Homeworld: A Military Science Fiction Novel (32 page)

“Oh, we have enough time, you gringo pig.”

He produced a pistol and brandished it behind the captive soldier’s backs. Coward.

“When your reinforcements do show, they will see that it was not wise to interfere.”

He turned, placed his pistol to the back of one soldier’s head and—before Peter could voice any protest—pulled the trigger. Blood and grey matter sprayed the wall of the shack in front of them.

It was Corporal Apone, husband and father of two young girls. Hell of a pool player. Peter’s friend.

“You BASTARD…”

The man smirked and proceeded to stand behind the next man.

“STOP. I won’t tell you anything you want to know. Shooting my men will be useless,” Peter said hurriedly.

All of the Navajas laughed out loud. The man with the pistol spoke.

“Know? I don’t want to know anything from you, Sergeant.”

And he pulled the trigger. Private Wilson. Only child. Practical jokester and squad clown. Just last night he was trying to hit on a pair of rather buxom blonde twins and making a spectacle of failing at it.

Peter felt helpless. He could do nothing to slow this down. The man was going to shoot his squad in the head one-by-one to save time for working on him. Peter knew the machete was reserved for him to send their message.

The man walked up behind the next soldier who was now sobbing so hard that he was shaking violently. It was Private Rodriguez. Husband and father of three. Two boys and one little girl.

Peter didn’t know what to say.

“My name is Command Sergeant Major Peter Birdsall of the United States Army. Be advised that reinforcements are en route…”

“Is that so?” the man mocked, and he blew Rodriguez’s brains out.

The last man, Private Wilcox, must’ve decided that he would rather chance an escape than be shot execution style in the back of the head.

He did not even make it to a standing position. The man with the machete buried it in his neck. Wilcox dropped to the ground and began writhing around and squirting blood all over the walls and dirt.

These savages were using nineteenth century melee weapons, farmers’ tools. It was their reputation, and it was supposed to serve as a deterrent to government, police, and outsiders.

The screams. Peter would never forget those screams that seemed to go on for minutes, his own personal eternity. The machete landed one final blow, silencing them forever.

The man with the machete was wiping the blood off the blade with his rag and grinning wickedly at Peter. Peter now lost his cool. All of his men were gone, and he knew what was coming next.

“I’m going to kill you bastards!” His mouth foamed as he spat his very well meaning but futile threats, “Goddamned sons-of-bitches!”

His captors and would-be executioners laughed. One of the men by the door to the shack cracked it open and peeked out.

“Nada.”

“Well,” gloated the man with the pistol, “it looks like your friends are not coming for you. You’re alone.”

That word was like a dagger in Peter’s heart. It sealed his fate, and any will he had left to survive evaporated in the hot summer air.

No. He had to keep strong. He had to remember his training. It was all he had right now. He attempted to focus on his surroundings.

He noticed some farming tools hanging on the walls, rusted blades hanging all around him. His chair was rickety and in all likelihood could easily be broken. The ground consisted of dry dirt that could create dust when disturbed.

The two men watching the door now came around to either side of Peter. They grabbed him by his shoulders and restrained him, pressing him hard into the seat of his chair. The chair creaked in protest and wobbled under the weight.

The man with the machete was now brandishing it, toying with Peter like a cat toys with a mouse before the kill. He pulled out his own Mini-com unit, toggled the rotator button with a filthy thumb, and pressed play.

The shack was filled with the sounds of loud music. Trumpets blared as a man wailed over them in Spanish. The song was meant to camouflage Peter’s own wailing. In his terror, Peter almost found it comical.

The man put the Mini-com on the dusty floor and walked up to Peter. But Peter remained silent, and he struggled against the grip of his restrainers, testing their strength. He was seated, and they were putting all of their weight on him. There was no way he was shaking loose.

“Well, mi amigo,” jeered the man with the pistol, “you have the honor of being our message to the United States to stay out of our business. Now how about you give me head.”

The other men chuckled at the pun. At least Peter hoped it was just a pun.

Peter did not look at the machete. He kept it in his periphery. He glared at his tormentor, who nodded to the man with the machete.

The two men holding Peter bent him forward in his chair, sticking his neck out. Peter’s pulse was pounding in his ears. His muscles wanted to tense, but he used his will to keep them loose. It was important that he stayed loose.

