Echo of Tomorrow: Book One (Drake chronicles)

by Rob Buckman

  "I'm glad to see that some of you survived, and I congratulate you.” Scott smiled as he looked over the head of the survivors. “You can be proud of what you have done." The sound of buttons straining against fabric could be heard as chests puffed up with pride.

  "Now I will give you the bad news. Your next phases of training will be even harder than the last, but this time it is your mind we are going to work on." That sent a chill through the room.

  "You will be introduced to weapons for the first time in your life. It will change you in ways you do not even understand at the moment. You will learn things here that you have never heard before, things that you never thought existed. You have proved that you are tough enough in your bodies to survive; now we’ll see if you are tough enough mentally to survive.” To many this would be the toughest part.

  “From this point on, no one will be shouting at you, or getting you out of bed a four in the morning to exercise and run in the rain, as that is all in the past. You will be expected to continue doing all the things you have learn by yourself, and to the same standard. Be warned, if you do forget, or slip, someone will be there to remind you. That is all, Carry on."

  The shock was bad for all of them, first learning their history books had lied and second that the men and women training them weren’t what they seemed, but it was nothing compared to their reactions when they found out that the evens they saw on the holo screen weren’t just some distant event in a book. They watched the video of the last war in stunned disbelief, slowly beginning to realize what they were seeing and recognizing their instructors. Pete and Scott had deliberately put in some of the bloodiest parts of their march through the mid-east, and made sure the new recruits saw the female troops in action. Before, the thought of women actually fighting in combat was some distant idea to them. Now they actually saw the officers, and NCO’s who stood to the side of the hall watching with them, kill another human being in cold blood. It was too much for some, a few bolting for the toilet. Any remaining illusion they had about the women being the softer sex, or someone they could control sometimes in the distant future vanished. The petite corporal with the knockout body, who more than one dreamed of cuddling up to in their dreams, took on a different personality. They watched actual combat cam footage of a group of fellow Marines storm a strong point, soldier’s dropping left and right. Some torn apart by explosions, while other were stitched up the middle by high velocity round, blood and tissue exiting out the back in the red and white spray. Through it all, one group charged forward, the hellish landscape of flames, smoke, and explosions gave the scene a nightmarish atmosphere that few of them could even imagine existed. They watched in growing horror as the group butchered their way through the Iranian soldiers. They saw the defenders as human being, with lives, hopes, children and dreams, yet that meant nothing to the Marines. They were here to kill, to avenge the death of million, if the videos of the destructions in the country called America were true.

  At one point, they recognized the petite corporal as she turned towards another helmet cam to give orders, but barely, as her face had a look that none had seen, her face was of mask of fury, and hatred, and the eyes of a stone cold killer. She turned back, and motioned some men to follow her into a strong point, seeing her stitch one man up the middle as he turned towards her, blood and tissues splattering the wall behind him, then boot another in the head, shattering his skull, before ripping the throat out a third with a KBAR. The woman in question just stood watching the images, unmoving, her face a stony mask. She felt no need to apologies, or explain her action to anyone, especially not to a bunch of wet behind the ears, pencil dick trainees. But, unlike them, the events in the video weren’t something that happened in the dim distant past, they were something that happened a short time ago, the memory still fresh and bight in her mind. She felt again the satisfaction of killing another enemy that had destroyed her home, remembering the faces of her mother and father, her little sister, so bright and cheerful all the time, so full of life and promise, but none of it showed on her face. Later, in the arms of her man, she cried, sobbing her heart out in bitter tears, pounding his chest, and the pillow that she couldn’t kill more of them, or bring her parents and sister back.

  After that, she and the other instructors rarely had to raise their voices when giving an order to the recruits, seeing the look of awe on their faces. It made them feel a little uncomfortable, but they used it for all it was worth. The results were what counted, and sooner rather than later, with the clock counting down to the next incursion. After seeing it all, and told they were expected to do similar things if necessary, even if it was to a bunch of aliens, none wanted to go home. Some did have reservations about their ability to actually kill another being, no matter what they had done, or were doing, which didn’t surprise the training staff. It was something they’d all experiences in the beginning, and knew that some people couldn’t kill, no matter how hard they tried, or trained for it. Some were adamant, stating in no uncertain terms that they would not kill under any circumstances. They also stated adamantly, and in no uncertain terms that they didn’t want to go back to their old life. The dilemma passed to Scott, and he thought about it for a week.

  "We have a lot of duties around here that don’t need combat training, but are important none the less. What if we offered them the chance as Medics, communication tech, computer programmers and such, how would that sit?"

  "We couldn't use them in combat, Skipper, you know that.” Sergeant Mack pointed out. “You know as well as I do, that you have to be able to trust the man at your back to defend you with his life. If you can't, you might as well not have him there."

