by Weston Ochse
“You been in combat, Mason?” he asked me.
“You could say that,” I murmured.
“What? Speak up so the rest can hear you.”
“You can say that. Yes, sir.”
“You do any of those moves in combat?”
I envisioned the Hajji inside the second floor door of a house we were clearing in Baghdad who’d lost his knee the same way, right before the guy behind me double-tapped him in the head. “Yes, sir.”
“Practical experience beats practiced experience every day of the week. Mason has used what he knows in combat. He’s used it to survive. Laugh all you want. Call him a jerk all you want. But Mason is a survivor.
“Another thing we have to learn from this is expectations. It’s a cliché and you’ve heard it a million times, but you must expect the unexpected.”
He turned and pointed at me.
“Your instructor expected Mason to know one of the popular martial arts that deal with kicks, punches and joint locks. This is not what he knows. What did you train in, Mason?”
“Kapu Kuai Lua, sir.”
“Kapa Kuai Lua, or Lua, is a Hawaiian martial art pre-dating King Kamehameha. It involves bone breaking, muscle bruising and pressure point manipulation. There are no high kicks. While they learn elements of joint locking, it’s more to defeat the locks than to apply them. Is this right, son?”
I glanced at Mr. Pink, who was smiling.
“Yes, sir.”
“And I can guarantee that your instructor had never experienced Lua before. I mean, who else but Mason in this room would have thought to dig an elbow into his thigh and bruise his femur?”
Not a single hand raised.
Mr. Pink nodded.
“I said I had two things. There are actually three. One of the reasons none of you would have thought of bruising the man’s bone, aside from not knowing how, is that he’s a fellow human.” Mr. Pink rounded on me with a full-on glare. “Maybe when we recruited you all to this endeavor, you didn’t understand what we said.” He put his hands to his mouth and shouted. “We are about to be attacked by aliens, and the human race is under threat of extinction.”
He paced to the other end of the front.
“Did everyone hear that?”
The crowd gave a resounding yes.
He turned to me. “Did you hear that, Private Mason?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why do you keep hurting your fellow human beings instead of protecting them?”
I stared at him, at a loss for words.
“I asked you a question, son.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. Why’d you do it?”
I shook my head again, then said, “Because he pissed me off.” I didn’t have to repeat myself. You could have heard a pin drop in the great room.
“You hurt a fellow human because he pissed you off.” Mr. Pink moved straight at me. I backed up a few feet, but he only put his hand on my shoulder. “Listen, and listen close, everyone. This shit is real. The aliens are coming. They’re going to invade and kill most everyone on the planet. There’s literally nothing we can do right now. We’re struggling to figure out a way to defeat them, but the amount of information we know about the enemy is pathetic. We can’t fight ourselves before they even attack. We surely can’t fight each other once they attack. We have to stick together. This isn’t a matter of black, white, brown, red; this is about being human. We have this club, you see, and you are all members. To be a member, you have to be human. To be a member, you have to fight to save the human race. Nowhere in the club’s charter is there room to fight each other and to hurt each other.”
He let go of my shoulder, but I could still feel the weight of his hand.
“So fucking stop it. Get over it. This is not the world you knew. This is a new world, where the loss of even one of you could mean all of our doom. Do we understand each other?”
The crowd and I gave a resounding YES, SIR!
“Good. Then get this room changed around. We have more training to conduct. We need to be strong. We need to be ready. We need to be able save the planet, even if that means every one of us, me included, will die doing it. Because believe it or not, me and those like me were recruited for the same reasons you were recruited. To give us a second chance to make a difference.”
Then he walked out.
I stood there, mind reeling. Until this very moment, I hadn’t known what I’d felt for these people. They weren’t part of my unit. My unit was back in Afghanistan. They weren’t my friends. My friends were littered on the bomb-laden road of my past, scattered like ashes across all the good and bad things I’d ever done. They’d really been nobody to me. They’d meant nothing. I’d grown fond of Michelle only because she seemed worse than myself. In my hubris, I’d believed I had the power to save her, even when I couldn’t save myself.
Each and every man and woman sitting in their chairs believed a variation on this theme. It wasn’t something we’d done intentionally. But it was the result of committing oneself so entirely to undoing one’s very being. We’d tried to not only kill ourselves, but the ideas of ourselves we’d created by becoming warriors. Somewhere along the way each one of us had made a decision, took a turn, or done something which we felt was incontestably the worst thing anyone has ever done. And to punish ourselves, we’d tried to pay the ultimate price.
But were we really that horrible?
Had we become so irredeemable that we had no way to overcome the events that had brought us to this point?
Could we not save ourselves, and in doing so, save everyone else as well?
