Though the Stars Fall (United Humanity Marine Corps Book 1)

by Bill Roberts

  He speaks. I notice that thirty years in the Corps is not enough time to erase all of his Boston accent while I listen. “Shawn Michael Morris, Major, Military Occupational Specialty 1802, Tank Officer. Forty-one years old, married to Elizabeth nee Klein eighteen years, two kids one boy, Joshua, fourteen, one girl, Esther, twelve. You have exceptional fitness reports from your tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, an IQ off the charts, expert rifle and pistol qualifications, and experience in acquisitions and Training Command. That is what I know about you. However, I need to know more, so I have some questions for you.”

  He pauses. The dispassionate description of me lacks nothing in accuracy, yet has nothing to do with anything. My confusion continues to grow. Seriously, what the heck is going on? Meetings in vaults, alone time with Assistant Commandants and now twenty questions? The confusion does not feed discomfort. No. I sense something interesting behind the assistant commandant’s comments. This sense feeds a growing curiosity, a curiosity that begins to consume me. Through the curiosity I realize that the pause represents an unspoken question one: Would confusion lead to curiosity or apprehension? Easiest question ever. I answer, “No problem, sir, bring it on.”

  The barest hint of satisfaction flits across General Stevens’ face. Excellent, I just successfully answered question one … I think, which is good … probably. He then voices his first spoken question. “Why did you not accept your promotion to lieutenant colonel?”

  Familiar ground here. I have answered this question many times. Answering this will be tricky though. I have my public answer I give people I do not know or my superiors: I want to retire and spend time with my family, and accepting the promotion would mean staying in longer. A nice, bland, vanilla, and socially acceptable answer that satisfies the people I do not really want to talk about it with. Then there is the real answer: I am utterly sick of the Marine Corps. I never really quite fit in with it. I was never really fully accepted. The Marine Corps was too hidebound, too reactionary. It said things like creativity and intelligence mattered. But what it really meant was creativity that didn’t challenge any of the existing systems. Intelligence that looked at things the way the Marine Corps wanted it to. At its heart the Marine Corps wanted six-foot-tall cardboard cutouts that had short hair, could run fast and did not challenge their superiors in any sense of the word.

  The truth here would be difficult. Or would it? Retirement is just around the corner. I am already pigeonholed into a useless and unimportant job. Fuck it. I am tired of biting my tongue. I reply, “Sir, I didn’t accept the promotion because I’m sick of being part of a Marine Corps that confuses conformity with capability and management with leadership. I got better things to do.”

  General Stevens’ reaction stuns me. He doesn’t get angry, he doesn’t act disappointed, he doesn’t even act curious; he just seems … satisfied. This is just getting weirder and weirder. He responds, “I figured it was something like that. I don’t agree with your assessment of the Corps as a whole, but I will be the first to admit that far too many people in the Corps do confuse conformity with capability and management with leadership. I am glad to see you are not one of them.” Holy crap, I just accidently answered the second question correctly. I am still confused and raging with curiosity, but at least I seem to have answered the questions correctly so far. Whatever that means.

  The next question comes. “Are you willing to leave your family on zero notice for an unspecified amount of time?”

  This question floors and excites me. I still have no idea what is going on, but whatever is going on is definitely interesting. Zero notice, unspecified missions happen a lot in the movies, but in the real Marine Corps they are as common as unicorns. I quickly ponder the question. My wife, Liz, has gone through most of my Marine Corps career with me. She will not like me disappearing without any notice at all, but she can easily handle it. The kids will not like it either, but again it will not be the first time they have not had their dad around. On the other hand, I have been gone far too much. I am not going to put them through another separation without a very, very good reason. I decide that the time has come for me to ask a question: “What would this be for?”

  The general’s face grows serious. “The Marine Corps needs you for something, I cannot tell you what. Something that requires you to come with me immediately to go I cannot tell you where and something that will take an amount of time I cannot specify. I can only tell you that this something is fascinating, extremely challenging, and more important than you can possibly imagine. So, again, I ask you: Are you willing to leave your family on zero notice for an indefinite period of time?”

