Grunt Traitor (5 page)

“Am I done here?” he said, not bothering to look up.

I noted the man’s impatience and wondered what his reluctance stemmed from. After all, he wasn’t the one going out on a mission.

“Not yet. Wait for questions.”

Malrimple sighed heavily.

Mr. Pink turned to me. “This is where you come in, Mason.”

I could have left it alone. Maybe I should have left it alone. A good soldier would have behaved better. Then again, I never was much of a good soldier. So ignoring Mr. Pink, I spoke directly to Malrimple.

“Do you have a problem with me?” I figured blunt was the best method.

He looked up, his eyes wide at first, then narrowed. “No, not at all.”

“I’m asking because you’ve barely made eye contact and your entire effort seems forced. You do realize I’m going out on the mission, Malrimple? You do know that it’s going to be dangerous and your thumbnail sketch of the information is hardly adequate? I could have gotten this information in the mess hall just by talking to a few grunts.”

Mr. Pink held up a hand. “Hold on now, Mason.”

Malrimple squirmed like a bug at the end of a needle. “Can I go now?”

Mr. Pink nodded.

I rolled my eyes. Once Malrimple was out of the room, I leveled my gaze at Mr. Pink. “Seriously? Chief of Science?”

Mr. Pink hesitated, then said, “He has a lot on his mind. But that’s okay. Mr. Dupree is going to brief you after this. Lt. Ohirra?”

“Okay, Ben. Here’s your mission. We’re going to infil you into Crestline via helicopter at 0200. We can’t get you any closer to Los Angeles because of the twin hives. You’ll be escorting Mr. Dupree. It’s your responsibility to get him to where he’s going and return him without harm.”

I glanced at Dupree, who was smiling as if this was all a great adventure.

Ohirra added, “We’re looking for the smallest possible footprint. There are too many unknowns out there at this time.”

“Commo?”

“Prick-77.”

I raised my eyebrows. The prick-77 was Vietnam era.

“It’s okay. We have retransmitters in Crestline and Yermo with ground plane antennas. We’ve also attached an extender which will enable an additional fifteen miles.”

“So that’s twenty mile range. We’re talking Rialto, which isn’t anywhere near L.A.”

She shrugged. “It’s the best we can do.”

Dupree spoke for the first time. “We might not have to get all the way into Los Angeles. There’s a plant—a vine—that I need samples of. One of my counterparts in Argentina says that it is the locus for spores that may have deleterious effects.”

I turned to Mr. Pink. “I’m on escort duty to get a
vine
using Vietnam-era equipment?”

Dupree sat forward. “You don’t understand, Mr. Mason. This isn’t a terrestrial vine. It grows impossibly fast. This is the next species. This could be a different form of attack, or it could be terraforming.”

“Or both,” Mr. Pink added.

The rise in temperature and the addition of alien flora definitely suggested something happening. This mission could mean a lot more than it seemed. But with only two of us—scratch that;
one
of us capable of using weapons—it was going to be sketchy at best. “What do we know about possible enemy forces in the area?”

“The twin hives of Los Angeles still hold a complement of Cray, but they don’t stray far from their queens. Unless you get close, you won’t have to worry about them. As far as civilians go, we’ve reports that more than half of the population was killed during the first attack and ensuing months. Of those who remain, I’d expect organized defenses, roving gangs, paramilitary groups.” Ohirra smiled. “You know, the usual.”

To Dupree I said, “Ever carry a gun?”

“I spent four years in the Marine Corps.”

“Thank God. Then I expect you know your way around an M4.”

“Make that an M16.”

“Think of an M4 as an M16 that actually works.”

He grinned. “Probably some scientist figured out what was wrong with it.”

“Or enough grunts got killed for Congress to allocate the money for a new rifle.”

Dupree kept smiling. “That’s one thing we don’t have to worry about anymore: Congress.”

“You smile a lot, don’t you?”

“Why not? This is a great time to be a scientist. I mean, aliens are invading and trying to take over our planet. What’s not to love?”

I shook my head. “That’s a whole lot of lemonade you’re making.”

He just kept smiling.

Once we have a war there is only one thing to do. It must be won. For defeat brings worse things than any that can ever happen in war.

Ernest Hemingway

CHAPTER FIVE

I
T’D BEEN MORE
than six months since I’d had to get ready for a mission. Back then, Olivares and I were preparing to climb down the mouth of an extinct volcano and the packing list was completely different. This was to be more of a reconnaissance. I was planning for three days max, then exfil, so I spent the rest of the day going over maps and checking my equipment. I chose to wear military fatigues, even though it would set me apart from the civilians I’d encounter; I figured they might see me as a friend rather than an immediate foe. I checked out two sets of Night Vision Devices, as well as two extra batteries for the AN\PRC-77, or prick-77 as we called it. For weapons I chose a P226, which I wore in a chest rig on my body armor. I selected a smaller P238, which I concealed in the small of my back. For my long rifle I was elated to find an HK416. It fired the same 5.56 mm rounds that the M4 fired, but was easier to clean and cold metal forged. I’d never fired one before. The closest I’d gotten to one was back in Africa when the infantry platoon used them in backing up my recon squad. But back then I’d worn an EXO suit and had little need for a mere rifle.

I also checked out a 416 and P226 for Dupree, along with 300 rounds of ammo for both of us. I’d have liked to have had more, but we could only carry so much. Then I packed a first aid kit with some quick clot gauze along with some super glue. Finally I found some MREs and broke them down. I prepared two canteens and had a two-quart shoulder sling canteen ready for Dupree.

