Grunt Traitor (25 page)

Olivares gave him a level stare. “Patriotic mumbo jumbo.”

Dewhurst didn’t flinch. This close I could see a scar running from his jaw all the way to his hairline near his right ear. “Not much for patriotism, huh? Company man?”

“Patriotism was a tool to get people to do something they wouldn’t ordinarily do.
Rah, rah, sis-boom-bah. Kill a commie for your mommie. Nuke ’em till they glow
. It’s all part of our indoc as soldiers.”

Dewhurst nodded. “So you’re the pragmatist. That makes sense.” He looked at me. “That would make you the idealist.”

I shook my head. “I’m not so much for patriotism either. I fight for those around me. I don’t fight for a symbol.”

“Sometimes people need a symbol to remember what they’re fighting for.”

“Like that patch on your shoulder?” I nodded at the red white and blue cameo of George Washington.

“Exactly. The union jack. The stars and bars. These are all symbols to rally around. You two have been the tip of the spear since this started. But remember, the greater part of the world’s population were the shaft of the spear. They weren’t close to the action, but by God they were affected by it. I’d like to think that I’m fighting for their future, so they can rebuild what was lost.”

I grinned. “Now look who the idealist is.”

“Oh, I make no bones about being an idealist. I was talking about you.”

Shaking my head, I said, “I’m no idealist.”

“You’re certainly no pragmatist. A pragmatist wouldn’t have put his fellow soldiers in jeopardy to become the Hero of the Mound.”

I felt the blood rise to my face. “I did what I did to save Thompson.”

“Did you give any thought to how your actions might affect the group? Were you concerned that they might do the same for you that you did for Thompson?”

I held back the first seventeen words I had for Dewhurst. When I unclenched my jaw, I said instead, “We fight for each other. I saw a man down. I saved him. End of story.”

“Do you see yourself as a hero?”

“
Hero
is a label someone else gives you for something they were incapable of doing themselves, based on time, ability or distance. I’m just a grunt.”

“What do you think, Olivares?”

His olive-skinned face remained impassive as he stared at Dewhurst. Finally he tore his gaze away and looked toward me. “He and I have had this conversation. Mason is a grunt first. Has he been a hero? Yes. Is he a hero? That’s situationally dependent.”

I nodded at Olivares. He ignored me as he focused on Dewhurst. “My question is, why are you coming in here and laying turds all over our yard? First you badmouth OMBRA. Where was the United States when OMBRA came to their door warning them? Where were you when the shit hit the fan? And coming in after the fact to try and measure the viability of one man’s heroism against the threat of annihilation is something I’d expect from a sophomoric congressional aide, not from a military officer.”

Dewhurst took it all in, nodding through it all, as if this was what he expected. When Olivares was done, the Army major smiled slightly. “I guess you’re both an idealist and a pragmatist, Lieutenant. Like Mason, you believe in right and wrong. You believe that humans are good and aliens are evil. You believe that I’m an asshole and you’re in the right. But the pragmatist in you says that all humans aren’t good, that I’m probably not a complete asshole, and that you are sometimes fallible.”

Dewhurst looked at me. “Soldiers by their very nature are pragmatists
and
idealists. It’s a sliding scale, but all soldiers demonstrate both of these attributes. Some have more of one, some less. You, Olivares, are more pragmatic, while Mason here is more an idealist. This is good. This is what I want in grunts to lead my mission.”

“I’ve never really thought of myself as an idealist,” I argued.

“Then why’d you join? Why’d you continue to re-enlist? I’ve seen your records.”

Olivares’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve seen our records?” He glanced at me.

I wondered why the concern. I sure as hell didn’t care if Dewhurst saw my records. They were what they were. “Why’d I join? Because I had nothing else to do. I joined because I needed a bigger gang than the 8
^th
Street Angels to have my back. Why’d I stay? Definitely for the chow.”

Dewhurst grinned and pushed himself to a standing position. “Okay, boys. That’ll be all for now. I just wanted to get to know you. Each of you has your own team. They should be in your team rooms, waiting.”

He started to leave and I said, “We don’t even know what the mission is going to be.”

He paused. “Didn’t I tell you?”

I shook my head.

“We’re going to strap you into EXOs, air-drop you over L.A., and you’re going to blow up the hives the same way you did at Kilimanjaro.” Then he left.

Olivares and I stared at each other.

“But they don’t have volcanoes in Los Angeles,” I finally said.

Grunts on the line, where the enemy wants them dead, still goof off—even knowing that by letting their guard down they might die.

David Hackworth

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Y
OU DON’T LIKE
him, do you?” I said.

“He’s a little too full of himself.”

“He reminds me of Mr. Pink,” I said.

“He certainly has the manipulation down.” Olivares stood to go.

I couldn’t help but put my nose squarely into his business. “What is it in your records that you don’t want anyone to see?”

“None of your fucking business.”

I laughed, and his face shifted to anger.

“Glad to see you’re still the same old asshole,” I said.

“Glad to see you’re the same old nosy fucker.”

I sighed heavily.

“What?” he yelled. Clearly the issue about his records was a big deal.

“I knew the honeymoon wouldn’t last.”

He sneered. “It never does.”

I let him go first, then got up and followed. His team room was down the hall on the left; mine was down and on the right. I headed to my room, opened the door, and went inside.

Right away I saw Ohirra as she sat talking with three enlisted soldiers.

“Afternoon,” I said, taking a chair and sitting with them. “Ohirra, you on the team?”

