The Winter War

Chapter 4

USS Andromeda
    “Take a look at this,” Lovett said, tossing a pair of photos on the table.
    Burbank picked one up and examined it. It showed the roof of a building in a city, a skyscraper, with a triangular slab of concrete on top along with a series of hoses emerging from below. A Druidth shuttle sat parked on the landing pad as a line of men twenty long marched single file into, what he assumed was, the cargo hold. He tossed it aside and picked up the next one which was a zoomed in picture of the same area but this time focusing on one man. Greying hair and a square jawline stuck out along with the tattered blue coveralls signature of the Navy.
    “Holy shit,” He grunted. “That’s John Castle.”
    Wheeler looked up from his powdered eggs and toast he was having at the table in the officer’s mess hall. “Castle? Why does that name sound familiar?”
    “He captained the Florida. Launched some of the nukes at the first armada and sank that staging platform in the Gulf. We met him during the President’s Dinner after the Five-Day War,” Burbank explained. “Last I heard he escaped from that prison camp in Pennsylvania with that Marine Captain…. Spinnaker.”
    “Right.” Wheeler examined the close up. “And now he’s a POW again.” He dropped the second and examined the first. Scratching his nose while he examined the ship in the pictures. “And that’s not an atmospheric transport shuttle. That’s a dropship – he’s being taken to space. Probably to serve on one of their ships.”
    “Well we’ve got to rescue him!” Burbank nearly shouted.
    “No can do,” Lovett chimed in. “By now he’s already there and even if he wasn’t we don’t have anyone we can send. SEAL Team 3 was decimated. We’ve lost contact with 1 and 2, expected to be either KIA or prisoners themselves. And SEAL Team 6 is on permanent Presidential Protection Detail. If he takes a piss he’s got a 6 with him just to make sure it doesn’t rear up and bite him.”
    Wheeler paused mid bite and rolled his eyes. “Hey, there’s a thought.”
    “No,” Lovett continued, ignoring the interruption. “If Captain Castle wants off that ship he’s going to have to find his own way.”
    “Well, what about Project Galileo?” Burbank asked.
    This awarded him a strong stare from Lovett while Wheeler dropped his fork and stared as well with only the occasional glace at the spy chief. When he was almost certain he had broken some kind of rule and was wondering if the two would just throw him overboard, Lovett pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
    “Where did you hear that?”
    “I think I read it in a report,” Burbank answered, trying as best he could to remember correctly. “I read a summary of it but I don’t remember what that was now.”
    After another tense minute where the two men just stared at him, Lovett shrugged and Wheeler resumed eating. “Doesn’t matter much now,” Lovett finally said. “What with the whole research team over half a year dead.”
    “Dead?”
    “The first bombings during the Five-Day War,” Wheeler explained. “A certain building in Denver was hit — actually more like a certain block. One of those buildings that was leveled was a DARPA run physics and technology firm. They were researching a Particle Cannon, you know, something that could reach up and knock those bastards out of the sky.”
    “We did alright with the nukes,” Burbank said.
    “We almost missed with the nukes.” Lovett picked up where Wheeler left off. “The tech firm in Denver was having resounding success. In two years we could have had a network of ground based installations that could have blasted out of orbit anything that came within range. Five years they could have been small enough to mount on our warships changing the way sea battles are fought. Project Galileo was going to protect us from this very thing from happening. Unfortunately all we have now is a prototype that’s boxed up on one of the container ships we have with us.”
    “Well who was the project lead? Maybe he took some notes home.” He asked. Something like this could change the war for the better. Actually, anything could change the war for the better. At the rate they were going their best bet would be to force the Druidth into a stalemate and hope for a cease-fire.
    “A man named Justin Cook. And we can’t go check because after his death his son moved in with someone else, taking everything with him or moving to we don’t know where.”
    “And where’s his son?” Burbank asked.
    “We already checked. His son, James, joined the Army shortly after the second wave. He’s in Denver up to his ass in plasma right now, if he’s still alive.”
