Midnight Skills

by William Allen

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” Luke commanded, his voice cutting through the few desultory shots popping. This was not the first fight for any of them, except Abbie, but it was the first time this particular group had faced death and damage this far from friendly lines. Luke suspected his squad would likely evolve into a team of skilled killers after a bit of seasoning, but the component parts still needed a bit of polishing. Luke had no idea what spawned this line of thinking, but he embraced the idea for now.

  “Hold for five,” Luke called. “Fire on motion only.”

  “Shit,” Eddie howled, “You didn’t even get to use the Claymores.”

  “Waste not, want not,” Luke yelled back, and then took out his binoculars to take a closer look. He counted six, seven, eight bodies in the open, and he knew at least two of the passengers in the HUMVEE added to the body count.

  The next five minutes, Luke heard three rifle cracks split the air, but nothing else. Feeling the clock ticking in the back of his head, Luke forced himself to relax as he waited an additional fifteen minutes. He didn’t want to lose any of his men to a last-second shot. Let them finish bleeding out, his father had cautioned. Satisfied for the moment, he eased back from the fighting hole and motioned for Eddie to hold his position.

  “We need to check those trucks,” Luke explained, then continued with his voice raised. “Higher will want to know what they are carrying. Move to your next position and be ready to cover. How are you doing on ammo?”

  “I still have four more bricks,” Eddie replied, his voice, like that of his sergeant, still raised while his ears tried to cope with the after effects of the assault. Luke interpreted the comment to mean the man still had four hundred rounds of linked 5.56mm ready to go.

  “Good job,” Luke encouraged as he crawled along the line and approached the other positions. “Watch our backs.”

  “Hey, Drew, you wanna come see what we got?” Luke called out when he approached the rear of his waiting soldiers. Luke made sure to rustle the icy bushes while he crept up, duck walking most of the way. He wanted to maintain a low profile, but not at the expense of startling his men.

  “Oh, Pa, do I have to?” Drew whined, and Luke heard the other soldiers chuckle. Drew Herndon was the squad’s jokester, but Luke quickly learned his brand of humor was self-deprecating and never mean-spirited. The funniest part of Drew’s mock complaint stemmed from his being nearly a decade older than Luke at twenty-six.

  “Yes, son. Time to milk the cows and slop the hogs,” Luke continued. “Dwayne, you’ve got the squad. I’ve got Eddie watching over us from the front.”

  Promoting Dwayne Silcott to corporal seemed like a no-brainer to Luke, and he had no regrets. He’d might only be twenty, but the men from Denton already looked to him as their leader anyway, so Luke thought it wise to make everything official.

  Worming their way down the slight incline of the highway boundary took Luke and his partner twenty minutes, but neither man complained. Just because no one was shooting at them now, didn’t mean a few survivors of the ambush weren’t waiting to get their revenge. If not for the lieutenant’s orders to survey the contents of those trucks, Luke would already be long gone. He had to assume one or more of the trucks carried a radio capable of reaching the enemy lines, so a reaction force was likely already on the way. Fortunately, Luke had something for them as well.

  The HUMVEE proved to be devoid of life, since the driver and both of the would-be gunners had taken rounds from Abbie’s sniper rifle. The damage was, as Luke suspected, catastrophic.

  “We’ll be taking that machine gun when we leave, Drew,” Luke said, eyeing the M-240 medium machine gun mounted on the HUMVEE. “Keep an eye open for more cans of ammo for it. Now, let’s circle around back and check the first truck.”

  “You got it,” Drew replied with a distinct lack of humor in his voice. He was all business now.

  The cab of the first five-ton was shot to pieces, and so were the driver and passenger. Like the three men in the HUMVEE, both men wore the recognizable uniforms that proclaimed them as DHS agents, or stormtroopers, as the Allied forces dubbed them.

  At the second truck, Luke found one of the soldiers, a volunteer judging from his sparse gear, laid out on the asphalt and still alive for the moment. He’d caught two rounds, one in the left leg and a second one, high in the right chest that still leaked pink frothy blood around a poorly applied bandage.

  “Help…” the soldier whispered, his voice all but gone, along with his breath and his life.

