by Glynn James
“Good point. So what does that leave?”
“I know where we can get you another boat. Next town up.”
“Outstanding. Homer will be thrilled.”
“That your swabbie?”
Handon smiled. “Yes.”
“I don’t mean to be flippant,” Sarah said. “I think he’s fascinating, actually. He looks a bit like an angel descended to earth. His soul just comes right out of his eyes.” Handon arched an eyebrow at this. He didn’t think she was wrong. But, once again, her perceptiveness took him by surprise. “What is his story?” she asked.
Handon wasn’t sure that was for him to tell. “Well, he’s a man of faith, I can tell you that.”
“Christian?”
“Yes.”
“Christians are often the loveliest people, aren’t they?”
Handon nodded. He thought: The fact that they’re utterly deluded about the origin and nature of the universe hardly counts against them. Not in the scheme of being a good human being…
Instead, he said, “I hadn’t really thought about it. But of course you’re right. It certainly seems to work for Homer.”
“And where does all his sadness come from?”
Handon looked over at her again – amazed at how much she saw.
“He lost his family. And his duty to this job, to mankind really, prevented him from ever going to look for them. This has haunted him. I think it was bearable while he was an ocean away from them. Now that he’s unexpectedly back here…”
Sarah nodded. “I hope he finds peace.”
And for all of us, thought Handon. He paused, recalling their main topic. “I’m guessing we’re looking at about a hundred miles of lake to Beaver Island from here?”
“One-ten or one-twenty, I’d think, depending on the course you chart. We can check the map. We also have to get you to th—”
A loud bang sounded, from the direction of the cabin. In fact, it merely sounded like a door slamming. But, as everyone who’d lived to this point had long ago learned to avoid loud noises, it signaled something amiss. Sarah hopped lightly to her feet.
“Come on. The radio should be good to go now.”
Handon followed her back down the trail.
And, God save him, he did his best to avoid checking her out as she walked ahead of him…
Raven
For Ali and Homer out on the porch, three things happened almost at once.
First the front door banged open behind them, then slammed shut, as the boy came through it. He had a big shotgun cradled in his arms – and before Ali realized it, she had flipped the thumb break on her ballistic nylon holster, making her HK USP Tactical ready to draw. This was almost an autonomous reaction, and the kid was off the porch, out the gate, and running down the road before Ali even realized her hand was on the gun.
Second, Ali realized Homer was pointing toward the forest. Following his finger, she saw the three magpies scatter, taking off in different directions into the air. But it wasn’t the sound of the door that spooked them. Rather, an enormous, hulking raven had come flapping in, and set down right where the other birds had been. It folded its immense wings, took a few steps, stalking around as if to consolidate the ground, and then looked balefully up at the humans on the porch.
“Big bird,” Ali half-breathed. And it was – thirty inches long at least.
And then, finally, Handon and Sarah emerged from the path in the woods, looking concerned. Ali saw Sarah just catch sight of her son as he disappeared down the dirt road – west, back toward town. She didn’t go after him.
“What was that?” Handon asked, striding up with Sarah just behind him, still gazing off down the road.
“Dunno, top,” Ali said. “He just blasted out of the cabin and took off. He was armed.”
With this, Sarah looked thoughtful – and more concerned. Handon stepped onto the porch and opened the front door. Inside, he found Juice standing, looking alert – but Predator and Henno still seated, lounging. Handon repeated his question, as Sarah followed him inside: “Hey, what the hell was that?”
“Dunno, top,” Juice said.
“Yeah, I got that story already. What the hell did you say to him?”
“Nought,” Henno said. “We were just taking the piss a little. Anyway, it was his dad who run him off.”
With that, Mark emerged from the bedroom. There was no way he hadn’t heard this exchange. He flashed a distinctly unfriendly look at Juice, Henno, and Predator, then walked straight out the front door without a word.
“What did you say to him?” Handon asked, flicking his head at the open door. “No, it’s my fault. I should know better than to leave the three of you in a room together, much less with normal people.” But he was thinking: While I was off dallying, everything was falling apart…
Sarah stepped forward. “No, Handon, it’s okay. It’s the boy. He can be very sensitive. Temperamental.” She paused fractionally. “Like his father.”
“Of course the boy can be sensitive,” a level voice added. It was Homer, stepping inside, with Ali behind him. “He’s, what, fourteen years old?”
“Just turned fifteen.”
Homer nodded. “His executive reasoning skills won’t be developed yet. Everyone’s sensitive and rebellious at that age. And he’s going to want to prove himself.”
“Is that what this is?” Handon said. It was an accusation, leveled at Pred, Juice, and Henno.
“Look,” Sarah said. “Don’t worry about it. He’s run off before.”
“Run off armed?”
“No. But he usually just needs to take some time to himself, in the woods nearby. He always comes back. I give him a couple of hours before I start to worry.”
Handon didn’t look convinced. “Two of my team can go out and look for him.”
“Negative,” Sarah said – suddenly sounding a lot more like a police officer. “He knows the area, you don’t. And I don’t want your people stumbling around in the woods looking for him. I don’t think you’d catch him anyway. Let it go for now.”