    Burbank leaned back in his chair for a moment, thinking. “Maybe we can fold Galileo into Operation Icarus. It couldn’t hurt.”
    Icarus was of Greek Mythology. The son of an inventor who was taken prisoner along with his father, the two managed to build wings and fly out of their prison keep. Unfortunately, Icarus didn’t heed his father’s warning and flew too high, allowing the sun to melt his wings and Icarus fell to his death. Operation Icarus, on the other hand, was just a risky and they were just as desperate.
    The plan was relatively simple, steal a shuttle and fly it to one of the starships currently orbiting Earth. Since they ran on a skeleton crew it would be easy to capture one and turn it against the fleet long enough to do some damage before it was taken out. Burbank conceived of the idea the night they left Washington and ran it by the Secretary of Defense and the President a few days later. It was met with success and given a green light but since then Icarus had more or less floundered from the lack of information and support. Chiefly being no one knew how to control a Druidth starship much less what one even looked like on the inside. Then there was the whole problem of who would fly the shuttle. Sure they had Druidth who joined with the Humans after they were abandoned on Earth but they were all merchants and scholars, not pilots or soldiers. And a POW was more likely to purposely crash the ship than help his enemy.
    No, it would take a miracle to get Icarus back on track.
    Lovett wiped his nose on a napkin from the dispenser. “Why the hell not? I’ll give the green light to fold Galileo into Icarus. If we ever get a chance to try it, maybe it’ll help.”
    The hatch to the mess room opened then clanged closed. A young sailor in blue approached the table, stopping a few feet back and snapped to attention. He stood there for a full three minutes before Lovett finally noticed him and haphazardly returned his salute.
    “Sir,” The young sailor started. He extended his hand which held a manila folder and gave it to Lovett.
    “Thank you, Son. You’re dismissed.” Lovett opened the folder and began to read, making the occasional grunt or murmur. “Hmm, they finally cracked the data SEAL Team 3 brought back.”
    “Finally,” Wheeler grunted from behind his coffee. “What’s it say?”
    “Well the Comms Array your man Spinnaker acquired for them helped greatly. This is just what the Druidth knew about God’s Hand, the terrorist group that attacked the colonies and lead to this mess in the first place–“ When he stopped mid-sentence both men gave the DCI their full attention. “Holy Shit….”
    “What?” Burbank could barely say. Whatever it was it was good enough to make William Lovett, a man who chose every word and action carefully, stop in the middle of what he was saying.
    “Johannes Vanderburgh, the head of God’s Hand… it’s the Human name for Ae-Yok Nuul.”
    Burbank coffee cup shattered on the floor as he nearly leapt from his seat. “What?!”
 
15th Field Hospital
Thornton, Colorado
    It was quiet today. Not too many screams of the injured or dying, no building shaking explosions nearby from the Druidth aircraft on bombing runs. This quiet was very appreciated as it allowed Rebecca Norris time to catch up on some much needed rest in the supply closet.
    Nestled in the corner with her head propped up on a waded up jacket, she breathed in the smell of chalk and lots of construction paper. Outside, still hung in the hallways were drawings and various accomplishments by other students back when Thornton Elementary was still a functioning school and not a makeshift field hospital. Most of the classrooms were filled with cots for soldiers who weren’t on duty at that time or for those who were being sent forward as replacements. Others, including the gyms, were makeshift hospital rooms where the hundreds of casualties were being treated. The dead were shipped back to Frederick where several fields outside the city were requisitioned for grave yards. She didn’t want to imagine what those would look like by the time this war was over.
    Boots running by her closet, her sanctuary, woke Rebecca from her fitful sleep. She stretched her arms, then legs, searching for any kinks or sore spots. Shouts and screams began to fill the building and Rebecca cracked the door to see trucks backing up to the front doors and orderlies rushing to pull the wounded from the beds and cargo bays. Doctors followed, taking pulses and checking the severity of wounds. Large black markers drew either a P for Priority, the ones who got seen first, an S for Secondary, and an F for Fatal, those who were going to die anyway and it wasn’t worth wasting the resources.
