Earthfall 2: The Mission Continues

By Valery Podoroga

THE MISSION CONTINUES...

After surviving a massive earthquake and completing a desperate race halfway across the continental United States, Captain Mike Andrews and the crew of the newly-rebuilt Self-Contained Exploration Vehicle Four have a new mission: continue the search for life in the Pacific Northwest.

After weeks of searching, they find what they were looking for: the small town of Sherwood, north of the ruins of Bend, Oregon. The tiny community populated by forward thinkers, survivalists, and specialists has managed to not only survive after the Sixty Minute War, but thrive. Andrews, Mulligan, Eklund and the others are amazed at the discovery, and the residents of Sherwood are enthralled to discover there is still a functioning remnant of the United States working to restore our once-great nation.

But following the crew from Harmony Base comes a monolithic threat. A ragged, violent army emerges from the nuclear landscape. Its objective: to conquer Sherwood and take everything they can get. Andrews and his team are the only obstacle in their way.

JOIN THE BATTLE...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valery Podoroga
• Release date: Aug 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463137314

Valery Podoroga

Stephen Knight was a journalist and the author of ‘Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution’ and ‘The Killing of Justice Godfrey’. He also wrote a novel, ‘Requiem at Rogano’. Stephen Knight was the writing name of Swami Puja Debal, a follower of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. He died in 1985.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Good morning, Scott.

Command Sergeant Major Scott Mulligan looked up from his meeting to find Major General Martin Benchley standing in the doorway to his office. The Old Man was starting to look a little gray and frail, he noticed. Perhaps it was the net result of spending eleven-plus years underground. Or maybe it was because he was past the mandatory retirement age for his grade, and continuing to serve as an elderly man wasn’t sitting well with him.

Good morning, sir. What can we do for you? Mulligan asked.

Benchley nodded at the three senior NCOs crammed into Mulligan’s small, windowless office. There was no such thing as a plush corner office at Harmony Base. Everyone’s workspace was essentially the size of a broom closet, even Benchley’s.

Sorry, folks, I’d thought you’d be done by now.

We ran a little late, but we’re finishing up now, sir. Mulligan looked at the three first sergeants seated around his desk. So unless there’s anything else, we can cover enlisted issues next time?

First Sergeant Bob Randell favored Mulligan with his patented scowl. His expression hadn’t improved much with age. "Well sure, no need to worry about enlisted affairs when you get to go out into the field on a glory run, right?"

Aw, Bobby. Are you jealous, son?

Randell snorted. I’m trying hard to think why. It’s not like I want to go out for a couple of months in an SCEV that’s going to smell like one continuous fart after a week.

Benchley chuckled dryly. First Sergeant, you certainly nailed that one.

Thank you, sir. Do I get a medal ceremony?

You get an ass kicking, you crusty old dog, Mulligan said. Now seriously, if there’s nothing else ...?

The three NCOs got to their feet, and Mulligan did the same. All of them were in their fifties, two men and one woman. Real salt of the earth types who probably never thought they’d spend the rest of their lives beneath the earth instead of on top of it, but one took the breaks wherever they could be found. Benchley faded back from the doorway to allow them out. One man and the woman pushed past him, carrying their chairs as they withdrew. Randell paused long enough to give Mulligan a fist bump, then showed him three fingers.

Read between the lines, Scotty, he said.

Mulligan raised his hand and shot Randell the bird. Because I know reading is hard for you.

Randell laughed and hit the door. Sorry for the wait, sir, he said to Benchley on the way out.

No, not at all. Male bonding is still important. Benchley looked at Mulligan with a grin and stepped back into the office. Just a couple minutes of your time, Sarmajor. I know you’re a busy bastard.

Always time for the boss, sir. What’s doing? As he spoke, he noticed Benchley carried a padded plastic bag in one hand. It was marked with decon clearance stamps. Did the Old Man have something from the surface?

Benchley closed the office door behind him and slid into the single visitor’s chair facing Mulligan’s desk. He put the padded bag on the desktop and watched Mulligan as he sat back in his chair.