  “Sorry, kid,” Luke murmured, and he stepped away to give the severely wounded man the only aid he could deliver, slotting a .45 caliber slug into his skull. He then holstered the Springfield XD and shouldered his M4 once again. Luke loved his competition Glock, but he favored the safety on the Springfield when getting in the thick of things. So the slicked-out Austrian import remained behind with the rest of his gathered gear. Pirate booty, Amy called it.

  “Kid? That man had to be at least five years older than you,” Drew commented drily while he scanned the other bodies for movement.

  “Yeah,” Luke agreed, “but sometimes it ain’t the years, it’s the miles. You see any more moving?”

  “Nah, I think that it’s it,” Drew confirmed. If any of the others on the ground or in the cabs survived the initial fusillade of fire, then that twenty-minute wait allowed the last drops of their lifeblood to leak out. Luke learned the lesson deer hunting, and later, when hunting men. Time to check the cargo.

  If they had time, Luke would be back for the bodies, at least those identifiable as stormtroopers, but for the moment, he was occupied with checking the bed of the truck without getting killed. With Drew covering, Luke sneaked a peek, and all he saw were cardboard boxes stacked from the floor to the roof of the heavy canvass cover. Grabbing a box, Luke was surprised at the slight weight of the two-foot-square cardboard container.

  Pulling the KaBar from his harness, a gift from his father, Luke slit open the heavy paper tape seal and glanced inside. At first, Luke couldn’t figure out what he was seeing, and then his expression darkened. He shook the box, looked inside once more, and set it aside to pick up another one. After checking a second and finally, a third box pulled off the stacks at random, Luke had to recognize the unfamiliar feeling of fear that washed over him for the first time since his mother was murdered.

  Drew, more perceptive than his friends might credit, saw the sick look pass over the sergeant’s face, and he felt his own concerns soar. Whatever was making his iceberg of a squad leader squirm couldn’t be good. For his own peace of mind, Drew glanced into the box, but couldn’t make out what had Luke spooked. Each box contained several plastic bags, which Luke opened with exaggerated care. The contents just looked like a bulky rubber suit to Drew, with a large hood-style head covering built around a mask.

  “Hey, is that a burqa? Like the Muslim women wear?”

  Luke shook his head.

  “No, it’s a full MOPP gear issue, and all of these boxes appear to be filled with the same.”

  “So? Is that bad?”

  Luke glanced up at the sky, as if searching for answers from God. Or God’s fist descending, anyway.

  “Yes. This is bad. I’ve never used it, of course, but I’ve seen it in movies. You have too. It’s for nuclear, biological, or chemical attacks. Like the doctors wear in those viral outbreak movies.”

  “But I don’t get it,” Drew continued. “You only wear that stuff if…” When Drew stopped this time, it was from the horror just now dawning on the man. “Why would they be sending these outfits? Is it because their high command knows something we don’t? Or they are planning something?”

  The two men exchanged a glance, and Luke gave him a nod of understanding.

  “I’ll send someone down to help you. Check the boxes for any type of shipping invoice or any other documents, then get a count of how sets of MOPP gear we have in those boxes. I need Beatty.”

  “On it,” was all the man
said, and he dove into the back of the five-ton. Despite the urgency, Luke took the time to clear the other vehicles of hostiles, but he found none alive.

  Cupping his hands, Luke called out to the rest of his squad.

  “Kenzie, get down here and help Drew in the first truck. Beatty, I need you right here ASAP.”

  While Luke waited for his men, he again wondered at how far he’d fallen. At one time, shortly after the lights went out, Luke had known fear every waking moment. He’d grown to depend on being afraid every time his life was in danger. The fear kept him sharp.

  Now, he marveled at the extremes in his life. Instead of fear, he usually felt fueled by rage. His was a carefully rationed and harnessed anger that only a few of his comrades fully appreciated. Sergeant Hernandez recognized the rage, but he was frightened by it. Abbie got it, and so did Silcott. Maybe Eddie Castillo too, he thought.

  No, he no longer experienced that raw frission of fear in his waking and sleeping world, but suddenly, he felt the fear returning like a long-lost old friend. Only this level of threat, managed to stir up the first hint of fear to touch his body since that horrible day nearly a month prior.