The man with the machete stepped forward, lining the blade up with Peter’s neck. Peter began to slacken as the man brought the machete over his head.

All of a sudden, Peter lurched upward. The two men restraining him reacted by pushing him down with all of their weight…

And he let them.

The chair broke apart under the force, sending Peter crashing to the ground and his two restrainers falling over him as the third man brought the machete down on them.

The one on Peter’s right had the back of his neck cleaved. The shack was filled with more blood and shrieks.

Peter rolled from underneath the other man, snatching up dry dirt in his hands as he stood, and he threw it in the eyes of the man holding the pistol.

“Matalo!”

Peter, hands still bound, sidestepped a machete strike and double hammer-fisted the attacker, breaking his right clavicle. The Navajas dropped the machete as his right arm became useless.

Peter snatched the machete from the gang member’s limp arm. He turned and slashed at the man with the pistol and then the other man who had restrained him in the chair in a frenzy of self-preservation…

Peter, covered in other men’s blood, caught his breath, as he stood in the red-spattered room full of slain men to the sound of a bad trumpet solo.

Grateful that he was alive and the singer was taking a break, he kneeled in the dirt. He placed the machete in between his knees, blade facing up. He rubbed his bindings back and forth until they were severed.

He stood up, machete in hand, and stumbled to the door of the shack. He peeked outside and saw that he was in one of several tin shacks on the side of a steep dirt hill. At the top was a house.

He had to move, as there would be other Navajas. The music likely served its purpose, and they probably heard nothing. However, once they found their dead compatriots in the shack, they would be looking for him.

He summoned what was left of his strength, and he crept out of the shack. The bright sun stung his eyes, and flies buzzed around his ears.

He made his way down the hill, stumbling to keep his balance, kicking up dust as he went. He tried to run from shack to shack, minimizing his exposure to those that might be watching in the house above.

He was weak, his muscles ached, and he likely had a concussion, but he staggered down the hill. Behind him, he heard men yelling in Spanish.

He made it to street level and began frantically waving his arms for cars to stop, but they only swerved around him. He was nearly run down by a car flashing an advertisement for coffins on its hood holo-panel.

He crossed the road, passing cars be damned, and descended another hill and began to wander towards town.

***

Peter wandered into town, and having put some distance between himself and the Navajas house, he began to slow his pace so as not to draw attention to himself.

En route, he had stripped down to his undershirt. Walking in camouflage pants and a sweat-stained undershirt, he looked like a local…or so he hoped.

He thought he heard a commotion down the block behind him, so he ducked down an alleyway where a prostitute was with a man behind a dumpster.

He shambled past them, his exhaustion catching up with him, and they did not pay him any regard. His head began to pound, his muscles ached terribly, and the alley before him began to spin.

As he collapsed to the ground and leaned against the wall, he fingered his broken teeth. The dumpster now blocked his view to the street and the street’s view of him. He leaned his head back against the wall as he listened to the sounds of the couple struggling next to him.

A young woman, another prostitute, poked her head out through a shabby storm door into the alley and saw Peter lying against the wall. He figured that he must’ve looked awful.

She said something to the other prostitute in Spanish, who gave him a quick look, shrugged, and continued her work. Her customer was now looking uncomfortable at the sight of Peter.

They all heard yelling from the street—Navajas—and the customer pulled himself away from his date and fled the other way down the alley. The abandoned girl, having already accepted payment, only shrugged casually at the premature evacuation.

The one in the doorway yelled something to her. Peter thought he heard the word “Navajas,” but in his condition, he couldn’t be sure.

The other one was arguing with her, huffing in protest, but in the end, both girls hoisted Peter up and threw each of his arms around each of their shoulders. They half-carried, half-dragged his sorry carcass into the cathouse.

Peter slipped in and out of consciousness. He remembered being lowered onto a bed. As they undressed him, he saw a pile of used towels huddled in a corner.

When he woke again, he was naked, and the girl who poked her head into the alley was washing him with a wet rag.

He tried to speak, but she put her fingers to her lips and said “Shhh.” He did not argue. He closed his eyes.

He was jolted awake by some kind of commotion in the front of the house. He picked his head up and looked around at the cracked plaster walls painted in a faded yellow. There was a condom advertisement flashing up on the wall next to where he lay. He was alone.

He wanted to call out, but given the commotion, thought better of it.

