Bethel Park, Pennsylvania
Roused by the morning trumpets — or the Druidth equivalent to trumpets which were curious devices that began at a wide piece that covered the mouth, extended down in a straight pipe, turning upward to the four finger studs, and ending like a J with a bulb and a small opening — Captain, for whatever that was worth, John Castle rolled off of his ‘bed’ and stood. Stretching to work out the kinks, he folded up the sheet of cardboard he used for a bed and stowed it away neatly because the camp guards liked it tidy.
Smoothing out the wrinkles in his filthy uniform, he left the lean-to made from a large piece of sheet metal and the remnants of a brick wall that he shared with four others, and fell into formation in the parade grounds before the music ended.
When it did flood lights came on to illuminate the assembled prisoners and the fifty foot statue erected at the head of the grounds. Depicting an older man wearing a Druidth tunic with armor plating, a sword hung at his side, short hair but long dreads growing from his sideburns; Castle supposed that they were fashionable on Vasghyrr but to his they looked ridiculous. The statue stood proudly with one foot raised on a stone and looking off and away from the gathered prisoners.
The camp Commandant then stepped into the light and began speaking in the sing-song language the aliens had, conducting a sermon to worship of the king of the Druidth. Bowing their heads, the assembled prisoners of war pretended to follow the sermon and pray to their new king. If you wanted to eat, or avoid a savage beating, you prayed to My-Nok, King of Vasghyrr and Ruler of the Druidth Empire.
With the sermon ending around dawn Castle, along with the several hundred prisoners, made his way to the commissary to collect his breakfast. He hoped there would still be some by the time he got there as everyday about a hundred people went hungry. You could always sign up for the workforce which went out to perform back breaking work in the fields that grew plants from Vasghyrr or build housing for the conquering troopers and be guaranteed a meal but the question was: was it worth it? Odds are you’d end up expending more calories than you’d get, so Castle didn’t think so.
Then there was the temptation to make a run for it but if someone ran they were killed, along with two others. Some were selfish enough not to care and took the chance, always getting caught, but the rest of them were responsible enough to care.
“Wonder if it’s water soup today?” A black Marine Captain asked from in front of him.
“Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to have grass for vegetables,” He added.
The Marine laughed and half turned to see him. “Submariner, eh?”
“Yeah, better than playing with bombs or storming beaches,” Castle jibbed.
He laughed again but turned back around. “Nah, you’re just dumb enough to get locked in a steel tube hundreds of feet under water. But hey, at least we don’t jump out of perfectly good airplanes.”
As the line advanced, Castle saw the man before him walk with a slight limp, blood crusting the back of his pants leg and a filthy bandage covering what must have been an infected wound. He asked, “You alright?”
The Marine looked down and nodded. “Yeah, just a scratch. Bastard who did it got torn apart by a shotgun, so I count myself lucky.” He stopped and collected his tray of food and limped away to sit against a pile of bricks. Castle did the same and stopped to have a disparaging look at his food before sitting next to the Marine. Oatmeal that looked more like runny cement was slopped into the main portion section of his tray, a half burnt roll lay next to it, and a plastic cup filled with murky water completed the meal. “Never thought I’d miss SOS,” He said with a heavy sigh.
Castle nodded and bit into the roll which he found was harder than the bricks he sat against. “You know, submarines have some of the best food in the military.”
“Too bad we’re not on one right now.” He took a bite of the disgusting oatmeal and extended his hand. “Captain Edward Spinnaker.”
“Captain John Castle,” He said, shaking the offered hand. “We’re you at DC?”
“Mmhmm. I was there until the end. We had fallen back to the third line and were making a go of holding it when one side caved and the damn Drids swarmed through like a flood.” He stopped eating and looked off. “We pulled out and retreated into the suburbs but close quarters is where they reign, we couldn’t do shit so we holed up in an apartment building and they started dropping mortars on us. That’s when everything went black. When I came to… we were all in the courtyard, surrounded and forced to surrender or be slaughtered.”
Castle poked at his breakfast and nodded. “They’re not all that, you know. I know of a certain landing platform in the Gulf that’s no longer standing.”
Spinnaker chuckled. “And these assholes don’t look like they can keep us all in here if a proper riot broke out.”
“Yeah,” Castle chewed slowly, and then stopped all together as a thought hit him. “What if one did?”
“Well, if it was properly organized and led then we could do some real damage here. There’s no way they have enough guards to stop us all. Or to shoot us all.”
Castle set aside his empty tray and leaned closer to Spinnaker. “And what would it take to organize?”
