“Suit lights,” muttered Mike, dazedly.
“First let me tell you where you are. What do you remember?”
“Headache.”
The AID correctly interpreted this as a medication request and chose three items from the pharmacope.
“Whew,” said Mike after a minute or two of shutting his eyes against the soul-drinking darkness, “that’s better. Now, where am I? And turn on the damn helmet.”
“What do you remember?” the AID temporized.
“Entering a warehouse in the basement of Qualtren.”
“Do you remember what happened in the basement?”
“No.”
“Do you remember Sergeant Reese?”
“Yeah. Is he alive?”
“Barely. You encountered some Posleen. In firing on them Sergeant Reese struck several bladders of oil with kinetic pellets. This caused a fuel-air explosion which in turn detonated the Jericho charges…”
“I’m under Qualtren,” said Mike in sudden horrified realization.
“Yes, sir. You are. You are under approximately one hundred twenty-six meters of rubble.”
28
Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA Sol III
0025 August 5th, 2002 ad
Pappas’ eyes were open, his back straight, his arms crossed and a fierce expression was fixed on his face. For all that he was, in reality, asleep.
It was after midnight as the swaying bus ground to a halt at the MP guarded entrance to Fort Indiantown Gap. The bus driver had wondered as they approached about the red glow of flames in the distance, but the greeting from the MPs drove all thought of it out of his head. He leaned out of the window to ask where the recruits and their humorless sergeant were supposed to go, but before he could ask the question the MP answered it for him.
“I don’t know where the fuckers are supposed to go, who they are supposed to report to or what the fuck to do with them. Are there any more questions?” the MP private asked in an angry and aggressive tone.
Pappas’ eyes flicked open and before he was fully awake he had exited the bus and had the MP dangling by his BDU collar from one hand.
“What the fuck kind of answer is that you pissant?” he raged. The MP’s companion started awake and clawed at his Berretta.
“Draw your weapon and you will be splitting rocks in Leavenworth on Thursday, asshole!” said the infuriated Pappas turning his fulminating gaze on the companion. On top of the difficulties of the trip the attitudes of the MPs had just been too much. The backup quit clawing at his sidearm and popped to attention.
“Now,” said Pappas as his fury cooled slightly, “what the fuck is your problem, Private?” He lowered the MP so that his feet contacted the ground without actually releasing him.
The MP had had his share of problems lately and plenty of opportunity to practice hand-to-hand combat. But he had never had anyone manhandle him so quickly or completely and the experience was shattering. The NCO in gray silks, which designated him as one of the nearly untouchable Fleet Strike Force, was a mountain of muscle. The dim lighting and red flickering of distant flames turned him into a surreal figure of almost primeval strength and fury, like a volcano on two trunk-like legs. The private did a quick reevaluation of his environment.
“Sergeant,” he was definitely a sergeant, although it was hard to read the Fleet stripes on his shoulder, “we got a lot of problems…”
“I don’t want to hear problems, private, I want to hear answers.”
“Sergeant, I don’t have any. I’m sorry.” The private’s face was screwed into near tears and Pappas suddenly had to reevaluate the situation as well.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked releasing the private and smoothing the fabric of his BDU collar. He finally turned his head to look at the distant fires. “What the fuck is going on?” he asked again, shaking his head.
“Sarge, Sergeant,” the MP corrected quickly, “the fuckin’ place is out of control.” He stopped and shook his head.
“Sergeant,” said the backup, “I’m sorry we were so fucked up on our answer. But we really don’t know where to send your troops.”
The original MP nodded his head in agreement. “The first thing is last week they had to move a bunch of the units ’cause their barracks got burned out in the riots. Then they lost some of the troops and the rest were shacking up in open barracks. When they tried to move ’em there was riots over that. An’ whenever we break up a riot, the rioters tend to fire the trailers when they’re runnin’ away. So, where youse was supposed to go might not even be there…”
“Holy shit,” whispered the former Marine. He could hear the troops getting off the bus behind him and raised his voice. “Get me Stewart, Ampele, Adams and Michaels.” The squad leaders. “The rest of you yardbirds get back on the bus!”
While the squad leaders assembled he watched the flickering flames at a position of parade rest. He gently blew his lips in thought. “You guys getting any help?” he asked.
“Not much, Sergeant,” said the MP. “There’s about three or four battalions that have their troops under order, but even they have problems. And we can’t really use them for riot suppression, ’cause we can’t tell the sheep from the goats.” The private stopped and shook his head. “It’s a real rat-fuck, Sergeant.”
“Gunny.”
“Okay, it’s a real rat-fuck, Gunny.” The MP chuckled.
Pappas wheeled on the assembled squad leaders. “This is a fuck-up, folks, but it’s one we gotta work with. Apparently the Army has lost control of its units.” He turned back to the MP. “How many units are we talkin’ about?”
“Two divisions, some attached Corp units and the Fleet Strike battalion. We’re havin’ most of our problems out of the support units and a couple of the infantry battalions, though. The problem is that most of the senior officers and NCOs haven’t got here yet, so all we got is a bunch of fuckin’ recruits and castoffs from other units. If we had a full officer and NCO Corp we’d be okay, at least that is what our provost says, but until all the officers and NCOs get here and we start havin’ some court-martials it’s just gonna continue like this.”
Pappas nodded his head and continued. “Here is how we’re gonna handle it. First, we ain’t takin’ the bus into that rat-fuck. So we gotta walk. But we ain’t gonna try to find where we’re supposed to be loaded down with baggage. So, Ampele, First squad is baggage guard.”
“Gunny… !” the large private started to protest.
“It’s more important than you think. We’re gonna unload all the baggage here.” He looked around. “Down by the stream.” He gestured with his chin. “Hunker down and wait for support. When we find our quarters and unit I’ll send back transport and most of the platoon to pick up the baggage. But be aware that you could be attacked.” He looked at the MPs and they nodded.
“Yeah,” said the now fully awake backup. “We’ve had groups out here before. If you get hit, we’ll back you up,” he continued, “but we can’t fire without being fired on,” he finished sourly.
“So be prepared for anything. I’m leaving you here because you’re the one I trust to keep his head and hold onto his people best. Don’t bitch about a fuckin’ compliment. And you better guard our shit good.” Pappas thought for a moment and decided to ask the question. “Umm, have they briefed you guys on something about Fleet Strike being under different rules…”
“Yeah, Gunny,” answered the first MP. “You guys are hands off. Fortunately other than fights in the barracks area Fleet Strike hasn’t caused a lot of problems.” He paused and thought about it for a moment. “Well, for us,” he amended. “CID’s another story.”