by John Ringo
He got a look at the ceiling and it wasn’t good. It looked like the inside of a tent. There was a groaning from nearby and then a hoarse shriek. He tried to move his fingers and was rewarded with a lance of pain again, bad enough that he nearly passed out.
“Dr. Weaver?” the voice said, again.
“Ow,” was all he could get out.
“Are you in pain?”
“Owwwww!”
“I’ll get a doctor.”
He swiveled his one good eye around and saw that there was a line of beds, filled with casualties. It was a tent, a big one.
“Dr. Weaver?” a female voice said. “I’m going to give you some liquid Valium. We’re running low on morphine; we’ve got more casualties than we’re supposed to have for a field hospital this size. You’re in no danger. You have some serious burns from an electrical fire and a broken arm. Other than that, you’re in good shape compared to most of the rest of the injured. We’re going to be moving you, soon, to another hospital. Just rest as well as you can.”
“Uhhh,” Bill said and then God answered his prayers and made the pain go away.
* * *
“Hey, Doc, you’re not out of bed, yet?”
Weaver looked up from the mess of gruel that the hospital consider a nourishing meal to where Miller was being wheeled in the door by a candy striper. The chief had a big bandage over one eye, an arm and a leg in a cast and a very nonpermissible cigar in his teeth. He’d managed to find a set of BDUs, somewhere, though and he had a new set of rank pinned on his collar, a yellow bar with a black check in it that Bill recognized, now, as the insignia of a warrant officer.
“Like a bad penny, you keep showing up,” Bill said, grinning. He grinned a lot these days; the world hadn’t come to an end.
Things were still bad. The gates, and the track three bosons that generated them, were well and truly gone. But the Titcher/Dreen had established large bridgeheads before that happened. They were using their surviving forces and the bridgeheads to begin colonization, continuing to create monsters that were a tough battle to destroy. But, slowly, they were being pushed back. Where the bridgeheads were observable from the distance, it was apparent that the Dreen, as they were being called now, built special-purpose structures to produce their fighting forces, some for dog-demons, some for thorn-throwers, others for the mosquito-missiles. As that became obvious, artillery was brought to bear from long range, saturating the air defenses until the structures that provided the missiles and centipede tanks, which were the only things that stopped air assaults, were destroyed. After that it was a matter of killing the monsters and their structures faster than they could be produced. It was working, slowly.
In the meantime, the “real” world had continued though. Units had had to be redeployed from Iraq and the nascent democracy in that country was having a hard time with ongoing guerilla activity. Terrorists had exploded a truck bomb in New York, killing nearly fifty people. But that was probably going to be some post-9/11 high water mark; the Middle East had other problems.
Dreen pockets had broken out in several different, decidedly odd, places. They were all out of the way and most had not been noticed until they were well established and started spreading.
One was in the Bekaa Valley, in Lebanon, near a center for Hamas and Hezbollah recruitment and training. Hamas, Hezbollah and the Syrians who actually owned the territory, immediately blamed it upon the United States and sent out proclamations that they would reduce the incursion in short order. The proclamations had been going out, steadily, for a week. There was no indication that they had had any real success. Indeed, news reports filtered from the U.S. government said that satellite imagery indicated at least a twenty-five percent spread.
Another was just north of the holy city of Qom in Iran. It had apparently started at the head of a valley which housed an experimental farm run by the Iranian Ruling Council, the fundamentalist religious council that ruled upon shariah law in Iran and was the actual government behind the scenes. An “unnamed U.S. spokesperson” had pointed out that the farm was one of several sites in Iran suspected of running a clandestine biological weapons program. The Iranians hotly denied the accusation and stated that it was a plot of the Great Satan and the forces of the Revolutionary Guard would quickly contain and destroy the infestation. Like the infestation in the Bekaa Valley, it was still spreading.
