Pamela smiled warmly. “Anytime, Abigail. Give us a call when you get a chance so we know you arrived alright.”
Abigail gave them each a hug again, then picked up her pack and walked to the second Humvee.
Jean turned around and went back onto the café. She began to cry.
“Mom. What’s wrong?” Pamela asked. “Abigail’s going to Montana. She’ll be safe.”
Jean wiped her eyes with her apron.“I know, dear, I know. I’m weeping for all that pain and anger she is carrying. I wished I could steal her and keep her here. But I can’t. She needs time to be a normal young girl. She can’t if she is a soldier.”
Pamela hugged her mother. “She’ll be back. I can sense it. Tell you what. We can get ahold of Shannon. Maybe when she is not training, she can contact Abigail, let us know how she is doing, and remind her she has a place to come visit.”
Her mother patted her hand. “Thanks for being such a good daughter. Now, I am going to say a little prayer. Then I’m going to say another prayer that Captain Bender keeps her safe.”
Pamela had a wry smile. “Somehow, I don’t think that will be a problem.”
As Torbin was saying goodbye to Cal Bell, a warning cry rang out.
“Lieutenant, riders coming in from three o’clock.” The gunner manning a 50 Cal on the roof of a Humvee called out. There was already a loose 360 degree security formation when the warning came. This quickly solidified into a tight circle, the Response Team using available cover to form overlapping protective fields of fire.
“Hey, guys. They’re on our side,” Cal called out. “Mounted militia. Mother called them when the Krakens showed up.”
Torbin knew that many small populated areas had been forming their own local armed militias. General Reed had been trying to coordinate and form them into a coherent force over the last year, being somewhat side tracked with the nuke strike mission. Torbin was sure it would begin again in earnest. There were not enough USA Armed Forces yet to cover all the border areas. The militias were asked to take up the slack.
Cal Bell pulled a red, white and blue cloth from his pocket and walked toward the approaching riders. He waved it above his head, whistling loudly. The approaching dozen riders stopped some one hundred yards away. Then, a tall, large individual separated from the group and slowly rode forward.
“That’s Commander James Dark Wolf, a full-blooded Cheyenne. He was a Senior Cadet at West Point when the Squids attacked. Somehow, he made it back here, and started organizing a defensive force from members of all of the Indian Tribes, Native Americans, and any other human survivors in the Wyoming and Montana areas. Took out some flying squads in the early days, Ferals later on. Now, he runs our militia.”
Torbin knew that the Cheyenne were a large people, but Dark Wolf was gigantic. Even his mount looked larger than a normal horse, jet black in color. Man and mount slowly trotted toward the truck stop. Cal strode out to meet him.
They had a short conversation out of earshot. Torbin’s name must have come up as the Commander glanced in his direction. He said something else to the retired Colonel, then slung his right leg up over his mount and slid off with practiced ease. As he approached Torbin, the Marine realized he was almost as large as Andrew the cyborg.
Commander Dark Wolf stopped a few feet from Torbin. Both men automatically saluted each other, a sign of mutual respect to a fellow warrior. Torbin spoke first. “Commander, I am very glad you came. I’ll feel better knowing that someone else is in the area now that we are leaving. The Krakens may come back for revenge.”
Dark Wolf gave a hint of a smile. “Captain Bender, we will track those pieces of buffalo shit down and make sure they never bother these folks again. That is what we do, very well, if I may be so bold in my self-assessment.”
He paused for a moment, then asked “Standing Bull…did he make it back?” Torbin hadn’t considered that Dark Wolf might have personally known his Assault Team member, but was not overly surprised, either. Warriors often ran in the same circles.
“Commander, he died so others could escape. He gave his life for his teammates, and he saved my ass from a quick death. As a result, I was captured rather than killed.”
Dark Wolf nodded. “His name and memory will be honored among my people. I know he did what he thought was right, with honor.”
“Commander, there is a slight chance his remains may be returned to Malmstrom. Would you like me to arrange transferring them to you if that happens?”