I have some of your things, Benchley said.

Mulligan regarded the bag for a long moment. Uh ... my things?

Some of them couldn’t be saved. They were destroyed in the decon process, but we were able to scan most of them and make some hopefully faithful recreations. Benchley opened the bag and pulled out a series of plastic frames. The original frames were total write-offs, of course. Especially the metal ones. Too heavily ionized, so they had to be disposed of.

Mulligan leaned forward as Benchley arranged the plastic carriers on the desk. At first, he couldn’t believe what he saw. Photos ... all taken from his old rented house in Scott City, where Mulligan’s family had perished in the war. His wife. His daughters. Caught in moments forever lost to him.

How ... how did you ...?

When I went back into the house, I gathered as many as I could and put them in my satchel, Benchley said. You were busy with your family. So I ... Benchley rearranged the plastic frames slightly, gazing down on the photos inside. I thought you might like them. Was I wrong?

Mulligan regarded the collection of old memories before him and felt a sharp pain in his chest. No, sir. You weren’t wrong. He had to stop then and gather some strength. The shock of being suddenly confronted by his ghosts in his small office was almost overwhelming. Benchley kept his eyes on the pictures, idly moving them around, just busy work so he wouldn’t have to look up and endure the emotion in Mulligan’s eyes. The Old Man’s jaw was set, but Mulligan could see he was about to get emotional as well.

And they weren’t even his own family.

Thank you, sir, Mulligan said after a time. Thank you very much for taking the time to do this. And thank you for helping me lay them to rest. You really didn’t need to do that.

Brother, I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t done that, Benchley said. No man under my command is going to walk that line alone.

Mulligan wiped his eyes. Well. This was a surprise.

Benchley looked up at him then. More pleasant than not, I hope.

Yeah. Yeah, I’m happy to see them.

Benchley leaned back in his chair. Good. I really didn’t know if it was a good idea or not, but they’ve been waiting down in decon for weeks. I finally decided to nut up and get this done. Wanted to do it before you head out on SCEV Four. Everything good with that? Anything you need to tell me? Unofficially, of course.

Mulligan cleared his throat, coming back to the here and now. Uh ... no, sir. Rig is good to go, crew is good to go. It’s time to get back into the field.

You can still back out if it’s going to be too much for you, Benchley said. We have other senior noncommissioned officers who can take your slot. You’re too senior for this work, anyway.

I’m going, sir. I asked for the job, right?

Benchley nodded. You did. Just giving you an easy out, Sarmajor. He looked down at his hands for a moment, then scowled. Well, fuck me.

Mulligan looked down and saw the general’s hands were trembling.

Martin? Something wrong?

Benchley looked up at Mulligan, then looked away with a sigh. I’m not so sure I should spring another surprise on you before you leave, Mulligan.

The hell you say. What is it?

I’ll probably be dead before you get back.

Shock replaced the dull mourning that had filled his chest, and it was Mulligan’s turn to lean back in his chair. What?

Benchley reached up and tapped his temple. Brain cancer. Multiple glioblastomas that keep reoccurring. Pia’s been giving me nano treatments for the past month, but it’s just a matter of time. The treatment can’t keep up with the rate of recurrence. Besides, the nanites have to burn up some healthy brain tissue every time, so eventually the treatment would be as damaging as the tumors themselves.

Mulligan grappled with that. Holy shit, Marty. I mean ... holy fucking shit.

Command group does not know about this yet, Benchley continued. Of course, Corrine does. It’s why she finally accepted her promotion. To be honest, I’m surprised the Harmony Base Telegraph hasn’t caught wind of this yet. Or has it?

Mulligan shook his head. No, sir. My people would be the first to blab about it, and a lot of them wouldn’t be able to keep a secret like that.

Baxter will need you, Mulligan. She’s a fine officer, and top-notch woman. She’ll need a man like you watching her back.