Spinnaker used his last piece of bread to wipe up the last of the oatmeal before putting his tray aside as well. Chewing for a moment, he nodded, “Knowledge of the outside area, which you can get from the work crews. Having everyone assigned a specific place to be and a specific thing to do; kind of like having those guys,” He pointed at a group of men standing around sharing a cigarette. “Having them attack the officer’s barracks while others start lobbing Molotov’s at the enlisted barracks.”
“What else?”
“Lots of things. Secrecy. Weapons. An after plan.” He turned and gave Castle a curious look. “Don’t let it get to your head, Buddy. There’s no way we can get it all together. Not without someone getting wind and ratting us out.”
“Maybe,” Castle rose and left his tray at the commissary to be halfway cleaned and used again, he then left to find Beagle and the collection of officers that gathered everyday at noon. When he did find them, shading themselves from the summer sun by sitting in a large drainage pipe, playing cards with a heavily weathered deck someone had on them when they were brought in.
He found his Executive Officer and whispered his idea. When he was done, Beagle was nodding. “It’s doable. But we’d need more soldiers to help us.”
“There’s a Marine Captain, Spinnaker, who gave me the idea. He says it’s not, but I think it is.”
“Well, he’s right about the need for secrecy. If they think we’re even hinting at rioting, they’ll kill the lot of us.” He tossed a five on the discard pile and drew a fresh card. “But if we can get it all together, we might be able to hurt the Drids one more time.”
“Maybe,” He grunted. “Maybe...”
Chesham, New Hampshire
Glenn Kramer twitched his face ever so slightly, wishing he could reach up and scratch his nose. But if he moved too much then someone might see him; and if someone saw him it would be game over. The Druidth on watch would raise an alarm and begin firing which would draw the attention of the main force in Keene just a few miles away and there was no way the four Navy SEAL’s could stand up to that kind of firepower. So instead he let the mosquito drink its fill then fly away only to be replaced by another.
Two clicks in his ear meant that whatever reason the team sniper had him stop was gone and he could resume his slow crawl forward. Gently, he slid his right arm forward along the ground until it was stretched out then his right leg came up to his ribs. He repeated the process for the left side and ever so slowly proceeded across the large field.
Any other time, against any other enemy, he would have gone a little faster but the Druidth had such specialized equipment that even going this slow might have been too much. He supposed he would know that they were caught if floodlights lit up the field and plasma came their way. But nothing had happened for the last three hours since they began approaching the lonely outpost.
His gilliesuit, a suit with grass and plants hanging off of it to break up his outline, drug along the ground and his rifle was attached to a rope tied around his wrist. Another click sounded in his ear made him stop again — then two seconds later a second click sounded letting him know he was in position for the assault.
Keeping his head low he checked out the complex. Concrete walls stood nearly ten feet high and encircled a perimeter the size of a standard one story house. On the Northeast end a watchtower stood with a dark spotlight and a number of antennae on the roof. A solitary soldier stood in full armor in the crow’s nest, scanning the field but wasn’t too concerned as he wasn’t using the eyepiece that detected heartbeats.
He’s going to be a problem, he thought and hoped he wouldn’t drop the eyepiece over his eye. If he did he’d see the SEAL’s in a second.
But the Druidth soldier leaned back against the wall and dug something out of his belt pouch. Kramer couldn’t tell what it was until he clipped it to one of his air intakes on his mask. Instantly he recognized it as a Tutcha, a device that allowed soldiers to inhale a chemical not unlike nicotine while in clad in armor. The only reason he knew what it was being that his team swapped a colonel’s Tutcha with one filled with cyanide a few weeks back. Not even a pinprick in the greater scheme of things but their job was to do what they could, when they could.
Four more clicks popped in his ear to let him know the rest of his team was ready. “Queen,” He breathed into his microphone. “Take the one in the tower on my mark.” Gently he brought up his own rifle, a converted M-4 that fired a much larger 6.5 X .54 MM round nicknamed the Grendel — something that could punch through Druidth armor though not as easily as an M-1 or whatever the militia forces were using, and rose to his feet in a low crouch.
Walking hunched over hurt like Hell but it did the job as he closed the distance to the wall and pressed his back against the concrete. Kramer pulled a grappling hook out of his Multi-Purpose Pouch and swung it over the side of the wall — it caught and he pulled the rope tight. Confident the other three members of the assault team were doing the same, Kramer clicked his radio once before walking up the wall. When he reached the top he saw the rest of the compound was empty with the exception of a barracks and a Hummvee like vehicle parked near the gate. The sentry was collapsed against the wall, blood seeping out from a hole in his mask just above his left eye, vapor still rising out of the exhalant port. In the time it took him to climb the wall, Queen had dropped him with one silent shot.
