SOUL AT WAR
A JOHN SHAP NOVEL
BY
MARTYN J. PASS
Copyright © 2013 By Martyn J. Pass
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The right of Martyn J. Pass to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Any unauthorised reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ALSO BY THIS AUTHOR
AT THE DAWN OF THE RUINED SUN
WAITING FOR RED (with Dani Pass)
THE WOLF AND THE BEAR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks go to all those around me who made it possible for this work to even reach the final page! If it wasn't for people supporting me and taking the work seriously, I think I would have just packed it in a long time ago. Thanks go to my brother, Dani, who took the time to read through and encourage me to get it out into the public in one form or another. Thanks also to those who read it in its first form on 'Kindle' and gave me some great feedback, mainly Chris Denby who picked up on the character of 'Karen Brand' and demanded to read more of her!
For Mum & Dad.
PROLOGUE
The city burned like tinder. Flames licked up at the great cloud of smog that engulfed the highest of the tower blocks, a vapor that billowed out of the devastated chemical plant six miles south of my position. It had received the most severe bombing campaign in the entire war, three nights of prolonged artillery barrage that was designed to leak the deadly mix of acid based fluids from huge underground vats into the water system. From there it would decimate the entire farming industry, the clean water supply and any hope of salvaging the planet. The enemy had wanted Pothos from the start, wanted it’s rich agricultural stores to supply their force as it advanced through this sector. It’s location provided an excellent foothold for them and if they couldn’t have it then they would make sure nobody else could either.
We had been deployed as part of a defense force who’s task had been to secure and protect the third nuclear installation to the north, but when the lander had lost it’s bearings we found ourselves dropped miles from the target and were forced to head there on foot. The city could not be crossed at any speed as each building was riddled with snipers and we’d lost eight good men from our squad already.
Troops from several other squads were advancing in teams across the war scarred streets, moving slowly between the smoldering heaps of machine and flesh. Already the piles of fused debris were restricting maneuvers and the fear of traps and mines laid in the wake of the retreating enemy force was growing amongst the men and women of my unit. Through the steaming lenses of my NBC mask I could make out a few of them as they picked through the mess, uniforms bleached white by the toxic ash falling like snow around them. They looked like the walking dead. Ghosts from another war.
"Advance in threes, heavy resistance inbound." The digi-com crackled in my ear, the voice of the area commander who no doubt was in a bunker somewhere, watching from the floating cameras above the war zone.
"Received, sir," I spoke into the throat mike, then hand signaled my number 2. From cover behind a smashed car he came jogging up, head down and weapon slung. Talking through the NBC mask was impossible so I waved at my throat mike.
"Yes Lieutenant?" He responded, his voice broken by interference from the chemical cloud above.
"Advance in threes, keep it tight. Hostiles inbound."
"Yes sir." Crouched again, he sped away towards a nearby building and waved out his squad, breaking them up as ordered.
Looking across the landscape, it was hard to see where civilization ended and hell began. It was as if the two were melting into one, fusing together along the city's edge. I knew one thing though. That cloud meant it was over, whether they were retreating or not. The planet would be dead by the end of the year and our mission to secure the reactor became pointless. Given the choice I would have turned back there and then and avoided the risk of losing more troops. But orders were orders.
"Sir, hostiles inbound. South east corridor," The digi-com again.
"Numbers?" I began to cross the street, passing between two shredded tank hulls that looked like abandoned snail shells. The blackened skeletons of the crew hung from the hatches, their empty eye sockets staring straight at me, accusingly.
"Twenty or more, one mobile launcher. Looks like a Tank buster squad sir, must have got cut off from the rest. Permission to engage?"
"Granted. Keep me informed."
On the other side was a five-man team ready to clear the last building in this block. As their squad leader kicked in the flimsy door, I took the next place in line, pistol in hand. We pushed through quickly, clearing the ground floor in seconds as another round of shells blew the remaining chemical vats to oblivion. The ground trembled, even this far away. Dust and bits of plaster fell from the ceiling.
Up a flight of stairs the team stopped and waved me up to the front. Wallpaper peeled from around a crumbling door frame and the floor was littered with debris. A lone doll’s head tumbled down the hallway and hit my boot.
"We’ve got movement," The squad leader said.
"Where?" I whispered. He pointed towards the first room on the left, the only door fully shut and not blown in by the concussion bombings. I crossed the landing carefully, pistol gripped in both hands, taking deliberate steps in the direction of the door. I felt the rest of the team spread out into the rooms behind, covering my back in absolute silence.
At the door I was tempted to try the handle, but for some reason I paused. Something was wrong; something didn't feel right about it.
"Want me to blast it?" The trooper behind me asked. I waited a bit longer, unable to put my mind at ease. A trap maybe? It wouldn’t be the first time a hunch had saved a soldier’s life. There seemed only one way to be sure.
