“We have over a million troops defending Valhalla, they’re going to run out of men before we do,” I said. It was a poor attempt at humor, but it was also the truth.
We crossed the clearing, passing under that radio tower. There was something humbling about walking past a skeletal structure that was fifty times taller than me.
“You want someone else to scout for a while?” I asked. I knew Philips would turn down the offer. With so much tension running through him, he probably welcomed the chance to be alone.
“We’re almost back,” Philips said. He sped on ahead, vanishing behind the first row of trees. It was disorienting to see a man disappear into a well-lit forest. You expected him to disappear into shadows when he stepped under a tree. Now that the invaders had spread their ion curtain across our planet, the grounds under the trees were no darker than the grounds in the open.
“How are you two doing?” I asked, turning to Herrington and Boll. They had the hard job, dragging a 350-pound load on a travois through the snow. They didn’t complain, though, and when I offered to take my turn pulling, they turned me down. All Herrington would say was, “With all due respect, sir, I could use a shower and some rack time.”
Boll was even more circumspect. He grunted an unintelligible answer that ended with “sir.”
Five minutes later, Philips radioed in to say that he had rendezvoused with Moffat and his welcoming party. They escorted us back to town.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Hotel Valhalla was quite the billet. Officers had rooms to themselves. Enlisted men stayed in the convention center, where barracks had been set up in the enormous ballrooms. Before heading in for a debriefing with General Glade, I swung through the Valkyrie Ballroom to look in on my men.
Entering the cavernous room, I discovered that despite the elegant setting, inside the ballroom/barracks the life of enlisted men remained unchanged. Men lounged around in their skivvies speculating about who was scared and who nearly wet their pants. Including a support platoon, which mainly pushed papers and hauled supplies, our company had four platoons. Company command held the first platoon in reserve in case the battle went wrong. Second Platoon spent three hours posted just north of the front line, in case the aliens tried to flank the Army’s perimeter. Kelly Thomer and the Third Platoon spent the battle scouting enemy territory with me.
Now that the fighting was over, members from the various platoons sat around swapping exaggerated stories. To hear some of Thomer’s men talking, you would have thought we took on the whole alien army instead of hiding in the snow and watching them pass. The guys from the Second Platoon spun a good yarn about guarding the walls of the city. Sergeant Shepherd never once mentioned the rocket launchers and laser cannons, let alone the 150,000 soldiers on the bleeding edge of the battle. The way he told the story, it sounded like he and his men engaged in hand-to-hand combat.
Off in the distance, I saw Mark Philips, dressed in his government-issue boxers and tank top, sitting on his rack playing his harmonica. He could play a lively tune when he wanted, but now he played softly to himself. He slid the silver harmonica slowly back and forth across his mouth, and his eyes stared off in the distance.
“Sergeant Thomer,” I called. The entire pack of men stood, turned, and saluted. “Can I have a moment?”
Thomer joined me. I led him to an empty corner of the ballroom, far away from Philips, and still I spoke in a whisper. Under normal circumstances he did not care what people said about him; but Philips blamed himself for the deaths of White and Huish, and he might have developed a new sensitivity.
“How is Philips?” I asked.
Thomer was the only Marine that Philips actually considered a friend. They had served together for years.
“He isn’t talking. What happened out there?”
“His fire team ambushed an alien scouting party,” I said. “It went bad.”
“He says he got White and Huish killed,” Thomer said. “You were there. Did he do anything wrong?”
“It looked like a perfect op. Philips slipped in behind them without being seen. He waited for the order, then he opened fire.”
“So what happened?” Thomer asked.
“Those speckers are damn near bulletproof,” I said. “Their guns shot right through the ground. White was dead by the time the shooting stopped. Huish …he hung on for a while.”
Thomer nodded.
“Keep an eye on Philips. I don’t want him doing anything stupid,” I said.
“We’re talking about Mark Philips,” Thomer said. “When he gets like this, there’s no stopping him.”
“Well, do what you can,” I said. Thomer saluted and I saluted, and I headed to Base Command.
“Leave your helmet with my staff,” General Glade said. “We’ll download whatever you’ve got and let the boys in the Science Lab have a look at it.”
I always considered men to be out of uniform when they wore their combat armor without their helmets, but I knew better than to argue with a general. I took off my helmet and handed it to the major standing beside General Glade’s desk. The man showed no pleasure in accepting it. He turned to salute the general, then left the office.
Glade watched the man leave, then said, “Makes a great secretary, doesn’t he? He’s a piss-poor excuse for a Marine, but he does okay as a secretary. I hate having assholes like him on my staff.”
We stood in silence for a moment, then Glade said, “There’s something I want to show you. Let’s go for a ride, Harris.”
We left the offices, walked down to the lobby, and headed out of the hotel. A fancy black limousine awaited us in the hotel parking lot, the engine running, the driver waiting inside. “Head over to Vista,” Glade said as he climbed in behind the passenger’s seat. I sat behind the driver.
“Aye, aye, sir,” the driver said.
“Vista’s on the edge of town. You probably drove down it on your way in from the spaceport. Beyond that is Odin Street, but we don’t want to drive on Odin right now.” Huuhhhh huhhhhh. He cleared his throat. “Odin is the kill zone. There are trackers, rocket launchers, and a hellhole of mines waiting for anyone who so much as taps a toe on Odin Street.
“The way things stand now, Mo Newcastle’s Army boys are guarding Vista Street. Assuming those alien bastards come back, taking the battle to them is going to be our job.”
Mo Newcastle was General Morris Newcastle, the highest-ranking officer on New Copenhagen. I had never met him before, but I knew the name.
The miles of city we passed between the hotel and Vista were completely unchanged except for the unflinching light that now blanketed the city. The buildings were untouched. Tall skyscrapers lined the streets, their windows reflecting the light in blazing white squares.
Sixteen hours had passed since I’d led my platoon into the forest. We had left in the late afternoon, spent the night chasing aliens in the forest, and now it was nearly noon. There was something unnerving about living in an endless day, and I had not yet come to grips with it.
The closer we came to the city’s edge, the more apparent it became that we had entered a military zone. Soldiers patrolled the sidewalks. Lines of trucks ferried weapons and supplies ahead. Troop carriers and armored vehicles choked the streets, and the traffic crawled.
“Near as we can tell, they underestimated our numbers,” Glade said. “The Mudders came in about fifty thousand strong. We know that because we placed sensors outside the city.”
“The Mudders?” I asked.
“That seems to be the popular name for them around the ranks,” Glade said.
“Is that mudder as in you mudder-specking son of—”
Hhhhuhhh. Huhhhhh. Glade interrupted me by clearing his throat. “The term is ‘mud,’ as in the stuff you get when you mix water and dirt.”