She crossed the room to the kitchen, and the big radio unit wedged onto a shelf. “And we need to make your call, anyway. It’s ready to go.”
* * *
“Charlie Whiskey Charlie, Mortem One receiving.”
Handon used the call sign for the Composite Warfare Commander, which acts as the central command authority for the entire carrier battlegroup. This person, or his designee, or somebody, should be on station in the carrier’s Combat Information Center.
But no response came back. Only silence.
“Charlie Whiskey Charlie, this is Mortem One Actual, how copy?”
Handon’s use of “Actual” indicated it was the commander of the unit himself transmitting, rather than a radio operator or subordinate. Handon rated this call sign ever since Captain Ainsley bought a farm for his family – and bought another day of life for Alpha.
Handon eyed the radio set. There was clearly a lot of juice running through it – it audibly hummed, and its face glowed with backlit controls. And he could see the copper wire snaking up the wall to the roof-mounted antenna. He brought the hand mic back up to his mou—
“Mortem One, this is Charlie Two Whiskey. We copy your last. Wait out for the XO. He’s definitely gonna want to talk to you guys himself…”
Handon couldn’t help but smile. They’d been a long time in the wilderness. He looked out of the kitchen to the main room. A lot of expectant eyes sat on him. The radio set spoke again.
“Mortem One, this is Drake. How you guys doing out there, over?”
Handon smiled a little bigger. “Still breathing air. Thanks to you finding us that ride.”
“Where are you, what’s your status?”
Handon glanced at his watch. “Stand by for grid reference. One Six Tango Echo Papa Six Six One Two Zero Six Seven Eight One Niner. Readback.”
“Mortem, we have 16TEP6612067819.”
“That is a-ffirm.”
“So about halfway up the lake, then.”
“Affirmative. We’re also a quarter of the way through the team. Ainsley and Pope are both Kilo India Alpha.”
“Shit, Handon. I’m sorry about your guys.”
“Copy that. We also lost the boat, but the Papa Charlie, and rest of mission objective, are still secure.”
“Wait a second – PC? What PC?”
Precious Cargo was the usual spec-ops term for the human object of a hostage rescue.
“We found a living scientist, one of the staff at the biotech. We’ve not only got his research. We’ve got the guy. We’ve consolidated at this location, holed up with a small civilian group, and are refitting. It’s their fixed radio set that’s allowed us to transmit.”
“That’s a lot of living people. What’s your intent? Can you get to Beaver Island?”
“Affirmative. Have you figured out how to exfil us from there?”
There was a slight but distinct pause. “That’s also affirmative, Mortem. We’re going to make it happen. You are advised to proceed as per that exfil plan. What’s your ETA?”
“Unknown at this time. We have a line on new transport, but won’t know its capabilities until we’re eyes on. Best estimate for now is probably twelve to sixteen hours, how copy?”
“That’s all received, Mortem. Wait one.” The line went silent. Handon stood with his right elbow on the radio set, the mic held before him. “Listen, Handon, we’re seeing some… weird shit on the mainland. Zulu-wise.”
Handon blinked once and drew in the mic. “Copy on the weird shit, over.”
Another pause. “Basically, we’re seeing something like extreme herding behavior. We see some territory that’s totally clear of Zulus, or nearly so. But, elsewhere, we’re eyes on with herds that are bigger than anything we’ve ever seen. Over.”
“Copy that. How big?”
“…Millions.”
Handon shook his head just perceptibly. One more goddamn thing. “Interrogative: are you seeing any of those herds near our position? Over.”
“Negative, Mortem. But we’ve got one headed our way right now. It’s like a bad storm coming in. And we need to complete your exfil and RTB underneath it. So don’t dawdle.”
“Roger that.”
“Mortem, you hail us and check in before you’re Oscar Mike. And feel free to check in anytime before that, especially if you need anything.”
“Roger that.”
“And we’ll keep you posted with any new intel when and as.”
“That’s received, with thanks. Mortem One out.”
Handon placed the mic back on its mount, and turned toward the main room.
“You three frat boys. You’re on me.”
He nodded once to Sarah and walked out the door, not looking back.
* * *
Handon took them back to the glade by the stream, where he’d sat with Sarah. It was close, it was semi-private. He turned back to face them when he heard them follow him in. The three stood in a single parade rank.
Nobody sat down on the log love seat this time.
“Right,” Handon said, humor notably absent from his voice, face, and body language. “I understand that we’ve all been out of the company of civilians for a long time.”
Henno said, “Sorry, boss, we may have forgot our manners.”
Handon gave him a look that would exfoliate skin at fifty yards. He didn’t even have to say, Did I fucking invite you to speak? Henno got it, and piped down. Handon looked at Juice.
Juice hesitated long before speaking. “It was my fault. The father got upset that I let the boy handle my weapon.”
“Why did you?”
Juice looked flummoxed. “Well, he’s going to need to know this stuff.”
