Pittman seemed P.O.’d. Asked me why I let them go. Told her I joined up to fight Creepers, not bust kids who are starving.
Rest of tour went quiet, signed out, sent message to Facilities to get fence line fixed. Pittman seemed to learn a good lesson. We’ll see.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“May I come in?” he asks, and I step aside, mind whirling, guts churning, thinking all right, maybe this time Staff Sergeant Muller filed a complaint. The lieutenant comes in, sees one chair, and sits on the edge of my bunk.
“Have a seat, Randy,” he says.
I take my chair and he sits there, West Point graduate in a nice clean uniform and almost new boots. His hooked prosthetic arm sticks out to one side. “Here’s the deal,” he says. “The colonel wants to see you.”
“Me?” I ask. “What for, sir?”
The lieutenant goes on. “He has something in mind for you. I suggest you listen to him and if you don’t like it, refuse.”
“Refuse, sir? How can I do that?”
He stares right at me. “You’re a smart one, Randy. Skirting the rules. Using your hurt ear for your own advantage. Getting what you want. I think if you want to, you can say no to the colonel without any problem, by using your . . . creative skills. But be careful. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“I think so, sir. I think so.”
“Good.” He steps up and I ask, “When does he want to see me?”
He glances at the watch on his sole arm. “Just under an hour. At six p.m.”
Something heavy and cold sinks in my chest. “But that’s when the Ranger Ball starts, boss.”
The lieutenant walks to the door. “So ask the colonel to go with you to the dance if you’d like. But don’t make him wait.”
Almost an hour later, ticked off that I’m out of civvie clothes and back into uniform, I’m walking to the colonel’s offices, which used to house the school’s headmaster. From the distance and with my good ear, I hear the disk jockey warming up for the dance, playing a rock and roll tune from the Sixties. The damn music nearly tugs me over to the base gym, which has been cleared out for the dance. No wonder the Sixities was such a screwy decade; that music made you want to move, to reach out, to rebel, to do everything differently.
At the headmaster’s building, a nice construct of old wood and brick, I trot up the stairs and go to the outer office, where the colonel’s administrative aide sits, an older woman named Bouchard who was once in the Air Force and re-upped into the only unit that would take her after the war began. She has a thin face and prominent nose, and while she’s now a lieutenant in the Guard, rumor has it that she was a full colonel in the Air Force before retiring.
I stand at attention and announce myself. “Sergeant Randy Knox, reporting to Colonel Malcolm Hunter, ma’am.”
She purses her thin lips, makes a notation on a piece of paper with a pencil, and says, “Nice to see you on time, Sergeant, but the colonel has a visitor. You may take a seat.”
I look up at the wall clock. Six p.m. The Ranger Ball is starting and Corporal Abby Monroe is stepping out on the dance floor, looking for her promised first date, and here I am, cooling my heels outside the C.O.’s office. Damn. If I had been smarter, I would have sent her a note or something, to explain why I’m not there on time.
Had no time to be smart. At my side are a couple of newspapers. I pick up the latest copy of Stars & Stripes, only a week old. Sorry to say for its writers and editors, I skip most of the stories. They are mostly tales of fellow brave soldiers, fighting Creepers, rescuing civilians, and doing good in the community. Lots of heroics. Despite what Captain Allard tried to do a few hours back, I ain’t no hero, and don’t want to be. Heroes get their charcoaled remains buried and get speeches said over them. That’s not for me.
I’m not saying the tales in the newspaper are made-up, it’s just that I’m tired of reading them.
Instead I look for the cool nuggets here and there, like the headline SECDEF PROMISES MORE DETAILS ON ORBITAL RAID, which is about the entire story, that the current Secretary of Defense promises that one of these days, more information would be revealed about last month’s attack on the Creepers’ orbiting base. Operational security and all that, and no, he wouldn’t say if the Air Force crews involved had seen a certain movie about star wars before launch. I smile at an old memory, from a few years ago, when dad was reading Stars & Stripes in our post apartment and he burst out laughing. I asked him what was so funny, and he pointed to a story about how what was left of LucasFilms was filing suit against anyone using the copyrighted term “Death Star” in describing the Creepers’ orbital base. Then dad laughed again and said, “Randy, when I was your age, when we worried a lot about the Russians, there was an old joke that after World War III, the only creatures still thriving would be cockroaches and lawyers. Glad to see the joke still works.”