  “Yeah,” Luke said softly, giving voice to the fear. “This is bad,” he repeated to himself.

  CHAPTER 45

  Private Beatty rushed into motion as soon as Luke called for him, and the squat, powerfully-built young man scrambled over the frozen ground. He moved with an ease that reinforced Luke’s assumption the young radio operator was no stranger to the icy conditions. He took a knee a few feet away from where Luke was already squatting down, using the side of the HUMVEE for cover.

  “What’s up?” Beatty asked, already pulling the handset loose from his radio pack.

  “We got trouble,” Luke replied shortly. Sensing the sergeant’s mood, Beatty just nodded his understanding as Luke continued. “What’s Captain Jefferson’s call sign today?”

  Private Beatty didn’t have to look. “Buster One-Niner.”

  Luke just shook his head at the absurdity of using the codes, but then the PRC-77 wasn’t exactly encrypted. He wished more of the SINCGARS systems had survived, but the shielding for most proved insufficient.

  “Get the captain on the radio but do it while maintaining secure comms. We need to get a warning out, without tipping off the other side, then we need to haul ass. Copy?”

  “Copy.”

  Two minutes later, Beatty handed the handset to Luke, mouthing the word ‘captain’ without making a sound.

  “Buster One-Niner, this is Fox One-Six, and I’ve got a Sovereign Cove message for you,” Luke improvised, substituting words as best he could for King’s Bay, in an effort to remind the captain of their previous conversation.

  “Fox One-Six, I do not copy,” Jefferson replied, and his voice sounded tinny over the old radio speaker.

  “Buster One-Niner, where did my father go after you served with him last? What was he guarding? No reply necessary, Buster One-Niner.”

  “Confidence?” Jefferson asked, and Luke knew his commander was following now. Anyone else listening, hopefully, would not be able to hear the concern in his company commander’s voice.

  “Solid, but no ETA, over,” Luke replied, waving for Kenzie and Drew to form up on him. He was getting antsy, sitting here in the shadow of the ruined vehicle.

  “Don’t forget to pick up the bar tab on your way home, out.” Jefferson reminded, which Luke interpreted as ‘make sure you gather up any intelligence’. Made sense, and Luke already planned on checking the usual places. So much to do, and so little time…

  Take a second and breathe, Luke almost heard the words of guidance from his father while he felt the urge to react on instinct, rather than assess the situation. Panic kills, he then remembered his grandfather saying, and Luke forced his jumbled thoughts into some kind of order.

  He hadn’t thought much about his grandfather since reaching Ripley, and he felt a flash of realization when he knew he’d been avoiding the subject of the old man’s death. Setting aside this insight for later scrutiny, Luke started making his plan on the fly, but without panic or distraction.

  First, he needed his men together, so he called down Eddie and Abbie to join them on the road. This was a risk, but he needed the bodies and the security. If a patrol rolled up, they would have to deal with it here, but in the meantime, he needed all hands.

  “Eddie, can you see if one of these five-ton trucks will run?” Luke asked, spearing the older man with his eyes. “The HUMVEE is likely toast, and so is the SUV, but Abbie didn’t stomp these quite so hard.”

  “Hey, what’s that…” Abbie began, but Luke wasn’t willing to waste the seconds. He hoped they’d have a chance to talk later.

  “No time, Private,” Luke interrupted. “Drew, what’s our count?”

  “Twenty crates per truck, four sets per crate. Three trucks. So, two hundred forty sets, minus a half dozen we shot up.”

  Luke nodded, then began issuing orders.

  “Eddie, get us some wheels. Dwayne, I need you, Drew, and Cameron to pull security. Move up a quarter mile to that little hill, the one next to the mile marker. Eddie, give Drew your SAW and all those spare boxes you’re hauling around.”

  Pausing, Luke glanced around his squad as he assessed what personnel he had left. “Kenzie, I want you, Beatty, and Abbie to fall back a hundred yards and watch our back trail until Eddie gets us mobile, then hustle to the truck and help shift boxes into whichever one runs. Before anybody starts whining, I gotta go through the pockets of the dead and collect any useful intelligence, so good thing I brought my rubber gloves, right? Questions?”

