Mission Mars (6 page)

Thomas King, wide-mouthed, nodded his head, turned on his heel and left.

In the late hours of the night, the flat was dark, except for the light flickering from the GNT. Grandfather stayed up late, flipping through the Mars catalogue, which showed four flat designs. The only ones we were allowed to choose from. I saw that spark in his eyes, the one he always got when he had some freedom to create a little something of his own. Like his stupid book. The sight of him dreaming like a child filled with hope made my heart ache. The light from the GNT made his wrinkles fold deeper, rippling into more folds as the wrinkles hung from his face. My grandparents were getting old. They were old. We couldn't even see the stars from our cramped home, from anywhere in Calle Quarta. I got up from my mat and walked over to Grandfather.

“Aye, Truair, you're awake. Come here, hijo. Look! We get to pick our own wall colors.”

“I want to stay with Uncle,” I said. The last echo of my protest.

“For what?” Grandfather spat. “To fight the inevitable? To live out your life here on Earth as nothing more than a mere whisper in the ear of a giant? To die here an undesirable?” He sighed, then his voice softened. “At least, hijo, on Mars we
have a chance for hope, to build something, something to be proud of! And to be out from under their foot!” Grandfather stomped his own foot for emphasis.

I knew he was right. I didn't want him to be right. But I knew he was. I sat down next to Grandfather and looked at the flat designs.

“I get my own room?”

“Yes, hijo. Your very own room.” Grandfather put his arm around me.

“Okay,” I said.

He squeezed my shoulder. “OK, then,” he said. “What color do you want your room?”

I flipped through the colors on the GNT.

Gray hallway, linoleum tile floor polished to a mirror gloss, stark overhead fluorescent lighting, and a row of four plastic molded chairs that no one's butt fits in comfortably, all lined up against the wall leading to a door. The sight of these things makes him feel that the last eight years of his life have come full circle. Nothing has changed, except Sam.

Duffel hiked over one shoulder, discharge papers clutched in one hand, he sits down on the end chair closest to the door and eases the bag onto the floor. The hallway is deserted and too quiet. Sam doesn't like quiet; things hide in quiet. He has no fondness for sitting and waiting. Bad things happen when everything is still, experience teaching him that moving targets are harder to hit. He has to remind himself that he is no longer a target. That's what the shrink keeps telling him. Right now, he has his back to the wall. Less exposure that way.

The door is closed which makes him wonder how they
will know he is here. After eight years of “hurry up and wait,” in lines with hundreds of other soldiers, being in a line of one seems wrong somehow. Sam glances down at his discharge papers, checking to make sure he is in the right place. Yep, just two more check marks and signatures required. One for turning in his gear, and one for his exit interview in Room 124. The room is clearly marked with the black plastic tile the military is so fond of, the numbers engraved in the top layer to show the white underneath.

He has chosen to turn his gear in last, his shoulder sore from toting it around all day, although not as sore as when he used to shoulder his weapon daily. He knew that the duffel bag had become a symbolic security blanket for him. Among all the difficult things he had done today, giving it up would be the hardest.

As footsteps echo down the hall, all his senses focus on the sound. Black military dress shoes crisply meeting the linoleum tile, if he's not mistaken. He reaches out, groping blindly towards the duffel bag before he remembers where he is and that he isn't armed. He starts the deep breathing exercises he's been taught and tries to quiet his mind. Friend or foe?

Rounding the corner and heading towards him, a uniformed officer enters his sight line. Sam relaxes. Friend it is, then. The sudden realization that he's not in the field drives him to stand and salute the officer as he approaches.

“At ease, Sergeant.” The captain waves off Sam's salute, picks up a chair from against the wall, places it facing Sam, and sits down. “Please, have a seat Sergeant Rickard,” the captain says, a smile and a twinkle in his blue eyes.

Puzzled, Sam sits down. “Sir, aren't we going inside?”

“That depends. We need to have a talk first, then you can decide whether you want to go in or not.”

Sam hesitates, then decides what–the-hell, he's almost out. What could they do to him now? “Excuse me sir, but since when does the military let me make decisions about what I do? If I've learned anything in my eight years of service it's that the only decision I had a real part in making is when I enlisted.”

“My point exactly,” is the captain's lighthearted reply.

“Sir, I'm sorry but I'm not tracking. I'm here for my exit interview. If you're trying to get me to re-up, you're wasting your time.”

“I understand how you might feel about that, especially since most of your military career has been spent in some of the worst shit-holes that planet earth has to offer, fighting people who value their anger and pride more than they do their own lives.” The captain's eyes darken, storm clouds forming in them as they bore into Sam's open gaze. “How do you fight an enemy so willing to sacrifice themselves and all of their brethren just because you don't believe in the same things they do? We aren't them and never will be. There is no compromise, no ‘Can't-we-all-just-get-along' diplomacy that they will agree to. No war big enough, no genocide thorough enough to give them what they want. Annihilation. Total, complete annihilation. That's what they want. No, that's what they demand. It will never end, Sergeant. Not in your lifetime, not in our children's lifetime, not until they have destroyed everything—this planet included.” The captain delivers his monologue calmly and rationally. No smile remains in his eyes, only steel.

Sam needs to escape. Somewhere to hide, some bolt hole. He blinks … sand in his boots, sand in his mouth, face grimy with sweat and tears. Again, he is back on mission.

Breathe. Take a step back.

“Medic! Medic!” Sam screamed into his radio. All five of them, his comrades, his soldiers, his friends, lay blown to bits, bodies finally resting in angles and curves unnatural to the human body.

Step back.