Yes, sir. I’m on that. Mulligan sighed. Okay, this changes things. Maybe I should let Four jump out without me. I like Master Sergeant Korecki. He’ll need to start hitting the sims big time, but I’m sure I can get him elevated in time—

Benchley waved him to silence. You need to go, Mulligan. After what happened in San Jose, there’s just no chance I’d send anyone else.

You just told me I could step aside if I wanted, sir.

I was lying. You can’t. You shouldn’t. Harmony’s not in any danger, but those kids out there will be, and you’re the guy who goes where the danger is. Benchley pointed at the Army Special Forces insignia on Mulligan’s multicam uniform. Unless that’s actually a signals patch. With all those lightning bolts, an old guy can get confused.

Andrews and Laird are both competent commanders, sir. But please, don’t repeat that to Laird.

Benchley snorted. You do like yanking his coattails, don’t you?

Every officer needs a pet NCO to keep him in formation, sir. Mulligan drummed his thick fingers on the desktop. Marty. Really, how long do you have?

Eight to ten weeks with continued treatment. I haven’t experienced any cognitive issues yet, but Pia expects that to happen in around another three weeks. Once that occurs, I’m out on medical. No way around that. And when that happens, I’ll inform the command group that General Baxter is to assume command of Harmony Base.

Jesus. Jesus, sir. Even though he felt a cold wind rage inside him, Mulligan kept it from reaching his eyes. Benchley didn’t need to see him as anything other than a cool, competent soldier right now.

It is what it is, Sergeant Major. Life does what life does. My number’s up, just waiting for the final drawing. Benchley looked across the desk at Mulligan, and the Old Man’s eyes were clear and unburdened. I might have something for you before you jump out. Nothing major, and totally voluntary. Haven’t decided if I’ll go there or not, but if I do ... He shrugged. Well. Try not to kick my ass.

Intriguing notion, kicking a dying man’s ass.

Finally a fight you might be able to win, you big pussy.

Mulligan smiled at that, and Benchley looked away suddenly. Mulligan figured some of the emotion came up in his eyes, and that wasn’t what the general needed to see.

Well, I’ll let you get back to work. I wanted to get these things back to you. A man needs to remember his history, and yours was bright. Benchley rapped his knuckles on the old wooden desk. Sarmajor, it was a pleasure. Just in case I don’t get to tell you later.

He rose then, and Mulligan rocketed to his feet. Same here, sir. As a matter of fact, it was an honor.

Benchley looked at Mulligan for a moment, then shook his head. You’ve been drinking on duty, he said. That’s the only reason a Green Beret would compliment an old infantryman.

Mulligan spread his hands. What can I say? When you’re right, you’re right, sir.

Benchley shot him a thumbs-up. Attaboy. Keep up the good work.

Mulligan watched the older man step out of the office. He left the door open behind him. Mulligan slowly sank down into his chair and regarded the framed memories that lay across his desk. The old pain made itself known, that deep loneliness that was like a hole in his soul nothing could ever fill. He gathered them up and put them to one side, and wondered how much mourning a man could take.

CHAPTER TWO

The rest of the week passed as all the others had before it: full of mission-planning exercises for the upcoming run, simulated vehicle training, tactical training, and lots of maintenance. Aside from being more reserved, Mulligan was still Mulligan. Kelly Jordello’s dire portents of him becoming a walking dead man or a suicidal maniac after laying his family to rest never materialized. The command sergeant major continued his work, drilling the teams on close-combat techniques and fighting forward through whatever it was he had to work past. The big man was completely focused on his work but also a bit distant. Andrews had asked him twice how he was coming along, and the answer both times had been Just fine, sir, so he left him alone after that. Every time he looked at Leona’s tense face, Andrews could see that Mulligan wasn’t being entirely truthful. Just the same, she wouldn’t speak to him about it, either. Andrews didn’t push it. No matter how much he personally liked his executive officer and the base CSM, he knew their private affairs weren’t for him.

