CHAPTER ONE
One of the many things one learns over the decade-long war against the alien race known as the Creepers is how one’s academic schedule is geared to learning about wars past and present. Even though we don’t know where the Creepers come from or why they are here—besides killing millions of people and tossing us back into a nineteenth-century way of life, there are a lot of theories and not many facts—the powers that be in our school systems make sure we learn about war in all its deadly aspects.
For example, one semester back at Ft. St. Paul in Concord, New Hampshire’s capital, I spent an entire semester as a corporal in the N.H. National Guard, learning about the famed Siege of Leningrad, which had taken place more than a century earlier. Nowadays those drowned ruins are called by their original name, St. Petersburg, but back in late 1941, elements of the German Army Group North attacked and surrounded the city in a long, grueling siege that wasn’t lifted until nearly nine hundred days later. In nearly three years the city was shelled, bombed, and slowly starved to death, until millions had died.
Yet life went on.
In a tattered history book that was passed from hand to hand in a cold classroom two or three years ago, our instructor showed us a sign that had been painted on walls along part of the downtown of Leningrad:
“Citizens! During artillery bombardment this side of the street is especially dangerous.”
That meant that even with the constant shelling, the battered citizens who went to work at the tank factories, or the food ministry, or in the city government, were still expected to go to work, and just make note of which side of the street was safer.
With the Creepers, there’s something similar whenever their orbital battle station is in view, even if it’s just for a few minutes. That had been the home base of the Creepers, overseeing the continued occupation and destruction of Earth, and even though it didn’t make much difference when it was visible or not—the killer stealth satellites in orbit were capable of hitting you or your building or your vehicle, day or night—people hunkered down, or walked along a wall or under the trees.
But in other times, we crazy kids in the military would just sit out in the open.
Like right now.
I’m stretched out on a stretch of grass kept mowed by Navy personnel here, at Naval Support Activity Saratoga Springs, a small military base in upstate New York I never knew existed. My dog Thor, a Belgian Malinois who is supposedly a descendant of Cairo, the dog that went in with the SEALs when they zapped Osama bin Laden some decades ago, is stretched out, his head resting on my full belly. Around me are members of my platoon—Lileks, Balantic, Melendez—and all of us have full bellies, and are sharing a cold bottle of Coca-Cola.
Balantic, a young girl barely in her teens, holds up the Coke bottle and takes a swig, then passes it over to Lileks, another young girl that has burn cream on half of her face from yesterday’s battle. “These Navy squids . . . they sure live large. What the hell are they doing up here in New York?”
Melendez says, “Research.”
“What kind of research?” she asks.
“Research in how best to piss you off,” he says, and there’s some laughter at that.
It’s a sweet blue day in October and I shouldn’t be here, I should be with my crew back in New Hampshire, at Ft. St. Paul, but this is as good as place as any. I scratch Thor’s ears and he whines and settles in some more, and then a quiet voice says, “There they are, the buggy bastards.”
We all look up and yes, there it is, the orbital battle station for the Creepers, silently moving across in the sky. Even in low Earth orbit it’s big enough to be visible in the daylight, and the jagged oval structure slips by as we stare up at it.
When it finally disappears between a distant line of trees, Lileks says, “Who knew they had a second one.”
“Who knows anything,” Balantic says. “Hey, Sarge.”
“Right here,” I say.
“You said something, back at the Air Force base, the . . .”
“Stratton,” I say. “It was Stratton.”
“Yeah, right, well, you said something about how the Air Force destroyed the original orbital battle station two months back. Can’t they do it again?”
“I doubt it.”
Melendez says, “Sarge, why not? If they can do it once, they can do it again.”
I rub Thor’s ears some more. He twitches. I wonder what he’s dreaming. I hope he’s dreaming about chasing rabbits or squirrels, and not mechanized monsters that came light-years just to kill and drown us all.
“It was a hell of a job,” I say. “Remember your history, okay? When the Creepers first arrived in the system, most all of the scientists thought it was a cluster of comets . . . until it was too late. And when they set up station in LEO and started their attacks, about a half-dozen nations who had the capability returned fire, from ground-based missiles, submarine-based missiles, aircraft borne, and a few classified satellite killers in orbit . . . and none of them even got near.”
“Yeah,” Lileks says. “I don’t think none of us skipped school that day. Melendez is right . . . you talked to an Air Force colonel who was part of the attack, right?”
That bright memory comes to me, of spending a few precious moments alone with Colonel Victor Minh, back at the Red House in Albany, as he told me the still-secret tale of how the attack took place.
I say, “It took years of planning. Years. Couriers and ground communications with other countries . . . Russia, China, Japan, to set up a time for a diversionary attack. Then Air Force crews managed to salvage some solid-fuel rocket boosters from a factory in . . . Nevada, I think.”
“Utah,” Balantic says. “Morton-Thiokol. They made rocket engines. That makes sense . . . Sarge.”