“I’m to be your intelligence liaison.”

I watched her face for any sign of emotion. Technically she outranked me, if you considered time in grade. She could take the team if she wanted.

“I was just telling them about your time in Africa,” she added.

“Don’t believe that Hero of the Mound crap. It was pure propaganda.” To the new three, I said, “I’m Lieutenant Benjamin Carter Mason. You can call me LT, or you can call me Mason. Just never ever fucking ever call me the Hero of the Mound. Got it?”

I watched as the nervousness was replaced with wary humor. Ohirra had probably been talking me up; I wanted them to realize I was as human as the next jerk lieutenant, just maybe a little luckier.

“So introduce yourselves.”

The first guy reminded me of Thompson, so much so that he could have been his older, bigger brother. Blond hair and blue eyes, he was the farmer-linebacker version of our little drummer boy. His hair was cut in a flat top. He had the hard sculptured cheekbones.

“I’m Stranz,” he said. “Been looking forward to getting some work off the compound.”

Both Ohirra and I waited for more, but Stranz leaned back and thought he’d said enough.

“What’s your background?” I finally asked.

“75
^th
Ranger Regiment. Then part of a QRF with SOCOM.” He grinned and nodded like he was fucking Billy Badass and we’d already realized it.

There was this thing every soldier, Marine, airman, or seaman did whenever they encountered each other for the first time. They racked and stacked themselves by duty assignments, operational deployments, and trips to various warzones. It wasn’t long before everyone knew who’d done what. But I was the lieutenant and I wasn’t playing that game.

“This isn’t an interrogation, Stranz,” I said, leaning forward, my voice filled with razor blades. “This is an interview. You’re not on my team until I say you’re on my team. So if you want to sit back and act like the king of assholes, feel free, but it will probably mean you’re never getting off compound.”

Now it was my turn to sit back and appraise him openly as he slack-jawed stared at me. “Do you want to begin again?” I asked.

I could see him almost get mad as he snapped his mouth shut, then caught himself. He nodded, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m Corporal Rennie Stranz, sir. I was with 75
^th
Rangers in Afghanistan and was assigned to a SOCOM QRF. My specialty is infantry and heavy weapons. I was assigned as OPFOR here at National Training Center when the world shit the bed.”

I nodded as he finished. “What were your QRF missions?”

“We didn’t have any, but I spent a lot of time preparing.”

“I spent a lot of time in the motor pool, corporal, but that doesn’t make me a mechanic.”

“Yes, sir,” he stuttered.

“If you’re going to brag about being part of a Quick Reaction Force, it better be fucking relevant. Got it?”

He nodded quickly.

“Why are you on my team?”

“I’m a certified EXO mechanic and have logged over a thousand hours in the remodel.”

Finally, a good reason. “You should have led with that.” I turned to the other two. “Next?”

A young black kid with chiseled features, curious gray eyes, and a head shaved bald sat forward in his seat. “Sir, I’m Private First Class Malcom Macabre,” he said with a West Indies lilt. “They call me Mal, sir. I was assigned to the 1
^st
Battalion, 508
^th
Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4
^th
Brigade Combat Team, 82
^nd
Airborne Division in Operation Enduring Freedom in 2012. I was in Maiwand manning heavy weapons.”

“Is that your only experience?”

He nodded.

“Then why am I being assigned you and not someone with more experience?”

Ohirra chimed in. “PFC Macabre was awarded two Soldier’s Medals for saving the lives of his fellow soldiers in non-combat situations at Fort Bragg.”

“Two?” I asked. In my entire career I’d only heard of one being given away. A Soldier’s Medal was the highest medal in the peacetime Army and awarded only to those who’d saved someone’s life.

Ohirra nodded. “Two. In a six-month period.”

One Soldier’s Medal would tell me he was conscientious of his fellow soldiers. I wasn’t sure what two meant. I reminded myself to ask Mal what he’d done.

“You weren’t assigned to Fort Irwin. How is it you came to be here?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. I was on leave in Colorado skiing with some of my mates when the alien invasion happened. Fort Carson was hive central, so we headed here.”

And finally, “What about you?” I asked the third soldier.

She looked a little stunned, but quickly recovered. She was clearly Middle Eastern. She had a scar across her nose like it had almost been cut off. She wore a flattop just like Stranz, only hers was jet black. Only concern I had was she was five feet tall if she was an inch.

“I’m Corporal Sula Ali, Sir. I spent three tours in Afghanistan assigned to Psychological Operations.”

I ignored the suppressed smiles from both Stranz and Macabre and asked, “What does PSYOP do in the field?” Because I didn’t actually know.

“Sir, we go into each village and embed ourselves so that the populace understands our message and is comfortable with our presence.”

I stared at the other two and said, “So you don’t work from an FOB?” The other two would have projected from a forward operating base, returning to it so they could sleep snugly behind high security fencing.

“No, sir. We lived with the indigs.”

“Did you feel the danger?”

“Every damned second.”

“Then why’d you do it?” I asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it said aloud.

“It was important that they knew we were all in like they were all in. They were used to people rushing out from FOB and then back to FOB and leaving them alone. We stayed with them. We became part of the village.”

“You made them part of the team,” I said.

“And they made us part of their family,” she added.

I observed the soldiers. I had these three, Ohirra, and then Dewhurst, who was leading the overall mission. Six grunts on my team. Six grunts to take down one hive, while Olivares took down the other hive with six of his own.

Tonight we’re going to show you eight silent ways to kill a man.

Joe Haldeman,
The Forever War