Skyfire (10 page)

JACK

Jack sat reclined onto the back two legs of a folding chair.  He was inside a tent that had become the brigade intelligence shop.  Shitty Panasonic Toughbooks he wouldn’t give to a four year-old rested atop folding tables crammed together to form makeshift workstations.  There was no connectivity, meaning any information transmitted via the secure web based intelligence network (SIPR) was nonexistent.  Local files included detailed maps of the New York metropolitan area, along with a slew of dossiers, targeting packages, and debriefs. 
Maps are always useful.  The rest of it is crap.  The other materials would have been extremely beneficial were this a conventional terrorist attack.  Holy shit, I just called a terrorist attack conventional.  At what point does something become normal?  When will that thing above the city be normal to me? 

A projector screen stood on the far side of the tent.  Temporary lighting stands were constantly picked up and moved by people who needed to do work.  The tent was a hive of activity.  Everyone had a job and knew what to do.  Jack stared intently at a soldier he had never met as he worked diligently connecting one of the laptops to the projector on a table a few feet back from the screen. 
That kid is a brand new private.  He doesn’t look any older than 18.  Jesus Christ.  I remember when Williams died back in ’08.  He was 17.  His parents signed the paperwork.  They must have been so proud the day he left.  They can be proud of the kid’s intentions.  They were pure.  He was a good dude.  Unfortunately, he bought into a line of bullshit fed to him by retarded politicians.  That’s the deep south for you, I guess.  Fuck, the kid saw me looking at him.  Now I have to go over there.

Jack looked above the soldier’s right breast pocket for his name as he walked over to him.  Over the years he’d become adept at stealing subtle glances at nametapes.  Most people thought he just knew everyone.  Either that or they were humoring him.  “Private… Soss.  How are you this afternoon?”

“Sir!” The soldier snapped to attention, locking eyes with Major Rugerman.

Ugh, this kid is just out of basic.  I remember what that was like.  He just wants to please everyone.
  “Relax, man.  Chill.  Keep doing what you’re doing.  You’re doing fine.  Where are you from, Private Soss?”

“Sir, I’m from Florida.”

“What part?”

“About 100 miles outside of Tallahassee, sir.  Closer to Alabama.”

Of course you are. 
“Excellent.  I know the area well.  My friend got married there last year.  It’s beautiful in the summer and the people are so nice.  You must miss it very much.” 
Nope, never been to Tallahassee before.  Never will.
 

“Roger, sir.  I miss my girlfriend so much.  We’ve been together for almost a year.”

“That’s awesome, Soss.  Really, it is.  Think of it this way - you’re here so she can stay safe.”
Cue the verbal diarrhea.
  “I bet she’s really proud of you.  You’re going to do great, man.  Don’t hesitate to stop me if you have any questions.  I’m the S2, Major Rugerman, in case you didn’t know.”

Master Sergeant Michael Martin, Jack’s second-in-command, stormed toward them. “Fucking Christ, Soss. I can’t leave you alone for two fucking minutes without your ass going off and talking to people you have no business talking to.  Why the hell is a private talking to a major and not his team leader?  I should grab you and Harrison and smoke the shit out of the both of you!”  Martin was a large man, slightly out of shape, with thinning hair masked by a close-cropped military haircut. 

“Sergeant Martin, a second please?” asked Jack.

“Sure sir, what’s up?”

Jack turned back to Soss. “Good meeting you, private.  Keep doing what you’re doing.  Don’t worry about Sergeant Martin here.  He’s a giant softie.  Did you know his favorite movie is ‘Love Actually’?  He just loves anything with Hugh Grant in it.  He celebrates his entire catalogue.  And I just realized you were probably still shitting your pants when that came out, if you were alive at all.  Anyway, Sergeant Martin, let’s walk and talk.”

