Chapter Text
I, Jacob Maczek, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States, against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice.
###
Excerpt from the audio recordings made by Professor Eleanor Guthrie, DAY 1
Right, this will be the first in a series of recordings to accompany my written data. My typing skills aren't what they used to be – damned arthritis – so it's easier for me to ramble into a microphone rather than scurry off to harass some hapless lab assistant into taking dictation. But that's what they get for dragging an old crock like me out of retirement, eh?
Anyway… this is tape 1 of the Wraeththu project. That's W-R-A-E-T-H-T-H-U for whichever unfortunate soul has the job of transcribing this. Yes, there are two T-H’s in a row. Apparently that's the preferred spelling these whoever-they-are use. God alone knows how someone came by that bit of intelligence. Maybe they have cheerleaders doing chants as they go on a killing spree? Gimme a W, gimme an R…
Less flippancy, Eleanor my dear, and more work. And less sounding like a dotty old bat talking to yourself, though of course, that's exactly what you are doing, isn't it? Hah!
Okay, project tasks. One: determine whatever the hell the Wraeththu are and are not. Two: assess the threat, if any, that this poses. Three: recommend any courses of action to nullify identified threats.
My mission – should I choose to accept it – is to oversee the forensic pathology team plus any and all random bits of Wraeththu corpses our dear government sees fit to send me. Then to test every crackpot theory circulating in the media about vampires, super-heroin, mutant diseases from outer space, and so on. We even have a team member dedicated to deprogramming any live gang members they catch. Though given that all the specimens we've got to date are fragmentary and very, very dead, I'd say that we need a medium, not a shrink.
###
March
“Switch to the news! Switch to the news!”
Corporal Jake Maczek was watching a movie in the rec area of Firebase Jaguar when Brodie came hurtling in, yelling like a maniac. Maczek’s immediate instinct was to check for pursuers. Within Arrow Troop, Brodie’s reputation for doing Really Dumb Stuff was legendary.
He and Brodie were scouts with the 60th Cavalry Regiment, stationed in Colombia to aid the locals in their interminable war with Venezuela. Scouts were – as Brodie put it – the suckers who got to make first contact with the enemy. Maczek had spent more hours than he cared to recall huddled in an observation post, observing enemy movements and directing fire onto them. And, he noted sourly, an equal number of off-duty hours doing damage control for whatever dumbass things Brodie did. As a result, he regarded Brodie as a surrogate younger brother. Specifically, the variety of younger brother who you wanted to throttle about once a day…
His friend skidded to a halt in front of the TV screen, eliciting yells of protest from the small crowd of movie-watchers. Surprisingly, no exasperated teammate or angry NCO materialised in Brodie’s wake.
“Fuck sake, switch to the news!” Brodie yelled in agitation, searching around frantically for the remote.
“This had better be damn important,” grumbled Maczek, as he thumbed to one of the US rolling news channels.
The picture switched to a haggard-looking reporter standing by a wrecked building. Brodie ducked away from the screen to hunker down by Maczek. The latter barely noticed; his attention sucked in by the horrific images.
“Jesus Christ! Is that New York?”
The reporter was trying to be professional, but sounded on the verge of tears. The room descended into silence as Maczek and the other troopers tried to process what they were seeing and hearing. Mid-Atlantic Ridge… the Azores… undersea eruption… tsunami… millions feared dead…
“Flores,” muttered Brodie. Anguished brown eyes met Maczek’s own. “Dumb, middle of nowhere island – just ripped itself apart and fell into the sea…”
Maczek just gawped, unable to take in the magnitude of what he saw. It was like some Hollywood disaster movie. A tsunami… a whole series of tsunamis… radiating out from a focal point as if someone had lobbed a giant rock into the Atlantic. The waves had struck all along the eastern seaboard of the USA. Everywhere from Boston to Jacksonville had been hit. A vast chunk of New York was just gone. Wiped off the map.