  I spit out another question before I even realize I am doing it. “Why me?”

  His face remains serious. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.”

  How many times in a person’s life do they face something like this? The assistant commandant has just presented me with a decision unlike any I have ever faced before. I would chalk this conversation up to just so much more Marine Corps bullshit, but the fact that I am alone with the assistant commandant reminds me how far I am out of the ordinary. I have no idea what is going on, but I am beginning to suspect that whatever it is it will change my life forever. I have made life changing decisions before. Choosing a university, deciding to join the Corps, proposing to Liz, but in all of those cases I knew something about what I was getting myself into. This time I know nothing, except that the assistant commandant himself is asking me to do it, and it is, supposedly, fascinating, extremely challenging, and more important than I can possibly imagine. It is the fascinating part that pulls me. I have no love for the Corps any more. I joined believing I was becoming part of an organization that valued honor, valor, and warfighting. Instead the Corps has proved to value bureaucracy, conformity, and mediocrity. I do not really care that the assistant commandant is asking me. Who is he to me? Just another cog in the machine I have grown to despise. But, I cannot fight the hope that maybe I will get to do something truly exceptional in my time in the Corps.

  However, it is not just the desire to find redemption with the Corps that drives me. I also cannot fight the curiosity. I cannot remember the last time something fascinated me. Most people bore the hell out of me. Fascinating things have gone the way of the Dodo in my life. How many of us ever get to do something truly fascinating? I think about the comfortable life waiting for me just around the corner. I could retire in less than a year. After that I would just do whatever I wanted to do. I am still young, still healthy, have a great family, the world would be my oyster. But, would it be fascinating? No. Fun? Probably. I look at the assistant commandant closely. He just stands there, placid as Buddha. No help there. What should I do? The hope blooms inside me. The curiosity in me growls and snaps at my consciousness. Hope. Curiosity. One a boon and an opiate; the other a blessing and a curse. How much has humanity accomplished on these two traits alone? They suck me further and further in. I cannot resist the pull of doing something truly fascinating, something truly great. What good is fun without fascination? What good is happiness without hope? I realize that I really have no choice. The answer simply must be:

  “Yes I will go.”

  “Excellent,” General Stevens promptly responds. “This place is not secure enough to discuss this any further. All I can tell you now is that I need you to meet me at the airfield in two hours with nothing more than your ID and wearing the Desert MARPAT Utility Uniform. No bag and no electronics to include watches. You can tell your wife that you are going on short notice TAD but that is all. Please ask her to downplay this as much as possible. And please assure her that you will have opportunities to communicate with her. Any questions?”

  Only a few million. “No, sir. See you at the airfield.”

  As the Gulfstream drops below the cloud cover I see the sun glinting through the moisture on the window next to my seat as the glorious yellow orb starts to set behind massive mountains to the west
. To the north, south and east I see nothing but a single ribbon of road running due south and rolling prairie all around. The dismal washed out gray of the prairie tells me that we must be pretty far north as spring seems not to have made it here yet. My ears continue to pop as we lose altitude. I keep looking out the window and after a few moments I see that we are heading for an airfield nestled right up to the foot of a large mountain. The airfield coincides with the narrow ribbon of road.

  I decide I have gleaned as much information as I can by looking out of the window and turn my attention to the small cabin of the airplane. The assistant commandant sits in the middle of the cabin watching out the window. At the rear of the cabin sits the third passenger. He is tall, built like a swimmer, has an unruly shock of brown hair, and a thin, intellectual face. He joined us at the airfield. I know him, have known him for many years as a matter of fact. Another tanker, Major Lance Benson. He served with me as one of my platoon commanders when I commanded a tank company in Iraq. As I watch him he looks away from the window and meets my eyes. He has bright green eyes and I can clearly see the curiosity in them. I shrug and mouth the word: “Ready?”