    “Vacations over,” She grumbled before leaving the closet and jogging toward the chaos ahead.
    Dr. Walken was already there, holding her stethoscope against a young mans chest. Her greying blonde hair cut short so not to interfere with her work. The young soldier was badly burned along his chest and pieces of melted polyester from his uniform was melted to his skin. His breathing was ragged with a slight whimper to it but the bloody M on his forehead said he already had a morphine shot so his pain wasn’t too bad.
    “Third degree burns along thirty percent of his chest,” Walken said aloud, mostly to herself. She gently lifted his arm and examined him there. “Splash damage wraps around to his side and partially to his back.”
    “I don’t see any bone,” Rebecca announced, carrying out her own examination. Since she volunteered from the Medical Corps, Rebecca had learned much about combat medicine. “But there’s definitely a lot of muscle damage. Maybe the heat from the shot damaged his lungs?”
    Walken listened to his chest again. “I hear a bit of wetness. Good job.” She pulled her marker and gave him an S before moving to the next patient.
    This one was much worse, Rebecca could see as they pulled him from the bed of a truck. He was much older than the kid they had just examined and covered in blood. Walken briefly looked him over before sadly shaking his head and marking him with an F while Rebecca gave him a small dose of morphine from the kit. A pair of orderlies took him away to what was not so lovingly called ‘The Death Room’ where the fatally wounded were taken to die in peace.
    “How did you know?” She asked.
    “He had tiny holes all along his back and his abdomen was turning purple. Shrapnel wounds with internal bleeding. It probably shredded his organs and… there’s nothing we can do when they’re like that.”
    “Oh,” She breathed softly.
    By now the rest of the wounded had been sorted and taken to surgery so the pair had nothing to do. They sat on the floor against a wall, in the commons area but out of the way, while Walken peeled off her gloves while Rebecca organized her aid kit.
    “So how are you and James?” Walken asked nonchalantly.
    “Don’t know,” She answered with a slight shake of her head, a few strands of her red hair coming loose from her ponytail and falling across her face. “I know I don’t love him — hell, I barely know him.”
    “But…”
    “But I still feel very strongly about him. I’m just not sure if it’s good or bad.”
    Walken gave her a curious look. “What exactly does that mean? Back in my day we either liked someone or we didn’t.”
    Smiling, she tried to find the words to explain. “He’s so nice but sometimes he gets dark and antisocial; like he doesn’t want anything to do with anyone. He’s sarcastic. But he’s so curious about the world, about the galaxy.”
    “Well you have to remember: he’s a high school student who is fighting a world war against aliens.”
    Rebecca blushed at the insanity of the world at the present time. “Yeah and here I am, hundreds of miles from my family, who I left under occupation, who I don’t even know if they’re alive anymore. What about me?”
    Walken got to her feet. “Baxter’s coming,” She said referring to Colonel Baxter, the head of the Mobile Army Surgical Hospital unit. Before the officer got to then, Walken turned to Rebecca to finish their conversation. “You know, you don’t have to be with James. You’re very beautiful and I’m sure there are a lot of guys that would love to be with you.”
    “Probably…”
    By then Baxter had reached them, the florescent lights shining off of his bald head. “Dr. Walken, I need you and your assistant to join the other medic team heading to the front.”
    “The front? Why?” She asked incredulously.
    “They lost a few medics already and word is some kind of push is about to go down. You can expect massive casualties in the next few hours and if we can get experienced doctors up there maybe they can do more good and slow the tide of incoming wounded.”
    “Right,” Walken agreed with a heavy sigh. “Yes, Sir. Rebecca go fill the kit with supplies and meet me up front.”
    Nodding, she hefted the large white plastic case with multiple compartments like a fisherman’s tool box on steroids.
    Carrying it through the commons area and weaving through the scores of people moving about, soldiers getting on the trucks, civilians carrying supplies needed on the front, or orderlies cleaning the mess left from the wounded. Charred clothes, pools of blood, medical waste. She was glad Walken had her assigned as a doctor’s aide instead of leaving her to her fate. With the random job generator she could have ended up doing anything from kitchen duty to being an orderly; but really, Rebecca knew she would have been assigned to be a soldier seeing as she was able bodied and over 17.