The girl who was nursing him burst into the room and started telling him something frantic in Spanish. She was holding his Mini-com Multi-tasker in her hands trying to operate it, but she didn’t know how. She wouldn’t—it was army issue.

“Ma’am, what are you doing with my…”

She was muttering to herself in frustration until she finally pressed a button and the payment kiosk by the bed registered with a tone indicating that payment had been made.

She began to take off her clothes. When he tried to say something, she shushed him again. She was young and firm and in her early twenties. He was so confused. Why was she…?

She got onto the bed and mounted him, but she did not move. She only looked anxiously at the doorway, waiting.

They heard two men yelling commands in Spanish, and she began to lower herself over him. He was limp, but he understood what she was doing.

Two men with carbines surged into the room—Navajas. They yelled at her in Spanish, and she sat up and raised her hands compliantly.

The men looked them up and down and looked at Peter. He obviously was not Mexican. With sudden panic, Peter wondered where his clothes were. If they saw the camouflaged pants…

Shit. The Mini-com Multi-tasker. If they saw it, they would know he was no local. He wasn’t paying attention. Where the hell did she put it?

Everything was happening faster than his concussed mind could understand. And they were staring at him suspiciously, sizing him up.

Peter did not know what to do, so he smiled.

The Navajas saw this pathetic gringo under this whore with his broken smile and an ad for a popular erectile dysfunction pill flashing next to them.

He must’ve looked like a real travesty because they snickered. One man called him names and used the words “carajo” and “mariposa” liberally. Satisfied with their derision, they left.

The girl sighed heavily in apparent relief, and looked down at Peter. She smiled and whispered something in Spanish.

Peter picked his head up slowly. “I don’t know who you are, but thank you.”

She smiled, looking upon him with pity, and whispered, “Mi nombre Lucita.”

That was her name. It was like music to his weary ears. The name of his savior was Lucita.

Then he suddenly felt very tired. The immediate danger had passed, the adrenaline was waning, and Lucita would look after him.

He was too exhausted to think about what had just happened and that his men were all dead. For the moment, he did not care what was going to happen next, or how he would get back. He succumbed to sweet oblivion, if only for a moment.

Peter was sitting in Molly Apone’s kitchen sipping lemonade. Her two girls were running around in the back yard playing, undeterred by the unrelenting heat of the summer sun.

Molly was looking towards the back screen door, lost in some private reverie. “I can’t believe Mya’s going to be starting the fourth grade this year.”

“And Courtney’s starting second?”

Molly nodded.

Peter sipped his lemonade. Molly made the best. It wasn’t overly saccharine like store bought and man did it kill a good thirst.

He had been to their house on base on many an occasion, where they had worn out Delroy’s eight-foot, regulation pool table.

“What’re you making?”

There was a savory aroma filling the kitchen. “Oh, I was just making some pecan pie,” Molly said absentmindedly, “for after dinner.”

Molly’s dinners were the stuff of legend. They were all in for a treat. Delroy…where was…

All of a sudden, the girls’ laughter turned to screams from the backyard. Peter stood up in alarm, but Molly remained seated. She was crying, mascara running down her face. She began to tear at her clothes violently.

“Molly, the girls…”

However, she would not stop. She tore at her dress and then her hair, screaming bloody murder. Peter did not understand.

He crossed the kitchen and flung the screen door open. A strange man cornered the girls. Peter crossed the yard quickly. “Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?”

The man did not turn around. He only continued to advance on the girls slowly. They were holding each other and screaming.

Peter descended the old wooden steps and crossed the backyard yelling at the man. “Hey! Get away from those girls!”

But the man never turned around.

Peter put a hand on the man’s shoulder and whirled him around. “Hey…” He was stunned by what he saw. It was Delroy.

However, it didn’t look like Delroy. The man was practically grey in color, his skin ashen. His eyes were dead, but wild with some kind of feral hunger.

Peter didn’t notice it before, but Delroy’s clothes were disheveled and ragged. He smelled of bile and looked like a hobo.

Recognizing his friend, Peter’s demeanor quickly softened. “Delroy, what are you doing? You’re scaring the girls.”

Only Delroy did not answer. He grabbed Peter by the shoulders and began to pull him close, as if to intimate some kind of secret, something that would explain all of this. His grip was like a vice.