Dark Wolf nodded again. “Yes, please. As they say, if you do that, I will owe you one.”
Torbin paused, then asked. “West Point?”
Dark Wolf smiled slightly. “I see the Colonel is talking again. Yes, though the rock strikes prevented graduation. The Army threw together some crude commissioning forms, so my class were made official Second Lieutenants. The last West Point class. Then everything fell apart.”
His expression changed to a frown. “I made it home. I don’t think many of my classmates did. And you? How did you get your commission?”
Torbin grinned. “Battlefield promotion. I was enlisted prior to the invasion. The casualty rate amongst officers was so great, some genius decided that I needed to fill a slot. So, here I am.”
Dark Wolf seemed to size Torbin up again. “I think there was more to that decision than a bunch of officers being killed. Word travels fast—we already know about dispatching of the Squid.”
Torbin really wanted to just disappear into the woodwork. Now, the need for heroes was turning him into this larger than life character. Once again, he asked himself, Why me?
He shrugged. “I did what I had to. Standing Bull did what he wanted to do. I think his feats are what should be remembered.”
Dark Wolf paused. This Marine before him had the markings of a legendary warrior, but did not realize it. West Point military history had taught him that during times of great need, heroes arose, filling the needs of the time. And often neither the person involved nor those around him realized how important of a position, of a place in history, they filled. Full appreciation of their place in history often only came after their death. Dark Wolf sensed that in Torbin’s case, full appreciation would come much sooner than anyone realized.
“I thank you for your words, Captain. You do Standing Bull and the Cheyenne honor. Now, it is time for the militia to take care of those who wish to do harm.” He out put his huge hand. Torbin took it and the shook hands. Dark Wolf said something in his native tongue. Torbin gave him a quizzical look. A hint of a smile formed on Dark Wolf’s lips. “One authority I have as what you would call a Chief, is the ability to name. I have just named you. It seems appropriate.”
“Well, Commander, I hope it’s not too obscene. I’ve been called many thing in my life. But my new wife may get pissed if people start calling me Large Asshole, or something like that.”
Dark Horse chuckled. “A good sense of humor stands a warrior in good stead. You have a safe and pleasant trip, He Who Kills with Knife.” He gave a quick salute, turned and walked back to his horse.
Torbin reflected for a moment, running the name through his mind. He guessed there was no getting around it. He would be fawned over as a “hero”. Now he had another reason, as if he needed one, to despise the Tschaaa, and to want payback.
“Show me a hero and I’ll show you a bum.” Old Pappy Boyington had a point. Torbin did not want to be a bum.
He turned and walked back to say goodbye to Cal. “You keep your family safe, Colonel Bell. I’d like to stop by sometime and chew the fat when we both have the chance.”
“You can do that after you’ve finished kicking the Squids’ asses, young Captain. Have a safe trip, and keep Abigail safe.”
Here everyone was treating him as “something special”, when it was Abigail who had the makings of a bonafide hero. She was a child forced into a survival situation, surviving into womanhood and becoming a warrior of virtue. She should be a person emulated, honored, not him.
; As the three Humvees drove back the way they had come from, one of the other Cheyenne members of the militia asked Dark Wolf, “Was that him? Was that the one with Standing Bull?”
“Yes. That is He Who Kills with Knife. And, I know we will meet him again.”
He turned to the rest of his unit. “Come, my fellow warriors! Let us kill some Krakens.” A few war cries and rebel yells, then they began to track the enemy.
The beginning of the trip in the Humvees was smooth and uneventful. Torbin and Abigail sat in the back; Lieutenant Baker sat in the front passenger seat. He soon struck up a conversation with Abigail.
“Captain, I could not help but notice the unusual design of your bars. And the emblem over your left pocket. What do the designs mean?”
“Well, Lieutenant, the gold crosses on my Captain’s bars symbolize that I am a Warrior of God and Deseret. The emblem on my pocket, if you look closely, is a representation of an Avenging Angel, a warrior like Saint Michael—wings, shield, sword and all.”
