Nearest Night, Page 3

  Bauersfeld sucked in air through her teeth and suppressed an explosion of rage. She refused to let this bastard get her goat. “If so, then your leaders must be just the same. The difference is, my leaders are human. You and yours have become…aliens of some sort, slaves of an extraterrestrial virus. What better, cheaper way to invade a world than to infect it with a microbe that subverts its inhabitants, rendering them unable to resist when the time comes for invasion?”

  “Really? You think aliens are coming to invade us?” The man chuckled, then coughed. “Listen to yourself.”

  The torturer shuffled his feet, and Bauersfeld decided engaging with this spy was fruitless. “Do whatever you need to do to break him, but don’t kill him. Like you said, he can provide a wealth of information. Properly handled.”

  Adam bowed his head and smiled.

  Sydney Bauersfeld climbed the stairs.

  As she closed the door behind her she heard screams.

  The noise didn’t bother her.

  It wasn’t as if the thing in the basement were human.

  Chapter 4

  Lieutenant Colonel Theo Kemp had wanted to command a battalion from the first moment he’d joined the U.S. Army twenty years before. As a young platoon leader, he’d idolized his own crusty battalion commander, someone who’d seemed positively ancient at that time, yet was always tough, direct, and fair. A leader. Someone soldiers could look up to and trust.

  An officer who always knew what to do.

  Now, Theo Kemp had been appointed battalion commander and he didn’t have the slightest idea how to proceed.

  He knew it was important to hide his uncertainty and go through the motions for the sake of his troops. The trouble was, there was nothing to be done, not that he could see. His unit was in an impossible spot and their own government had put them there...and then abandoned them out here in the middle of the Great White North.

  “They’re ready for you, sir,” said his battalion sergeant major. Her gaunt face and hollow eyes showed the edges of starvation that haunted his command. He knew his own looked the same.

  The woman’s words pulled him from his thoughts, and he realized he’d been gazing out over the rugged frozen landscape. It was five in the afternoon, but could have passed for midnight. Canada’s Yukon Territory didn’t get much sunlight in January.

  “I’ll be just a second,” Kemp told his sergeant major with a wan smile.

  “Take your time, sir. RHIP.” Rank Hath Its Privileges. Her words contained an edge, a warning that he was in a tough spot himself, and maybe making mistakes. Or about to make one.

  Prerogatives of being in charge, Kemp echoed in thought. He only wished he were taking his time for some good reason, rather than stalling. He’d come to dread this period of thought after receiving his subordinate’s dry, dire briefings. After all the grim reports, the pointless deaths. After they all looked at him with their trusting eyes for answers he didn’t have.

  After they put their faith in him.

  That faith made him feel like a fraud. Hell, he was a fraud. His crusty old battalion commander of twenty years ago would have known what to do. Kemp was certain of it.

  How did he ever end up here?

  Kemp turned his face east, toward Haines Junction and the glow of electricity. Resentment and a surge of anger welled up in him as he stared across the frozen landscape. The headquarters element of 10th Mountain Division was billeted in real houses. They had food, shelter, heat, and warm showers at least every other day. Out here, astride Highway 1 in a position to confront the enemy, Kemp’s people endured a daily struggle to prevent frostbite and consume enough calories to maintain their core body temperatures, all while enduring sniper fire from the Alaskan rebels and Canadian sympathizers.

  We could have overrun the enemy with proper support, he told himself for the hundredth time. Then we wouldn’t be snowed in and trapped without the possibility of resupply or airdrops, without even any air cover, the “aerospace superiority” comfortable staffers had promised, that was supposed to make this entire operation a cakewalk.

  The 10th Mountain had once been among America’s finest divisions, skilled in artic and rough-terrain warfare. They’d been unloaded by sea in U.S territory at Port Chilkoot and told to drive north to help put paid to the Alaskan rebellion. Marines were supposed to secure Anchorage, but Old Man Winter and the rebels had bogged them down in brutal urban warfare that made Fallujah look like a stroll through the flowers.