“So it does,” I say. “They dragged those solid-fuel rocket boosters to some site, and they started making one-person crew capsules for them, using wood, plastic, anything that would help slip by whatever sensors the Creepers were using. Each capsule also had a warhead . . . and when it came to launch, it was light the rocket and step back. Once those solid-fuel rockets were torched, up they went . . . and minutes before the launch, those countries all launched some of their surviving ICBMs or satellite killers to the orbital battle station . . . so the Creepers thought they were under attack from the usual hardware us poor earthlings still had.”
My little trio here is part of my battered platoon that belongs to K Company, 1st Battalion, 14th Army Regiment, also known as Kara’s Killers, and none of them are more than fifteen years old.
“They sure had the element of surprise,” I say. “Eight missiles went up. One blew up right after takeoff, scattering the missile and the poor pilot over the desert. So you’ve got seven going up . . . and one is the squadron leader. The only capsule that has a heat shield and a possibility of reentry, so he can report back on what happened. The other six . . . they’re on a one-way suicide mission. They all knew it, they all volunteered, and they all went in and destroyed the Creepers’ orbital station.”
Silence at that. The open air feels nice. It also feels nice to be goofing off without any duty to perform. I say, “So I’m sure the Air Force is planning how to get up there again and repeat the success, but a lot is going to depend on who wants to suicide him or herself in the process.”
Balantic says, “I heard that colonel got the Medal of Honor.”
“That’s right,” I say. “Colonel Victor Minh. I was there, at the Red House, when he got it.”
Lileks says, “I hear you got the Silver Star at the same time.”
Any evasion or answer on my part is interrupted when a Navy gal comes over, short blonde hair, black-rimmed glasses, wearing the weird blue/gray-patterned fatigues that the Navy uses. She has chevrons that I can’t puzzle out, but it’s obvious from the way she moves and asks that she’s an NCO of some sort.
“You Knox?” she asks me.
“That’s what my nametag says.”
“Well, the rest of your skinny ass better say the same thing,” she replies. She juts a thumb behind her. “My CO wants to see you. Now.”
“Good for him,” I say. “Or her. What’s the deal?”
“There’s no deal,” she says. “Commander Morong wants you, pal. So get to it.”
“Sorry,” I say. “He’s not in my chain of command. I kinda like it here on the grass. Tell me, you folks really mow the grass? For real?”
The rest of my squad snickers and smiles, and then the Navy NCO smiles, too. “Yeah, I heard you could be a pain in the ass. Captain Wallace, she’s there, too. And she told me to get you moving.”
I wake up Thor and he instantly snaps-to, but since things are calm and there isn’t any Creeper sign in the vicinity, he relaxes. I rub his shoulders and get up, and I say, “Lead on, ma’am.”
“Outstanding,” she says, and I note her nametag says respers.
We start walking to one of the low-slung buildings marking this Navy outpost in this part of rural New York State, and after a few steps I ask, “Any idea what this is about?”
“Sure,” she says, and she keeps her mouth shut.
I give her that. I was being a pain in the ass. Part of who I am, and my age, of course.
“Ma’am, sorry I gave you grief back there,” I say. “It’s been a long few days. I was just letting off steam.”
“Fair enough, Sergeant Knox,” she says. “It seems Commander Morong wants to talk to you about something.”
“Like what?”
“Like you shooting a member of the United States intelligence services last night.”
At the guard station inside the building, access is being controlled by two young Shore Patrol NCOs, who wave in Respers and check my identification. The chairs and tables are all back where they belong, unlike last night, where I followed in Captain Kara Wallace and the rest of our platoon when we barged in here and took control of the facility.
There are no Army personnel in sight.
It looks like the Navy has control of its base back again.
The SP guy on the right, who’s plump under his odd-colored fatigues, passes over my Armed Services ID and says, “The dog can’t go in.”
“Sure he can,” I say. “I’ll even hold the door open for him.”
The other Shore Patrol guy holds a hand in front of his face, maybe to hide a smile, but his partner says, “Bud, I got my orders. No animals in the building.”
“He’s not an animal, you moron,” I say, probably sharper than I should have. “He’s a member of the N.H. National Guard, with his own pay and quarters, and he’s fought against more Creepers in a month than you’ve probably seen your entire life. So we both go in, or none of us do.”
Thor senses the stress in my voice and lets out a low growl, and even though I’ve heard it scores of times, the sound can still make me shiver. Both Shore Patrol guys step back and Respers says, “Banson, give it a rest. C’mon.”
A glass door is unlocked and opened for us, and we walk down a clean hallway, lit by gas lanterns. There’s a door marked commanding officer and Respers knocks, and a muffled voice from inside calls out “Enter!” and, in doing so, my whole life gets changed and upended.
There are two people in the large office, Captain Kara Wallace, whose unit I’ve been with during the past several days, and a Navy officer in a khaki shirt and trousers. I nod to Captain Wallace but don’t salute—occasionally we’ve gotten a chance to watch prewar movies, and I can’t believe how many times those old directors had their actors salute indoors or without the personnel having their covers on—but she doesn’t acknowledge my presence. She just looks at the Navy commander with a placid face, her short red hair looking recently washed, even her facial burn scars looking clean.
“Have a seat, Sergeant Knox,” he says. “I’m Commander Ben Morong.”
