Space Above and Beyond 2 - Demolition Winter - Peter Telep Page 2
The coughing fell away into silence.
"West, go up there and get the hairball outta his throat," Shane ordered.
Nathan climbed up the AAV, and near the top of the rail he hazarded a quick look into the vehicle so that he could judge the fall. What he saw made him clutch his throat and lose his balance. If that weren't problem enough, slugs suddenly danced on heels of sparks along the rail. Reflexively, he swung himself into the AAV and came to a splashing halt on the deck.
"I didn't know seven people had this much blood in 'em," Cooper said. "I didn't wanna be alone in this." He hunched over so that his head would not rise above the rail. His bare feet were covered with blood, as were his hands, and he must have scratched an itch on his eyebrow. His fatigues bore the huge stains of his dive-and-roll.
Nathan grimaced as he eyed the Marines who had been ripped apart by enough fire to take out a company. He already knew that if he survived the war, he would never be able to fully describe the moment. The heinousness of it sent chills bolting up his spine. Oh, yes, he would return to this place in his nightmares, but when asked about it, he would only be able to use words like horrible and terrible, adjectives, abstractions that might make him feel better in the years to come.
But now there was only the chill that threatened to freeze his heart, and the crusty, sticky sensation of the blood of fellow Marines. Who could ever get used to this? he thought.
"Y'hear that?" Cooper asked.
It took a moment for Nathan to realize Cooper was speaking to him. "What?"
"I dunno. Something."
"What did you ask me?"
"Forget it. Listen."
Nathan did, and out of the faint booming of the battle came a tiny burst of static followed by a voice. He looked to his right, to the communications console, where two pairs of cordless headgear rested. He heard another burst of static, and once more the voice called.
Cooper padded to the console, slid on the headgear, and adjusted the microphone in front of his mouth. "We got juice. Picking up skipchatter between the fifty-third and sixty-first." He looked to the back of the AAV.
"Communications nominal," he shouted to the others below. "Captain. Want me to contact the Saratoga?"
A scraping noise stole Nathan's attention. "Coop!"
Two Chigs came over the bow door, one brandishing the alien version of a flamethrower weapon, the other raising a standard-issue Chig rifle.
Nathan dove behind the L-790 power-pack base and missed being cooked Cajun style by a pair of seconds.
Screaming as yellow orbs of laser fire tore up the air around him, Cooper slid into home plate and collided with Nathan. "You see 'em coming?"
"I see 'em now."
A volley of bolts resounded, and what Nathan assumed was the communications console beeped and crackled and buzzed as it died.
"Vansen. Chigs on board!" Nathan reported.
"I'm coming up," she called back.
"Negative, negative," Cooper said, trying to raise his voice above the blasting of the Chigs' weapons. "Situation under control." He looked at Nathan. "We're getting in it. These Chiggies don't know our rep."
"Yeah, our rep for being cornered and outgunned."
"And comin' out alive," Cooper finished. "We are the fifty-eighth squadron. The Wild Cards. Expect no mercy. We're gonna drop these hornbellies like bad transmissions."
"Preach it, brother." After drawing his K-bar from his calf sheath, Nathan crawled to the opposite side of the power-pack base and paused.
Laser fire resounded. The Chig flamethrower went off again. And those sounds were accompanied by the squishing and squashing communication noises made by the aliens.
With his heart pounding in his ears, Nathan gave Cooper the high sign, and they burst from cover.
Cooper, K-bar in his mouth, rolled at one Chig's legs while the other alien aimed its rifle at him.
Nathan employed his howling-like-a-madman advance, which had caught more than one spoogehead off guard. He ran at the alien, planning to launch himself into the air and knock the thing down, but he slipped on the blood and went sliding into the soldier's boots, effectively toppling it.
With a roll, Nathan was on his knees and able to lunge at the soldier.
But the Chig wrenched itself off its side to bat Nathan across the face with the barrel of its rifle.
Flashes of light seized Nathan's gaze as he fell onto his back. He tasted his own warm, salty blood. Then, through the lingering dizziness of the blow, he spotted the muzzle of the Chig's rifle poised over his face. He slapped the rifle away as the Chig fired.