Originally, the plan had been for the reconstituted team of Self-Contained Exploration Vehicle Four to track to the northwest from Harmony’s location in western Kansas to as close to Bend, Oregon, as the rig could get. One way, the expedition would cover over fifteen hundred miles, depending on what kind of terrain they had to deviate around. The general lay of the land was well known, and Andrews had traveled farther once already, to San Jose on a mission to obtain replacement parts for the base’s power generation system. On paper, it didn’t look too intense. But at the last moment, Benchley and the command staff threw in a monkey wrench: a deviation toward Sacramento, California. A replenishment site was there, half-buried in a hillside. In that site were four replacement SCEVs, and Andrews would drop off Jim Laird, Kelly Jordello, and two rig maintainers at the bunker-like structure. There, the team would spend a month reviving one of the stored vehicles then press on to meet Andrews and the others, who would have already started their reconnaissance of the area around Bend. After assisting them in concluding the survey, they would all return home in tandem.

Seems like tandem missions are becoming popular, Andrews had remarked to Brigadier General Corrine Baxter when she’d given him the news. Or at least on the missions I get.

It’s just a deviation from the SOP, Captain, Baxter had told him. It’s not new doctrine. But someone has to get Laird and his crew to the replenishment site, and you happen to be heading that way. And four people are more than enough to operate an SCEV for twelve-hour runs.

Andrews nodded, but inside, he wasn’t thrilled about the prospect. Piloting an SCEV across a nearly stygian landscape with a full eight-person crew was no picnic, though with so many hands on board, the rig could operate twenty-four hours a day, continuously advancing toward its objective. And that was how the plan would unfold, at least until they made it to the replenishment site. After that, another three to four hundred miles were all that would separate SCEV Four from its primary objective. Despite the rising terrain, a crew of four would be able to handle that easily enough, as well as complete a decent recon of the vicinity. And after the newly resurrected SCEV Five joined them on-station, the two rigs could take an even deeper look, perhaps press a bit into Bend itself—or if providence was to be found, all the way to whatever remained of Portland, on the other side of Mount Hood. While they had been instructed not to enter the city, a visual and electronic investigation was allowed. It had been subjected to a direct attack during the Sixty-Minute War, so there was little chance human life would be detected. But part of the mission was to take an inventory of major population centers, and Portland was the biggest one in the area.

The real grind would come during the return trip, when both vehicles would return to Harmony Base fifty percent manned. They would have to stop and shut down for the night, and while continuously traveling overland was already inherently risky, coming to a halt and switching off the rigs was perhaps even more daunting. The vehicles always had the chance of not starting up again, which wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good time.

Despite the changes and the scope of the mission, Andrews was excited by it. He’d been on several recons before, so he was intimately familiar with just how boring time in the field could be. Though the mission was vital, it was hardly glamorous. But since the surprising discovery of a small group of survivors eking out a meager existence in the devastated remains of San Jose, the SCEV field teams had become newly energized, and Andrews had been sidelined for almost a full year—it was time to get back to work.

Then there was the fact that the northwest run was the mission that promised to be the most fruitful.

So for another three weeks, Andrews and his people worked alongside Laird and his team, prepping the SCEV, getting the planning completed, and training with Mulligan and the rest of the senior trainers. Though they were a bit stale, they still maintained enough proficiency to successfully complete the mission as delivered.

They were ready. It was time to go.

***

Two months, Rachel said as she lay in Andrews’s arms in bed the night before the SCEV was scheduled to jump out. Maybe three. That’s a hell of a long time.

It is, Andrews replied.

But not as long as ten or eleven months underground, is it?

He didn’t know how to respond to that. He wasn’t sure if she was needling him or if she knew the truth, that being trapped in Harmony with nothing to do was anathematic to him. Don’t really follow you on that one, hon.

Come on. It’s the field. You love it, she said.

It’s not so much that I love it. It just has to be done. He slapped her rump. Besides, if you’d followed up, you could have become a rig maintainer.

