Grunt Traitor (31 page)

“Or send in the next wave.”

“There’s got to be a limit to their resources. All we have to do is outlast them.”

She nodded, smiling, all trace of disappointment gone.

“Ready to go back inside?” I asked.

She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, then followed me back in.

Every man gotta right to decide his own destiny.

Bob Marley

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

W
E WERE ALL
a little hungover the following day, and six in the morning felt earlier than it should have. We’d ended up drinking the beer, then Dewhurst brought out a twelve-year-old bottle of Macallan. We all exchanged our origin stories, because like all superheroes and supervillains, everyone had a tale. Nothing was a big surprise, but it was in the sharing that we became closer. Towards the end of the night, after we’d become experts in word slurring, Dewhurst told me that he was glad to have me along. I remember telling him the same thing, then we hugged. Probably why we had trouble looking at each other this morning.

While the technicians were preparing our EXOs for action, we had one final mission brief, prepared by Malrimple and Mr. Pink. So it was with bleary eyes and alcohol-soaked organs that we sat in a conference room, sucking down coffee and water at astonishing rates.

My grunts sat on one side of the table, while Olivares and his team sat on the other. Their heads were held high and their eyes were bright as they stared in judgment at us. Olivares raised his eyebrows when I gave him a
fuck you
look, but neither that nor my single finger salute caused any reaction. Going into a life-or-death mission with all your wits about you was a simpler matter and a reasonable expectation. I reminded myself to consider that, the next time a case of beer and a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch inserted themselves between me and the next day’s mission.

Mr. Pink, Malrimple and Lt. Reed came in and took seats at the end of the table. Mr. Pink glanced at us, then had to look once more. If something crossed his mind, he didn’t share it with us. Instead, he brought the meeting to order.

“We’ll keep this short so team leaders can make any last minute mission adjustments they need. We’re still on track for a fourteen-hundred-hours mission start. Dewhurst has arranged for two AN-42s to carry you to your drop points. Team One, you’ll be dropped to a location just north of Mother. They are available for assistance if needed. Team Two, you’ll be dropped to a point near Seal Beach where GNA can link up with you.”

I’d rather there have been on-site support from OMBRA proper. But Mr. Pink wanted this to be an in-and-out special operations mission. He didn’t want to have too many grunts on the ground once the detonations occurred. He also wanted to enhance his relationships with the civilian groups in the area.

He glanced around to see if there were any questions, then continued. “Plan for an oh-three-hundred-hours detonation. If you can manage to make them simultaneous, it improves the element of surprise. If not, do the best you can. If there are any changes to the mission, I will have HMID Thompson relay messages to both Ethridge and Mason. Questions?”

Again, there were none, so he turned the briefing over to Lt. Reed. “Things have been moving fast since we’ve been able to translate the enemy’s transmissions. It reads like a machine language, which is one of the reasons HMID Salinas was able to make this breakthrough. Olivares and Mason were the first to infiltrate a hive from below ground. Their TTPs are the standard. We’ve uploaded a tactical map package to each of your EXOs. Team One, you have schematics of the L.A. Metro as well as the storm drain system. Team Two, you’re in a better position. That the hive settled on Disneyland was extraordinarily helpful. There are more than two thousand miles of tunnels beneath the amusement park, and the map provided should allow you to get to your destination easier.

“Regarding detonation, both W84s have the capacity for a ten-minute delay. That’s not long, but if you can get out of the shadow of the hive and put some buildings between you and the blast, you have a more than respectable chance. Your EXOs have minimal radiation protection, so use them. Our projections are that if the nukes are positioned underground and beneath the hives, the hives should absorb most of the blast and soak up most of the radiation. Since they are so impenetrable from the outside, they’re likely just as impenetrable from the inside. Dr. Malrimple?”

The chief of science wiped his brow and leaned forward. “Expect more fungees, spikers, and needlers, although they shouldn’t present a problem in your EXOs.”

I flashed to the kids in the pit. Even without the EXOs, they’d been easy to kill. But of course then you had to live with yourself.

“We have a new report, this one delivered via ham operator from Marseille. It appears that some of the behaviors of the fungees have changed. While we’re still cataloging reports of them attacking and infecting the uninfected, there’s a new behavior which appears to be more static in nature.” Seeing our confusion, he held up a hand. “Let me explain. We believe there’s possibly an additional pathogen. Using what we now know about
ophiocordyceps unilateralis
and
Ophiocordyceps invasionalis,
we realize that the Hypocrealics have the ability to modify and weaponize fungi. By extrapolation, they might also have the ability to control the motor functions of the afflicted.”

Dewhurst held up a hand. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in the conference room. “What exactly are you talking about? Can you just cut to the chase?”

“Two days ago, several hundred fungees surrounded the Marseille hive. They didn’t move. They didn’t fall down. They stood there until the attack.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, looking around. “What attack? Who attacked whom?”

“We had an OMBRA special operations team, much like your own, trying out a pesticide called Vanderbilt University Allosteric Agonist Number One, or VUAA1, which essentially renders the user invisible to certain species of insects and needlers—what we’re calling those moth-like creatures who attacked Dupree—because it causes sensory overload. When an insect senses a certain odor, blood or the sodium in human sweat, it vectors towards the target. What Vanderbilt scientists were able to do before—”

“Doctor Malrimple,” I said more loudly than I wanted to, “about the attack. You said this happened two days ago?”

He nodded.

I turned to Olivares. “Thinking what I’m thinking?”

He frowned. “They knew.”