  He nods, smiles and mouths back: “You?”

  I too nod and smile. Lance is one of the finest officers I have ever known, gifted in every way. I am greatly comforted by the fact that he is here. First, I will have a friend here, whatever is going on. Second, I know that if the two of us cannot handle this, whatever it is, nobody can.

  The plane lands with a thump and I return my attention to the window. I see that the plane begins taxiing to a large hanger at the west end of the airfield. The airfield really is small. The only other building, besides the hanger, appears to be a small control tower. The hanger doors open and the Gulfstream moves inside, comes to a stop, and shuts down. The fasten seat-belt light goes out with a bong and I unbuckle my seat-belt and stand. I stretch mightily and look over at General Stevens. He has stood as well, but maintains the composed silence he has treated us with since we loaded the aircraft back at Pendleton. Taking a cue from his behavior, Lance and I maintain a matching silence.

  While we wait for the crew of the aircraft to open the door the curiosity that has been my constant companion since this morning begins feeding a growing excitement. I imagine that whatever secret had driven my crazy day is soon to be revealed. Everything I saw outside the window as we descended shouted, ‘Off The Beaten Path.’ I very much doubt that this is just some refueling spot along the way. The crew lowers the Gulfstream’s door and I see an armored Humvee pull up next to us. We make our way down the steps built into the door.

  As soon as all of us are on the ground the Humvee’s driver throws open his door and hops out. He booms, “Morris, Benson, I knew you would pass the interview.” The driver begins striding confidently across the polished concrete floor towards us. His boots make thudding sounds that punctuate his voice as he says, “General Stevens, sir, good to see you.” He wears a green standard issue flight suit. The leather patch velcroed to the suit’s left breast has an odd looking set of wings inlaid upon it. His fore and aft service cap displays the eagle, globe and anchor of the Marine Corps on one side and the eagle of full colonel on the other. He also looks like he graduated college last week. My day just keeps getting weirder and weirder. Marine Colonels never look like they graduated college last week. This makes him appear absurdly young. Oddly, I feel like I have met him before. Impossible, but as he approaches the feeling gets stronger. The name inlaid on flight suit breast patches is infamously tiny, but I struggle to make it out anyway.

  Before I have the chance to discern the name on the patch the General provides it for me by replying, “Good to see you too, Langsdorf.”

  I hear Lance suck in a deep breath next to me. Langsdorf. Once I hear the name I recognize him. Short, wiry, black hair, brown eyes, narrow face, and a perpetual smile that makes you wonder who he just scammed. But the last I heard of Bart Langsdorf he was a lieutenant colonel, working some staff job in Quantico, and forty-five years old. What in the name of God is fucking going on? Things just went from weird to utterly bizarre. I decide that I have had enough with the silence and secrecy game I have been playing along with all day. I am going to start getting answers. Now.

  Before I have the chance, Lance beats me to it. “What the hell is going on around here?”

  A rare look of seriousness settles on Colonel Langsdorf’s face. He has reached us and begins shaking each of our hands. “Gents, whatever you thought you were getting yourself into I guarantee was wrong. It would take too long to explain. So instead,” the smile reappears, “I’m gonna show you.” He turns to General Stevens. “Thanks General, these guys are perfect.”

  “No problem, Langsdorf,” the General replies affably. “They’re all yours. I have to return to Quantico immediately, can’t afford to be missed.”

  Langsdorf nods while he says, “Roger that, sir. Good luck.”

  General Stevens faces us and shakes our hands. As he does so he looks us square in the face, his gray eyes intense, and says, “I am glad you said yes. Most people wouldn’t. Good luck.” Without further fanfare he turns around and climbs into the Gulfstream.