She shook her head. Not my gig. The Core is where I belong. I figured that out during San Jose. Rachel had been on that fateful trip and had experienced firsthand what her husband and his teammates dealt with every time they left the base. Of course, that had been a rather extreme example, but it was more than enough to convince her that she was best suited to remaining at Harmony and tending to the turbines that provided power to the base.

This won’t be anything like San Jose, he said.

How do you know? Plenty of potential for danger, no matter where you go. Not just the human variety, either.

Yeah, well … the circumstances aren’t as dire this time around. We’re not trying to beat the clock. We can take our time, be more diligent without worrying that everyone in Harmony is sitting on death row. Right?

If you say so.

I say so.

Rachel squeezed him and kissed his neck. How’s Mulligan doing?

Andrews pursed his lips. Rachel and Mulligan had a complicated history since her parents had died during the command sergeant major’s mad dash to try to save his family. She’d held that against him for years, and even after he’d finally deigned to detail the circumstances behind their deaths, she was no fan of his. Andrews didn’t know how he felt about that. While Rachel was well within her rights to hate the guy forever, Peter and CJ Lopez had declined Mulligan’s invitations to disembark from One Truck even though nuclear birds were leaving their roosts and trailing bright fire across the sky. They’d decided to throw in with Mulligan and help him save his family in a desperate race against time, knowing full well the risks and doubtless aware that their daughter was still in Harmony, completely oblivious to what was transpiring on the planet’s surface.

Andrews thought that said a lot about the Lopezes. They were strong, compassionate people who’d come up short in the end, just like millions of others who had lost their lives in the Sixty-Minute War. Rachel didn’t quite see it that way. She still saw Mulligan as being complicit in their deaths. Andrews had come to know the sergeant major fairly well after the happenings in San Jose, and he knew the older man was as honorable as they came. And he had suffered a double tragedy—losing his family and losing two of his friends at the same time.

Just the same, Mulligan’s confession to Rachel in the Commons Area had served to make her a little less brittle and smoothed out her edges a bit. Before, there’d always been a vaguely frantic element to her. That had disappeared in the months after her conversation with Mulligan. She had mellowed a bit. Though she would likely be unable to finally forgive the sergeant major for what happened to her parents, she had finally learned to live with it.

Mulligan’s holding up, Andrews said. He got to bury his family. Got to say his final goodbyes. He’s doing it all his own way, but he’s able to function and carry on.

Should he be going with you?

There’s no reason he shouldn’t. Doc Pia checked him out, and so did Renner. Renner was the base psychologist, a major with a perennially long face and dour disposition, a direct counterpoint to the more stentorian but animated Lieutenant Colonel Pia, Harmony’s chief surgeon. Plus, he was pretty handy to have around last time. I have to give props where they’re due.

Rachel didn’t say anything, and Andrews couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or not. She ran her hand over his chest for a few moments, and he turned toward her and kissed her forehead.

What’s up? he asked.

Nothing. You’ll be gone for two months, and Mulligan will be with you—on the same crew, even. It seems like whenever he goes out into the field, people come back dead. My parents. Spencer. Choi. Even if it’s not what he intended, people around him tend to die.

That’s not very fair, babe. Mulligan saved us in San Jose. Twice. And he saved us after Four had been hit by leading the rescue team our way. I know you don’t like him, and you have some good reasons for that. But he’s just a man, not a curse.

I know. Her voice was very soft. Just the same ... be careful. Two months out. Anything could happen. Anything.

We’ll be fine, hon. Everyone will be fine.

Sure.

CHAPTER THREE

All right, let’s get this show on the road! Jim Laird bellowed as he boarded SCEV Four, dragging along a heavy rucksack.

Kelly Jordello followed him, lugging her gear as well. He pushed his broad-shouldered figure into the rig’s second compartment and swung out of his ruck, careful not to hit KC as she leaned forward against the engineering station across from the airlock.

Whoa, sir—easy there! KC said.

Not to worry, kid. You’re fine. Laird smiled broadly. Despite his build and a somewhat aggressive cast to his face, the commander of the former SCEV Five was a sweetheart—until you got on his bad side, that was.