The stench was overwhelming. It was a sweet, sickly, rancid stench, and it was coming off his friend. Peter’s viscera contracted as the aroma of pecan pie was chased out of his nostrils. He wanted to retch.

However, as Delroy pulled Peter close, his mouth began to open, revealing stained teeth. Peter twisted and pulled away from Delroy and out of his grasp. “Delroy, what happened to you?”

Delroy lurched forward, arms extended, reaching for Peter. His mouth still hung open. Molly was screaming hysterically from the steps outside the kitchen, pulling at her hair. “You let him die, Peter! I trusted you. You promised to take care of him. I trusted you!”

Peter was caught between his friend and his wife. What the hell was going on? The daughters were now taunting Peter. “You let our daddy die. You let daddy our die. Hi-ho the dairy-o, you let our daddy die.”

Peter had been Delroy’s commanding officer for the past five years. In that time, they had become friends. They had seen some action in Iraq, but they had always looked out for one another.

“I did my best. There was nothing I could do.”

“I trusted you, Peter.”

“Molly, we were taken prisoner. There was nothing I could do.”

“…hi-ho the dairy-o, you let our daddy die!”

“Girls, I didn’t want your daddy to die.”

“Ashes, ashes, NOW YOU FALL DOWN!”

Delroy lunged forward and grabbed Peter, falling on top of him. “Delroy, I’m so sorry.” Delroy opened his mouth.

“As I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep…”

“I’m so sorry, buddy.”

“And if I die before I wake, I pray my dad your brains to take.”

Peter closed his eyes as he felt jagged teeth clamp down on his nose, sending blood rushing back down into his throat. He gasped for air…

***

Peter woke sitting straight up, his eyes overwhelmed with the whitewash of his surroundings. He heard the blips of monitors nearby. He was in a hospital.

It was just a dream. Where was Lucita? How did he get here? Was he still in Mexico? He knew he was back in the States when he saw a nurse enter the room with Major Lewis.

“How are you, son?”

It was such a big question. His body ached, and he was a bit disoriented. It took a moment to review in his mind all that had happened.

“The whole squad was wiped out.”

His own voice sounded strange to him.

“I know, son.”

“Those bastards knew we were coming. How did they know we were coming?” His question was more of a demand, and to a Major no less.

Major Lewis was a forgiving man, given the circumstances, but his tolerance had its limits.

“I don’t know how they knew.”

“Well, now all my men are dead because you don’t know.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

Peter was filled with rage, not at anything Major Lewis was saying, but at the notion of being the lone survivor. Why did he deserve to live? To carry around the guilt of the loss of his squad? He would’ve given his life for his men.

Mostly Peter was angry at himself for feeling relieved about being alive. The relief made him feel worse than anything.

“Funny, sir. I don’t feel lucky.”

Did Molly Apone feel relieved? What about the families of the other men? Did they get to feel relieved? He did not feel lucky at all.

Major Lewis paused, choosing his next words carefully. “You should be out in a week. There’ll be some physical therapy afterwards, but nothing you can’t handle.”

And…That was it? Peter was waiting, as it was a pregnant remark. But Major Lewis only stared at him. Was he really going to make him ask?

Peter was so worked up that he took the bait. “And?”

Major Lewis revealed nothing, all poker face. “And what?”

“And what then? After I finish my physical therapy?”

Major Lewis smiled. “We have something for you, a new assignment.”

“Oh, no. You’re not putting me on some rubber gun squad. I want at those Navajas.”

“I figured as much. This new assignment will be in that vein, but I cannot discuss it at the moment. It’s, frankly, above your pay grade.”

Was this man kidding? Above his pay grade?

“Sir,” Peter was doing his best to restrain his outrage, “with all due respect, you should…no, you owe it to me to keep me in this fight. They need to pay for what they’ve done.”

Major Lewis looked Peter right in the eye. “Work hard on getting better, son. We need a man as tough as you in this program. If you complete your therapy and are up to the challenge, I’ll have to see about promoting you…”

“Sir, I…”

“…to First Lieutenant.”

Peter was speechless. That was certainly another pay grade. He had been hoping to make First Lieutenant, just not this quickly.

Stunned, he did not know what to say. “Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I’m sure you won’t. Rest up, Sergeant. You’re going to need it.”