Kramer eased himself over the crest of the wall and lowered his weight on the roof of the barracks house. He then dug a small lump of C-4 and molded it into a rope before wrapping it around the base of a skylight, the room below was dark and he didn’t have to worry about anyone below seeing him. On the other side of the courtyard Ripley, Badger, and Ringo lowered themselves down on ropes and double timed to the wall, spreading out at the windows and door.
Three more separate clicks sounded off and he moved away from the skylight before triggering the explosives. A sharp crack followed by a rolling whump! Below the three SEAL’s busted out the windows, tossing in flashbangs at the same time. Multiple flashes as bright as the sun lit up the room below with earsplitting claps of noise.
Kramer jumped into the open hole in the roof, bringing his rifle to bear as soon as his feet touched the ground. His night vision monocle revealed a room full of bunks, something that could be described as a kitchen on any planet, and a doorway leading to another room. He swung his rifle around and double-tapped the three Druidth that were still in their beds on his side of the room as Badger did the same on the opposite side. Soft pops, barely audible a few feet away and completely non-existent more than ten.
It was a common myth that silencers didn’t exist. In reality standard soldiers were issued what were called Suppressors, which dampened the sound and hid the muzzle flash. But Special Forces were given the tried and true Silencers, which made the shot no more than a gentle clap.
“Cosmo,” Badger called from one of the beds. “This one’s a woman.”
Intrigued, Kramer made his way over and investigated the fresh corpse. Sure enough, a Druidth woman lay dead on the bed. She looked much like the average Human woman, fit with very short hair, except the signature purple eyes and off colored hair.
“Drids sending women to combat roles now?” He asked hypothetically.
“Actually,” Ripley chimed in, coming back from the rear room. “Since they all were that damn armor we don’t know how long they’ve been in combat.”
“True,” Kramer shrugged. “What’d you find back there?”
Ripley, whose real name was Anthony Hicks, scratched his face, greasepaint coming off with his fingernails. He looked down and frowned before wiping it away on his uniform. Though the kid was a SEAL he still acted like he was fresh out of high school — always volunteering random facts and awkward as Hell, but once excellent soldier. “Radio room. Computers and communication equipment. I think the orbital link up is there too.”
Cosmo nodded. “Good, means we hit the right place this time.” He stepped into the room and clicked on the light, Ripley was right behind him and sat down at the large white console. There were no knobs or switches, instead there was just a large touch screen that changed tabs based on need. Thick black cables stretched out from the back of it and out a hole in the wall towards the antennae array and the hydrogen cell. A high pitch noise, like nails on a chalkboard scaled up, emitted from the console and made Kramer’s teeth ache.
Ripley, who was an expert on the Druidth language and Computer Sciences, began tapping at the screen. “We’re in luck,” He whispered. “It’s still connected to the global battle net, anything on their severs that isn’t too secret I can pull up. If you give me a second I’ll use my ninety-seven MacBook to upload a virus and crash their system.”
Badger turned around, shock crossing his face. “You can do that?!”
Ripley stopped tapping and sighed heavily. “No, I was being sarcastic.”
“Can it you two,” Kramer said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, the only reason they were here tonight. On it was written one name: Johannes Vanderburgh. “Find this name.”
Ripley nodded and began tapping again. Vanderburgh was the head of the South African cell of God’s Hand and if the Druidth knew anything about him it would be somewhere in the network. After the CIA had failed to find out who supplied and trained the terrorist group, and after the war began, someone had theorized that the Druidth might know more. DCI Lovett and Sec Def Wheeler were betting they were right.
Several pages popped up on screen and he used a Druidth version of a Flash Drive to copy the files before he paused. When his eyes went wide, Kramer knew they hit payday. “Holy shit,” He whispered. “This is big, Sir.”
“Later. What’s that?” He pointed at a flashing yellow light on the display.
Seeing it for himself, Ripley tapped the light and the screen cleared before several more pages popped up. He read for another minute before shaking his head. “Just an update for the officer stationed here, a Sorn-Al,” He hooked his thumb to the back room. “The female.”
“What’s it say?”
The previous page momentarily forgotten, Ripley translated. “The Denver garrison is getting hit hard by the Army operating out of the Rockies. They’re afraid the defenses made by the 33rd Colorado will interfere with them getting reinforcements from Ft. Collins in a timely manner. Uh… they’re planning on assaulting the line to break it and finish off the unit before the Army in the East overwhelms them. Sir, they’re going to get creamed out there, and I’m not talking about the Drids.”
“Save that too, we’ll pass it on and hope it does some good.”
Ringo’s voice came over the radio then. “Charges set, Sir.”
Kramer clicked his microphone to acknowledge the fifth man of the unit and waved his hand the let the SEAL’s with him know it was time to leave. Outside they climbed their individual ropes up the wall then back down on the outside before recovering their grapples and moving away from the outpost.