Maybe so, but even knowing what I know about the history of Russia, I still admire them since they have a pretty good method of destroying Creeper bases. Once a base has been extensively surveyed and plotted, they send in squads of three men, each one carrying a component of a ten-kiloton nuclear device. The squads move low and slow, sometimes taking a week to cover just a few hundred meters, and once they get up next to a base, they assemble the nuclear device and set it off.
Oh, and they set it off by hand, so as not to be detected by the Creepers, who are experts at detecting and destroying most electronic devices. One of the girls in my platoon, named Lopez, shook her head once at an intelligence briefing describing this kind of attack and said, “Man, that’s freakin’ hardcore.”
Can’t argue with that.
I flip through the pages, seeking other nuggets. SEIGE OF DENVER CONTINUES. Ouch, those poor folks in the mile-high city. There’s been stories of sieges going on at other cities across the world—Brasilia in Brazil, a couple in Africa, Lyons in France, Kiev in Ukraine—but only Denver has gotten the attention of the Creepers here in the States. They set up their exoskeletons around the city and because of the lack of tree cover and other hiding areas, they scorch anything and everything trying to get in or out of Denver. There’s a constant pitched battle to thin out the exoskeletons, but their killer stealth satellites do pinpoint strikes on the forces trying to break in, or at least take in food supplies.
Food supplies. I’ve heard rumors about classified attempts to bring in food, from using old sewage tunnels and even hot-air balloons, but it’s hard to feed hundreds of thousands of people with such meager resources. The story is grim and it says the Mile-High Stadium has been closed to further burials.
A turn of the page. ALASKAN, HAWAIIAN DELEGATIONS ARRIVE TO ADDRESS CONCERNS. The story is written with vague words of compromise and mutual respect, but I know the real story: after ten years of constant war and near isolation, the states of Hawaii and Alaska aren’t particularly happy about being governed by steamship and telegraph by a President who can’t even address the nation by radio or television.
One more story, in the back, the tiniest one but the most intriguing: CONTACT MADE WITH SOME MIDEAST UNITS. Now that’s a story I wish was longer, for it touches on one of the spookiest stories coming out of the Creeper war. Once the war began, communications were cut off, meaning tens of thousands of American troops stationed overseas in Europe, Asia, Africa and the Middle East lost contact with the National Command Authority. Ten years is a long time, and some of the overseas units set themselves up as mini-empires in the country where they were stationed, while others hired themselves out as mercenary units to whatever governments managed to survive, and still others simply collapsed from desertion or death. My Roman history instructor last term, Shapiro, said it was like the ten thousand survivors of the famed Ninth Legion of Rome, defeated in 36 B.C. in Turkey, the prisoners taken east never to be heard from again, except for stories that they worked as mercenaries for the ancient Chinese and intermarried into the local population.
Now with steamships and telegraph stations returni
ng, some of these ghost units have been heard from, and like Alaska and Hawaii, times and circumstances have changed. Do they stay where they are, or do they re-pledge their loyalty to an unelected President most of them have never heard of?
A light flashes on Lieutenant Bouchard’s desk. “You can go in, now,” she says crisply.
I get up and stroll to a polished wooden door with a painted plaque stating, COL. MALCOM HUNTER, COMMANDANT, FORT ST. PAUL. I knock once, wait, hear a voice from the other side call out, “Enter!”
I open the door, close it behind me, stride in, stand at attention in front of the colonel’s desk. I don’t salute. My cover is in my hand and salutes are only exchanged when both parties are wearing their hats. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen old films during movie night, especially the black and white ones after World War II, that show salutes being tossed around like they were part of some secret lodge or something. You’d think the vets after the last Big One would know better, but they were no doubt busy building houses, getting married and producing babies.