Then I spent a few hours going over maps¸ planning several routes and concentrating on open spaces and safe areas in the event we were chased or had to go to ground, which I could almost guarantee was going to happen. Based on the desperation of the man I’d seen in Mr. Pink’s office, it was a high probability that any encounter would be a violent one, which was why I intended to travel at night as much as possible.

I’d arranged for Dupree to come by at 1400 hours for a mission brief and weapons familiarization. Then I spent the rest of the day sitting in intel spaces beside the analysts keeping track of population movements outside the wire. Without satellite coverage, we were limited to UAVs for IMINT (imagery intelligence), which were used sparingly and always during the day. The only other int they were able to use was HUMINT (human-derived intelligence), which meant they had collectors both overtly speaking to refugees, and clandestinely embedded within groups.

Lt. Rosamilla briefed me. “God’s New Army, or GNA, is the most organized of the groups operating in the greater L.A. area. Their HQ is West Covina Plaza, what used to be a mall.”

“I’ve been there to see movies before.”

Rosamilla made a face. “No such thing as movies anymore.”

“Unless you count reruns.”

“Fuck nostalgia.”

I grinned as Bruce Willis, Clint Eastwood and Woody Harrelson rolled over in their Cray-made graves. I was starting to like Rosamilla. He said what he wanted and didn’t hold back. I found that unique in a lieutenant. They were normally so tightly wound that even swearing in public would send them spinning into a panic.

“Back to GNA.”

“Right. Their strength is about four thousand. They operate like a brigade, with four battalions of eight hundred people at remote stations and one battalion of eight hundred on site. Remote locations are Turnbull Canyon in Whittier, Chino Airport, Knott’s Berry Farm in Buena Park, and Seal Beach.”

Looking at a map, I noticed something. “So it looks like the 605 is their front. Are they actively fighting the Cray?”

“Negative. They stay away, and the Cray leave them alone.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The population west of the 605 is evidencing extraordinarily violent behavior. Reports are that they’ve become quite savage, attacking anything that moves.”

“Jesus, you’re talking like they’re zombies.”

“Perhaps their behavior is similar, but these people are alive. And we don’t think it’s behavioral. We believe its chemical.”

I frowned. “So there’s something in the water.”

“Or in the air.” Rosamilla shook his head. “We just don’t know.”

“Tell me about GNA. What’s their mission?”

“They’re led by none other than Paul Sebring.”

“
The
Paul Sebring? The guy who hosted that amateur singing show called Sing America?”

“Same one. Turns out to be a pretty effective demagogue.”

“I’d have expected it to be run by a general.”

“The chief of staff is retired Major General Carlos Murphy, who once commanded the 4
^th
Infantry Division.”

“That would explain it. You know, I watched the show and wasn’t aware that Sebring was religious.”

“He’s not. God is just a rallying point. He’s built a core group, a cult of personality, which serves as his inner circle. We have a source inside, but given the challenges of distance and radio, our reports are weekly.”

“Any thought of putting up some relay antennas?” I asked.

Rosamilla shrugged. “It’s on our list of things to do, but it’s a long fucking list.”

“I hear ya,” I said.

“Back to GNA. Right now they’re doing what we can’t. They’re trying to establish a zone in which law and order is the rule, and are fighting back incursions from those west of the 605, as well as smaller groups in the area.”

“What about these other groups? GNA doesn’t sound so bad. There must be some that are more... how should I put it... like
The Road Warrior
?”

“There are. You’ll have to pass through Fontana, which means you might come across Devil’s Thunder. They were a biker gang, but after the alien invasion, they became a militia. They’re your standard rape, pillage, and burn happy group of fellows. They control the I-15 corridor between Fontana and Victorville.”

“Splendid. We’re going to have to cross I-15. Why is it we can’t land further west?” I sighed. “Oh, yeah. The Cray and their nasty EMPs. Speaking of, should there be any concern?”

“The Twin Hives give off a pulse of EMP with a coverage area between the 405 and 605 to the east and west and the 405 and Angeles National Forest to the north and south. It fires every seven hours like clockwork.”

Over the next hour Rosamilla continued showing me the different players in the game.

Palm Springs was controlled by a battalion-sized element of Marines who had looted the supply depot-rail head at Yermo. Their policy was to shoot first and ask questions never. With the great windmills still running, they had a corner on the electricity market. If the Cray ever found them, their hedonistic, shoot-’em-up fuck-fest would forever change, but until then, they were a happy lot of Marines with enough booze and women to fuel them into the next century.

Rancho Cucamonga had a group called the Caspers. These white supremacists were trying to bring back the KKK and use the opportunity to ethnically cleanse their little suburban area.

Corona had the New Panthers, named after the local high school mascot. These guys seemed to be the only ones without an agenda. Just trying to keep families together and figure out a way to survive.

Then, of course, there were roaming bands of looters hitting houses and businesses. They were coming north from as far south as Anaheim. It was ridiculous, really. Rosamilla believed it was consumer habit. Now, with all the stores looted or destroyed, they were forced to push into the interior to achieve serotonin release.

On the walk back to my tent, I couldn’t help wonder what we were fighting for. Back at Kilimanjaro we’d been fighting for those to our left and right. We gave it all so that they wouldn’t die. But in the back of our minds we were also fighting for our families, our communities, our countries. We fought for the things with which we identified.

What was I fighting for now?

America was gone.

I had no family.

Our entire way of life was shattered.

Everyone was at war with each other.

Survival of the fittest
was the theme of the day.

So what was it?

But I knew. I was fighting for Michelle. I was fighting for Thompson. I was even fighting for Olivares. I was fighting for every member of OMBRA Special Operations North America. I was fighting for them because they were my mates, my partners, my peers.