So was the one just south of Mecca, this one conveniently near the coast at another “experimental farm.” The area was a Saudi military reservation and the Saudi National Guard had assaulted the infestation with Abrams tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles. Survivors from the group stated that upon entering the fungus area it had attacked the tanks, choking their systems.
The Saudi government had not charged the U.S. with planting the Dreen infestation on holy ground, but the mullahs throughout the world were more than happy to blame it on the Great Satan.
Qom was the holiest city in the Shia version of Islam and Mecca was the holiest city in Islam, period. Both the Iranian Ruling Council and the Mullah of Mecca had pronounced jihad against the alien invaders and mujaheddin from the Philippines to Algeria, not to mention various western countries, were being flown in by the Saudis and the Iranians to try to fight the infestations. The bulk of their fighters would have probably come from the Bekaa Valley, but they were all extremely busy. Or being converted to more monsters.
The fungus and growth structure of the Dreen had been, at this point, carefully studied by the U.S. government. It was determined that the fungus spread via a small wormlike creature that had been specially modified to convert terrestrial biology to Dreen. As it did so, terraforming the soil, eating plant and animal material, the “fungus” spread behind it. The fungus was anything but, an entity that not only gathered energy from a chlorophyll analogue but had an extensive vascular network for moving materials from one place to another. In addition, it could sprout structures that reproduced the megafauna that did the work of the Dreen. The fungus, left alone with some functional materials it could “eat,” pure fertilizer would work, and sunlight, could spread and grow unchecked. It also was damned hard to keep contained if it had materials available, sprouting subgrowths that would attack any container it was placed in. It was considered a level four biological hazard. It was, however, responsive to burning, acid and certain powerful herbicides and did not grow well on soil that had not been preprepared for it by the worms.
One scientist had done an analysis and concluded that one human body could be converted into a dog-demon in two days. Or two humans in three days for a thorn-thrower, given the structures to make same.
Reports from the Bekaa Valley indicated that, the majority of their Katyusha rockets and a goodly part of their artillery rounds having been expended trying to break into the main areas, the Syrian, Hamas and Hezbollah forces were now attacking with rifles and flamethrowers and sustaining heavy casualties. The response by American military spokespeople was notably unsympathetic.
“You look good,” Miller said. “Hey, honey, can I talk with my friend alone for a minute?” the chief added to the candy-striper.
“Of course, Mr. Miller,” the girl said, smiling. “I’ll come back in about fifteen minutes, okay?”
“Works,” Miller replied. He gestured at the turned-down TV where the latest news from Mecca, via Al Jazeera, was showing. “Bit of a bastard, ey?”
“Well, I know you didn’t do it,” Bill said with a chuckle. “And I know I didn’t do it.”
“And I happen to know that we didn’t do it,” Miller said, shaking his head. “Give us some credit, okay? Besides, I checked with the Teams and they’d know if anyone did. They did it to themselves. Okay, maybe with some help from the Israelis.”
“Give,” Bill said.
“All the outbreaks are at places where terrorists or terrorist sponsors have been working on bioweapons,” the SEAL said, taking a puff on the cigar. “We don’t know how they got the Dreen material there, but that’s wh
ere all the outbreaks occurred.”
“Any word on what we’re going to do?” Bill asked.
“Well, the Teams are sitting back, watching the tube and laughing in their beer,” Miller answered. “The Ayrabs can’t fight for shit. There’s a lot of cultural reasons for it, some of them pretty complex, but it’s true. In a situation like this, they’re the worst possible group to try to stop the Dreen. But they’re pouring fighters in like water, just the sort of bastards that run around sniping at our troops, blowing up innocent Israeli civilians and flying jetliners into our skyscrapers. They’ve got lots and lots of mujaheddin, but no matter how many they throw at the Dreen, they’re not going to push them back. The Dreen are the purest flypaper for those boys. Wait a year and there won’t be enough mujaheddin left on earth to bury their dead. If they can find the bodies.”