    Approaching the Medical Supply room, formerly classroom A-1 Mrs. Salitan’s Kindergarten, she lifted the case and sat it on the table. Shelves lined the walls and filled most of the room, filled with IV bags and gauze, bandages and ointments, and every kind of painkiller and antibiotic available.
    “Hey, Ian,” She said with a smile.
    The supply clerk, Ian Walker, turned around and beamed. “Hey, Becca. You need something?”
    “And how. Walken and I were just assigned front line triage duty so I need you to load me up.”
    Ian limped over to the table where her case was and looked inside. He was born with a deformity in his right leg which required it to be amputated early on, he grew up with a prosthetic which forced him to adapt a permanent sunny disposition which Rebecca found refreshing.
    “The front, huh?” Ian asked as he filled the case. “Well you be careful, okay?”
    He closed the case and handed it back to her with a broad smile which she couldn’t help but to return just as broadly. When she left the room she felt her cheeks flushing and prayed she wasn’t blushing too visibly.
    No such luck because as she met back up with Walken the first thing she said was, “Your cheeks are burning.”
    “Yeah,” She said, then tried to change the subject with, “Ready?”
    “Convoy’s waiting for us.”
    Together the stepped out into the chilly night air. Rebecca pulled her thin coat tighter around herself as the climbed into the bed of a pickup truck. Winter was coming, there was no doubt about it. And she hoped the Army had plans to ensure everyone could withstand the Colorado winters.
 
Hardesty, Oklahoma
    Rain beat against the windows and poured down from the gutters. The fire in the fireplace was burning low and Ann wished she could throw another log on it. Unforunately the only other logs they had were in front of the fireplace, drying so they may have a fire tomorrow night. Everything else was soaked by the week long downpour. She and Gregory had barely made it back to the farm with the truck from the farmers market when the rain began.
    “Damn,” Lucas O’Donnell slapped his Farmer’s Almanac against the side of his chair. “This damn thing doesn’t say one word about rain this week.”
    “Well it’s not The Weather Channel, Hun,” Julie O’Donnell chimed in. “It can’t be perfect.”
    “But it’s still pretty damn accurate,” Lucas said, flipping through the pages again. “I’ll tell you what it is: it’s this damn war. All the fighting all across the world is throwing up some nasty stuff into the atmosphere and it’s doing to us what it did to Europe in the ‘40’s.”
    “It’s called War Dust,” Gregory said next to Ann. His arm was around her shoulders and they were wrapped up in a blanket trying to keep warm and dry. “Not that it matters, right? The corn’s in and we can still take care of the livestock.”
    “But we can still plant Winter Wheat. At this point the ground will be too wet and then it’ll freeze and it’ll be too hard to plow.”
    Ann chuckled, “Well we’ve still got a full load of bullets in our planes,” She said referring to the pair of A-10’s they had stored in a large shed on the outskirts of town. “Why don’t we just fly over and shoot up the field? They do call the A-10’s gun The Plow anyway.”
    Gregory kissed the top of her head. “That reminds me, we need to go check up on those soon. I’d really like to get back in the air if we could. Flying’s a perishable skill, you know?”
    “It’s just the fine touch stuff that’s perishable. And it’s not like we’re going to be streaking around. Face it, we fly the minivan of the sky.”
    “Minivan with a bunch of missiles.”
    Silence settled back over the room as everyone ran out of things to say and went back to their activities. The kids were already in the bed and it wouldn’t be long before Ann followed. Thick blankets, a soft bed, and lying next to Gregory would go a long way to fighting the cold.
    Idly, she wondered if they did somehow get called back to fight would she be able to go knowing that one of them, or very probably both, wouldn’t come back. Ann had gotten close to her wingman. Closer than she should have but there was something about Gregory that made her feel good. Safe.
    She knew she wouldn’t be able to face his death. Ann prayed it would never come to that.