  "You're right Macky, but we do need people here, on base. They can free up our people for other work can't they?"

  "Yes.” He said at length. "That might work. We need company clerks, ordinance and armory specialist."

  "All right then, work up a list of noncombatant positions and post it. Let see how many take the offer. If they agree we'll canvass each section for places to put them and see how they fit in.” He said at last.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” He answered, smiling now.

  It was an unusual solution, but it worked. As a result, he ended up with one of the new recruits as his new driver, and communication man. Some picked aircraft maintenance, medical orderly, others the computer section. In the end, those that thought they couldn't or wouldn't fight were all found jobs, and remained with the unit. In the end, only nineteen men graduated training, and took their place as Marines in a combat unit. It was a small start, and a little disappointing, but with the steady influx of people Scott and Brock saw the ranks gradually filling out.

  The spaceship crews finally completed their training and lifted into orbit to take over the final fitting of the first three destroyers, and it wasn’t long after that they started the first combined training exercise, and so far, no one had bumped into the other. Even so, Scott was worried, the deadline for the return of the aliens had passed two weeks before by his calculations, so they were now working on borrowed time. Scott approved plans to use the air wing to handle the alien shuttles this time, but only after they had entered the atmosphere. That didn’t sit well with the Kat, or the pilots, but they understood the caution behind it. Until they knew what the alien’s had, or didn’t have in the way of fighter defense, it was stupid to risk their lives, and machines needlessly. To Scott, the thought of sending aircraft against the mother ship just yet didn't feel right, and hearing this, Air wing grumbled, but held its peace for the moment. He thought about it, and wondered if part of his reluctance was because Kat would be leading any air action. Self-examination was not something he liked, and although he had sent friends and people he knew into battle to possibly die, he'd never once questioned his motive.

  If they lived he congratulated them, if they died he mourned them, but what would he do if he sent Kat Moore out and she was killed? He couldn't find an answer, and wasn’t sure he wanted to know a
nyway. Overall, the base was shaking down into a smoothly running operation. With the Airbase in the center, the different teams had erected building around it in a wide circle. Outside of that, there was another circle of manufacturing facilities, workshops, and storage buildings. To the North was the growing town of Los Angeles, as the troops had named it, and Scott just hoped that it wouldn’t turn out like the old LA, with its nightmare of traffic jams. At one time, the town had been known as Ohakune, but that was before the mini ice age had driven all the people out of New Zealand. Behind it, the nine thousand foot peak of Mount Ruaperu lifted into the sky, and one day Scott swore he was going to climb it. To date he hadn't found the time, but one day, he promised himself. To the South was the training camp, now named Pendleton, and this was expanding in leaps and bounds. Some joker had wanted to call it Camp Lejeune, but as everybody hated the original, that idea met a quick death. Out of habit, Scott insisted on installing split phase pulse radar units on Ruaperu, and Mount Egmont to the West as a precaution, remembering the many times in history where people were caught with their pants down, Pearl Harbor and Truk being only two.

  Now they had a 360o picture of the skies around the base and could track everything, right down to the birds. Looking around, he felt a sense of pride, as there was nothing makeshift or haphazard about the place, and few if any of the original building existed any more, all torn down to make way for the expansion. Without him even having to say anything, a base planning committee had been set up and plans drawn for the whole facility. As new facilities went up, the old building was torn down and replaced by roads, parks, trees and defense positions. In fact, there were trees and flowerbeds everywhere, and it wasn't until he thought about it and looked did he see them. Maintenance bots worked around the clock, doing all the unseen things and keeping the place looking neat and tidy.

  "Where to Skipper?” His driver asked as he stepped from the office.

  "I'm not sure, just drive around for a while, I need to get a feel of the place," the Driver gave him a puzzled look, "don't look so surprised. I’ve been so busy that I never noticed how much this place has grown."

  "Oh, I see.” On this shift he had an old timer as his driver, and like soldiers all over the world, he wondered if the old man really knew what was going on, but being one of the original members as they thought of themselves, he knew better.

  "Do we have a PX?"

  "Well, sort of, Skipper. As everything is free, it’s more of a social club than a real Post Exchange." Scott looked at his wrist comm, seeing it was four thirty.

  "How about a beer, if they have any?"

  "They have, and yes, thank you Skipper I will."

  "You’re the driver, lead the way Mac Duff!” He said climbing in. The PX turned out to be busy, the one large room filled to capacity as he walked in. "If someone starts to yell Officer on deck, slap them.” He said to the driver.

  "Aye-aye Skipper.” He said with a smile, knowing that it was impossible for Scott to hide, even if he was dressing the same as the rest.

