Marine Summer: Year 2041 (8 page)

Sobbing and sniffling, Wyatt confessed, “Please forgive us. We knew it was wrong, but we made a deal with them.”

“Made a deal with who?”

“The visitors, the aliens,” he hung his head in shame. “They said if we helped them, they’d let us live out the rest of our lives unharmed.”

“How the fuck did you communicate with them?” Buckley asked, seizing a handful Wyatt’s hair and forcing his head up.

“They know our language. They know everything about us. Said if we poisoned everyone that came through here, we could stay here. We got tired of the killing though, that’s why we tried to scare you away. We couldn’t stand it anymore. We didn’t want to kill anymore.”

“How many? How many did you kill?” Buckley screamed at him.

“All of them,” he blubbered.

Shaking his head, Buckley released him, standing back up and holstering his pistol.

“Son, where’s the bodies?”

“At the bottom of the hill,” he nodded toward the picturesque valley that I had admired so much.

I was the first to make it to the edge. Looking down, I only saw brush, trees, and snow.

“I don’t see them,” I said.

“Let’s go down there,” Buckley said.

We only had to walk about fifty yards past the timberline when hell appeared. Rotting corpses and skeletons lay piled together, mangled in an atrocious heap of carcasses. Two to three hundred remains rested at the bottom of that hill, stealing its beauty and turning it ugly.

As we returned to the camp, Wyatt begged for his life. “Please don’t kill me. I’ve got weapons, ammo, and everything you need is here. It’s yours, please, just don’t kill me.”

Buckley wouldn’t even look at him. “Son…we’ll take everything. But you’re a traitor. And in a few minutes, you will be judged, and that judgment will be death.”

We fastened Wyatt James to the lone flagpole overlooking that valley of death. His hands tied behind his back, he stood awaiting his fate, watching as we emptied their stockpile of weapons and packed up their supplies.

Finally, all of us in a line, ten yards in front of him, we became the firing squad, his inevitable doom. We all listened as Sarge condemned the man.

“Wyatt James, you have been found guilty of treason, consorting with the enemy to murder your fellow man. I have no pity for you. You are a disgrace to the uniform, the Army, and this country. For your vile sins against mankind, you will be put to death.” Turning to face the traitor and look him in the eye, Buckley asked, “Do you have any last words?”

He had no more tears. I think he had accepted his fate. He just shook his head and closed his eyes.

“Platoon—Ready!” We raised our rifles. “Aim!” I nervously looked down the sights as Wyatt looked up to the sky.

“I’m sorry,” he silently mouthed the words.

“FIRE!”

It was done. I don’t know how many shots actually hit him, but Buckley said they were all head shots. No rounds hit the body. He showed no emotion as we packed the gear down the hill, although I was struggling with mine. Two soldiers had died today because of the enemy, both with the help of my hand. I didn’t feel this way when I split that alien bastard’s head open. But these two, they were soldiers.

We left the last one, James, hanging where he died. And for those who had turned him, when they came calling they would find a note. It was a simple note Buckley nailed to his chest.

We will find you and we will kill you
.

My emotions were starting to get the best of me. If it wasn’t for the love of my new friend, I thought my heart would turn black. Buckley didn’t argue with me again about getting rid of the dog. As we headed west, it wasn’t that important to him. I named him Rags since we had fashioned a coat out of rags to keep him warm. He would become the only source of joy in our ranks on that old ragged bus. The only part that irritated Sarge was the pit stops. We had to bus train Rags. But as much as Sarge griped about it, he still stopped to let the dog out to do his business.

We went from barren town to barren town. At times it felt like the world had forgotten about us. It truly looked like Armageddon.

Salvaging and searching for supplies was our main daily activity. Others would get their chances to bilge dive for fuel as well.

Sarge set course through lower Idaho, back into Oregon, and up to Washington. He wanted to know if Seattle was still standing. As we would eventually find out, it was more than standing.

“Whoa…,” he said his foot stomped the brake pedal. “That ain’t a welcoming committee.”

We all rushed to the front of the bus, fighting for position, to take a look. We had been traveling I-90 toward Seattle when a roadblock stopped us dead in our tracks.

“Hope they know we’re friendlies,” Buckley said.

Six M-1 Abrams tanks blocked our path, concrete barriers stretched out in front of them. Stone boulders were stacked ten feet behind them, with a door that looked like it was made of iron placed in the middle.

“Where’s the soldiers?” I asked.

The turrets on the tanks swiftly zeroed in on us.

“My guess is they’re in the tanks,” Buckley said. “You men stay here. Don’t leave this bus. They don’t know who we are. A single round from one of those bad boys will disintegrate this bus and everything in it.”

“You’re not going out there, are you Sarge?” I asked.

“What, you want to go back the way we came?”

“Not really.”