There’s a civilian sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, but I only note him from the corner of my eye. The colonel is in his fifties, face tired, wrinkles around his forehead and eyes, nearly bald, black hair a rim at the rear of his head. His uniform is clean and neat, as are the piles of papers and folders on his desk. The office is wood paneling, Oriental carpeting, and bay windows that overlook the fort’s grounds.
He says, “Sergeant, I’d like you to meet Ezra Manson. Mister Manson is an executive assistant to the governor.”
I turn, see the civilian look up at me with distaste, like he hadn’t enjoyed his salvaged ten-year-old can of Dinty Moore beef stew for lunch. “Sir,” I say, but he doesn’t get up, and doesn’t offer his hand. He looks to be in his thirties, wearing a dark gray suit that looks pretty good. Perhaps it’s even recently made. His hair is dark brown, neatly trimmed, matching a neatly trimmed beard. I look down at his hands. His fingernails are short and clean. I’m sure he’s never had to worry about getting a ten-minute chit for a hot shower.
Colonel Hunter says, “Have a seat, Sergeant.”
“Sir,” I say, and take the chair to the right of Mister Manson.
The colonel leans back in his leather chair. There’s a muffled squeak. “I’ll get right to it. Mister Manson will be departing the capitol tomorrow as a special courier from the Governor to the President. We’ve been asked to provide an armed escort. That will be you.”
It’s like the room is slowly being sent back to December, for I feel chilled. “Me, sir? To see the President?”
The colonel comes forward in his chair. Another muffled squeak. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him, am I correct?”
I’m embarrassed in front of the civilian. I don’t like the feeling. “Yes, sir. I have.”
“You’ll receive the necessary orders and paperwork from Lieutenant Bouchard before you leave. But in a nutshell, you’re going to be Mister Manson’s new best friend. You’re not to leave his side. You’re to ensure that he and his dispatch case reach the capital and the President . . . or at least his Chief of Staff, Tess Conroy. Once he and his dispatch case have arrived in the good company of Miss Conroy, you’ll be free to return. Questions?”
About a half-ton or so of questions, but Mister Manson beats me to it. “Him? Colonel? Are you serious? He’s just a teenager.”
Colonel Hunter frowns. “He’s a sergeant in the National Guard, attached to the U.S. Army . . . and nowadays, there’s not much difference between the two. Most National Guard units like us use our original designations for pride’s sake, and the Army wisely allows us.”
“I don’t care if he’s in the airborne, he’s just a kid!”
Colonel Hunter says, “The governor asked for an armed escort. I’m giving you one of my best, no matter his age. Complain all you want. This is the soldier you’re getting.”
Manson looks trapped and I feel something out of the ordinary: respect for Colonel Hunter. He stands up and says, “Fine. Your call. To give me a boy to ride with me on a vital mission to the capitol. Just make sure he’s not late.”
“He’ll be on time,” the colonel says.
Manson leaves, but as he’s going through the door, the colonel calls out. “Oh, Mister Manson. If I may.”
“Yeah?”
“Just so we’re clear, I’m assigning Sergeant Knox to provide you with security on your trip to the capitol. I’m not giving you a damn thing.”
Manson slams the door pretty hard on his way out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The colonel looks at me and I rub my moist hands on my uniform pants.
“Randy.”
“Sir.”
He lets out a long whoosh of breath, rubs both hands across the front of his head. “Damn governor . . . damn civilians.” Then he surprises me by saying, “Ah, forget I said that. They’re doing their best, under terrible pressures.”
I keep quiet, still trying to figure out what’s going on, when the colonel goes on, voice reflective. “Ten years later, most of this planet is back to medieval times, hungry and illiterate people being ruled by kings or warlords. We’re one of the few remaining places that still functions . . . as best we can. So I guess civilians here do have their role.”
I find my voice, “Sir, why me?”