Jack and Mike Martin were great friends.  They understood each other’s roles and duty positions; they had been through a tour of duty overseas together.  They always worked together, and they had come from the same battalion before landing their current jobs.  10
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Mountain was pretty good at keeping people together like that.  Many units seemed to separate people on principle, to give them a broader spectrum of experience, or to keep them from getting too familiar.  When something worked, 10
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Mountain believed in leaving it alone until it was time for the soldiers to move on with their separate careers.  Even then, more often than not, they moved to another unit within 10
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Mountain.  Fort Drum, New York was a shithole; the temperature was below zero for most of the winter.  But no one could deny the strength of the division’s track record.  It was doing something right.

“New guy?” asked Jack.

“Yeah,” said Mike.

“Ours?”

“Yep.”

“Good dude?”

“Not sure yet.  Think so.”

“Good,” said Jack.

The two knew each other almost too well.  They didn’t have to speak much.  Often, each knew what the other was about to say. They got together after work, on the weekends.  Their families knew each other well.  In fact, if it weren’t for their families supporting each other back home during Jack’s and Mike’s previous tour, it would have been a nightmare for both of them.  Their wives hung out and talked and their kids played together.  The families joked that Mike and Jack were the ones who were really married.

“OK man, here’s the deal,” said Jack.

“This should be good.”

“Here’s what we know.  That thing above the city is somehow making people sick and causing some of them to die.  You could see that driving down the New York Throughway from Fort Drum.  As we got closer and closer to the city, we saw more and more crashed cars, dead bodies, and general disarray.  It didn’t make much sense, but I’m taking a shot in the dark and saying it has something to do with that thing over the city.”

“Yeah, we saw the same thing on our chalk coming down here.  We got out a few times to piss and stretch our legs.  I walked up to one of the cars that crashed into a guardrail and what the fuck, man.”

“Red eyes and fucked up skin?” asked Jack.  “Pale as shit with those rashes?”

“Sir, it was insane.  It wasn’t just one of them either.  I looked around a little more before mounting up again.  It’s everyone, kids too.  Fucking kids, man.” Martin sounded exasperated.

“I know.”

“So what do we do?  Have you met anyone with these symptoms who hasn’t died yet?”

“Not yet. But listen, there’s more,” said Jack, apprehension creeping into his voice. 

“By all means, enlighten me.”

“Remember that thing I told you I did in Afghanistan a few years back when I was a battalion S2?”

“Yeah. With your friend the doctor, right?”

“Yeah.  Well, the experience I had there and then again in the jungles of Peru took me to the same place over and over.  Every time I saw things that looked pretty damn similar to the thing hovering over the city.  I saw different types that were different colors.  Each one had a distinct emotional feeling associated with it,” said Jack, hoping he didn’t sound too ridiculous.

“OK.” Mike looked predictably skeptical.

“Shit, you don’t believe me even a little.”

“Sir, it’s not that I don’t believe you.  I believe that YOU believe what you saw was the same as this thing.  But how the hell do we really know?  Objectively, it all sounds a little flimsy.  I mean, think about what you would have thought if someone came to you describing that experience from Afghanistan to you before you knew what it was,” said Mike.

“Fair enough.  But I know I’m right, Mike.  We need to get some ISR (Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance) up in the air.  I want to take a closer look. And I sure as hell know the colonel’s going to want a look when he gets back from that leader’s recon.  See what we can get up in the air in the next hour.  I don’t care if it’s fucking Harrison with a Raven.” 
I wish I could sit his ass down and make him smoke four pulls of DMT right here in this S2 shop.  It would take fifteen minutes.  I wouldn’t have to explain anything to him. 
Ravens were small, unmanned aerial vehicles at the lowest level of the military’s organizational structure.  They were not the most high tech - they were more like model airplanes than anything resembling a reconnaissance asset - but they could be deployed very quickly.

“You got it, sir.”  Sergeant Martin started moving.  “Harrison! Where the fuck are ya?” He disappeared out of the tent.