I realized that this was what Mr. Pink had been trying to say all along. It was the unifying force that tied each of us together. We no longer had our original units to return to. We’d denied ourselves any affiliation to them when we’d taken our own hands and tried to invoke destiny. Now we were part of a different unit. We were Task Force OMBRA. The unit had no regional or national identity. It was beyond red, white and blue. Instead, we had an idea—an idea which encompassed everyone in the great room beneath this broad Wyoming plain and imbued us with a sovereign responsibility, to be the absolute force to come together and fight for the survival of our species.
I stared at the assembled men and women who until recently had designed to kill themselves. But as I watched them, an interesting thing happened. The features of their faces, which had appeared forcibly subdued, took on a different life, as if each was just now realizing the combined force they represented. We’d joined in a single moment of catharsis when we’d all just figured it out. The culmination of all the books, all the movies, the osmosis, and the forced self-recriminations seemed to make sense at this moment. Alone we couldn’t save anyone, much less ourselves, but together—together—we had the power to change the destiny of a planet, if only we could overcome our own ideas of guilt, innocence, responsibility and complicity.
Then it was as if they were looking at me for guidance.
I cleared my throat and stood a little taller. “You heard him,” I said, my voice gathering power as I found the words. “Let’s get this stuff moved and get back to training.”
During the first two hours of the invasion no one knew what was happening. Everyone suddenly lost power. They had no way to call. They had no way to report or receive information. Even when we established generator power, there was no way to communicate without satellites. We had to send messages by horse. We went from the Computer Age to the Dark Ages in a matter of minutes.
Conspiracy Theory Talk Radio,
Night Stalker Monologue #967
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WE LOST POWER for three days. We had generator power, but it left us in ridiculously low light. We were fed cold food and left to our own designs. For the most part, teams stayed together, and Nineteen was no different. I’d come to terms with my own behavior. I still didn’t like Olivares—I thought he was a slimy dirt bag—but there was no d
enying his abilities. He was a crack shot in the simulators. He was a better than average fighter, especially now that he knew not to take other fighters for granted, thanks to my energetic lesson. He could also work well in a team, both as a leader and a team member. The days without power were spent conducting small unit leader’s training, which involved problem solving and delegation, such as how to get everyone on the team from Point A to Point B without touching the floor and with minimal materials. The answers were always there, but they sometimes required counterintuitive deduction and teamwork to figure out. The sign of a good leader was one who listened to the recommendations of his or her team, processed them, then after analysis, developed a plan. The sign of a poor leader was one who listened and did what they wanted anyway. Olivares had proven himself to be a good leader, getting us through more obstacles than any one of us. In fact he did so well that everyone began deferring to him. Even me.
Thankfully, the team didn’t give me an intervention. I was afraid they’d sit me down and embarrass the hell out of me. I knew I’d lost focus, that I’d messed up. I wanted to get over it, not talk about it. The speech by Mr. Pink did more to help me put things in perspective than anything else. After that I saw things differently.
Thompson was the one who really broke the ice. During workouts and sparring, I was included, but it was clear I was a sixth wheel. About two days after Mr. Pink’s speech, we were stretching on the mat and Thompson, who was stretching beside me, asked if I’d show him some moves.
“Why is it you use your elbows so much?” he asked. He was the smallest of us and small boned. I had a sudden image of him lying dead on a dusty plain, his face upturned towards the sky with the same questioning look.
“When you think of a hammer, each part of it is hard, right?”
He nodded.
“But when you swing the hammer, it’s the culmination of all the force into the head of the hammer that does the damage.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Only if I don’t do the move right. Half an inch to the left or the right and I could shatter my elbow. It’s a dangerous maneuver, but done right, it can be devastating.”
“My father was a wrestler in high school and college. He was All State. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Thompson turned his head slightly and smiled. “I liked music. After homework and church, there was only so much time in the day. I didn’t want to spend all of my time doing exercises and trying to maintain weight like the other guys in my school.”
“You don’t like fighting very much, do you?”
“How’d you guess? The only reason I joined the military was to be in the band.”
“And the Marine Corps, of all services. Did they have a special basic training for band members?”
Thompson shook his head. “No, unfortunately. Marine basic is the same for everyone. We all have to survive the Crucible.”
“I heard it’s the toughest. If you survived that, you must be tough. Sparring can’t be more difficult than that.”
“I survived,” Thompson said. His gaze was fixed to the floor. It was clear he had more to say.
I offered a bit of my story. “I’m not sure about the Crucible, but our final field problem in basic training was terrible. We were beyond exhausted. We were cold. I’ve rarely felt anything worse.”
“But you made it through,” Thompson said.
“Just as you did.”
Thompson brought his head to both knees, stretching his hamstring, grabbing the soles of his feet to pull himself completely down. When he spoke, his eyes were closed as his forehead touched his knees. “I cried, you know.”
“We’ve all cried. I think I might have cried too.”
“But you don’t understand.”
“Sure I understand. Crying is human nature. It’s usually psychological rather than physical. We cry because our bodies are exhausted. We cry because of stress.”
“I cried because I wanted to die.”
