by Jack Colrain
Captain Ying stepped forward and said, “Both teams, follow me.” She turned immediately and led both groups of soldiers out of the Mess, with Chief Hammond bringing up the rear behind Daniel. The Chinese captain led them along a corridor and into a small, theater-like briefing room. The room into which they’d been shown was lined with pyramidal, sound-baffling peaks, like in a recording booth at a record studio. This booth, however, would have been large enough for an orchestra, and both the Homies and the Webbies had plenty of room. A screen was set up at one end of the room, flanked by a couple of guys in dark suits who seemed older than the soldiers, and probably closer to Hammond’s age. Behind them, an MP locked the door and took up position in front of it. He kept his hand on his sidearm and stood at parade rest.
“You can sit down, but pay attention,” Captain Ying said. “Now that both our squads are up to strength, it’s time for your first briefing on why you are all here.”
“Who are those guys?” Casey Peters whispered. They weren’t military, despite their haircuts. Ex-military, maybe.
Evans looked them over thoughtfully. “Spooks. CIA, FBI, DIA, NSA... Any and all of the above.”
“They’re the men in black, man,” Bailey said.
“What, like in the movies, Supes?”
Bailey shook his head. “No, the old UFO stories. Don’t you watch the History Channel shows? These guys have been messing with UFO witnesses since Roswell back in 1947.”
Peters shrugged. “You say UFO, all I can think of is Dana Scully in the X-Files, and neither of those guys look as good in a suit as she did. They must have had a lot of work done, Supes; none of them look a day over forty.”
“I mean the agencies,” Bailey hissed back.
“Hey,” Erik Palmer said, “that’s a thought, isn’t it?”
“What is, Palmer?”
“How about you, Deceit?” Palmer sneered. “Maybe you’re one of them. Trying to fit into our group.” Daniel rolled his eyes.
“No way,” Kinsella said, not sounding as confident as her words might have suggested. “A spook inserted into a military unit would at least be trained to fit in.” Daniel couldn’t fault her on that logic.
“All right,” Chief Hammond began, glaring pointedly at their row of seats, “listen up, and listen carefully.” He nodded to Captain Ying, who pressed the play button on a remote, bringing the screen to life.
“Please pay attention,” she began. “You are all here for a specific reason. This recording will give you all some background about our purpose.”
On the screen was a view, from either a drone or a helicopter, of a team of soldiers setting up a perimeter. Daniel felt pretty sure from their gear and weapons that they were US troops, though something about their furtiveness suggested that they were in a place where US troops would ordinarily prefer not to be found.
In the center of the aerial picture, a tubular canister was half-buried in the earth. Judging its scale by comparing it to the soldiers’ likely heights, Daniel figured it was around ten or twelve feet long.
“As you may have seen in headlines in the spring,” Captain Ying said, “shortly after the destruction of the cities they attacked, the Mozari launched two dozen objects towards Earth, on an apparently random trajectory. Or at least random-ish, shall we say, since all of them contrived to make landfall rather than splash down in the ocean, even though land surfaces only make up thirty percent of the planet’s surface.
“All of these cargo pods have been recovered and accounted. Thankfully, all of these cargo pods have been recovered and accounted for. The US has ten, China three, and various other countries have one or more. Not all of the countries who have them are necessarily friendly or allied countries, but they are at least all sovereign nations who want to keep a tight lid on them.”
Hammond stepped forward, adding, “None of these things fell into the hands of paramilitary or militant groups, in case you’re wondering. Or, if they did, the Mozari don’t seem bothered about those organizations having been persuaded to hand them over.”
Captain Ying resumed speaking, her accent mellifluous. “Everyone here is probably used to the idea of extraterrestrial life now, even if you didn’t believe it was real until Sydney. You’ve all grown up with a lifetime of sci-fi movies, right? Well, in case anybody hasn’t, or thought it was just fantasy... Now, we all know better. We don’t know anything about these aliens except the name they gave us: the Mozari. But we do know that, for some reason, they’ve taken an interest in either us, our planet, or both.”
She paused to let that sink in, and Hammond took up the story. “There are some things we can deduce or work out. You’ve all seen the two messages they sent, on your phones and TV and across the internet. Those messages tell us they’re smart and technological, because they were able to communicate with us, using our own technology, in a method that was meaningful to us.”
“Sydney was a pretty straightforward message,” one of the Germans commented.
“We don’t know what they look like, what they want with us or our planet, or even whether they can survive in our environment. But we know they monitor us because, hey, again, they use our own communications.” He paused. “There’s another reason we know they monitor us. And to discuss that in this briefing, I’m going to hand you over to Mr. James.”
The slightly older of the two suited men moved forward, and Daniel could see the military bearing in his stance and in his craggy features. He wouldn’t fancy getting into a fight with this guy, he realized, even if he did look like a civilian right now. “Thank you, Chief. I’m Arnold James, and I represent DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. As you may have seen on the news three months ago, after the destruction of Houston and Shenzhen, the Mozari launched two dozen smaller objects towards Earth—the press called them the ‘pods’—and you most likely haven’t seen anything more about them.”