Satellite images and graphics charted the progress of the disaster from start to finish. The USA bore the brunt of it, though there were also waves in South America and West Africa. The States had received warning the waves were coming, but…
Six hours. They’d had six hours to try and evacuate millions of people. In the middle of the night. The death toll was inconceivable.
“No, no, no!” Tanner was freaking out as the images shifted to aerial shots of Jacksonville in Florida. His home. The young soldier was fumbling with his phone, cursing that the cell networks were down.
Maczek was on his feet, anticipating Tanner’s sprint for the door – and the satellite phones. Brodie followed his lead and they intercepted the man, dragging him to a halt. Martinez and Young – Tanner’s squad mates – charged over to assist.
“Tanner. Tanner!” Maczek gave his best NCO bark, giving the struggling trooper a shake to focus his attention. “If you can’t get through it’s because the lines are jammed. If they don’t call back it’s because the cell towers and power lines are down. You listening, Tanner? You understand?”
Tanner mumbled something which indicated comprehension, and Maczek stepped back, releasing his grip. He jerked his head at Martinez and Young as Tanner stumbled off. “Stick with him. Make sure he’s okay.”
He looked at footage of cars scattered over a freeway like discarded toys. Thank Christ his own family were hundreds of miles from the sea.
Brodie hovered by his side, radiating anxiety. “They’ll send us home, won’t they? They’ll send us home? They can’t expect us to stay here and fight after that…” He jerked a thumb towards the television screen.
Maczek could hear the sounds of chaos erupting across the firebase as the news spread. “They’ll send us home,” he agreed.
Fuck Venezuela and its neo-commie government. Fuck Columbia and their drug-riddled disaster of a country. Fuck ‘em both and fuck their oil. America needed them at home.
###
Excerpt from the audio recordings made by Professor Eleanor Guthrie, DAY 10
Well, a week of interminable meetings has now finished, and I'm not sure if I’m sad or glad to say that Project Wraeththu is go. I was sure we’d get canned because all resources would be going to the disaster areas. But apparently this project has some sort of sacrosanct funding because of ‘national security issues’. I have no clue what the hell that’s all about, and was too afraid to ask in case I had to spend another day of security briefings.
Anyway, the teams are now in place and we can – at last – actually get down to doing some real work! Quite a mixed bag we are too. As well as a delightfully large and well-funded pathology team, my biology division consists of some microbiologists and virologists from the CDC, plus two frighteningly young and enthusiastic geneticists. The project also has a team of FBI profilers, and a social anthropologist who specialises in the psychology of urban gang cultures. Oh my, her fieldwork must have been fun!
Meanwhile there are half a dozen legal advisors for covering our collective asses on the ethically dubious grey areas we'll be stampeding into… Plus various sundry others to act as liaison to the President, the military and Congress.
Needless to say, a rather large proportion of our meetings have been dedicated to pissing contests as alpha males attempt to determine who sits where in the hierarchy. And where the buck stops if it all goes wrong.
So, apart from all that – and a lot of time spent making lists of useful things we could be doing if we weren't all stuck in meetings – the project is Go! Our first cadavers are waiting in the mortuary, and I'll be starting my examination at the crack of dawn tomorrow. Time for bed, then!
Hmm, time for a very large, stiff drink and then time for bed, methinks…
###
Early April
The plane touched down with an unusually vigorous bump, sparking a spate of complaints and catcalls deriding the pilot’s prowess, probable sexual orientation and immediate ancestry.
“Sit down, asshole!” Maczek grabbed hold as Brodie clambered upright in his eagerness to voice his thoughts on the landing. “You want the Staff Sergeant to see you?”
Brodie scowled and shook off his grip, remaining stubbornly standing. “Screw you. Adams hates flying – he’ll probably cheer me on.”
“Yeah, hates flying and will be looking for someone to take out all his misery on. You think that’s gonna be the fly boys, huh?”