“That’s right,” I said, turning to Mr. Pink. “They fucking
know
.”

Lt. Rosamilla, Ohirra’s counterpart on Olivares’s team, asked, “Who knew what about what?”

“The Cray knew about the attack before it happened.”

Mr. Pink shook his head. “They couldn’t have. There were no radio communications twelve hours prior as per SOP. Once on the ground, tactical coms were limited in range.” He shook his head again. “No way.”

I sighed. “Not radios. HMIDs.”

Mr. Pink looked to Malrimple. “I disagree. We’ve seen no evidence of them knowing we can break their communications, nor have we seen evidence that they can communicate with our HMIDs.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Seriously? That’s pretty much what every scientist and world leader said right up until the point the Earth was invaded.
We’ve seen no evidence.
” I turned to Mr. Pink. “Seriously?”

Mr. Pink stared at us for a long moment, then rubbed his face. “Doctor Malrimple, we need to look at this. If they can communicate with or have access to our HMIDs, this creates new challenges, especially if our HMIDs don’t realize it’s occurring.”

“I think we should abandon the mission,” Olivares said. “I can’t see the immediate benefit of putting these soldiers in danger.”

I nodded. “What he said. We could be walking into a trap.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Dewhurst said. “We can’t—we shouldn’t abandon the mission just because the Hypocrealics might be able to listen in on the HMIDs. It’s pure supposition. And frankly”—he turned to me—“I’m disappointed at this rush to judgment.”

I started to say something, but Dewhurst had a question for Malrimple. “What is it these fungees did? Did they attack the special-ops team? Did they fire laser beams from their eyes and fart thunderbolts?”

One of Olivares’s men snickered, as did Sula and Mal.

“Major Dewhurst,” Malrimple said, shaking his head.

“I just want to know. What did the fungees do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Dewhurst leaned forward. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

“I said that they did nothing.”

“What’s the significance of that, do you think?” Dewhurst asked. “I mean, you’re proposing that we shut down a mission because these fungees did nothing. To use your own word, Mason,
seriously?
”

Malrimple sighed. “What I was trying to get across is that I believe that there’s another vector out there that delivers a yet-to-be-determined organism that then—”

“Causes people to do nothing,” Dewhurst finished.

“The vector could be an endoparasitoid much like
Dinocampus coccinellae
, or they could just be manipulating the autonomy of the fungees through manipulation of the same receptors.”

“How will these fungees be any more of a threat than any other fungee?” Dewhurst asked.

Malrimple stared at the major with hate in his eyes. “They won’t.”

Dewhurst spun to Mr. Pink. “All this science is good, but we need to concentrate our efforts. This double mission represents our best chance at giving the Hypocrealics a one-two punch. If we do this and it works, it will resonate on every ham radio throughout the world. It will be the Hero of the Mound written large, because it’s not just one hive, but two. Combine that with Malrimple’s VUAA1 bug spray and his fungee cure, and suddenly we have some hope that humanity might just survive this mess.”

Olivares eyed Dewhurst, then said, “I still say that we should stop the mission and put the HMIDs on radio silence until we have this thing figured out.”

All eyes were on Mr. Pink as he thought through his options, so no one was looking at Mal when he said, “Or you can talk to them.”

He blanched under our sudden attention.

“What do you mean, Private?” I asked, wishing he hadn’t said anything.

“Sir, what I mean to say, sir, is that if the aliens can communicate with our HMIDs, then doesn’t it mean we can talk to them?”

“What, and ask them to leave?” Stranz asked.

“Is that such a bad idea?” Mal countered.

I held up my hand to both of them, then looked at Mr. Pink. “Clearly there’s a lot we don’t know. My guess is that Doctor Malrimple’s staff is going to be even busier than they already are. But that really doesn’t affect my mission. We put our teams of EXOs on the objective, deliver the nukes, and exfil. Nothing said here seems capable of changing that.”

Mr. Pink considered for a full minute, the ticking of the wall clock the only sound in the room. Finally, he stood. “The missions are on. Malrimple, assemble a team to work on this HMID issue and report back to me ASAP.” Then he left.

Ohirra was staring at me.

“What?” I asked.

“It’s just that you sounded like a lieutenant just then.”

I grinned. “Not that old nasty monosyllabic master sergeant?”

“Did you just say
monosyllabic
?” she asked.

“I did.”

“Then you’re definitely a lieutenant.”

Olivares got up, giving me a frosty glare. “More like a lieutenant who’s going to get us all killed.” He headed for the door. “Come on, squad, to me.”

I watched as his team filed out and hoped he wasn’t reading our future.

I suspected skydiving was dangerous when they asked me to sign a waiver. They confirmed my suspicions when they asked me to pay in advance.

Anonymous

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

S
UNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH
the windows as the aircraft banked over San Bernardino. Hooked up to a static line and about to jump from a military aircraft, I could almost imagine I was back at Fort Bragg, about to parachute with twenty-two others, as our stick tumbled from an airplane above Sicily, Normandy, or Salerno drop zones. The static line would ensure that our chutes deployed; all we had to do was stay out of the trees. If the pathfinder hadn’t done his job, we’d soon be hanging from the long leaf pines like human Christmas ornaments. But more often than not, we’d hit the drop zone, do a parachute landing fall—tucking the chin, bending the knees, falling to the side—then leap up, shred our chutes, stuff them in our D-Bags, and head toward the detail trucks.

Ah, to have those days back.

As much as it had sucked at Fort Bragg, those were halcyon days, as much a part of my magical, mythical memory as the summer fields of a Ray Bradbury novel.