Torbin looked closely at the emblem. It was a figure, flowing blond hair, large golden wings partially outspread. The Angel held a large shield with a cross on it in the left hand, with a long, flashing sword in the right. It dawned on Torbin that the stylized drawing and painting on Abigail’s helmet was of the front torso of the same figure on the helmet front, with the wings spreading backwards on either side. The colors were more subdued, so the artwork also served as camouflage. Whoever had done the artwork was quite good.
“Who designed your helmet for you, Abigail?” Torbin asked.
“I did. Though one of the Twenty who’s much more artistic than I did the actual drawing and painting. All the Avenging Angel helmets look similar, with slight individual variations. Helps us to keep them straight, whose is whose.”
The more Torbin delved into the subject, the more he realized that Deseret had created a small, highly-specialized warrior society, very small but, theoretically, capable of expansion. Despite her problems with too much unrequited stress, Abigail was still one of the most efficient military members he had met, especially taking into account her young age. Ichiro’s Samurai training and way of life had much similarity to what Abigail had experienced, symbolism and all.
They talked about various unit symbols and patches through history, Torbin commenting that Abigail’s Avenging Angel was one of the more artistically pleasing unit identifiers he had seen. “I might just ask to commission you, Abigail, to help me design a unit patch around a Wolf symbol. I’d like to have a symbol by which everyone could remember the people who made the first attack in response to this…Infestation the President likes to call it. I think people need a symbol to remember the sacrifices of those who took the fight to the Tschaaa first.”
Abigail looked at her friend. Yes, a wolf totem, as the Native American tribes would call it, would be a powerful and easily remembered symbol. And, it would fit Torbin perfectly.
“Of course I will help you, friend Torbin. Though someone with more ability at furnishing an intricate art work would be better for the final product. I am good with design, but my drawing ability is a bit…stiff.”
Torbin smiled. “Well, I just happened to be married to one of the most natural artists I have ever known. Artwork, printing, all come naturally to her. And, since she made the big mistake of marrying me, I have a captive work force.”
Abigail smiled and laughed, once again brightening up the area. Lt. Baker was still making doe eyes at her. He had been knocked head over heels by Abigail’s rather exotic nature, at least compared to the Lieutenant’s current fellow officers. Torbin hoped Abigail would not break his heart, as he knew that a serious relationship with the opposite sex was the last thing on her mind.
Then the intercom between the three Humvees crackled. “Eaters. Ten o’clock.” Torbin looked out the vehicle window and saw two easily recognizable figures chasing something that was performing a series of zig-zags. It looked like a large dog. The 50 Caliber on the third vehicle fired a three round burst, kicking up dirt into the face of the leading Eater. Surprisingly, knowing what Torbin did about their single-mindedness when they saw prey, this caused the two creatures to break off pursuit of their meal. Were they learning about human capabilities and firearms? If they were, realized Torbin, it did not bode well for the people of the U.S.A.
“Lieutenant, I know the General wants me back ASAP, but I think he would understand if we took out some Eaters this far into our territory. Those two damnable things will turn into a bunch more given a week’s time.” Lieutenant Baker signaled his agreement by telling the small convoy to stop and deploy.
As they un-assed the Humvees, the Response Unit members began to gripe at the Ma Deuce gunner for missing.
“Hey, Jones! That was pretty shitty shooting.”
A second troop chimed in. “You need to pay attention to your shooting, numbnuts.”
Lt. Baker found a voice that Torbin didn’t realize he had in him. “At ease. You have a lady present. Let’s stop all this sewer talk.”
The Response Unit members shut up. They saw Abigail as another set of fatigues, especially those that remembered her from Evanston. The thought of someone being offended with typical obscene, gross talk from some trained killers when that person came with similar training had not passed their mind, Mormon or not.
Abigail blushed a bit. “Please, Lieutenant. I appreciate the thought, but I am far from a lady…”
“Whoa, my good Captain.” Torbin broke in. “Why aren’t you a lady? Where I come from, the Commissioning Statement reads Officer and a lady or gentleman. So, by act of the government we are expected to act as such, and be treated as such. Now I don’t act like a gentleman half the time because I’m a grunt at heart. But you sure act like a lady from what I’ve seen.”