Damned if Brodie’s bullshit was going to get him stuck on this shitty plane one second longer than necessary. They were home. He wanted off this crate and back onto American soil.
Brodie’s mouth opened then shut again as he thought about this. He crashed gracelessly back into his seat.
Too late.
Staff Sergeant Adams’ voice roared out: “Private Brodie, I hope you’ve still got your seatbelt fastened, like the nice air stewardess instructed?”
“Yes, Staff.”
Maczek couldn’t help laughing as Brodie scrambled to get the belt refastened.
The recon squadron’s Humvees and armour – M3A3 Bradley fighting vehicles – were coming home the slow way by sea then road and rail, along with everything else big, heavy and dangerous the Cav possessed: field artillery and M1A2-SEP tanks. Not to mention all the sundry fuel bowsers, tank transports and myriad support vehicles. Maczek had experienced a brief taste of the organised chaos on the dockside and been very glad to snag a ride to the airfield before someone had the bright idea to co-opt him and his fellow scouts for traffic control duty.
Anyone with relatives in the disaster areas had been flown home last week. Now the rest of the Regiment’s personnel were returning in a mix of a mix of military planes and civilian passenger jets. Yesterday the Headquarters Troop had begun their return to Missouri. Today Mustang Squadron’s scout platoons were in the second wave of planes to touch down, sharing the craft with crews from some of the Bradleys in Cimarron Squadron, and a smattering of Support Squadron personnel. Battle-weary young men and women, enervated into a raucous mob at the thought of finally being back in America. Plans were hatched, most of them involving home-cooked food, alcohol, sex… or some combination of the three. Even the knowledge of the horrendous disaster which had abruptly altered the US’s foreign policy couldn’t dampen the fervour. Everyone was feverish with the need to be home.
The tsunami changed everything.
Washington had survived. The tidal bore from hell had gone up the Potomac, but its vigour was spent by the time it reached the capital. Washington had folk cursing because their basement was flooded, not weeping because their entire neighbourhood had been obliterated. But Washington survived, so the US still had a Federal government – one which found its priorities radically rethought.
The President declared a National State of Emergency. The last of the US forces abroad were being returned home. The rest of the world could go to hell in a hand basket for all the USA cared. Their armed forces were being re-tasked for disaster relief and home defence.
Hell, Maczek was just glad to be out of the meat grinder the war had degenerated into. Columbia and Venezuela could bomb each other into oblivion as far as he cared. Better they pounded each other into dirt than killed any more of the Good Guys. He fidgeted as the plane continued its interminable taxi. Would their families be waiting for them on the tarmac? Command had been annoyingly vague on that point, and just stated ‘a welcome’ was being arranged. He was fizzing with frustration at not knowing if he would see Marie imminently or have to wait another hour or two.
“So how long they letting us have?” Brodie asked for about the thirtieth time.
The topic of how much leave they would get was endlessly speculated on, because no solid information had been forthcoming. They been told they’d get time off when they reached Stateside, which didn’t exactly tally with them being urgently needed for disaster relief. Something weird was going on.
“Dunno,” said Maczek. “But I reckon they owe me about a year.”
He was gonna grab any leave offered with both hands. He was gonna spend a month in bed with his wife, then go down to Texas to see his Mom. Then find some of the guys from school and get roaring drunk. Then more sex, then… Anything resembling a vacation itinerary just degenerated into a lustful haze at that point.
“They oughta let us have duty-free.” Brodie’s mind had raced off on another tangent. Maczek never failed to marvel at the personality shift from task-focussed scout in the field to butterfly-mind in free time. “We came from another country – they ought to let us buy booze tax free. Ain’t fair planes chartered by the Army don’t do that.”
“What’s the point? We’re back in the good old US of A now – you ain’t old enough to drink here! Poor little baby Gabriel…” Maczek ruffled his companion’s buzz-cut brown hair.