  The Canadians had objected to the 10th cutting through their Yukon territory, of course, but Kemp heard the threat of a nuclear strike had backed them down. Now both sides maintained the fiction that the Americans were just transiting an ally’s terrain.

  In reality, Canada was no longer an ally, and the 10th was no longer transiting. The Alaskans infiltrated the area around Kluane Lake, blew the main bridge, blocked the causeway and stopped them cold.

  If he’d had plentiful fuel and ammo, he’d have ground the enemy down, but no convoys had made it up from the south and nothing was dropped by air. Higher echelons wouldn’t admit it, but they had nothing to spare. Most of America’s continental might, diminished after the fighting in Texas, sat facing an unfriendly Mexico to the south.

  He envied his friends who’d fought in the Texas Reunification. That had been real warfare, with real battles, head to head, tank to tank, rifle to rifle. Not like the freezing hell they faced. Even when they did come into contact with the Alaskans, the rebels fell back to prepared positions or led them into ambushes when his troops gave chase.

  All the sniping wasn’t just from the rebels. This operation had been condemned by the Canadian government as a violation of Canadian territory and sovereignty. Rumors of Canuck irregulars fighting them ran rampant, but to date there had not been any proof, and the northerners denied these claims. Or at least denied supporting or supplying them.

  And by the time the division commander ordered confiscation of local supplies, it was too late. The Canadians had moved everything away or used it up.

  The Unionist Party claimed that time was of the essence, that they would repair any damage to relations with their northern neighbors once Alaska was back in the fold.

  Politicians. Snakes, all of them.

  “Bloody hell,” Kemp mumbled. “Why couldn’t we have waited until spring?”

  The sound of a rifle shot from the mountain to Kemp’s left brought him back to reality. He realized he’d begun shaking from the cold.

  “Another damn sniper,” his sergeant major said from beside him. “Someone probably forgot their light discipline. I’ll check again, make sure it wasn’t our people.”

  Kemp looked at her sharply, suspecting criticism, but relaxed when he saw none. His senior enlisted soldier wasn’t blaming him, just stating a fact. “We better go on in,” Kemp finally said.

  She nodded and walked ahead of him toward the large tent with rocks piled around its base. It sported a doubled set of guy lines to keep it from flying away in the frequent frigid windstorms.

  “The battalion commander,” the sergeant major announced, and his staff came clumsily to their feet in fits and starts, reminding Kemp of hungry, lame horses.

  “At ease, everyone. Take your seats.” Kemp looked around the room at the thin, brutalized faces. Many had moved up to their positions after death, malnutrition or frostbite had claimed their supervisors. He saw no condemnation in their eyes, and that only made his guilt worse. He gazed at them silently for many long moments as the wind began to howl outside.

  Mere days ago, the cold had turned from chill and harsh to bitter, unbelievable. Machines and men had begun to fail in droves. It reminded him of stories his German great-grandfather had passed down about fighting in the Wehrmacht, on the Eastern Front. He’d been one of the few to escape the Stalingrad debacle, battling the Soviets in the long, ugly retreat to Berlin.

  Surrendering to the American Army had been the smartest thing he ever did, and his descendants – Kemp’s gr
andfather and father, along with their brothers – had fought their new nation’s battles: Vietnam, and then the Gulf Wars, with honor and distinction.

  For Theo Kemp there would be no honor and distinction. Unless some massive resupply came, they’d starve, freeze, and die in place. They’d already have frozen if not for aggressive salvaging of downed trees, but those were running out…and green wood did not burn well.

  Another report in the distance finally broke his paralysis.

  “Okay, someone explain that,” said Kemp pointing toward the sound of the gunshot. “All our weapons are frozen solid, so why aren’t theirs?”

  “I hear the Alaskans use animal fat to lubricate their weapons instead of machine oil,” said one of his platoon sergeants. “It’s an old Aleut trick. Much lower freezing point than oil.”

  “Then why aren’t we doing the same thing?”

  His sergeant major answered in a flat, brittle voice. “There was a directive from headquarters forbidding it. Not hygienic, the G-4 said. Attracts vermin. Makes maintenance more difficult. Likely to damage the weapons in the long term.” Her eyebrow lifted.