He lets his hands down on his desk. “Why not you? I’d love to say that I was stretching the truth, but you are one of my best.”
“But just one escort? Why not two? Why not a squad?”
The colonel says, “Because you’re escorting a messenger. Not the damn governor himself. You’ll be fine. Two or more escorts would raise questions. Don’t need questions. But don’t get cocky. Do your job. You get with Manson at the Concord railway station at oh nine hundred tomorrow and you be his new best friend. Don’t leave his side. He goes to the bathroom, you say your bladder is full and you go, too. You stick with him until he’s with the President or Miss Conroy. If something . . . untoward happens, make sure his dispatch case ends up with the President or Miss Conroy.”
Remembering what Lieutenant May had said earlier, I say, “Do I have to go? Sir?”
His lower lip twitches. “If you want a direct order, consider it done. But truthfully, Randy, I can’t see you passing this up. A trip off post. A train ride. A chance to get to the Capitol. I think I know you, Randy.”
I snap back, “Don’t be so certain. Sir.”
He rubs at his forehead again. “Look, the door is shut. It’s just you and me, Randy. So you can knock off the yes sirs and no sirs.”
I stare at him carefully. “Is that an order? Sir?”
He replies just as carefully. “No, it’s not. But . . . it’s a request, Randy. I get enough yessirs and nossirs all day that I hear them in my goddamn sleep. So give me a break, all right?”
“All right . . . sir, er, sorry.”
The colonel says quietly, “Any word about your dad?”
I try to keep my voice calm. “I think you’d know that already, Uncle Malcolm.”
“I don’t know the incoming mail status of each soldier on this post.”
“I find that hard to believe, sir . . . uncle.”
He shrugs. “Don’t care if you believe it or not, but it’s true. I’m sorry to hear you’ve not received word from your father. Communications with the West Coast can still be iffy. I’ll see what I can do.”
I doubt that, is what I think, but I keep my mouth shut. The colonel is a brother to my dead mom, and was a car salesman and a sergeant in the N.H. National Guard when the war started. As Dad told me more than once, a long war and heavy casualties equals quick advancement in the ranks. I guess he’s okay as far a commanding officers go, but I don’t like him for a good reason: he blames Dad for his sister’s death, and has never made a secret of his dislike of my father. He and Dad have clashed lots of times since I’ve been assigned to Fort St. Paul, and it all comes back to when I was six and during those firs
t confusing weeks after the war began, when mom and my sister were separated during the evacuations. Uncle Malcolm thinks Dad was a coward back then. I doubt that very much, but I’ve also never had the courage, ask Dad for his side of the story.
“Thanks, I appreciate that,” I say.
My uncle looks at his desk clock. “I know you’re missing the Ranger Ball. But I want to make sure I can answer any questions you might have.”
“Any idea of how long I might be gone?”
“Depending on the train service. One, two days out there, same amount back. A lot depends on the condition of the tracks and the locomotives.”
“I appreciate you saying I’m one of your best, Uncle Malcolm. But again, why me?”
“I’ve made the decision, Randy. Let it be.”
I look at my uncle’s worn and harsh face. “I think I know why.”
His look is impassive. I go on, feeling a bit bold with all this leave out the ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ nonsense. “You’ve just engaged in a bit of payback, that’s all. You don’t like being bossed around by the governor, don’t like having to supply somebody to babysit a courier. So you give them somebody my age, to insult the governor and his executive assistant.”
He picks up a pencil, puts it down. “Just like your father. Thinking too much. Any other questions?”
“Weapons?”
“What, you’re thinking of bringing a Colt M-10?”
“I was thinking about it,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Forget it. You’re providing an escort. Not going on a Creeper hunt. You’ll be representing the Guard and Fort St. Paul and uniform of the day will be Army Service Uniform, with sidearm. If you do see the President, don’t waste his time. He’s a very busy man. Plus to be absolutely clear here, this assignment of yours is classified. What you’ve been told in this room is to stay in this room. Anything else?”
Dark Victory - eARC Page 9