Abigail tried to keep her voice a bit low. “But I don’t know all those…feminine things that ladies do, that they have.”
Torbin looked at her. The next time he saw the Prophet and President of Deseret, he was going to bitch slap him for his less than balanced upbringing he provided to Abigail, and probably the rest of the so called Twenty.
“We do not have the time for me to detail why you are wrong. I’ll let my wife, that hard-ass Russian officer explain it to you. Just accept, please, the concept the Lieutenant is putting across.”
Abigail looked at him, still blushing a bit. “Okay, Torbin. I’ll accept the basic concept, as long as it does not cause people trouble.”
“Trust me. A little civilized manners will help more than hurt any man I know. Now, the problem at hand.”
Torbin turned to Lieutenant Baker. “Lieutenant, I suggest an officers’ recon. It will give you a chance to get your feet wet, as they say.” Torbin wanted to provide the Lieutenant the chance of experiencing a bit of armed conflict, even if it was with a creature that could not shoot back. Eaters had other characteristics that made them highly dangerous.
“Yes, Sir,” Lt. Baker responded eagerly. He grabbed his battle rattle and his M-4 with the mounted ACOG sight system. Torbin turned toward Abigail. “Mind if I borrow your 12 gauge pump?”
“Of course not, Torbin. It’s loaded for bear.”
“Thanks.” Torbin looked at the Ma Deuce Gunner. “Think you can give us long cover?”
“Yes Sir. I won’t miss again.”
“Good.” Torbin replied. He hoped to himself that the gunner did not miss again, if the Ma Deuce was needed. Torbin checked the shotgun out, ejecting two shells to check the action, then making sure the first shell was a slug round. A huge hunk of lead tends to screw up the day of most medium sized creatures, which the Eaters and humans generally were. He had five rounds in the shortened entry shotgun, still accurate at twenty-five yards and then some. He had three slugs and two buckshot alternating in the weapon. Plus he had his .44 Magnum Pistol as back up. But he wanted this to be the Lieutenant’s show. He did not think the young man would freeze up. If he did, Torbin hoped between him and the rest of the team the
y could take care of the situation. Torbin knew he was taking a bit of a chance, but he owed it to the good people of Wyoming to take out as many threats as possible. Plus, he owed it to the General to help develop a new young officer. After the nuke strike, general warfare would probably result in short order, requiring every trained soldier they had.
The Lieutenant joined him to the west side of the vehicles. The tree line where the Eaters had disappeared was just a shade under three hundred yards away. Torbin was not planning on entering the tree line, believing that if they got close enough, the natural drive to feed would overcome any new knowledge an Eater had developed about human capabilities. The fact that they could learn at all was frightening in and of itself. Better to kill the smart ones now, before they could pass on their gene pool.
“Lieutenant, remove your mag and eject the round in the chamber. I’ll catch it. Then, lock the action back, re-insert the mag and release the bolt to feed a new round. You can then use the round I caught to top off you mag again.”
“Why the reload, Sir?”
“I had the first round that had been sitting in the chamber for a while misfire. I don’t know why. Thus, I go through this superstitious ritual that maybe negates whatever arcane reason existed for the misfire. Since I started doing this, no misfires. Maybe I appeased the Gods of Ammunition, I don’t know. I just train everyone to do this when they have the chance. It also acts as a last minute function check when you have the time. That rifle is your lifeline to going home to your loved-ones. That and your fellow troops.”
Lieutenant Baker paused in thought.
“Yes Sir. I appreciate you helping me. I’m fairly young, and inexperienced. I need all the help I can get.”
Torbin chuckled. “Everyone starts out young. The trick is surviving so you can become old. Since I would like fellow soldiers, Marines, and Airmen to live with me in the old soldiers’ home, swapping lies and pinching the nurses, I try to help every gun-carrier I can to survive. I don’t want to die alone and bored.”
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