Few things in this universe are as loud or as threatening, Nathan thought. Drawing energy from a demon within him that he hated to awaken, Nathan sat up, seized the Chig by the communications horn on its chest and forced it onto its back.
Abandoning its weapon, the Chig reached for Nathan's neck with its talons.
Like a banner knight who had learned all of the vulnerable points in his enemy's armor, Nathan found that seam where the alien's helmet met its breastplate.
But the Chig gripped his wrist and yanked it away.
Nathan twisted his arm, feeling the full power contained in the Chig's hand. He gave another quick twist and was free. He let out a scream and slipped the blade into the seam. A rank cloud of mixed gases hissed violently from the gap.
"You got some? You want more? Okay. Here's more." Cooper punched the Chig beneath him with his blade. "You got some? You want more? Okay. Here's more." Cooper stabbed again. "You got some? You want more? Okay—"
"Coop!"
The lieutenant looked up at Nathan, his eyes glazed with the residue of savagery. The K-bar tumbled out of his spooge-covered hand. He sat for what seemed like a long time, just breathing. Then, out of nowhere, he said, "All this blood rolling's got me hungry."
"C'mon," Nathan said. "We gotta—"
Then he noticed it. Or, rather, didn't notice it: the booming of artillery. He eyed the sky; it hung empty, clear, and pure.
"Cooper? West? Come on down. Looks like the ground pounders of the Tenth BG are headed this way. Enemy has retreated. The beach is secured," Shane said. "Police up whatever gear you got left."
In less than fifteen mikes, the borrowed battalion of the Tenth Battle Group arrived, and by twilight the beach resembled Daytona during spring break. Black sand and combat dress did nothing to ruin the festive mood of the Marines. The COs of the Tenth BG were exceedingly generous to their people, rewarding them with kegs of genuine microbrew at the close of every successful major Op. The brew, Nathan thought, was especially appropriate for this locale, and what was supposed to be a securing detail turned into a weekend beach party.
Nathan sat next to Shane, Damphousse, and Wang, and they all sipped on beer given to them by a chief warrant officer of the Tenth. The wind had picked up, and whitecaps backlit by the setting sun lived their short lives and were reincarnated the second they died. It seemed the same with the Chigs. The more Nathan killed, the more he seemed to encounter. They just kept coming.
"Anybody see Cooper?" Shane asked.
"Little while ago I saw him chugging down MREs like they were the Whoppers and fries they gave us in the mess that time," Wang said.
Damphousse swallowed her beer and nodded. "Yeah, and I saw him after that talking to a couple of people from one of the SEAL teams."
"I think I saw him walking off with two guys in dry-suits," Nathan said.
"Well, if you see 'em, tell Mister G.I. Geequed I talked to McQueen. Extraction's at 1930."
Damphousse checked her watch phone. "That soon? We'll barely have time to finish another round."
"Damn, I wish they'd leave us here," Wang confessed. "Now this is a major cush Op."
"No it ain't. I'm still waitin' for my hot dog," Nathan said, grinning broadly at his friend.
Shane pursed her lips, then set her beer glass down in the sand. "The reason we're leaving so soon is that we got another Op. It's a level red beast."
Shane picked up her beer. "It doesn't matter what the colonel said. There's no way to fit the war into your pocket calendars. Deal with it."
"Hey, I found Cooper," Damphousse said.
"Where is he?" Shane asked, looking down the beach. Damphousse pointed to the water, where a lone surfer rode a wave twice his size. "There."
"That ain't Hawkes," Wang said.
Nathan stood and shaded the sun from his eyes. Lo and behold, the surfer was Cooper. "Dude! Nice ride!" Cooper looked up, saw Nathan and the rest, smiled, waved, lost his balance, and was swallowed by the ocean.
one
Shane heard the timer on the shower beep, but she ignored it. She decided to spend an unallotted extra five minutes under the hot, pulsating water. The time would come out of her account and cost a lot. But she needed the five minutes; it would give her a week's worth of serenity after a week's worth of hell. She had commanded fourteen sorties and put the cherry on that work with the Jewelgo 177 Op. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and faced the spray, feeling the tension evaporate from her temples. What she really needed now was a vacation; however, a long R&R was still weeks away, and while she had immensely enjoyed her last liberty on the Bacchaus, she had really wanted to go back home to San Diego. She didn't know why, but she wanted to visit her dead parents' old house once more. Yes, the last time she had been there she had left flowers and had wanted the experience to be cathartic in some way, but the pain had clung to her like a hungry child. It still did.