  None of the officers wore rank insignia out of habit, as it made them an easy target to spot and kill in combat. No one thought to start wearing them again, because everyone in the outfit knew who was who. They did manage to get two beers before the driver had to jump on someone, a new recruit by the look of it. Finding an empty table in a corner, he sat down, sipping the brew. It wasn't bad and he wondered where they had the brewery set up.

  "What do you think, Corporal Thomson?"

  "About what, sir?”

  "All this?” He said, waving the bottle around the room and including the base.

  "Hot shit, sir.” He exclaimed. Then he saw the raised eyebrow. "What I mean sir it, it’s fantastic, we are a unit again. We have a base training ground, supply lines, air support, the lot. You've turned us into Marines again, plus a navy and air force."

  "Not me, you people have. Without your support none of this would have happened."

  "If you say so, sir." The driver smiled, thinking what this would have been like with a different Commanding Officer.

  Would they have done all this for him? Waking up to find yourself in a different world and that all you believed in gone. That would have been bad enough, then finding you had been invaded by an alien race, compounded the shock. With a different commanding officer, or a lesser one, he doubted many would have stayed that first day. By now they'd be scattered all over the Island doing their own thing, or dead. He'd done this; he'd pulled them together, given them hope and the courage to carry on in the face of seemingly impossible odds. There was still a long way to go, but at least they could go out trying, knowing they'd done their best. Scott leaned back in the comfortable chair and looked around the PX, nodding to himself. Whoever had put this together had done a great job. The place wasn’t that full at the moment, just the off-duty personnel, and a few people dropping in for a quick bite, instead of going to the mess hall. The place was open and airy, with comfortable chair scattered about in groups around large tables. The long bar covered one end of the room and he guessed it would be three deep half way through the evening. One glass wall looked out onto a covered patio with additional tables and chairs scattered about, and a sign over the door that said ‘Smoking Area’. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask if any of his people had started smoking again. Only two people sat out there right now, and Scott nodded towards it.

  “Get much action out there?” Corporal Thompson looked over his shoulders.

  “Smoking you mean, sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Um… I’d say about half the men smoke one thing or another.” He grinned. “Now they’ve got the cancer thing licked, you don’t have to worry. Except on the assault course. Then you tell yourself you should have quite.” He laughed.

  That reminded Scott of the talk he’d had with his senior officers after two of the new men were caught with a key of MJ. Not having a set policy about drugs as such, they didn’t know whether to court marshal them or not. With no legal precedent to guide them, and no law forbidding the use of drugs, it was a bit of a head scratcher. The locals, meaning the rest of the world had no problem with people using hash, as they considered it more of a recreational pass time, as alcohol was forbidden. Then Pete pointed out that in their culture, alcohol, cigarettes and cigars were permitted, but just as addictive as marihuana, so what was the point in making it illegal. In the end, they’d settled on the same rule as with alcohol and tobacco; mainly that you could partake during off duty hours, but woe betide the man or woman caught high on duty. None of them tolerated hard drugs such as heroin or cocaine, and they made that a shooting offence should anyone be caught dealing, or using. The word got around fast, and so far no one had reported any of the banned substance being found. They chattered a while longer, until Scott realized that his presence was having a dampening effect, so he left. They took a leisurely drive around the camp. They paused by the parade ground for a moment to watch the drill, when all hell broke loose as the warning siren went off at the same time as his comm unit.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Under Attack

  "Battle station! Battle stations! We are under attack, I say again, we are under attack, and this is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill.” The duty officer boomed out over the complex.

  Even before he'd finished speaking Scott's driver had jumped the vehicle to fifty miles per hour and went screaming across the base toward the operations center. Scott was slammed back in his seat, and hung on for dear life as they dodged trees and building in the mad dash to get him to the underground bunker, and safety. On landing, the vehicle tore a fifty-foot trench in the grass outside the building as he cut power to the drive, and slammed the machine to the ground. As it skidded to a halt they both leapt out, the driver jerking his rifle from its rack, running backwards behind him, protecting his rear.

  "What have we got?” Scott demanded at he ran through the blast door.

  "Better than three hundred incoming contacts from the West
at seven hundred and fifty knots, and six hundred miles out, closing on the base. Their ETA is thirty two minutes.” Was Brock's crisp reply?

  "Status?"

  "We have scrambled all three squadron, one hundred and fifty aircraft in all to intercept. The base is at battle station, and all radar guided AAA and SAM’s are on line.” Pete Mitchell answered.

  "What about ground units?"

  "We have First, Second and Third Marine units to the Northwest, West, and Southwest, with Fourth Marine as a rapid reaction force as a backup. All fixed heavy weapons emplacements are manned and ready."