  Luke could see the questions in their eyes, but nothing to do with the situation at hand. This was supposed to be a simple hit-and-run ambush, burn the trucks and haul ass. Something of a shakedown cruise to draw the squad together, as Lieutenant Fisher suggested.

  Luke felt a moment of doubt at leaving Fisher out of the loop, but he needed to get word to higher about what he suspected, and the link between his father and Captain Jefferson gave him that option. Reminding Jefferson that his father spent two years guarding ‘special weapons’ at the depot in King’s Bay, Georgia gave Luke a way of sounding the alarm, and hopefully, without tipping off the Commies. In any case, Luke decided no matter what, his squad needed to salvage as many of the special suits as they could cram into one of the trucks.

  Finding a roll of plastic trash bags in the glove box of the trashed SUV, Luke methodically went through the truck and tossed anything that looked interesting in one of the bags. He didn’t spot anything labeled ‘Recovery Committee Secret Plans’ or anything equally asinine, but he imagined the radio code sheets and handwritten memos detailing their directions, might spark some interest in the Guard’s intel section. After that, he used a separate bag to hold the various ID badges, pocket litter and such for the dead stormtroopers laid out in a broken pile next to their shattered ride. They all wore the distinctive camo pattern, helmets and new boots, marking their position with the Recovery Committee. No one knew who’d first come up with the idea of calling these men Commie stormtroopers, but the name seemed to fit, and even the officers used the derogatory term when referring to the Committee’s chosen enforcers and bodyguards.

  After searching the bodies and rounding up all the helmets and weapons, Luke unslung his pack and removed the kukri blade strapped to one side. Then, using the KaBar and the kukri, Luke quickly severed the heads of all six stormtrooper corpses and set them out in a line across the hood of the Suburban. The trophies didn’t bleed much, of course, and Luke wasted no time arranging them like some grisly offering to an ancient pagan deity. Turning one of the heads slightly, Luke angled it to give the appearance of holding a conversation with the one next in line. Finally, digging into the smaller bag, Luke removed a cigarette and slid the filtered end past the blood-stained teeth of the last skull in line. All done, Luke thought as he stepped back to inspect his latest tableau.

  “Jesu
s, Sarge,” Beatty said with a shudder. “How can you do that?”

  “Well, getting the kukri blade wedged between the vertebra makes it easier than you might think,” Luke replied casually.

  Beatty couldn’t tell if Sergeant Messner legitimately misunderstood the question or was being intentionally opaque. He leaned toward the idea Luke was just messing with him.

  “No, I mean, why do you do that?”

  Luke pointed at the discarded bodies and explained, “Because it should help freak out not just the stormtroopers, but the volunteers as well. Yeah, I hate them an awful lot, and I wouldn’t hesitate in taking those heads if they were still alive but think about it. By not disturbing the other fallen, I am trying to make the distinction between the two categories.

  “The volunteers are my enemy, but that doesn’t mean I have to treat them the same as these filthy bastards. Maybe we can exploit that difference later.”

  “Who were those guys, anyway? I’ve been hearing about these ‘stormtrooper’ guys, but never really knew the story,” Beatty asked, after thinking over Luke’s explanation. He was pleased to find out his sergeant had more going on than simple revenge.

  “Most of ‘em worked for Homeland Security before the lights went out,” Luke replied, then went on to explain while he finished his macabre display. “They were officially employed by the Federal Protective Service, but Chambers used them as a kind of elite boogiemen even before the lights went out. Mercenaries, I guess you could say.”

  “How do you know all this stuff, Luke?”

  The teen shrugged, then stepped back to study the way the half dozen heads seemed to stare back at him reproachfully. Luke gave them a bloody, middle-fingered salute and turned back to the older soldier.

  “I’ve butted heads with their kind several times,” Luke answered after a few moments of quiet reflection. “Killed quite a few and had a chance to question some of the wounded before I killed them too. Some left after the pulse, went home to see about their families or to protect their communities. The ones that stayed, they’ve chosen to work for the Devil himself.”