She keyed off the shower and stepped into the blower stall. Warm air rushed up from the vents below.
"That was an expensive one," Damphousse said, pulling on a T-shirt. "Who sets the prices anyway?" She crossed to the mirror on the opposite wall and put a finger on her nose. "I don't know whether they've changed the water softener in here, or it's stress or what. But I keep gettin' this one zit on my left nostril. Keeps comin' back. How 'bout you? You notice a change in your skin?"
"I'm sorry, I'm kinda tired right now, Vanessa. And that briefing's in fifteen mikes. I don't really wanna talk."
Damphousse turned away from the mirror. She headed for the exit, but then stopped. "You've been real, I don't know the word for it, just say hard, lately. And quiet. Anything you wanna talk about? Bad news from home?"
Shane shook her head. "I'm just tired."
"All right." Damphousse nodded and left.
As she brushed her hair, Shane wondered if she had really been that "hard." And if she had, what was the point? Did it have anything to do with feeling tired all the time? Was she overcompensating? Was there just too much inside to contain? Why was it that she could question the hell out of her motives and feelings and never come up with one answer worth a damn? She guessed that a lot of the hardness was necessary and important. But to whom? If Vanessa only knew how much Shane felt or what she felt, then they wouldn't need cumbersome words. Shane was run-down. Not just from the work but from life. She thought that if her heart had a voice, it would say, come on, Shane, I've been beating for so many years without a break. Cut me some slack. I'm tired. So very tired.
Flirting with death like it drove a Ferrari, she had come to know it so well that she thought she might like to go for a ride. There wasn't much fear anymore, just relief in the fact that if she got killed, she would no longer feel so exhausted. She didn't want to die, but, if that ride came, it wouldn't be as bad as she had judged it during her first months of enlistment. Often the dead on the battlefield appeared horrified, yet more often the peace that people talk about was indelibly molded on iheir faces.
So what am I thinking here? she asked. What's the war done to me? Or what have I done to myself? Do I wanna off myself? She shivered away the thoughts, slipped on a T-shirt and panties, then headed for her locker.
Arriving promptly in the orientation room at 1940 hours, Shane discovered she was alone. She double-checked her watch phone, compared it to the digital clock built into the corner of one of the thermoplastic war maps, and confirmed that the time was correct. She crossed to her usual seat and collapsed into it. How could everyone be late?
The mikes ticked by, and she checked her watch at least a half dozen times. She studied her cuticles. She got up and went to the clear rear wall of the room to watch the Hammerhead technicians on the flight deck. She went to the front of the room and pretended she was a colonel delivering a briefing to her people.
Then, at 1958 hours, bored and pissed off, she left. Had she screwed up the time or day of the briefing? Hardly. She had never made that mistake. Had Colonel McQueen lied to her for some reason?
Storming into the bunk room, Shane said, "I don't believe this. I get all suited up and—" She froze.
Every bunk lay empty. No one sat at the table. She went into the corridor leading to the lockers and showers, looked around, then went to the intercom on the wall.
"Command Center," the communications specialist on duty answered.
"This is Captain Shane Vansen of the five-eight. Colonel McQueen scheduled a briefing with us at 1940 hours. I can't seem to find the colonel nor the rest of my squadron."
"Checking." A pause, then, "You're correct, Captain. That orientation is logged, and the room has been reserved."
"But there's no one in the damned room."
"Sorry, Captain. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
Shane sighed. "No." She thumbed off the intercom. "This is so weird. Unless, dammit, unless..." She marched out of the bunk room and headed for the Tun Tavern.