When they had regrouped with Queen in the tree line, Ringo turned around and keyed his detonator. High explosives destroyed the compound with a fanfare as the SEAL’s melted away.
Bethel Park, Pennsylvania
“You think they actually try to make this stuff?” Spinnaker asked that morning, staring down at his breakfast. “Or do you think they just pour it all into a big cement mixer, which they didn’t bother to clean out by the way, and just let it churn?”
Castle chewed for a moment on a roll similar to the one on Spinnakers tray, half burnt and too small to be satisfying, then sipped his murky water which was so foul that over twenty prisoners had died from dysentery the last few days with many more expected to join them. “I believe the cement mixer theory.”
“How so?”
“Well just on the grounds that if they tried in the least bit it wouldn’t be half as bad as this. And,” He plucked a rock out of his food and chucked it at the sheet metal that made up the roof of his lean-to. The oatmeal covered stone bounced off the metal with a wet ting! before joining its brethren on the ground.
“And how can bread be burnt and uncooked at the same time?”
“Magic,” Castle said which made Spinnaker chuckle which turned into a full laugh. The laugh caught like the illness going around and the two men spent the next few minutes guffawing.
Wiping his eyes, Spinnaker finished his meal then stretched out in the sun, warming his skin while it was still comfortable. Winter would come soon and the current conditions in the camp didn’t inspire the greatest confidence that the Druidth would provide for the harsh New England winters. He had a feeling that by next spring the camp would be much less crowded than it currently was.
Doctor Karl Becket, an Army physician who did what he could for the prisoners, walked by the two Captains leading a sick Private to the quarantine zone on the other side of the camp near the enlisted men’s barracks. He nodded at the two men then scratched his nose with his middle finger; to anyone else it would have been see as an insult but it made Spinnaker’s heart skip a beat when he saw it. It meant the Private wasn’t really sick and there was now enough men on the other side of the wire to cause some concern for the guards.
Castle saw it too and stood with his tray; he motioned for Spinnaker to add his — which he did — and carried them off without another word. If everything went right they would see each other tonight in the central courtyard just before dinner during the nighttime prayer meeting for the Druidth King.
As for himself, he stood and wandered around the yard for a while wishing the Druidth would allow some form of entertainment in the camp; if they did, then perhaps the prisoners would be happier and less likely to riot. That and if the guards skipped the beatings.
He still didn’t know why he agreed to help with the uprising; he still didn’t believe it would work but in the past week the officers of the remnants of the military had organized everyone who could be trusted and got everything in line. Sure there was a few trouble makers that had gotten wind of it, and of course they were silenced with either fists and feet or sharpened objects. Bodies turned up every morning and the Druidth only cared if they started stinking.
Maybe he was helping because he needed something to do, or maybe he still felt he had to do his duty. It could have been his way of fighting back despite the fact that he was in here. Or perhaps he was just sick of the way the prisoners were treated and wanted to show the damn Druidth that you couldn’t treat people like that.
Whatever the reason, it was going down tonight with or without him.
Someone sitting in the shade of the statue sniffed then spit. “A little more organized than last time, eh Boss?” He called out.
There was something in his voice that was far too familiar to ignore so Spinnaker stopped and looked closely. “Esposito?”
Sure enough, Javier Esposito turned up the brim of his wide brimmed boonie hat and smiled. Scaring from a severe burn crinkled the skin on his left cheek and reached up to his eye. “Captain,” He said, touching two fingers to his eyebrow in an informal salute.
“How long have you been here?” He asked, stepping into the shadow of one of the legs.
Esposito shrugged. “‘Bout a week. Me and Rutherford and Dennis and Blithe.” He sniffed again. “We all ended up on a PT boat heading up the Savannah River. Took out a couple of bridges before they took us out with a dropship. I don’t remember much of that, just the rain churning the water and the fire on the surface.” His eyes drifted off into the distance as he remembered. When he looked back to Spinnaker he shook his head. “I don’t know what happened to Blithe but Dennis drowned and Rutherford was wounded so they chucked him out the door.”
“They do that a lot. Only Dennis? What about Feuerstein?”
“To be honest, Sir, I don’t know what happened to the rest of the old unit. They didn’t miss Parris Island this time and I was lucky to get out myself.”
Leaning against the statue, something the guards didn’t take offense with as long as no one tampered with it, Spinnaker told his tale of serving with the 503rd Maryland Rifles and the defense of D.C. Esposito listened carefully and when he was done they both held their silence, remembering their friends who died. “Listen, I’ve got something planned and I think I can trust you… You want in?”
“You mean the thing tonight? Yeah, I’m already in,” He replied with a sly grin.
The Captain nodded in acceptance. “Well I’ve got to see a man about a horse,” He said and walked off to find the Master At Arms of the camp.