Ephialtes (Ephialtes Trilogy Book 1) (6 page)

A group of commanders
was coming home.  From air conditioned hotels or the centrally heated
houses of their families they returned from leave, coming back to their true
home.

When
Sebastian Foley reached hut thirteen Steiner and Johnson were already
there.  Steiner and Johnson shared a set of bunks, with Steiner in the
lower bunk.  ‘I like to be on top,’ Johnson liked to say.  Foley
greeted them with his customary long, ‘
Heeeey
!’ and
they bumped fists and slapped backs like the jocks they were.  Steiner had
swung his feet around, sat up and got out of his bunk the moment he saw Foley
approach.  Johnson, who was sat on the top bunk, took a more laconic
approach.  He remained seated, a huge grin on his broad face, as he
reached down to grab Foley by the shoulder.  “What’s up, man?” he said.

“What’s up?”
Foley replied, grinning back and nodding at Johnson as he took Steiner’s
offered hand and shook it firmly, pat-slapping him on the shoulder as he
let go.  “Steiner, my man!” he said, “Look at you.  You look
different, all cleaned up and filled out.”

“Four weeks
of home cooking will do that for you,” said Steiner.  “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been
good,” Foley replied, “I’m rested, recuperated and ready to go.”

“That’s good,”
Steiner smiled, “that’s good.”

“How’re you
doin
’, big fella?” Foley said to Johnson.  “How was
your leave?”

Johnson slid
from the bunk to the floor.  “It was good.  Caught up with Stone,
done some
fishin
’.”

Foley pushed
his kit bag into his locker and hopped up on his bunk.  “So we won the war,”
he said, “and now we’re sad, for there are no more enemy to kill.”  He lay
on his back.  “What do you think this is about?” he asked himself as much
as anyone else.

“It’s
Dubai.  It’s not happening, I reckon,” offered Johnson.

“Investigation,”
said Steiner.  “I’ve seen footage on the bulletins of Mombasa - great
stuff, I might add - and I’ll bet some whiny bedroom activist
has spotted something in there or in the off-line feeds and raised shit
about it.”

“I don’t care
if they do,” said Foley.  “My conscience is clear.  I didn’t see
anything that wasn’t Marquis of Queensberry or Geneva Convention or whatever
the hell it is.  We did a good job and we did it right.  If anyone’s
complaining about anything they should be complaining about what happened to Hughes.”

“That’s
right,” said Johnson.

Steiner
stared at the floor.

“That’s just
savage,” continued Johnson, “and they should be called to account for
that.  That was some bad juju.”  Johnson clapped one of his enormous
hands on Steiner’s back.

When Commander
Sam Hughes’ command drone had been taken out at Mombasa Steiner had taken his
squad over to defend the wrecked drone while assistance could be organised and
dispatched.  He had ascertained that Hughes had survived the GRPG attack
that had felled his drone but was trapped inside, badly injured.  What he
hadn’t ascertained was that, in the few short minutes it had taken him to reach
the area, Hughes’ drone had been booby-trapped.  When Steiner had
used his huge mechanical arm to lift some of the wreckage from Hughes’ fallen
drone the blast had knocked his own drone clear over.  Hughes was killed
and Steiner suffered multiple injuries.  He was out cold for several
minutes.  His head was superficially but bloodily cut.  When he was
picked up the med crew at first assumed him to be dead.  His vital sign
monitors had all failed in the blast and he was unconscious and covered in
blood.  The last thing he remembered was seeing Hughes turning to look at
him, struggling to mask his pain with a weak smile and his thumb raised in the
time honoured gesture of thanks.  That image had stayed with him.

There was a
whisper from over near one of the windows, “Captain’s coming,” and commanders
scattered about and leapt from their bunks.

“Captain’s
coming,” Johnson echoed as he, Steiner and Foley came to the front of their
bunks, standing bolt upright with their arms straight at their sides, looking
forward.