  The small jet fires up its engines and the three of us make our way over to the Humvee. The thunder of the engines fills the hanger and we silently watch the aircraft pull out of the building and head towards the runway. Now alone in the hanger, Colonel Langsdorf faces us and punches both of us in the chest. Hard. It hurts a bit, but that is just Langsdorf. Mischievous, brash, and irrepressible, Colonel Langsdorf is perhaps the best officer senior to me I ever worked with, certainly the most fun. I decide I have to react in some way to his punch. He is not really a bully, but if you let him punch you without challenging him he will not really respect you. “Sir, you punch like a twelve-year-old girl. Perhaps I can demonstrate a proper punch on those silly looking ‘wings,’” heavy sarcasm on the wings, he is a tanker not a pampered flyboy, “you’re wearing.”

  Lance, the bright guy that he is, piles on, “I was going to just punch him in the face. But by all means, Shawn, you can go first.”

  Langsdorf laughs loudly, assumes a mock serious expression and replies in his chippy tenor, “You do that and I will crush you both. And they are not silly looking wings. I designed them. That means they are incredibly cool.” He starts smiling again. “Let’s go and I will show you what they are for.” He spins on one foot and opens up the driver’s door on the Humvee.

  Curiosity returns with a vengeance. I turn towards the Humvee. “Shotgun.” Ha. Beat Lance to it. I climb in the passenger side as Lance climbs in the back. I shut the heavy armored door and ignore the seatbelt. Nobody wears seatbelts in Humvees. It is impossible when you are wearing gear and you just get in the habit of never wearing them. Typically brilliant military design. Langsdorf starts up the vehicle and heads for the hanger doors. Weird. The Humvee’s engine usually sounds like a rattling diesel. Instead I hear almost nothing, just a faint thrum on the edge of perception. The tires on the pavement make more noise than the engine. I look across the Humvee towards the dash. Instead of the dirt simple analog gauges normally found on a Humvee, I see an oblong screen behind the steering wheel with all sorts of colors and readouts flashing across it.

  Langsdorf senses my scrutiny, grins and says, “Just the beginning, gents.”

  We move down a dirt road directly towards the large mountain to our west. The sun has now set and the twilight backlighting the mountain shrouds it in shadows. I see no lights to indicate where we are heading. Langsdorf is obviously not going to tell us anything until we get to wherever we are going so I simply settle back and enjoy the ride. In the gloam outside I see jackrabbits bounding through the scrub. I have been to some pretty empty corners of the globe over the years, places like Amboy Crater in California and the Arabian Desert along the Iraq-Saudi border. None of them felt as remote as this place. There are no fences, no other roads, n
o sign of civilization at all. It all has the feel of a completely untamed wilderness.

  This begs the question, where in the world are we going? The dirt road the Humvee is bounding over shows signs of fairly frequent use. But up ahead I see nothing but a looming mountain. Even the smallest military installation would have some sort of impact on the world around it. Here there is nothing. This oddity just piles up on the rest of today’s bizarre experiences.

  After fifteen minutes Langsdorf brings the Humvee to a stop. In the crisp, bluish light given off by the LED headlights I see the road terminating in a solid rock wall about twenty meters ahead of us. Before I can wonder what will happen next I see that the wall is moving. It moves back about fifteen meters and then smoothly slides to the right. The speed at which it does so is shocking. It must weigh hundreds of tons but moves like it weighs practically nothing. Holy crap. My destination is inside the mountain. On the one hand this explains why I did not see any lights or other signs of a base, but on the other hand this is even harder to explain. I had never even heard a whisper that a place like this existed. Which, I guess, is the whole point. After the door comes to a stop, Langsdorf moves the Humvee forward.

  As we get to the hole in the mountain, Langsdorf quips, “We call it the Rabbit Hole.” Rabbit Hole? Was that a Carroll reference? It feels like it. This is definitely a completely surreal experience. Langsdorf makes a sharp left turn and heads down a massive tunnel. About five hundred meters ahead of us I make out a glow coming from the right side. It gets steadily brighter until we reach the end of the tunnel and turn right. A gigantic vault opens before us. “Welcome to Wonderland,” Langsdorf says.