Daniel was reminded of the occasional ‘What happened to the Mozari Pods?’ headline in the tabloids. Hadn’t that been the day he’d first heard of the Mozzarellas? He’d all but forgotten that girl...
“They were in fact cargo containers, designed and built to survive an atmospheric re-entry without damaging the contents inside. Since that point, all of the G20 governments, and several other allied nations, have formed a development association covering what we need to know and do about the Mozari, both to live in a post-contact age and to deal with the existential threat they pose.” Everyone in the room was rapt now; there were no jokes or heckling. “And, make no mistake,” Mr. James continued, “the Mozari present an existential threat, on two levels. The first level is the simplest; they have attacked and destroyed our cities and transmitted direct threats of conditional action. The second level of threat is a little more conceptual: Historically, in any first contact situation between cultures of different technological levels on this planet, the technologically inferior culture has always died out or been absorbed into the superior one, regardless of the superior culture’s intent. We can’t necessarily do much about that deeper level of threat, but we must find ways to counter the first immediate threat, or else it’s a moot point anyway.”
“To this end,” Captain Ying said, “it has been decided by the G20, UN, and NATO that an international team be specially trained to combat the Mozari threat. That is why we are all here, in this unit.”
Daniel was oddly relieved to see that the other soldiers looked as keen for a reason to be here as he felt.
“Why us in particular?” Sergeant Evans asked. “Us as individuals, I mean.”
“We’re coming to that,” Captain Ying promised.
“It took us almost a month,” James said, “even with all of DARPA’s resources, to open these Mozari pods, and when we did, we found even more difficult enigmas. Weapons, tools, things that we’re still working on discovering what they even are. Among this cargo, however, were six human-sized suits made of a material quite unlike anything we’ve ever seen before. You may have se
en the effects of wearing one on endurance and motor skills, as Chief Hammond has been evaluating it for us, and I gather you’ve all noticed his abilities. Captain Ying has another, we have two other test subjects evaluating them elsewhere, and the other two are being reverse-engineered in labs. It’s a long process, because not everyone can interact with these artifacts. Chief Hammond?”
Daniel suddenly had a dawning sense of the answer to Evans’ question about why such a wide range of individuals were gathered in this small unit, and why the authorities must have been so desperate to keep him in the Army. It was logical that there must be something about himself and the others here that meant they would be able to interact with the Mozari artifacts. That was the only conclusion that made any sense to him.
“This squad,” Hammond said, “Homies and Webbies both, is composed of people who all had a particular quirk in their bloodwork, which showed up in the medical test results. We all have a very rare antibody protein in our blood, and so far, at least, only people with that protein in their antibodies have been able to interact with the artifacts. That includes Captain Ying and myself.”
He unbuttoned his fatigue jacket and removed it to reveal a tight, silvery-gunmetal wetsuit type of garment underneath. It didn’t look that impressive at first glance, but there was something unreal about it that Daniel couldn’t quite put his finger on. “This is why I don’t break a sweat anymore. Over the course of this training program, you’ll all learn to work with Mozari technology, to understand it, and to overcome it. And when more of these Exo-suits become available, maybe you’ll learn not to break a sweat about it, either.” A stunned silence settled over the room. “Regardless of your previous military occupations or experience—or lack thereof—everyone is now on a new MOS career path, in the 18 range. Special Forces, folks. And since we have guests from other militaries with different basic requirements, that means you’re all effectively starting from scratch.”
He cast an eye over the Homies. “Anybody got a problem with that?” Nobody spoke. “That’s what I thought.” He paused to let the briefing sink in, and then asked, “Have any of you seen this before?” He tapped the screen, and it switched to a series of recognizable numbers… 269:14:37:25 and a final column after the 25 that was just a blur. The 25 clicked rapidly to 24, then 23, then 22...
“It’s a countdown,” Palmer said.
“No shit, Sherlock. But I didn’t ask if you recognized what it was. I asked if you’d seen this one—this countdown, in this font—before.”
“I think I have,” Daniel said hesitantly. Everyone looked him, the Homies with skepticism and Hammond with interest. “Not the countdown, I mean, but the font looks like the one used in the Mozari messages. The Mozari churches use it, as well.”
“This is nothing to do with the Mozzarellas. This came in about a minute after the original ‘fight and die’ message.” There was a murmur of surprise around the room. Hammond allowed himself a crooked smile. “Difference is, this one didn’t swamp all the TVs and internet. This one came in on select secure command and control channels around the world. The nuclear club, specifically.”
“What is it counting down to?” Bailey asked.
Hammond smiled. “The hell if I know. Anybody who knows the answer to that is way above your or my paygrades, but if you want to know what my gut says... My gut says nobody at any paygrade knows for sure, but that they’ll all want us to think we do, so us mere mortals don’t get all panicked about the remarkable possibility of our leadership not knowing stuff.” Some chuckles sounded out but faded when Hammond’s face went even more serious than usual. “One thing they do know, and I know, and you should be able to figure out if you can tell time and count: This countdown will expire in just under nine months. Whatever’s going to happen, it’s going to happen then. And remember, this is from a source whose out-of-the-blue greeting card was to destroy several cities and kill millions of innocent people. I’m assuming they’re not throwing us a birthday party.”