Captain Brian
Connor entered the hut at a fair clip and strode immediately to the front
centre, equidistant from the two rows of bunks which ran away from him up the
sides of the hut.  Without stopping to pause or even acknowledge any of
the commanders he began to talk.

“At ease
people, and gather ’round me here.”  The commanders moved at a quick
saunter to form a semi-circle around Connor at the head of the hut.

Captain
Connor was, at twenty-eight years, at least five years older than the
oldest commander under his command.  He was a born soldier and had jumped
at the opportunity to become involved in the USAN Army Commander Program. 
He had finessed the original plans for the program and tested them on the
training grounds.  Having been in at the very beginning he had overseen
the training of the instructors and after three long years had finally, at the
second request, been given command of company slated for deployment in the
Asian theatre, fourteen months before the end of the war.

As captain of
the company Connor, while at least not some REMF controlling drones from a shed
in Kentucky, was still not quite in the thick of it like his men.  His
role of
comcon
was best fulfilled from a semi-automated
aerial drone, directing missions from above.  Lucky for him, then, that he
had been injured in a training exercise, for the scar it left
him
with on the right side of his face seemed to show to the
world that he was a Physical Soldier.

He had been
bawling out a rookie commander who was having trouble adjusting from IVR
training simulations to being in an actual command drone.  Connor was
stood on the tarmac in front of him, dwarfed by the four metre tower of metal
and ammo in front of him, shouting up at the pilot like he was training a
poodle.  It said something to the quality of the man that a trained
soldier, encased in the frame of a metal giant with enough firepower to level a
small town, was intimidated by a five foot five inch captain wearing nothing
more than the olive-drab uniform of the USANMC and a cap.  The
jittery would-be commander, anxious to do the right thing under the
tirade from Connor, proceeded to
miscontrol
his
mech
and a sixteen tonne metal arm
wooshed
around, smacking Connor in the face.

Connor was
intensely proud of the scar, though he affected to not give it a moment’s
thought.  He had received it doing his duty, and that was good enough for
him.  His service injury had marked him for life and was there on his face
for all to see.  He would have been ashamed to report to the MO with RSI
like some of these rear echelon drone operators, for whom a paper cut would
lead to at least a day off sick, or maybe even litigation.  No so for
Captain Conner.  He had taken one to the face in the line of duty and got
up and carried on.

Conner stood
with his hands behind his back and his feet about sixty centimetres
apart.  His head was held high and he appeared to be addressing someone
floating a metre or two above the people circled about him.  His speech
was deliberate, measured and loud.

“You people
acquitted yourselves well in the war that has just passed.  The corps is
proud of you.  I am proud of you.  That war is now ended.  What
does the warrior do when there is no war?”  He waited.  “The warrior
prepares for war.  You will remain here on a training and preparedness
detail, and you will remain sharp, and you will remain frosty.”

The group
shuffled just a little and a commander near the front offered a very pensive,
“Sir?”

Connor
snapped his head in the commander’s direction.  “What is it, Commander?”

“Does this
mean we’re not going to Dubai?”

Connor
returned his address to the floating phantom.  “The end of hostilities has
rendered some of our planned postings obsolete.  We are no longer required
in Dubai, that detail is scratched.  The corps requires you here until
further notice, sharp and frosty.  That is all.”  He turned on his
heel and left.

Shoulders
slumped all round and the soldiers slouched back to their bunks, the low murmur
of their grumbling punctuated by a fist punching a locker.

“I knew it,”
Johnson said, “I knew we’d never get to Dubai.  Goddamn, why’d they have
to end the damn war just when we was being sent someplace good?”

“At least we
got a thank you for winning the war,” Foley offered.

“Tell that to
Hughes,” said Steiner.

In the mess
hall Foley was chowing down with Steiner and Johnson.  Foley was a slow
eater and Johnson, for all his bulk, ate as daintily as a vicar’s wife. 
Steiner, the smallest of the three, ate like someone was going to steal his
food.  Or at least he used to.

