawlings, and Campbell went as one, each standing close to Moreau. The scientist hadn’t said much of anything for most of the past hour, and Muldoon wondered if she was frightened to be killed by the klowns, or just disappointed they hadn’t killed the soldiers around her. It didn’t matter. So long as she was compliant, Muldoon wouldn’t break her jaw and carry her to the truck over one shoulder.

  There was another m
an in the bed of the truck, also an older civilian man. He was dead. Hackett had already picked up his rifle, a shiny black AR that looked pretty beefy and had a nice glass scope mounted to its top rail. Hackett was busy admiring all the accessories on it, his eyes wide behind the lenses of his mask.

  “You’re not going to spooge all over that thing are you, Hackett?” Muldoon asked.

  “I just might,” Hackett said.

  “Don’t get too attached, it’s not yours. Make yourself useful and point that thing toward klowns as opposed to the bed of the truck—kill the enemy, not the driveshaft. Rawlings, give me a hand with the prisoner.” As Rawlings clambered into the truck’s bed, Muldoon grabbed both of Moreau’s arms. She squirmed slightly in his grasp.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said.

  “Yeah? Tough shit, princess.”

  The man on the machine gun shouted something, then opened up toward the fighting positions across the way. In response, bullets slammed into the side of the truck. Muldoon lifted Moreau and half-threw her into the truck, then grabbed onto the tailgate as the big rig took off. It dragged him for a bit, but he was able to pull himself up high enough that the other soldiers in the bed could grab him and haul his ass inside.

  Urena bellowed for the rest of the soldiers to get on their guns and start killing goblins. Muldoon shoved Moreau down and started to raise his own weapon, but Urena lurched over and shoved him down.

  “Cover that woman like you love her, soldier!” he shouted. He turned back to the truck’s railing and grunted as he caught a round. He stumbled slightly, and Muldoon reached up and steadied him.

  “You do it, Urena! You do it!”

  Urena shook him off and started firing. “Do as you’re told, Muldoon!” Urena half-knelt, half-fell to the bed of the truck and began taking aimed shots. Muldoon stayed up just long enough to see a gaggle of klowns streak out of the pine barrens after them, shrieking incomprehensible war cries. A significant number of them were children, smeared with blood, feces, and anything else that might serve as a contaminant. That was witty of the klowns—use kids to deliver the virus, kids that even hardened soldiers might stop to help. But that plan was obviously useless to them now, and the children streamed toward the truck, holding knives, bats, guns, even just rocks. They darted amongst the adults, their faces twisted into demonic, festive grins.