Then the Major turned and began to leave the room, but he paused halfway to the doorway. “I’m sure you’ll want to tell some loved ones that you are okay. Remember that our activities in Mexico are classified.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Then Major Lewis left the room.

He would tell his parents that he was all right. He would tell them that he was injured in a training exercise at Fort Bliss, so they wouldn’t worry too much.

The world was a crazy place. The United States was spread thin. There was a war on terror in Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Egypt, Pakistan, Greece, and South America. Iran had successfully developed nukes. North Korea was rattling its saber, as it periodically did, near the border.

Then there was the war on drugs. Every American knew there was a war on drugs, but most didn’t know what that meant. Most Americans probably thought it meant patrolling the border, which was a joke, and enforcement within our own borders.

Your average American had no knowledge of the efforts in Mexico itself, with the cooperation of the Mexican government, of course. Drugs needed to be stopped before they crossed our borders.

There were sectors of the Mexican government that were in league with the cartels and gangs. The handful of politicians that wanted them routed out wanted…no, needed the help of the United States. As far as the press knew, Special Forces had gone south of the border to help train the Mexican government’s military to fight the war on drugs on their end.

Of course, when those that were trained defected to the other side, the press went nuts over the story. They spared no ink in tearing the administration a new one for botching the training objective.

They preferred nation building to outright war and occupation, but they never hesitated to criticize when it failed. The only example of truly successful American nation building was in Japan after World War II.

However, despite the public’s dissatisfaction with how the government was handling the war on drugs, they would certainly be critical of military operations in Mexico involving hunting down the cartels.

The liberal press would accuse the administration of being warmongers. The Tea Party and Libertarians would tout a noninterventionist standpoint. The Republicans would only be interested in occupation to profit off Mexico’s natural resources and reconstruction.

So the operations in Mexico were hush-hush. What the citizenry didn’t know wouldn’t hurt it, and that was for its own good.

College kids and yuppies saw the drug problem as a harmless joint on Friday nights or an occasional line of coke in the executive bathroom at work. No one saw all of the death that surrounded the drug trade.

It also involved one of our borders, and therefore was a matter of national security—especially since what had evolved into the Order for International Liberation (a global terrorist organization) had taken to providing security for the cartels in running the drugs across the border.

Peter wondered about the new program that Major Lewis was referring to. He thought he knew about all of the operations going on in Mexico. This program must’ve been something brand spanking new, cutting edge even. He was looking forward to getting back in on the action.

First thing’s first. He picked up the phone in his room and dialed his parents.

“Hi, Mom…yeah, I’m okay…there was an accident…no I’m fine. It was a training exercise on the airfield…”

***

Major Lewis was looking in his right desk drawer when there was a tone at his door.

“Enter.”

Captain Fiona London entered the room, closed the door behind her, and strode up to the Major’s desk. She removed her headgear and saluted smartly. “Captain London reporting.”

“Have a seat, Captain.”

She took a seat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. He continued to rummage through files on his Cybernetic Digital Organizer Clipboard, while she sat there feeling somewhat awkward.

Fiona was a young captain and was in the army to help pay off graduate school. Psychologists entered the army at the rank of captain and usually worked their way up from there. As noncombatants, after passing muster at Basic Training, they served as medical staff.

“Oh, here it is.” Major Lewis turned his Cybernetic Digital Organizer Clipboard to face Captain London. It was Peter’s personnel file.

“Sergeant Peter Birdsall. A tough young man. Shows a lot of promise. But his squad took a nasty turn in Mexico with one of the major drug cartels, the Navajas.”

Captain London reached forward and took the clipboard.

“Captain, I want you to assess Sergeant Birdsall.”

She looked up from the file. “PTSD? Acute Stress Syndrome? The usual?”

“No. I know he won’t have any of that.”

Now she was curious. “Oh? So what should I be looking for?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the ID Program?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Yes, I have, sir. It’s…operational?”

“Almost. We need a leader. Someone to learn the ropes and train a platoon in the methods.”

“I see.”

“This Sergeant Birdsall is one tough bastard. His whole squad in Tijuana was wiped out in front of him, and he almost bought it himself, but somehow he made it out. He’s smart, quick, and resourceful. He can take a hell of a lot of pain, too.”

“It sounds like you’ve already made your own assessment, Major.”

“Well, this program is not for the weak or psychologically ill-equipped. It takes a strong constitution and an extraordinary ability to deal with loss.”