“Wait a year and the Dreen will be making those mountain-sized tanks that Dr. McBain saw on Ashholm’s World.”
“Oh, they won’t wait a year,” Miller admitted. “I figure, in a few months they’ll all get back-channel messages that the U.S. is willing to help them out. The help will be a nuke. Several nukes, actually, the only way to be sure. They can take it or leave it. By then, they’ll take it. The muj will be dialed down to a fraction of their former strength and maybe there will still be a few of the worms sitting around. The ragheads will also see, clearly, what the U.S. can do if it cares enough to send the very best. Nuclear weapons rising where the mullahs cannot ignore them. I suspect that they’re going to have a slightly different view of the ‘Great Satan’ after we carefully drop nukes so they miss Mecca and Medina.”
“Nukes can’t get through,” Bill said then shook his head. “Send in artillery, first, saturate the defenses, run them out of mosquito-missiles and then… boom.”
“Yeah.” Miller chuckled around the cigar. “Boom. I think they ought to drop one on Tikrit and Fallujah while they’re about it, but nobody ever asks me. Hell, drop a ripple across the Bekaa Valley and I’d be happy. Let the Dreen have the whole thing, then pop it.”
“Works for me,” Bill said.
“But we have other things to do, Dr. Weaver,” Miller said in a very formal tone. “I need influence.”
“How much?” Bill asked. “I notice you’re not in Leavenworth right now and you seem to have been promoted.”
“Well, yeah,” the SEAL said in a slightly embarrassed voice. “Submitted an honest report as to the actions in taking the gate. I’ll admit there was a slightly awkward moment or two, but they would have looked silly court-martialing a wounded hero. It’s pretty much been noted that I’ve got over twenty in and I can take a hint. As soon as I’m fit for duty they’ll suggest that maybe I should retire and I’ll take ’em up on it. What the hell, I’ve already saved the world, once; leave it to the young kids for the next time. But we’ve still got one thing we need to take care of.”
“What?”
“Thrathptttt.”
* * *
“Mr. President, what Warrant Officer Miller said makes sense,” Bill said, carefully. “We need the information.”
“I agree with that,” the President replied. “But I’m not sure of the rest.”
“General Thrathptttt, after the gate was closed, mousetrapped one of the National Guard Brigades,” Bill pointed out. “I’m sure the secretary will agree on that?”
“Yes,” the secretary of defense admitted, tightly. “He did.”
“He then told it that he would surrender, on terms, or he could go down fighting,” Bill noted. “He had the choice of killing a large number of our troops. He knew he was doomed, anyway. But he chose to let our soldiers live. I think we owe him for that. And we need the information; the Dreen are still out there, somewhere.”
The President looked at Weaver over the video link for a long ten seconds and then nodded his head.
“Approved.”
* * *
Miller and Weaver were standing when the guards brought General Thrathptttt into the interrogation room. Weaver was in civilian clothes and Miller in desert BDUs with a web belt and a holster holding an H K USP .45 caliber pistol.
The sergeant with the two guards frowned and shook his head.
“You can’t have a weapon in the same room with a prisoner,” the sergeant said. “It’s against regulations.”
“Sergeant,” Weaver answered before Miller could open his mouth. “Did you happen to see my orders?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, carefully.
“My orders say that your regulations are superceded, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied.
“You can go.”
“Sir,” the sergeant said, again, with a pained look on his face. “This isn’t about regulation. You’re both injured and…”
“Sergeant,” Miller said, chuckling. “The day I can’t handle one three-foot-tall cat, even with one arm and one leg broken, I’ll just have to turn in my trident. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant sighed.
Thrathptttt had been seated in the chair in front of the table by the two guards and all three of them left. The chair was an adjustable swivel chair so the Mreee could sit at the table at something like normal height.
Bill and the SEAL had slightly less comfortable folding metal chairs into which they lowered themselves.