Brodie slapped his hand away in annoyance. “Screw you. And don’t call me Gabriel. Sucky name.”
Brodie was nineteen. The two years which separated him from Maczek in age sometimes felt like a century.
Abruptly the plane halted and the engine noise died away. Adams and one of the other senior NCOs were on their feet, ready to forestall any stampede for the door. Muffled clanks and shouts from outside told of ground crew preparing to assist with offloading.
“This will be an orderly disembarkation,” Adams growled. “Everyone will file out like good little boys and girls.” The brawny black NCO paced down the aisle of the plane. His gaze swept the watching faces. “Apart from Private Brodie, who will be staying on board to check that nothing gets left behind in the rush.”
“Shit!” muttered Brodie.
Maczek snorted. “Told you,” he said.
###
“Three weeks? Aww, that’s just bullshit!”
Maczek felt disbelief start to slide rapidly into fury. They were not being deployed to help with the disaster relief, yet they were only being allocated a meagre three weeks leave? After being stuck in a combat zone half a continent away for over a year? After months of only managing sporadic phone calls to Marie and his mother because the cell networks were always down? You had to sell your soul to get more than a few minutes on the base’s uplinks for a call or to check email.
There were no families waiting to greet them. Everything was off limits to civilians. As soon as the lack of a welcome hit them, there had been a flurry of frantic cell phone calls. Maczek managed a few anxious words with his wife before one of the HQ officers was bawling at them to cease and desist. Cell phones were to be switched off now. Marie was tantalisingly out of reach, fretting somewhere in a designated waiting area for families.
Now there was this bullshit briefing saying there was some new deployment in the offing.
The Mustang Squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Farmer, waited for the ruckus to die down. Tired grey eyes watched the assembled troopers. Maczek shifted restlessly in his seat. The Lieutenant Colonel and the troop Captain up there on the dais with him looked stressed out and run ragged. Maczek liked the Captain – trusted him, and trusted his command style, and trusted him to protect the troop from bureaucratic bullshit. And the Captain trusted the Lt Col, which had always been good enough for Maczek. But now frustration at the delays, at the lack of information, at Marie being almost within touching distance, was eroding trust and discipline and plain common sense.
“We’re needed here,” said Lieutenant Colonel Farmer.
“For what?” Maczek yelled. “We gonna invade Iowa?”
“Maczek!” A warning growl in his ear from the imposing bulk of Staff Sergeant Adams, sitting in the row behind.
“We’re needed here,” repeated the Lieutenant Colonel in an even tone. “I don’t like it any more than you do, gentlemen, but we swore an oath – to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”
His emphasis on ‘and’ brought all the anger and complaints to an abrupt and crashing halt. There was a sudden and profound silence.
Maczek exchanged a horrified look with Brodie. They were going to fight fellow Americans? Who? Where? Why, for fuck sake? Was that even legal? Yes, the tsunami was a major public emergency, but there was a hell of a difference between helping to keep public order and fighting a war on their own damn soil.
He’d always suspected the news from home was censored – looked like that was true, if something was so massively out of control it needed a whole Squadron from a Cavalry Regiment to deal with it.
Farmer’s gaze swept across the crowded hall. “You’ll hear the word Raythoo a lot in the media when you go on leave. Some of you may even have heard it already.”
Maczek frowned at the unfamiliar phrase. Who or what was Raythoo?
Farmer continued: “Most of what you’ll hear will be bullshit about street gangs and junkies. Stuff for the cops to deal with, not the Cav. Raythoo is just a label and any loser who wants to appear tough can call himself that. But there’s a core cult who aren’t junkies – who are armed well beyond any street gang’s capabilities, and are mounting raids on American towns over the Canadian-American border. Three weeks, gentlemen and ladies, for you to rest and recuperate while the logistics of this joint US and Canadian venture are put in place – then we kick their asses!”
“Jesus Christ,” said Maczek. “It’s not Iowa – we’re invading Canada!”