  “I think I’d rather have a smelly weapon that works than a clean one that doesn’t,” Kemp answered. “Start using animal fat on my authority. I’ll deal with headquarters later.”

  “Begging your pardon,” said his quartermaster, “but if we could get our hands on any animal fat, we wouldn’t be putting it on our weapons. We’d be eating it, sir.”

  Kemp sighed. “The resupply?”

  The officer shook his head. “Got a call right before this meeting. Said the weather is too bad. They’ll try to get a convoy through to us on Wednesday. Even if they do, I doubt it will be much.”

  “Four more days.”

  “That’s bullshit!” said a voice from the back. “Headquarters is keeping all the food for themselves.”

  “Maybe we should go to them instead,” said another voice. “If they’re too chickenshit to come here, we can pick the supplies up ourselves.”

  The quartermaster wearily lifted his hand for calm. “All the vehicles are still inop. Engines frozen solid. Division vehicles are in heated shelters or have block warmers, but ours are dead.”

  “Like us,” muttered a voice from the back.

  “At ease!” hollered the sergeant major toward the unknown speaker. “We’re leaders here, not buck privates. They’ll be no more of that talk.”

  “The sergeant major’s right,” Kemp said. “I’m not going to lie to you. We’re in a tough spot, but hopefully a convoy will get through to us in a few days. Hopefully the weather will break and the Air Force can lay some fire on those hills and clear out the mountain passes. Hopefully a political solution will be found making this all moot.”

  “That’s a whole lot of ‘hopefullys,’ sir,” said one of his first sergeants.

  “Because that’s all we got,” said another.

  His strained sergeant major was about to lash out again, but Kemp stopped her by addressing his quartermaster. “What’s our ration situation?”

  “Bad. We won’t make it to Wednesday.”

  The entire room groaned in despair. They were already only issued one meal a day.

  “What about fuel for the heaters and generators?”

  “Almost gone. We’ve pulled most of the diesel from the vehicles, but I wanted to leave enough to at least get them back to Haines Junction if the weather cleared.”

  “The vehicles may never run again anyway,” said the battalion maintenance officer. “Once the engine blocks freeze, they often crack when they thaw. I made requisitions before we left for engine blocks with heaters, but Corps said the war would be over by now.”

  “It’s not just the vehicles, sir,” said a platoon leader. “We’re using up the ready, seasoned wood to melt snow and ice. The green wood we cut barely sustains the fires. People don’t want to drink cold water, so it takes twice as long to get enough to drink. Many of my people are getting dehydrated.”

  “My tents are filling up and I’m going to need priority for heating,” said the battalion medical officer. “We’ve got dozens of cases of hypothermia and even more of frostbite. It goes without saying that they need to be medevacked out of here ASAP.”

  “Go ahead and drain the vehicle tanks,” Kemp said, resigned. “If we ever get one thawed without cracking, we can put enough back in to make it to town.”

  “That’s only going to give us a few more days, at best,” the quartermaster said. “And without food…”

  Kemp gazed around the room. At least the dead looks were gone from their faces. They were leaders again trying to solve a problem and he felt some of the weight lift from his heavy heart. “What else do we have for fuel?”

  “Tires,” suggested the maintenance officer. “Rubber. Seats too. If the vehicles are dead, we might as well cannibalize them for anything that will burn.”

  “Good,” smiled Kemp, pointing at the speaker. “You’re in charge of that effort. Detail as many people as you need.”

  “Everyone remember your light discipline,” said the sergeant major. “Keep fires banked and don’t breathe the fumes.”

  As if to emphasize her point, a shot came, and then another, closer. More gunfire crackled, soon followed by machine gun fire and explosions.

  “We’re under attack,” Kemp said with a calm he didn’t feel. “Everyone to defensive positions.”

  “To do what?” asked a platoon leader. “Our weapons don’t work!”

  The sergeant major put her hand on Kemp’s arm. “He has a point, sir.”

  “We’ll fix bayonets!” a voice called.