“Sir,” I say, deciding to be polite.
Commander Morong is old, in his thirties, I’d guess, with once-black hair that’s almost been entirely overtaken by white. His face is puffy and leathery, and his nose looks like it’s been broken a couple of times. His office is tidy with the usual bookshelves, filing cabinets, and “look at me” plaques and photos, but I instantly note something wrong: He’s in none of the photos.
“Sergeant Knox, you’re not permanently assigned to Captain Wallace’s platoon, am I correct?”
“That’s right, sir. I’m in Second Recon Rangers, ‘Avenger’ Company, First Battalion, New Hampshire Army National Guard.”
He rubs at his face with both hands. “Which division?”
“The Yankee Division,” I say. “The 26th.” Then I add, “My duty station is in Ft. St. Paul, in Concord.”
He lowers his hands. “Long way from home.”
“Yes, sir.”
Morong picks up a typewritten sheet of paper. “Mind telling me how it was that you broke into a Navy facility last night and nearly fatally shot one . . . Hoyt Cranston.”
I look to Wallace and she’s ignoring my glance.
All up to me, I guess.
I say, “Sir, he started it.”
Morong’s eyes widen. “He started it? What the hell do you think this is, a school playground?”
“I don’t know what a school playground is, sir, but I do know this,” I say. “Mister Cranston and his deceptive activities caused the death of numerous members of Captain Wallace’s company. He also illegally seized and took prisoner two Army personnel, Corporal Serena Coulson and her brother, Buddy, and forces under his command shot and killed their father, also an active duty Army officer.”
I pause, take a breath, go on. “While at this facility last night, he threatened me with a pistol. I shot in self-defense. General Scopes, the officer in command, said in the presence of witnesses that I did act in self-defense. Sir.”
Morong slowly nods, slides a sheet of paper to one side. “Not a bad recitation, young man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Plus the fact that Mister Cranston was arrested on other charges a few hours ago will no doubt overshadow . . . your circumstances.”
“Sir?”
He glances at the sheet again. “Mister Cranston was arrested by the FBI on charges of domestic terrorism. It seems he and a small group managed to secure a Creeper arthropod and use its weapons for a few terrorist attacks . . . including one on a train in western Massachusetts several days ago.”
I was on that train. I saw the attack, and I also saw how Thor didn’t respond to the nearby arthropod, and it makes sense. There was no bug inside, controlling it. Nope, some human attempting to kill Serena Coulson’s brother Buddy, one of the only humans I know who can communicate with the Creepers.
But I keep my mouth shut.
Morong says, “I understand you’ve been on active duty for four years.”
“Yes, sir, since I was twelve.”
He leans back in his chair a bit. “Just to update you, Sergeant, General Scopes is not the officer in command here. I have been now for . . .” He checks his watch. “For at least the last eight hours. Somehow the CNO found out what the hell was going on over here at Saratoga and told me to come in and clean shop. I’ve debriefed Captain Wallace and others, and the shop has been cleaned. Your little adventure last night is now also concluded to the Navy’s satisfaction.”
He turns in his chair and says, “Captain Wallace?”
“Commander.”
“I’ve ordered the motor pool to prepare transportation for you and the other members of your troop. How long will you need to prepare?”
She shrugs, and I note a slight smile on her face. She and the rest of Kara’s Killers that are here are going home, with me and Thor in tow. I suddenly feel loose limbed and relaxed, even with everything that’s gone on for the past several days, even knowing my dad is out there somewhere at a medical facility, being treated for losing his leg in a Creeper attack yesterday.
“Commander, I’d say within an hour.”
Morong says, “Make it three. I want your folks to get another meal at the mess hall, with full rations for your trip back to . . . where the hell are you located?”
My captain says, “We’re a mobile strike force that used to be at Ft. Drum before it got smoked. Now we’re semibased in Rome.”
“I see. With luck, reasonable roads, and no Creeper attention, you should get back home by the end of the day.”
Wallace stands up and says, “Thank you, Commander. You’ve been very gracious.”
“Hah,” Morong says. “Gracious, hell, I’m just trying to keep on top of things.” He glances out the window and in a reflective tone says, “Look at me, commanding a desk hundreds of miles away from the ocean. Before the war I was stationed aboard a cruiser, the USS Bunker Hill. Sweet ship, fine crew. I was away on leave when the Creepers struck. She’s still there, from what I hear. One of these days I intend to get back there . . . they say when it’s low tide, you can still make out her overturned hull.”
He stares out the window and Wallace and I leave.
Outside in the hallway she softly closes the door and Wallace whispers, “Whew, that was too close by far. I was sure with our little mission last night, breaking and entering, and you shooting the man from Langley, that we’d all be in the brig tonight.”
We start walking and Thor ambles along, sniffing here and there, no doubt because he’s not used to being in strange buildings, and I say, “Me, too, Captain. I’m looking forward to the trip.”
Wallace stops, right under a gas lamp that does odd things with shadows on her worn face. “Oh, Randy.”
Her using my first name really gets my attention. “Captain?”
“Randy,” she says, “you’re not coming with us.”