I paused for a moment, reliving the worst moments of my own basic training. All said, they weren’t as bad as I was letting on. I’d been in terrific shape and had understood the game and thought the training was fairly easy. The hardest part had been playing the game—allowing myself to be cut down so the drill sergeants could remold me.
“We’ve all felt that way, Tim. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“My father used to call me Sissy. He wouldn’t call me Tim. He’d call me Sissy when I’d cry. Hey, Sissy, stop crying. Oh, look, the Sissy is crying. Or, Hey, Sissy, get me another beer. Then he’d take me into the basement and make me wrestle. He thought if he taught me I could try out and make the team. Be All State like he was. But he always ended up hurting me.”
“Fathers can be assholes. Some people say that kids are lucky to survive childhood. It’s not like our parents had to take a class or something. Hell, an adult requires more education to drive a car than to raise a child.”
“A car can do more damage,” Tim said, barely audible.
“Tell that to the parents of the kids killed by Eric Harris and Daren Klebold. Or the parents of the children in Sandy Hook murdered by Adam Lanza. Their parents should have had a license for certain.” Even as I said it, I thought of the family in Alabama, the thing in the basement, and the teenager who’d walked into the school and killed the kids. Tell that to the victims of Miss Anne’s School.
“My dad could have used a license,” Tim said, after a moment.
“Then again, he might not have passed the test. And if he didn’t, you might never have been born.”
Tim was silent as if he was imagining what a parental test would entail. Then he laughed hollowly. “Maybe that would have been for the best.”
“Then we’d be at a loss without you.”
Tim smiled weakly.
“No. I’m serious. Your asshole father notwithstanding, the military has had a great tradition of drummer boys, going back to the revolutionary war. They couldn’t march or move or communicate without drummer boys. I’m actually pretty thankful you’re on the team.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“Not at all. Mark my words. Sometime soon we’re going to be in the shit. We’re going to be fighting and you’re going to come and save us. Your drums are going to make the difference.”
“I’m not going to be able to take my drums into battle.”
“There are all sorts of ways to communicate.”
Suddenly the lights came back on and there was a cacophony of raised voices from across the room. Tim and I stood. I noticed Aquinas off to the side, staring at us, but now her attention was on the disturbance.
Ohirra and Frakess came up beside us.
“What’s going on?” Ohirra asked.
“Yeah, what’s all the excitement? It’s just a little light,” Frakess added.
A klaxon began to sound. We couldn’t help but put our hands over our ears. The white lights dimmed and red safety lights began to flash. I looked around. Everyone was like me, bewildered and almost deafened.
I turned back to the crowd at the other end of the room. I picked out Mr. Pink in his black slacks and polo, shouting something to a similarly dressed man, who took off running past the row of open cells towards the intake point.
The men and women around Mr. Pink began to disperse. Some wore heavy frowns, while others grinned with hideous glee. Whatever the news, it was tremendous. I spied Olivares coming towards us. A tight smile cut across his face. It was then I knew. Glancing at some of the other teams closer to where Mr. Pink had met with the group leaders, I saw the reactions of those who were being told. Several just sat on the ground, their eyes staring towards a vision of something the rest of us couldn’t see. Others stood, bodies crackling with energy.
“Gather around, Nineteen,” he shouted over the klaxon, waving us towards him.
We formed a half circle in front of him, close enough to hear. Ohirra kn
ew and I think Frakess knew, but the others showed no indication. When I looked up, Olivares was staring at me.
“Want to tell them?” he asked.
“Me?” I brought my hand to my chest. “I don’t know anything. All I can do is guess.”
“What’s your guess?”
I don’t know why he wouldn’t just come out and tell us. I couldn’t figure out why he insisted on dragging out the announcement. Fine. If he wanted me to tell everyone and steal his thunder, then I’d do it.
“The Cray have attacked,” I said with solemn certainty. “How bad is it?”
Olivares nodded as everyone looked at him. “That’s right, Sherlock. We’ve lost L.A, New York and Denver,” he said.
I let Sherlock go. The news was just too devastating.
“Any news about Seattle?” Ohirra asked.
Olivares shook his head.
Ohirra sucked in air through her teeth. Aquinas put a hand on her shoulder and looked at Olivares for more information.
Thompson sat on the ground. “Oh, my God,” he began repeating over and over.
“What about the rest of the world?” I asked.
“All satellite communication is gone.”
“Gone?” Aquinas repeated the word.
“Like it was never there. But before it went, we heard from Paris, London, Rome and Tokyo. They’ve been destroyed.”
“What?” I tried to imagine an Earth without London or Paris. Not that I’d ever been to either, but they seemed so old, so permanent. “But how?”
“We don’t know. TF OMBRA is grabbing all the information it can—”
The klaxon ceased and the silence was filled with raised voices. The red lights stopped flashing and normal illumination resumed. We all turned towards the front of the room. Mr. Pink was moving towards us, listening to communications through a Bluetooth. When he got to the center of the room, he stopped.