As she closed in on the steel-walled sanctuary, she noted that the characteristic murmur of off-duty zoomies, swabbies, and cherries was gone. In fact, the tavern sounded closed. She stomped into the place, stopped, let her gaze pan over the abandoned bar stools and chairs and sweating glasses of J.D., then she caught a flash of movement near the jukebox. Instinctively, she drew her K-bar from her thigh sheath.
"Surprise!"
A crowd appeared from behind the bar. The entire fifty-eighth, the colonel, and some of her friends from the other squadrons all began to sing happy birthday to her in a drunken lilt that threatened to shatter everything made of glass. She stood there, feeling like a total pogue.
Colonel McQueen was handed a butcher's board on which sat a large, round cake impaled by a single burning candle. He walked toward Shane and arrived as the singing came to an end. Nathan, Cooper, Wang, and Damphousse gathered around him. "I told them we should have planned this a little better," the colonel said. "We've been waiting here for a long time with nothing to do but drink. There's usually someone who accompanies the victim to a surprise party. Am I right?"
Shane nodded. "Victim is a good word. Thanks for this." She averted her gaze. "You know I didn't want or expect any of it."
"But you wanna taste that cake," Wang said. "Special three-billion-mile delivery from our buddy Mank. Get this: It's a Carvel ice cream cake."
Releasing a soft moan of ecstasy, Shane blew out her candle and stuffed an index finger into the cake. She withdrew the finger and licked it clean. Heaven.
Nathan went back to the bar, saying, "And let's not forget our party favors. We finally found a good use for these useless requisition forms." He returned with six cone hats and began distributing them. "The rubber band chin straps are adjustable for your comfort."
"Didn't you get enough beer back on the beach?" Shane asked Nathan as she accepted her hat.
"Who said I was drinking beer now?" He winked, a drunk skunk but nonetheless cute until he put on his dunce cap.
McQueen moved to a table and set down the cake and his hat. He placed a hand on Shane's shoulder. "Well, I'm jonesing for a piece. Put that K-bar to work. That's an order."
"Sir, yes, sir," Shane replied in mock seriousness. "But I have to know. Do we still have another Op com
ing up?"
"Forget about the Chiggies and the war and the rest of it," Cooper urged. "We're takin' this night off and celebrating your birthday. Deal with it." He put on his hat, and Shane couldn't help but smile.
"Nights off are rare. Enjoy it," McQueen said.
"I was actually hoping to work straight through my birthday," Shane said.
Damphousse furrowed her brow. "Why?"
"Well, it's not like I'm marking twenty or thirty here. It's just another unimportant number. You know, you're as old as you feel and all that. So I didn't want to make a big stink out of it or anything. I just wanted to hurry up through it, I guess. Just not bother with it. Who remembered?"
"Actually, my electronic calendar did," Damphousse explained. "I was bored one day and popped in all of our birthdays."
"Whose idea was the surprise? No, wait. Lemme guess. Shane brought her gaze to bear on Cooper, who tried to wear a look of innocence. "C'mon, Hawkes. I've been on your six all week. Fess up. This is your payback."
"I didn't even know what a surprise party was until today," Cooper told her, then he took a sip of his drink. "But when they told me you'd feel stupid when we sang to you, truth is, after all of your hard driving, I thought it was a great idea."
Shane shook her head and made a wan grin. She began slicing up the cake. It was, indeed, a genuine Carvel ice cream cake, complete with a layer of the chocolate crunchy things she knew she would crave in the months to come.
McQueen took his slice of cake and retreated to a nearby table. Shane joined him. "Tell me about the Op," she said.
"No. The real briefing's tomorrow, 0600."
"You sure about that time? Four out of five pilots surveyed will be hungover."
"Over the years I've invented six ways to beat a hangover," McQueen said. "Problem is, in the morning my head's usually pounding so badly that I can't remember a one of 'em."
Shane closed her eyes and took a bite of her cake. She let the ice cream melt in her mouth. She guessed that the colonel thought she was having a religious experience, which, in fact, she was. She opened her eyes and regarded the gray-haired, extremely fit man. He seemed vulnerable at the moment, tipsy and easy to talk to. "Sir, you ever feel like you can't get your people to give as much as you do?"