“General,” Miller said, inclining his head.
“Chief Miller,” the general replied. “Dr. Weaver. I am pleased to see that you both survived.”
“Pleased enough to talk with us?” Weaver asked.
“No,” the general replied. “I am not required to answer your questions.”
“No, you’re not,” the SEAL answered. “Although, God knows, we’ve got a lot of them. We need to know about the Dreen. Where they are. If they have interstellar capacity. If they do, when they might show up. Anything at all that we can find out. And ain’t none of you cats talking. We didn’t capture but a handful of Nitch, what with nobody really wanting a ten-foot spider near them, and the ones that we did we can’t communicate with. So we’d really like to ask you about the Dreen and we’d like you to answer those questions. But, you know what, General, I’m not going to ask you about any of that stuff.”
“Good,” the general said, straightening. “Can I leave, now?”
“No, because I am going ask you one thing, General,” the SEAL said, leaning forward. “Why? When I saw you the first time I thought to myself: ‘That is one hardcore motherfucker of a cat.’ I don’t respect many people, much less aliens, on first meeting. But I respected you. And I’m pretty good at first impressions. Pretty good. And I still say you’re an honorable guy. The way you let those National Guard soldiers off proves it. Not only to me, but to the President. So I gotta ask, General, soldier to soldier: Why?”
The general looked at him for a long moment, as if he was going to spit or cough up a hairball and then he looked away. Silent. Bill was smart enough to hold his tongue. So was Miller for a while.
“You might be wondering, if I’m talking soldier to soldier, why I brought this pasty-faced academic with me. I brought him because he deserves an answer, too. He’s a lousy shot and hasn’t got the situational awareness of an ant, but we both stood our ground at the gate and he got his share of a bodyguard in Valhalla. He took the job and he closed the gates. I think he probably killed a great many of your people. If your world was on the other side of that gate, likely it’s gone. At his hands. But he’s here because he deserves the answer, too. For honor and for standing his ground.”
“If my world is gone, so much the better,” the general said, softly. There was a long silence and then he made a faint mew. “The reason we don’t talk to you, Miller, is because we know the depths of dishonor. And we find it hard, impossible, to share them.”
“Well, I’m black ops,” Miller said, leaning back. “It ain’t all fields of glory. One of our mottoes is: We do a lot of things we wish we didn’t have to. So: Why?”
The general made another mew and looked away, silent for a moment, then he looked back.
“I was a young officer, what you would call a lieutenant, when the Masters came to our world.
“The banners of Tchraow flew from sea to sea, upon them the sun never set. We had bested the Raaown, we had conquered the Troool, an ancient and powerful land. The White Empress held sway over a vast empire. And then we were given word that in the unsettled lands a new power was arising. I was a young officer in charge of a small unit in the expedition that went out to pacify this new threat.
“We came upon Master forces far from their bases. The ones you call dog-demons and the thorn-throwers. Our sraaah riders fell upon them in a terrible charge and it was a complete defeat. The infantry stood their ground against the Masters for as long as they could but we had only cannon and poor rifles to try to hold them. They broke us. A regiment that had never been broken and they broke us like a twig.
“I was carried back on a stretcher, hundreds of your miles. It was upon the Plains of Shraaaan that I took this,” he said, gesturing at his eye. “And other hurts. But I survived. All the resources of the Troool empire were gathered, host upon host. General Mreooorw, who had defeated the Raaown, was sent from Tchraow though he was old, old. You call me a general?” the cat said, looking at Miller. “That, that was a general. He had never lost a battle, but he lost one then. We met them on the Plains of Mraaa, a vast host, shining in the sun. Cannons ranked league upon league, in perfect positions, our infantry filled the valley and the hosts of sraaah riders were like the ocean’s waves.” He paused a moment, savoring the image.
“And they destroyed us. Of that vast host no more than one in ten survived. I was one of those unlucky enough to stumble away from that black field.