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PREVIOUS CHAPTER INDEX NEXT CHAPTER Dark Crimson By Nick P. I was being ferried down the plateau and into the barren sea in a Coalition PBR, a type of plastic buggy, a fairly common tool used in the Strogg war. They said it was a good way to gather information without drawing lots of attention. That was fine by me, I needed the time though perhaps not the Stroggos air. But the main problem was that, as hinted by the commander, I wouldn’t be going alone. This was evident when the buggy dropped from the belly of the supply craft. It was not a beautiful machine. Heavy armour plates protruded outwards, covering the steel casing underneath. Six gigantic black wheels were mounted on the chassis, giving an insect-like appearance. Intricate panels covered armour and pistons that ran through and around the chassis. Boxes and containers ran underneath while the front beheld a sort of cage, its lines developed through steel beams. Inside was the cockpit, the controls. Attached to the left side of the cage was a series of lights meant for illuminating during nighttime. Behind the driver, on a somewhat raised platform was a gigantic gun, where the gunner sat. It was made to rotate appropriately. Behind that was a sort of platform that could carry everything from luggage to people, very large in its area. On the two sides were mounted two heavy chain-guns. Underneath were the sleeping quarters and all of life’s necessities. Adjoined surfaces at odd angles fell to one side to reveal a ladder. The entire craft was a dark military green. And it was huge. One would think that the green would contrast the orange overhead. And yet, the odd lighting made the vehicle almost seem black, a black that melted into the dark brown cliffs and rocks. But it was the crew that struck me most. They were mostly kids, just kids, young and cocky boys with one foot in their graves. One of them, a young man with a dark and childish complexion, jumped down from the ladder and ran towards me. “Morning, captain.” “How old are you?” was my greeting after I dismissed him from attention. “Seventeen.” Jesus, seventeen. This guy hadn’t even seen the end of high school! He was Private Clean. And getting used to his new cockpit, a silhouette against the bright Stroggos sun, was the machinist, the one called Chef. He looked a bit older than the others, undoubtedly because of his goatee. He was from New Orleans. He was rapped too tight for Vietnam, probably rapped too tight for New Orleans. And sadly, his presence did not in any way mean that we’d be getting decent food anytime soon. Not that this bothered me, such minor necessities did not distract me from the war. On the heavy cannon was Lance, one of those sports-obsessed types from sunny California. Not that California existed anymore. Or it did, but there was nothing worth seeing. I had seen way too many wrecks, cities burnt to the ground, remnants of buildings stretching as far as the eye could see. And here was one of its prodigies, come to avenge his homeland. And yet, one look at him and you wouldn’t believe he ever fired a weapon in his entire life. Then there was Clean, the person that had run up to me. He was just another soldier in my head, enlisted from a Bronx shithole before it was burned to the ground by the Stroggs. The light and space that fell from the sky that infamous day must’ve really zapped his head. And now, the very same from the war had no different effect. He was older than some of the others, though just another soldier in my mind. I had no idea why the hell he was chosen to go with me. Not that he knew what he was getting into. No one but me really knew. The one with the most levelled head was Phillips, the Chief. It might’ve been my mission, but it sure as hell was the Chief’s buggy. He was a cool, professional type with plenty of merits to display when he was away from the wheel. I don’t know where the hell he came from before the war. As I neared, he paid no attention to me or any of the other soldiers. His black eyes scanned the horizon, moments before flipping the switch. The buggy rumbled to life, moments before its fuel cells caught on, relieving the minute combustion engine of its duty, letting out a nearly silent purr. I climbed up the ladder and advanced over panels and straight angles until I stood besides Chief. My eyes gazed to where his were, the fading horizon. After a while, he turned his dark face towards mine. “Captain Willard?” No formalities, no shit. “Yes.” He threw up his hand and I shook it. “Lieutenant Robert Phillips, 120th division, full AVP, post-ComSec.” He paused and looked back towards the horizon. “No need to list your credentials, I’ve read up on it.” I nodded. “We’ve got two checkpoints to lead our way. We’ll refuel there; hopefully they’re still intact. And you know the station at the Vagga canyon? That’ll mark the beginning of unexplored territory. We’ve stayed fairly close to Karoggon; no one has strayed that far