"No, stand down. I'll take it." Reaching down to my belt kit, I pulled a white ball from one of the pockets - an incendiary grenade. Holstering my pistol I waved back the rest of the team and lifted my boot to the door. "Clear!" I shouted. As the weak hinges gave way, the digi-com burst alive in my ears.
"Sir, there are reports of civilians in...”
The grenade flew across the room and detonated. Flame belched out of the door as we pulled back away from the immense heat. As the flames began to die down a sound could be heard over the crackling wood.
“What the hell is that?” A trooper said. I strained my ears to hear it and when it was safe to go into the room, I went in.
There was a wardrobe in the far corner engulfed in flames and I got as close as I could to it, realising that the sound was coming from inside.
“Someone’s in there!” I shouted, throwing myself into the fire and grabbing the brass handles. The flesh on my palms instantly charred and the pain sent me reeling backwards as my uniform began to burn. A trooper wrestled me to the floor and began patting down the flames while another kicked over the wardrobe and used a portable extinguisher to put out the blaze. As the brittle wood came apart, the body of a young boy lay amongst it, his skin melted from his bones. Above all that he was still breathing, at least for several seconds before he died.
His name was Jacob and he’d been five years old when his Mum had told him to hide in that wardrobe. For three weeks he�
��d lived off scraps of food and kept him self alive by playing with his only toy – a stuffed horse. His mother had been captured by the enemy but had been rescued from one of the POW camps not long after. I took it upon myself to be the one to give her the news, it seemed only fair.
After that I realised something was wrong. I felt broken in a way that I didn't think could be fixed again. Straight after I took my leave of the army for good and returned to Earth still not knowing what to do next.
CHAPTER 1
Shortly after I was on a civilian ship back to Earth. Most of my team was already moving out of the sector now that the planet had been officially declared uninhabitable. A fresh faced Lieutenant straight out of the University on Mars quickly stepped in to fill my size elevens, but found a hostile reception once they heard I was packing it in.
I'd put in for my leave straight away, even though I'd been advised against it. The Army believes you should tackle a problem like this as it tackles all of its problems - head on. Take it by the horns, jump back on the horse, get back in the saddle... well, you get the drift. I tried to tell them, but they weren't for playing. So they threw the usual tactics at me. Promotion, extended leave, they even offered me a desk job. In the end I did the only thing that would guarantee me a trip back home. I tried to deck my CO. He was the regiment’s champion boxer and I might as well have e-mailed the shot to him when I found him in the mess hall eating. He’d gotten up from the table after I’d tapped him on the shoulder (I wasn’t a coward, but I could have saved myself the trouble and whacked him with a pipe where he sat), but when I swung he ducked swiftly, launching his own hammer-like fist upwards into my ribs, cracking two with one punch. I went down in tears and screamed at him to let me leave. Seeing that if I stayed I would no doubt end up a head case, he gave me permission to go that same hour.
Then I was Earth-bound on the next craft - which was two days later. Perhaps one of the good things about the Army when they do actually let you leave is that you don't have to do ‘good-byes’- it's bad luck. So I just grabbed my bags and left. Just like that. A month later I landed at the lunar junction and caught a commercial flight to Canada, somewhere my grandparents used to own, a nice little ranch in one of the last surviving villages where I could be left alone to work out just what had changed so much that I could throw away eight years as a career soldier.
The place had been well looked after by my older brother. The house was a gleaming white image from the skyline as the taxi began to land in the field opposite. There were well-tended crops, a garden at the front in full bloom and best of all it was secluded from the village – at least two miles away. As the taxi glided down, a well-dressed man with a tidy haircut opened the door for me, his open hand greeting me as I got out. We shook.
“My name is Mark, I am the Pastor at the village church. You must be John.”
“I am, sir.” I said.
“Then I am afraid I have some bad news for you. Would you join me inside the house?”
We walked up the drive as the taxi disappeared in a swirl of hot air and ozone. Mark strode ahead, pushing the door aside and I followed, dropping my Bergen at the porch. The place smelt of summer and a cool breeze drifted lazily through the rooms.
“Can I get you a drink?” he said.
“I think you had better tell me how my brother died.”
Mark stopped. “I’m not stupid. No speeder, no shoes at the door. I’ve worked with death all my life, Pastor.”
“How did you know?”
“A feeling. We haven’t spoken in three years. Even over the Vid-link I could tell he was ill.”
“Cancer, John. I’m sorry for your loss. He was a good man.”
I walked past Mark, looking around the rooms for any sign of his presence. Silly, I know. The walls were covered in photos, certificates from his time at college, trinkets on the shelves from holidays. A picture of Mum and Dad. There was a photo of the two of us on my pass-out parade; me stood saluting in my starched uniform, and him laughing in the background.