Just as Martin was leaving, a group of four men walked into the S2 shop.  They were dressed in uniforms that were unmarked except for call sign abbreviations - two letters and one number - on their right shoulder, on pockets canted down and slightly forward to facilitate easy access.  They all wore combat gear that looked newer and better than anything Jack had ever touched in the 10
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Mountain Division.  He could tell that their M4s were not the standard Colt Firearms version; they were newer and more efficient, easier to clean, harder to jam, piston-operated and supplied by outside manufacturers, such as Heckler & Koch.  Jack overheard one of them just outside the tent.

“Hey sergeant, how’s it going?  This the two shop?”

“Yeah, who’s looking?”

“Karl McMullin,” said the one that looked to be in charge.

“Right, whatever.”  Martin knew they were military, but hated how they went around purposefully providing as little information as possible, even if they were talking to people who had clearance.  Martin had always viewed it as their passive-aggressive way of letting everyone know they were special.  He had always complained to Jack, ‘WE GET IT, YOU’RE FUCKING DELTA.  LET’S MOVE ON’.  Part of it was some Delta operators’ inherent douchiness, but a lot of it was just Martin’s own insecurities.  In this case, Jack recognized the voice of the man about to enter the tent.  It was unmistakable.

Karl walked into the S2 tent.  He scanned to the left and right for the intelligence officer.  Jack saw him first and walked over. 
Awesome!  Fucking awesome!
  Jack was elated.

Karl grinned when he saw Jack. The two men hugged like brothers who hadn’t seen each other in ten years.

“Dude, what the fuck you doing here?” said Jack.

“Same thing you are!”

“They tell you anything cool at magical delta-land before you came up here to take credit for all the work we’re about to do?”

Karl laughed.  “Not a goddamn thing.  Wouldn’t have it any other way.  I can’t wait to figure out what this thing is.  Huntin’ down fuckin’ haj in some dusty shithole was getting old.”

“C’mon man, you’re not allowed to say that anymore.  They’re ‘Arab Americans,’” Jack said with a sarcastic smile.

“No, no. It’s cool, man. I got an Arab friend. I like their food!”  

The men met each other when they were cadets at West Point.  During their first year they had boxed against each other in a graded bout for their mandatory plebe boxing class.  Jack had given Karl a bloody nose with his long reach, but Karl won on points and technique.  They were the best of friends, and had spent their first few years in the army together. When they were captains, Jack became an intelligence officer and Karl a Delta operator.

They sat down to catch up and discuss what was happening.  It was as if they had never been apart. 

Karl scanned the tent-turned-S2-shop, the hive of junior-enlisted activity all around him.  He pointe
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to a table near Jack.  “Jack, are those the new model of GoPro cameras?”

“Yeah man, this may be the one time 10
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Mountain has bought something before tier-one guys.  They’re pretty fuckin’ awesome.  Remember those shitty helmet cams some of the guys had in Iraq?  They’re seriously like the greatest thing ever compared to those things.”

“Totally, I can’t wait till we get them.  I guess we must’ve spent our money on toys for doing the actual work this fiscal year.”

“Zing,” said Jack.

“For real though, I need one of those things.  It would be so badass.  Have you seen how these fuckin’ things have revolutionized porn in the last few years?”

“Must’ve missed that one.” Jack chuckled.

“Dude!  OK, check it out. Who’s your favorite porn star?”

“Clearly, Rachel Starr,” said Jack.

“Really?  I thought you liked them all Nordic, you fucking Nazi.”

“Well yeah, I do, but you cannot deny that technique.  Jesus Christ.  I would pay good money to send my chick to a school to learn how to do that shit.”

“Your stupid ass doesn’t have a chick!” said Karl.

“I know.  I suck.  Married to this nonsense.”

“No shit.  Well, the other day, before there was a giant turd hovering over Manhattan, I saw a video of her doing that mind-blowing ass bounce thing while coming out of a swimming pool.  She just propped herself on the ledge and started doing her thing while a nice young man poured a generous helping of baby oil all over her ass.  He was her lawyer. He had a neck tattoo and abs that would make the P90X guy jealous.  It was so considerate of her attorney to make sure she was properly lubricated prior to receiving his wrecking ball cock of despair.  You could see every detail.”