Victims. All victims of one little boy no more than six years old. And now that same little boy was nothing more than a blackened crater in the middle of the floor. The boy had been coming around begging from them for a week, ever since Murphy had used candy as a bribe to get the kid out from under the bed of a bombed-out house. Even after taking him to the locals who had survived the attack, the boy kept sneaking back, hoping for more treats. He'd shown up that night as usual.

Step…

Sam had been knocked out by the explosion that rocked the house. The only reason Sam wasn't dead was because he'd left the room to get the boy some chocolate, saved just for him. The irony did not escape Sam. After he'd regained consciousness, he'd staggered into the room to find nothing left of the boy and the scant remains of his squad. He'd held Murphy's head in his lap while the last breath left him.

Back.

Sam feels a hand on his shoulder as he struggles to bring himself back to the here, the now. Gray hallway, linoleum floor, fluorescent lights, plastic chairs, the Captain's hand on
his shoulder. I'm Here. It's Now. Not there. Not that time and space.

Breathe in.

He closes his eyes. Blackness fills him. Opens his eyes, banishes the blackness.

Breathe out. Be still. Be calm. Be Here. Be in the Now. Not there, not then. Gray hallway, linoleum floor, fluorescent lights, plastic chairs. Still here.

“Sam, are you with me?”

A moment of silence passes, then broken with “Yes.”

“Would it surprise you to know that I know what you're going through? That I've been where you are?”

Sam draws a shuddering breath, blows it back out forcefully. “No. I'm sure you've been through similar experiences. Unless you're a total desk jockey, which by your earlier description of the war, you're not. I know you have experienced the same things as most of us who have served in the military on the front lines. I'm also sure that you've read my service record and know everything there is to know about me … sir.”

The captain takes his hand off Sam's shoulder and sits back in his chair, studying his face. “Yes, I bear my own emotional scars from the war—which makes me ideally suited for my present assignment. And yes, I've read your file. There are a few things that puzzle me, however. You're smarter than you appear on paper, despite your limited formal education. No college degree, no technical certifications, little formal training of any consequence, except what Uncle Sam has provided in your eight years of service. Given your aptitude for resourcefulness, I would hazard a guess that this has been by choice, not forced upon you by circumstance.

“Some things can't be measured with an IQ test, Sam, although your test scores are quite remarkable for someone with little formal education. You're a critical thinker. You seem to absorb information like a sponge in whatever environment you're in, from whatever sources are available to you. You, in essence, Sergeant, are a ‘student of life'.

“You're also a survivor. That being said, the war has done a number on you psychologically. You suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress and Survivor's Guilt. You're mustering out today because, even though you are a true patriot, you have come to the conclusion that continuing the same course of action, and expecting a different outcome, is the height of insanity. Please tell me if I'm wrong.”

Sam shifts in his uncomfortable chair as he considers what the captain has said. “Fair enough. This still doesn't tell me why you're here talking to me. I'm done. I'm through. I can't think of one thing that you could say, one single thing you could offer me that would change my mind. That is why you're here, isn't it? You're trying to get me to re-enlist.”

“Not officially, no. What I have to offer you is not your basic re-enlistment package deal where I promise you a posting in Hawaii for a year, then send you back into the meat grinder. It's a little more … exotic, let's say.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sam replies, “Exotic? What does that mean? You're going to send me to the jungle instead of the desert? Somehow, Captain, I don't think that's going to make much of a difference.”

The captain barks out a short laugh. “No, not the jungle. How about a new adventure? Somewhere that doesn't have jungles or deserts. Somewhere there is no war between men
over beliefs, freedoms, or religious dogma. Somewhere that the only battle is between man and his environment.”

“You've lost me again, sir. I don't know of any such place on Earth.”

“Exactly. Not on Earth.”

Silence fills the hallway as Sam searches the Captain's face for something, anything that indicates the man is kidding. The blue eyes are open, honest.

“Excuse me, sir, are we talking about making me an astronaut? You've got to be kidding. The space program has been dead for years, and I'm really having a hard time believing anyone would recruit me for such a thing.”

“Contrary to popular belief, the space program's demise is a bit premature, mostly because we wanted it to appear that way. We've been working on a secret mission for many years, but have been hampered by the need for secrecy. We've also been hoping that our technological advances would catch up with our needs. This newest generation of kids and technology, has finally bridged the gap. Now, all we need are dedicated and resourceful personnel. Like you.”

The captain allowed this information to sink in before he continued. “Like I said, I've studied your file. I also have information gleaned from all of your commanding officers and most of the men you have served with. Would you be surprised to learn that they all say the same things about you?” Sam held his breath, expecting the worst.

“Most of them even use the same words to describe you. If this were a criminal investigation, I would wonder if they had been coached. Seeing as this intel was gathered secretly, I can't see that it's possible, so I have to assume that this really is
who you are. Rational. Clever. Careful. Trustworthy. Honest. Smart. Not necessarily book smart, but what one of your soldiers called real-world smart. Adaptable. A true leader. Not someone given the stripes, but someone who earned them. Every one of the men you served with knows that you would have their back in any given situation.”

Still, Sam distrusts what he is hearing. “I doubt that Murphy, Talmudge, and Grant would say that about me.”

“I think you'd be surprised. They volunteered to go into town with you that night. Their deaths were not your fault. They knew the risks when they signed up for the duty. They believed—just as you did—that good people still treat children with kindness. It's a sad day when we can't be thoughtful and kind to children, even when their own people choose to sacrifice them in the name of their beliefs. Once again, it all comes back to trying to win a war against a people who place so little value on life itself. Sometimes you have to change the rules to win the game.”