into nothingness. What the hell are we doing there?” he asked. “Vagga canyon?” I said, changing the subject. “The bridge there? I thought that was unsuccessful.” “It was. Or is. The Stroggs aren’t bothering too much with it because they know that the base is nearly useless to us. They don’t care enough to shut it down as it is. They’ll take over eventually. Still, there are soldiers fighting the line. You’d be surprised at how well stuff gets around. They still have food convoys and soldiers shipped there in some blind hope to win. And if you ask me, it’s possible. All the Coalition has to do is ship several thousand soldiers there, that would've been enough to overwhelm the few Stroggs dispatched there. And then they’d have a secure base.” He paused as if he’d said enough. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.” The pilot started running through different systems, going through checklists and examining glowing readouts. I pulled out the cigarettes the general had given me. “Cigarette?” I asked, taking one myself. “I don’t smoke.” He paused and examined me. “This is a crazy mission. You know, I’ve pulled through several special ops down here on this damned planet. It was about six months ago, my last one, that is. I took this man who was going in this very same direction as you, around Karoggon. Past the Vagga Canyon bridge. He was also regular army. Anyway, I hear he put a bullet in his head.” I used the silence that followed as an excuse to retreat in the empty cargo bay where the others were assembling. The alien sun was setting over the horizon when we set out. I sat there in the near darkness, the strobelights illuminating the unseen road ahead were the only light. I sat there and thought, feeling the bumps in the road and the chilly harsh air. The excess gravity. I knew I’d soon be used to it. The human body, after all, was very good at adapting at such minute changes. The others had gone inside the buggy’s living quarters. But I sat there on top, sharing a private conversation with the stars above, wondering which one was our distant sun. * * * “Yeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaow!” Next morning came to me with a jolt. I pushed myself up, wondering if we had been attacked. I had fallen asleep in the empty cargo platform, staring up at the sky. But now there were no stars, simply orange clouds distilling the sun’s light. This sky was soon replaced as a dark shadow floated over me, hiding the sun. I could soon see that it was in fact a glider. The delta-shaped nylon wings stretched over a frame from which a rope dangled downwards and was tied to one of the buggy’s beams. High in the sky and attached to the glider was Lance, a maniacal grin stretched across his face. I was jostled upwards as the buggy, driving at full speed, ran over a large, angular stone. Lance yelled again. Chef pulled out a portable data player and started playing ‘Satisfaction.’ “Hang on, Lance!” he yelled. He was answered with another cry of exhilaration. Under the wind currents, the glider dodged left and right, but never down, straining against the thick rope in the humid morning breeze. I pulled out the neat silver envelope given to me after my briefing and used my knife the tear through the thick plastic lining. I sat on the floor, propped against one platform’s curt walls. From the envelope spilled many papers, all regarding Kurt himself. Ignoring the cries of the young soldiers and the shadow that danced over me, I started to read Kurt’s dossier. MRPS-E 199TS043 TO: WILLARD, BENNETON L. Cpt. USA0-135463801 U.S. ComSec/Coalition Intelligence HQ London SUBJECT: Special Warfare Information regarding KURT, WALTER E., Col, ComSec Special Forces and intelligence. 2146 Graduates from High Terra, valedictorian; second-generation appointee. Basic preparation and training completed: Advanced Infantry Training, Coalition division IV, London subdivision. 2147-48 Assigned to squadron west of Mogadishu, Coalition border sectors (details included). Promoted to 1st lt. 2149-50 Receives Masters Degree, Oxford University, history (Thesis: Detailing the Coalition Rebel Insurrection at the Somalian border-2123-25.) 2150-51 Assigned General Staff, ComSec/Coalition Command, Seoul, South Korea. Tours/Evaluation of combat zones (division V-4A, information gathering/evaluation/loss examination/inefficiencies.) Returns to UK/Coalition HQ (debriefing.) Applies for special training at ComSec Training Subdivision, Washington D.C. Marries Janet Anderson on June 14th, 2151. Returns to full-time active duty at Seoul. 2162 August: initial Strogg attack. Kurt is assigned to evaluate and gather intelligence on enemy for potential strike, agents sent out. Evaluates information gathered by agents returning from Stroggos. Promoted Captain. 2163 Severs ties with ComSec/Coalition Intelligence. September 12: Last traces of Kurt transmitted from somewhere Northeast of Karoggon (transcription included). |
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