“Where’s your
appetite, Steiner?” said Foley.

Steiner
shrugged, “I’m just not too hungry, I guess.”  He pushed some food around
his plate and took a small forkful.

“You need to
eat. 
The corps needs you sharp and frosty
,
amiright
?”

Steiner
rolled his eyes.

“
I need
you sharp and frosty
,” Foley continued his mocking impression of Connor.

“
Mrs Connor
needs you sharp and frosty
.”

Johnson
laughed.  “Goddamn that son of a bitch,” he said.  “He thinks he’s a
hard-ass with that stupid shaving cut on his face.  He should have
spent some time with us on the ground, getting shot at.”

“
I thank
you for winning the war for me
,” Foley continued in the too loud voice.
 “
Mrs Connor thanks you for winning the war for me
.”

The three of
them cracked up at the line.

“At least he
had the good grace to thank us,” said Foley.  “I wanted to thank him for
taking aerial pleasure trips eight klicks back from where the action was and
staying the hell out of my way while I won the war for him,” he sputtered
between laughs.

Steiner
pushed his plate away.

“Seriously,
you need to eat, man.  Are you okay?” said Johnson.

Steiner held
his hands up.  “I’m fine, I’m fine.  Just not hungry today,” he said.

Johnson and
Foley exchanged glances.  “You need to eat, buddy.  Your body needs
it,” Johnson said, but Steiner just shrugged and shook his head.

Foley and
Johnson had been concerned about Steiner since he returned to the company
following the incident with Hughes.  He had spent a week in a field
hospital and had then been rotated back home for three weeks of rest and
recuperation.  When he returned he seemed to be a changed man.  He
wasn’t the same Steiner who had left.  It was little things.  He
didn’t pick up on any of the running jokes they shared, and he didn’t seem to
remember some of the things they had experienced together.  When Foley
asked him, “Hey, buddy, have you got that fifty bucks you owe me?” Steiner had
paid up on the spot, rather than making the customary reply, “No, I gave it to
your mum last night.  I gave her the fifty bucks, too.”  Foley and
Johnson had been concerned that the brain injury Steiner had received had been
more serious than had first been suspected, or that he was depressed or had
PTSD or something similar.  He had been passed fit for duty, though by the
time he was back in the unit they never saw another shot fired in anger. 
Still, they worried about him.  He was one of their own.

“So the
glorious warriors of the last
great war
find
themselves right back where they started, while the politicians and the
generals take all the credit,” said Foley.  “I guess some things never
change.”

“I wouldn’t knock
it,” said Steiner.  “You’ve got a job, and a pension, and a bucketful of
stories to tell the grandkids.”

“And the
scars to prove it,” added Foley.

“I was sure
lookin
’ forward to Dubai, though,” Johnson said wistfully.

“Aw,” said
Foley, “I’m sure we’ll have a great time, right here.”

The bright
late afternoon sunlight streamed through the large floor to ceiling windows,
framing Secretary of Defence Audrey Andrews and holding her in shadow. 
Her dark hair was pulled back severely and rolled into a tight bun on top of
her head.  She leaned into her desk, signing papers which she examined
through glasses perched at the tip of her nose.  There was a knock on the
door and Andrews looked up.  It was the timid woman.

“Ms Andrews?”
the timid woman said.

“Yes?”
Andrews snapped.  She liked to appear officious and irritable.  She
thought it stopped people from bothering her unnecessarily and deterred people
from asking stupid questions.

“Do you have
just a moment?” the woman asked.

Audrey
slipped the glasses off and gestured into the room.  “Come in,” she
said.  “What is it?”

The woman
walked into the office and stood across from Andrews on the other side of the
desk.  She held a manila folder across her chest like a child might hold a
favoured cuddly toy.  It seemed defensive, but despite her timidity at her
core she had a steely resolve.  She had something she thought the
secretary of defence should know about and she was going to make sure she told
her.