“He spoke of you often. I get the impression he thought a lot you, and that’s not just a routine line I say to all the bereaved. Often we would talk in the church until the late hours, sharing stories. Most of his tales often involved his little brother.”
“How was the funeral?” I asked, moving towards the kitchen.
“We held it at the church and it was well attended. We are a close community here and we look after each other.”
“Did my father come?” Mark shook his head. “Typical Dad. Probably in a bar somewhere feeling sorry for himself.”
“We tried to reach you but...”
“I was on active duty – no communication.” I walked into the kitchen. The back door was open and I could see the fields stretching away from the house and there was a barbeque against the wall, rusting with lack of use. On an oak dining table in the middle of the room was a manila envelope and a letter.
“Those were left for you.” he said.
“He knew I was coming?”
“He had a feeling.” I tore open the envelope. The deeds for the house and the land in my name, and a letter. I sat down in one of the chairs to read it. It was what I'd expected – a letter of goodbye and regret. Regret that we'd not spent enough time together after I'd signed up. Regret about Mum dying. He was sorry for the way Dad had treated me after Mum had gone as if it was his fault. He'd finished by saying the house was mine by way of a 30 year apology for not being the older brother he'd wanted to be. As I finished the letter I realised why I'd come home, sadly far too late. But in life it is so often the case that our best moments are missed by our lack of urgency.
“Was he a 'believer' then?” I asked Mark as I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my fatigues.
“Yes. He was baptised in the river not a few miles from here. He had a lot of guilt he wanted to take to the Lord.”
“Even the guilt of Dad he'd taken upon himself? Hardly fair, is it?” I spat. My mother had been a devoted Catholic in life and I'd never taken to the concept of off loading responsibility for what I'd done onto someone else even if he was a volunteer. Though after an easter service we'd been dragged to once by Mum where the Priest talked about Gethsemane I'd stopped believing he was a 'volunteer' after all.
“You can always carry it yourself. Be punished for your own crimes I suppose.” Mark replied though I could see he'd used this line before. He almost looked braced ready for a harsh response from me. He was relieved to find I didn't on this occasion.
Instead I returned the letter to the envelope and got up from the table.
“If you don't mind, Mark, I'd like to get settled in.” I said suddenly very tired from the flight in.
Mark understood. He shook my hand and left.
CHAPTER 2
Life in the village was a far cry from my days in the military. Despite the undertones of their intent to convert me; the people who made up the small community were friendly to me and extended every courtesy to a relative stranger.
I fell back on my trade almost straight away as there were still bills to pay on my 'new' old house and the army 'sick pay' wouldn't cover it indefinitely. So I setup a small workshop in the large open garage that my brother had used in his final weeks of life as a sick bed. It had been hard to wheel out the bed itself, the machines, the things he'd had as company before he'd died. A medical team from the city came to collect it in a white speeder. Silently they packed it all away, nodding as they climbed in and drove off southwards. The next day my shipment of tools and equipment arrived and I did my best to hide the memory of the final hours of my big brother's life I'd never had chance to see.
As was my custom I buried myself in work. It was the only therapy I would have and for several years I rose early, made gates and fences, repaired pots and pans and sat with a beer on the porch and watched the sun go down over the pines. Not once though did a single memory fade and with every nights sleep I saw the charred corpse of a boy lost without his mum an
d a brother who died alone in a sterile bed.
*
"Good morning, John," A voice shouted to me from over the short steel fence I'd put up last year. It was rusting in parts where I'd missed with the paintbrush, streaks of watery brown ran down the struts and pooled on my red brick wall.
"Good morning, Mark," I shouted back. "You're early today."
"On a morning like this I think it would be a crime to lie in bed."
"I'd agree with that." I put down the hammer I was using to form a scrolled latch for the Church gates, got up from my stool and wiped my hands on my jeans. Mark began to walk up the drive just as I finished the last dregs of a cold cup of tea, drops escaping down my chin.
"How are they coming along?" He asked, indicating the other five foot gates that were hanging from the beam in the shed.
"A couple more coats of paint and I'll fit the lock tomorrow," I replied. "Can I get you a drink?”
"Please, that would be great." He sat down on one of the chairs facing east. The sun was just climbing over the hills but even at seven o'clock it was warm enough to sweat. The air was crisp and tinged with the scent of wild flowers growing in the field across the path and as I brought out two mugs of coffee I was hit with the first bird songs.
"Looks like they're up early too," I said, setting a cup in front of Mark.
"My congregation could do to learn from their example."
"And how is Jane? Recovered from the party yet?" I asked, reaching over to close the lid on the coal forge that was just starting to die out. "I heard it was a shocker."
"That's an understatement. My wife's not a drinker John, as you know. But when I saw her bring in the crate I knew it wasn't going to be just a quiet night in with the girls."
Soul at War Page 1