“Well, me either. But if I don’t let them know who we are. They’ll blow us off this highway. Stay put. I’ll be right back,” he said, standing and un-holstering his pistol.

“You can’t go out there unarmed,” Houserman said.

“What’s a pistol going to do to a tank, moron? Shut your hole and get in your seat!”

His hair long past his collar, scraggly beard hanging six inches past his chin, Buckley didn’t look like a standard Marine. We all watched intently as he dropped his coat on the ground in front of the bus. Raising his hands, he spun around.

“He’s showing he doesn’t have any weapons,” Houserman said.

“We don’t need a play-by-play, dickhead. Keep quiet, all of you!” I said, slinking down in the driver’s seat.

Buckley kept a slow steady pace, hands raised high in the air as he neared the gate. He was only thirty or so feet when armed soldiers busted through the gate, weapons drawn, ordering him to the ground.

“Sarge!” Johnson said, his voice shrieking behind me. I felt the bus shake as he rushed from his seat, placing my arm in front of the aisle to block him.

“Sit the fuck down!” I demanded.

“But they’re cuffing him!”

“They have too! They’ll identify him and let him go, I’m sure of it!” I raised off my seat shoving him back.
I hope they let him go
, I thought to myself.

Thirty minutes passed and still no sign of Sarge. We all were tense, our emotions starting to boil over. Then, all of a sudden, a weak but familiar sound caught our attention. The sound was soft and sounded muffled at first, but grew louder as a black spot appeared in the distance behind the wall, growing larger as it approached.

The same time the AH-1W SuperCobra attack helicopter hit the wall, the gates started to open. The rotor’s wop-wop sound became clearer as it hovered over our location. A single jeep carrying Buckley in the passenger seat made its way back to the bus.

“We got an escort, boys,” Buckley said as he boarded the bus.

Cheers of joy and relief resonated through that old tin can. Crushing ‘Oorah’s filled its old shell. For the moment, all of the nightmarish moments we had endured would be forgotten. It felt good to look around at the smiling faces as the bus headed for safety behind those gates.

“Hey Sarge,” I called. “Is there a camp here?”

Rolling his head to the side, he said, “Camp…no camp. There’s a base and it’s a big one!”

I thought Fort Rice was a big base. I was getting a little anxious to see this one.

As we rode along we watched the road ahead. There were little outposts set up on the side of the highway and a few trailers surrounded by tents. Military personnel stationed at roadblocks rubbernecked as we drove by.

“This is a base?” I asked. “It’s smaller than Rice.”

Amused by my observation, Buckley erupted with laughter. “Not this, boys…this! Eyes—Left!”

As the bus exited the highway, I couldn’t believe my eyes, I had seen nothing like it. Dug into the side of the mountain, they had trenched a road, a hundred yards or so wide and at least a mile long. It led up to something spectacular.

“Welcome to Tiger Mountain, boys!” Buckley said.

The escort helicopter took off in front of us, banking upward and to the left as it neared the base. The road dead-ended into the side of the mountain, where we saw a structure hundreds of feet high with gun turrets placed throughout different levels. Blacked out glass reflected the surrounding terrain. Black steel beams reached upward, protecting its walls. It was shaped like a pyramid that had been tucked neatly into the mountain, like it was born there.

“What is this place?” Houserman asked.

“United States Joint Defense Installation, U.S.S. Tiger Mountain,” Buckley answered.

The closer we came, the more dwarfed we felt. Our tiny bus looked like a pebble rolling toward a dam. But this dam didn’t hold back water.

A Marine in a white suit, only his face showing through the glass shield, pointed to the lot on the right, directing Buckley to drive in. As we made the right turn, another motioned for us to stop in front of him.

Buckley slid the window open, “Soldier,” he called. “Aren’t we supposed to go in there?”

“I’m sorry, sergeant. Your bus will not be permitted. We have arranged alternative transportation. I need you to exit the vehicle and follow me,” the soldier said, pointing about twenty yards right of the gate.

I pulled a rope from my pack and fashioned a leash for Rags. We grabbed only what we could carry, weapons and our rucksacks.

“Leave the rest here!” Buckley ordered.

As we stepped off the bus a soldier directed us to the door as another waited for us to leave. Once the bus was clear, he drove it off.

“What are they doing with the bus?” Buckley asked.

“They’ll dispose of it, sergeant. Please follow me,” he said.

The soldier pulled the handle on the hatch. Eight locks swiveled away, allowing it to swing open. He pointed inside, motioning for us to enter. As soon as I stepped through, a burst of air on my head startled me.

“Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen, it’s just an air shower. To capture any possible contamination. Please proceed to the end of the grating. Go through the two doors and take a seat on the wall.”

The chamber was dark, dimly lit. Running water cascaded under our feet as we walked over the grating. Two men stood behind the double doors as we entered, protective suits hiding their uniforms.