Make yourself at home, Jim, Andrews called from the cockpit. You guys go ahead and stow your shit, all right? I don’t want you swinging packs around when Mulligan starts bringing stuff aboard. He probably has bombs and shit.

Once a Green Beret, always a Green Beret, Laird said as he headed toward one of the storage lockers. They were all over the rig, in virtually every compartment. Finding one big enough for Laird’s and Jordello’s rucksacks would be a challenge. Laird flipped up the cushions of the dining settee and found the spaces beneath were already full. With a frown, he cast about the larger lockers until he found one that might work. It was mostly empty, as it had been assigned to one of Andrews’s crewmembers who wouldn’t be on the trip. He dropped his ruck to the deck and began rearranging the locker’s current contents.

Big enough for mine too? Kelly asked.

Hell, no. Find your own, Lieutenant! Laird said, his dark face broken by his customary sunburst grin.

Bastard, Kelly responded.

"Bastard, sir. He turned and opened another locker. Yeah, here you go. This one should do fine by you."

As Laird and Kelly set about filling their lockers, Andrews shut out their banter and went back to the preliminary system checks. While the SCEVs had been engineered to be fairly simple to operate—as simple as a multiton vehicle could be—they still had a multitude of systems to oversee. Leona was outside, finishing the second walk-around to confirm the rig’s operational status, and would join him momentarily. The entire mission route had been logged into the rig’s electronic navigation system, so Andrews spent a couple of moments reviewing the initial departure leg. It didn’t involve much beyond turning right to radial three hundred upon lift egress, but paying attention now meant not having to sweat his balls off later—not that something wouldn’t come up. The trip was going to be a long recon, and everyone’s friend Murphy would have plenty of opportunity to lay down his special law.

***

Mulligan had just stepped out of the lift leading to the SCEV bay when he almost ran into Colonel—now Brigadier General—Corrine Baxter. She looked up at him and smiled. Mulligan eased into attention, though it wasn’t required. Baxter had just been promoted from O-6 to O-7, something that should have happened years earlier, but according to the Harmony Telegraph, she had refused the elevation. As Harmony was a standalone installation and they’d seen no indication that the US Army had continued to function in any capacity after the Sixty-Minute War, promotions could be handled internally at the pleasure of the commanding officer. Word was that Benchley had wanted to promote Baxter as soon as it became apparent that the previous deputy commanding general was a casualty—he’d been in Washington when the war started—but Baxter had declined for some reason or another. Recently, she had changed her mind. Mulligan was certain the bad news Benchley presented her had been the catalyst, so Baxter accepted the promotion and rose from executive officer to DCG. The eagle insignia on her uniform had been replaced with a single star, and Mulligan thought it looked pretty good on her.

General, he greeted her.

Sergeant Major, ready for your trip?

Always up for field time these days, ma’am. Besides, these kids need some hands-on adult supervision.

Baxter’s smile deepened. Hey, you trained them, guy. That’s all on you.

Mulligan snorted. Yeah, well, maybe they’ll do better this time out.

Are you telling me they screwed the pooch last time, Mulligan? Because if I recall correctly, you were center formation to make sure that didn’t happen.

He snorted again. I underestimated the fluidity of the situation, ma’am. As in, our opponent had off-the-scale mental powers I’d never encountered before. I went through all the field manuals concerning infantry, vehicle, and Special Forces operations, and there was no chapter devoted to dealing with some crazy fucker who had telepathy. I made it all up as I went along, and Choi and Spencer paid for that.

Baxter nodded then looked around Mulligan, examining his big rucksack. Her eyes fixed on the rifle slung across his chest. Is that a seven-six-two? she asked.

Yes, ma’am. Bit more kinetic power than the standard five-five-six loadout. I usually wouldn’t bother, but this time I’m looking for a little more kill capability in case things go sideways. I didn’t pull any of the other weapons from the rig’s arms locker, so this will be an addition.