  Kemp saw everyone looking at him expectantly. Trusting faces. Men and women who deserved better. Soldiers all but abandoned by a country they all knew was skidding off the rails.

  “Okay then,” said Kemp slowly. “Consolidate the unfit at the medical tents. Everyone else escape and evade on foot back to Haines Junction. Small elements, no more than squad size.”

  “They’ve probably got us surrounded,” said someone.

  “Let’s not assume the worst. Go now. Good luck.” Kemp saw the magnitude of what he’d ordered sink into their stunned faces. “Go on now, there’s not much time. I’m proud of you all. May God be with us.”

  “Let’s move!” yelled out the sergeant major, and the room erupted, officers and NCOs stumbling over each other and upending chairs.

  The sergeant major and Kemp’s senior doctor followed him out of the tent. They made their way through dark chaos toward the medical laager.

  “You should get out of here,” Kemp told the sergeant major.

  “Not a chance, sir. I’m staying with you, orders be damned.”

  “You do know what I’m intending, don’t you?”

  His sergeant major nodded. “You’re going to save as many of our wounded as you can. I’d like to help.”

  Kemp had to fight down emotion, finally giving her a tight smile and a nod. The three could hear sustained gunfire along their western perimeter, but it seemed one-sided to his practiced ear. He said a silent prayer, hoping his people were already making their way east.

  The medical officer led them into a series of large aid tents crammed full of the sick and injured. “What now, sir?”

  “Got a spare sheet?”

  The medical officer looked at him in confusion, but the sergeant major yanked one off a nearby cot before pulling out the knife at her belt and cutting holes along one edge.

  Kemp walked outside and searched until he found what he was looking for. Nearby, a tent had collapsed. Kemp pulled the central support pole out from under the mass of canvas.

  The sergeant major began to tie the white sheet to the end of the long pole. When she was done, she reached out to take it.

  “I have to do it,” said Kemp with a sad smile. “My responsibility.”

  The sergeant major nodded, backing up.

  The battalion commander lifted the pole and the sheet, struggling against t
he awkward weight in the breeze, but finally managed to get it upright to lean against the side of the medical tent. The sergeant major used a few stray strips of cloths to secure it to a support.

  “Got a flashlight?” Kemp asked.

  The sergeant major handed him one from her belt. Kemp pointed the bright light at the white flag billowing in the wind.

  I’ve probably got about a dozen snipers targeting my head right now, Kemp thought, and found the idea comforting. If just one of them would pull their trigger, he wouldn’t then have to face what lay ahead.

  But the bullet didn’t come. The cracks of gunfire started to slow, and then died off completely. The wind howled ominously loud in the pitch-black night.

  They could hear voices approaching and the sound grew as minutes passed. When the Alaskans finally stepped into the circle of light cast by the flashlight, Kemp found himself startled by their sudden appearance, despite ample warning.

  They were rough, bearded men and hard-faced women, covered in efficient-looking layers of clothing, some of furs and hides. They carried a hodgepodge of weapons whose hot barrels smoked and steamed from recent firing in the cold. Some sported elements of military camouflage that might have served dual purpose for hunting, but most wore functional civilian clothing chosen more for its warmth than tactical value.

  A few were white or black or perhaps Hispanic, but most looked Inuit or Aleut to Kemp, what they used to call Eskimos. The Alaskans gazed at the tent and the flag, saying nothing, as if waiting for him to speak.

  Kemp cleared his throat. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Theo Kemp. Might I ask who’s in charge here?”

  “I am,” said a powerfully built Inuit standing directly in front of Kemp. “I am Captain Gabbo Kanguq of the First Aleutian Brigade.”

  Kemp nodded and slowly lifted his useless pistol from his holster, holding it out grip-first. “Captain Kanguq, please accept the surrender of the Fourth Battalion, 10th Mountain Division.”

  The Aleutian stared at Kemp for a moment before he stepped forward and took the proffered weapon. “I accept your surrender. You and your soldiers are my prisoners. They shall all be treated as well as possible, granted they behave.”