Predator coughed. “His father sure didn’t think so. Both of those two are well on track to ending up as Zulu food. They’re not gonna be around long enough to have hurt feelings.”
Handon’s face twisted up at this. “Forget manners,” he said tightly. “How about basic fucking human kindness? Just try to imagine what these people have been through in the last two years. And then this woman, a wife and mother, risked her home and family to rescue a bunch of gormless grunts from the shallow grave they’d dug themselves into. Think about how a bunch of heavily armed tough guys would seem to someone in her position. I invite you to imagine what an average group of survivors might have done after being shown her cabin. Her supplies, her weapons, her fuel. Her body.”
The others nodded. They didn’t speak. They got it.
Handon wasn’t done. His voice actually got quieter as he got worked up. “We’re not merely their guests here. We’re only alive at all on this woman’s sufferance. And you three dipshits start screwing around, disregard the father’s wishes, embarrass the boy so that he’s run off God knows where – and now you say they’re dead anyway, so it doesn’t matter?”
The three men’s heads were now hanging down around their waists.
Handon exhaled heavily. He looked like he’d expended most of his venom. He spoke more calmly and quietly now.
“Here’s the main point.” He paused and drew a deep breath, and looked each man in the eye. “These are the people we’re out here doing all this for. Have you forgotten?” He let the question hang on the air.
“You’re dismissed.”
As they filed out, looking like giants in stature but schoolboys in demeanor, Handon turned back to the stream and let the sounds of its waters wash over him. He knew his guys wouldn’t need to be told twice. But he was worried this incident would not prove to be isolated – but instead was indicative of something more worrisome, something deep under the hood.
Could they have forgotten how to regard living people as people? Had they been amongst the dead too long? All they had done for two years was battle, killing those that weren’t even alive to start with. Had they lost the ability even to regard ordinary life when they saw it? Alpha had accomplished every mission it had been assigned.
But at what cost?
Handon didn’t have to look far for the reason he was having these thoughts. The glimpse, the flash, the whirl of love that he had experienced… there was no use calling it anything else. And it had awakened him to a consciousness, a relationship with life, that he’d nearly forgotten about.
And he could see now that at least some of his men had forgotten as well.
He thought about how difficult, and dangerous, any kind of love or even tenderness were in the circumstances they were all trapped in. Were those things even more necessary, though? Did it matter most, when it was hardest?
Take the Camerons. Handon, the hard-eyed tactician, knew that Predator was right – these people were almost certainly doomed. That they’d survived this long was a miracle, and down to the meticulous planning and amazing abilities of Sarah Cameron. But with every day that passed, they cheated death and the odds a little more. And that bill would eventually come due.
They were doomed. As were the members of Alpha. Chicago had proved that.
But… and here Handon groped around, desperate to draw the right conclusion from this… but the fact that they were all living on borrowed time… maybe it was more important for them to regard everyone’s essential humanity.
Because if they lost the power to care, to love…
Then what was there for them even to fight their way back to?
* * *
Homer and Ali could hear the waterside dressing-down from where they sat. They’d taken up their previous position back on the porch – both to get out of the way of as many people as possible and because they liked it there. They found the giant raven almost where they left it, though it now perched heavily and menacingly on a bare branch of the tree the magpies had clustered around, before being driven off.
Ali didn’t like it. Because she knew Homer was going to take it as an omen.
And there weren’t a hell of a lot of ways to interpret a big black bird perching over your head
.
Neither of them spoke at first. Then Homer surprised her by going literary, rather than theological. “‘By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,’” he said. “‘Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore.’”
“Is that Poe?” Ali asked in surprise.
“Yes.”
“You can recite ‘The Raven’?”
“Not really. A few lines. ‘By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore -’”
Ali did know the poem, now that she thought about it. But could she recall it? One verse sprang to her mind. But it was not a very reassuring one. She wasn’t so unkind as to recite it aloud. She just let it run in her head.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered ‘Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Mobilized
Lieutenant Jameson stared out of the back firing port of the Viking amphibious armored vehicle, breathing slowly and steadily, regulating himself and trying to ignore the chatter of the other Marines. He’d checked his assault rifle, his side arm, and his spare magazines at least twice so far and was resisting the urge to check them all again. Instead, he went over the last two hours in his head, trying to figure out how it could have happened.
First, how on Earth had Canterbury Patrol 15 decided that it was a good idea to take wounded men – wounded by Zulus – into a hospital? Everyone knew the rules. A shot to the back of the neck was the only fix for such, and they should have acted. But instead the two uninjured men in the patrol had driven three miles with half a dozen men who were all in varying degrees of injury from their encounter, three miles and straight into the emergency ward of the hospital. How could they be so stupid?
And how could the staff at Chaucer not restrict access? They also should have dealt with it differently. Two stupid mistakes that had now led to an outbreak right on the outskirts of a heavily populated town. Canterbury was a supply town, managing all of the farms for miles in the south, and London depended on it. Now it would be quarantined and purged, locked down for the duration, and nothing would come in or out of the place for how long? A month, at best?