As we all set on the ledge of the tiled wall, one of the men spoke. “Please remove all clothing, jewelry, and anything else other than your dog-tags. Step up to this line.” He pointed to the orange line at his feet. “We will hand each of you a bar of soap. Once you are finished cleaning, dispose of the bar through the grating and wait for the others to finish.”

Other than my snow bath, I think this was the second bath I’d had in months. Slightly embarrassed to be naked in front of complete strangers, I still enjoyed the warmth of the water. Even Rags was happy to get a scrub down.

Once finished we stood waiting in all our glory before being directed through the next set of doors, where another man handed out towels.

“Gentlemen, once you are dried you’ll find in these lockers a pair of skivvies and a black pair of coveralls. Put those on and we’ll hand out slippers for you to wear.”

“Wait a second, are we being arrested? I’ve been arrested before and it feels a lot like this,” Buckley said.

“No, sergeant, you aren’t being arrested. The environment inside the fort is very critical. Since you’ve been out in the field so long, we will take no chance of contamination. Even our other soldiers returning from ops go through the same procedures. Please, let’s keep moving.”

“What about our gear?” Buckley asked.

“It will be checked, logged in, and returned once it passes screening. And the dog will not be permitted into the facility. I’m sorry.”

Half-naked, I leaned down and clung to Rags.

“Wait a damn minute,” Buckley said. “That dog is regulation. He’s a service dog. We don’t turn our backs on members of our platoon.”

“Just a minute, sergeant,” the soldier said.

I shot Buckley a puzzled look. I was confused. Raising his eyebrows, he shrugged at me. The soldier had gone over to the phone located on the back wall. I tried to hear what he was saying but he was too far away.

As he hung up the phone, he said, “The officer on duty said he must be able to perform commands established with military training.”

“Easy enough,” Buckley said, stepping to my side he whispered, “You better pull this out of your ass, Butler. I’m sticking my neck out here.”

I took a step from the ranks, urging Rags to follow. His round eyes gently looked up at me. I had never given him any commands before, not even “Sit,” I didn’t know what was about to happen.

“All right, boy.” I pointed at the soldier who made the call. “Attack!”

The wet rope was as limp as a noodle. Rags just sat there looking up at me.

“Attack!” I commanded him.

I looked at Buckley for help. He just rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’ll need to take the dog,” the soldier said as he headed for Rags.

The rope snapped tight as Rags lunged at him, teeth bared. He was barking with every breath he had in him. The soldier tripped over a raised piece of grating, falling to his backside on the wet surface. The small twine of the rope started to unravel.

“Heel! Heel!” I shouted at Rags, who immediately ceased his advances, running behind me and sitting behind my legs. His head pressed against my leg as he spied the fallen man, his upper lip still quivering as he gave a low growl to show his displeasure.

“Enough, boy,” I said, reaching down to pat his head, feeling him nuzzle and lick my palm.

“Want to go for round two, or have you seen enough?” Buckley asked, offering the soldier a hand up.

The man pushed his hand away, getting up on his own, “No, thank you,” he huffed. “Just proceed through the next door, enter car ‘B’, and stand fast.”

“Will do. Let’s go boys,” Sarge said.

Outside the exit, we entered a long, silver tram car. It had no seats, just hand straps hanging from the ceiling.

“Good morning gentleman, this is Corporal Jones. Welcome to Tiger Mountain,” a voice said over the car’s intercom. “We’ll be heading a mile into the facility. You’ll be able to view the main access to your left, and make note from your observations that this is like an actual working city, although it’s underground. All branches of the military are represented here. Upon reaching the end of the line, please wait in your assigned car and I’ll meet you on the platform with further directions. Enjoy the ride.”

A little jostle and the car was moving. I clung to the strap with one hand and Rag’s homemade leash with the other. The car smoothed out in a few seconds, like it was riding on air. The humming of the electric motor filled the cabin.

“Girls!” Houserman pointed out.

All of our faces now pressed against the window, each of us ogling the gorgeous young ladies. It had been some time since any of us had seen a girl—or anybody else, for that matter.

I was amazed by the main access. Sidewalks lined both sides, and bright street lamps provided more than sufficient light. People were hustling about, both uniforms and civilians walking in both directions. Tunnels led to other areas—I was able to read a sign that said, “This way to Dining Hall, PX and Movie Theater.” This place was amazing, nothing like anything any of us had seen before.

As the tram stopped, I waited to step on the platform and explore this big underground city. I was fascinated by the view and I wanted to know its secrets. The station overlooked a large domed area resembling a park. People were sitting on benches and eating at picnic tables, and kids running on what looked like green turf.

“Gentlemen, if you will,” Jones said as the doors opened. “Please stay on the red line.”

Lines were painted everywhere; signs hung on the walls indicating what each color stood for. Red was ours, the Marines.