Captain Ying looked at them very calmly, meeting the eyes of each of them. “From reveille, you will begin training anew for what will be required from a new Special Force for the post-Mozari world. Essentially, you will all be beginning again, and it will be harder work than you have known before.” With that said, Captain Ying switched off the screen and went to talk to the DARPA guys.
Hammond headed towards the door and had the MP step aside so he could open it. “One other thing,” he said, turning back to the soldiers in the room. “Whatever happens, we’re going to be the sharp end of the spear, and we’re going to be at the sharp end. That’s not just a duty, it’s a privilege. So, don’t screw up. Dismissed.”
Eleven
After a couple of weeks, the routine of being roused from his bunk by Chief Hammond yelling “Drop your cocks and grab your socks!” was as familiar to Daniel as it was to the other guys in his dorm. He shared a four-bed room with Bailey, Peters, and Palmer. Evans and Kinsella shared a similar room with Svoboda and Ebrahimi of the Webbies, and the other four Webbies shared a third room. Hammond and Captain Ying each had their own private rooms. All of these rooms opened onto a shared hall, with separate men’s and women’s locker rooms and showers. None of it was exactly private, but none of it had to be; it wasn’t a hotel, and Daniel also understood that there wouldn’t be privacy in a combat situation.
He’d at first wondered if the other guys in his room would try to haze him further, but they hadn’t so far. They did carelessly toss his stuff around, meaning that he had to work harder to keep his gear stowed as neatly as Hammond expected, but even this had started to ease off over the past few days. Thankfully, he was a quick study, and had picked up all the basics easily, and was even now waking up out of habit just before Hammond’s call.
The fitness training tired him more than the others, but that just meant he fell asleep faster, regardless of his roomies’ snoring, and so he was fine for the early rises. In short, his not having gone through basic training was proving less problematic than he or anyone else had expected. Plus, he enjoyed the lectures on military matters, and he didn’t feel like the tallest kid held back in class because the Webbies all needed training in US military practices in order to blend more efficiently with the home team.
His having gone through MEPS under false pretenses, however, wasn’t being forgotten or forgiven so easily. The Homies talked to him as much as was necessary and not one word more.
On his third Saturday at the Farm, Daniel was field-stripping an M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle on the firing range, along with Bailey and Kinsella, while the other Homies were shooting. The soldiers were being rotated out in threes to practice clearing jams and cleaning weapons during combat. This was something all the soldiers were ordered by Hammond to do, rotating out of the shooting line three at a time, because the M27 wasn’t a standard Army weapon. While the Army in general stood by the M16A4, the M27 was standard issue for the Marine Corps, and someone further up the chain had judged that it was a better weapon choice for the unit than the Army standard.
A shadow fell over Daniel now, and he glanced up to see Chief Hammond looking over their handiwork. He was carrying a number of other weapons in his arms and held one up. “Identify this, West?”
“Heckler-Koch 416, Chief,” Daniel said promptly. “Chief Gray from the Armory gave us a briefing on them last week.”
“Gray?”
“Uh, yeah, the tall staff sergeant with the iron-gray hair?” The guy ran the camp’s Armory, though Daniel had trouble remembering his exceptionally long name, and a suitable tag seemed more respectful than mangling it. Daniel had heard that the guy had retired to the Reserves a couple of years ago, but then re-upped after Houston got hit. Given his probable age as well as his hair color, Daniel just thought of him as Gray.
Hammond looked askance at him and half-smiled as he passed one H&K 416 over, then handed another two to Bailey and Kinsella. “Well, since you’ve been briefed, let’s see how you do with them w
hen you swap into the line next.”
“Sure, Chief,” Bailey said enthusiastically. “Tight group in the center mass every time.”
“It better be, Superman.” Hammond cast an eye over the M27 that Daniel had handed over. “You’re getting the hang of this.” He moved on towards the firing line.
Daniel started checking over the H&K 416, which in general had some superficial similarities to the M16A family, but with slightly different aesthetics and a more ergonomic grip, as well as a larger capacity magazine. “Superman?” he asked. “You must be really good at what you do to get that nickname.”
“Nickname?” Bailey looked up from his own new weapon and shrugged. “Superman really is my middle name. Ask the chief; he’s seen my documentation. It’s on my birth certificate and everything.” Daniel stared at him, unsure of whether he ought to believe him or not.
“You’re kidding,” Daniel said at last.
“He’s not,” Kinsella said, a little grumpily. “If you’d ever been a real cop, you’d be able to tell when someone was bullshitting you. Anyway, don’t the birth-control glasses give it away? They’re his Clark Kent disguise.”
“I could tell when someone was bullshitting me in a courtroom.”
Kinsella snorted, and stood. “If ever I’m court-martialed, don’t bother calling to offer me your services.” She nodded towards the firing line. “I’m going to go kill paper.”
“I was training as a prosecutor,” Daniel pointed out to her. “If I was in anybody’s court-martial other than my own, they wouldn’t have been the ones who called me there.”