You expect you’ll be doing some shooting, Sarmajor?

Didn’t expect to do any shooting last time, and look what happened.

Baxter nodded again, but the motion was slow, almost pensive. She looked up at Mulligan intently. The sudden inspection made him feel uncomfortable. While he’d known her for more than a decade, Mulligan had never had any meaningful interaction with the new DCG. Their relationship had consisted solely of a lot of yes, ma’am and no, ma’am, so to have her take a sudden interest in him made Mulligan’s guard go up.

How’re you doing, Scott? she asked finally.

Ma’am?

"How are you doing?"

Well, I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you for asking.

Baxter cocked her head to one side. Sarmajor, don’t think that I don’t know you’re trying to evade my question.

What would you like me to say, ma’am?

The truth, she said. We haven’t exactly had a lot of face time in the past. I know you’re competent and a forward thinker. But I just want to know if you’re doing all right, because I’m not sure I could do what you did so recently and have my shit together.

Mulligan shifted on his feet uneasily. I’m not really sure what to tell you, ma’am. I knew what I’d have to do, and I went out and did it. It wasn’t pleasant, and I didn’t enjoy a second of it. But it had to be done, because I just couldn’t bear to leave them out there any longer. He paused. So why the sudden interest?

Baxter looked at him for a while then sighed. You were always on my mind, Scott. I’ve always been interested in how you were getting along. But I never badgered you about anything like that because I knew you needed time. She spread her hands. A day late and a dollar short, right? Don’t hold it against a girl from Charleston, South Carolina.

Mulligan chuckled. Hell, no, ma’am.

I guess I just want to make sure you’re good to go. Baxter stepped toward him. And if you’re not, you tell me what you need. I’m sorry I never reached out to you earlier. But I’m here now ... if that makes a difference.

Mulligan considered that for a good ten seconds, looking directly into her eyes. He could see Baxter’s guilt over having held herself separate for so long, and that mattered. She hadn’t written him off—she just didn’t have a clue how to get through the wall he’d built around himself after the bombs had fallen and life had changed irrevocably for everyone inside Harmony Base.

Corrine, I’m fine, he said finally. And I thank you for checking up on me. But I’m a hundred percent good to go, ma’am. You can count on that. Mulligan made a show of checking his watch. Now, unless there’s anything else, General, I really do need to get aboard the rig.

I know. I don’t want to keep you. I just ... Baxter shrugged. We’re from the same era. I probably should have made more time for you, but I really didn’t know how to do that. You were ... a very different person before you went on the run to San Jose.

Mulligan didn’t know what to say to that, so he just shuffled his feet again. When he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically quiet, even to him. Uh, well, listen, ma’am. It was all on me, right? I hid for ten years until the earthquake, then Benchley tossed my ass out into the field. To be honest, that shit woke me up in a big way. Laying my family to rest a few days ago was just the capstone. I’m probably still getting through it, but if you’re asking because you think I might be a risk for the mission ... think again, ma’am.

"That’s not why I asked, Scott."

Baxter’s eyes told the truth, and Mulligan suddenly felt stupid for thinking that was his easiest way out of the conversation. Baxter wasn’t the kind of officer you could shout hooah! at and walk away from. She was a deeper leader, just like her boss.

Though the question came up numerous times in the command staff meetings. The votes weren’t evenly split, though. You always won the majority.

Great. Thanks for letting me know. It, um, it does mean something. Mulligan pointed at his chest. In here. I’m not sure I can tell you exactly what, but it does make an old dog feel good that people still think he’s worth something.

Baxter stepped toward him suddenly and reached out and touched his arm. You take care of yourself out there, Sarmajor. I’m a bit late in reaching out to you, and I’m sorry if it seems as maudlin as hell now. But—she nodded toward the waiting hulk of SCEV Four—those kids need you to take care of them and to keep them on track. Like you said—you’re the designated adult.

Mulligan smiled in spite of himself. You can count on that, ma’am.

See you when you get back.

Yes, Corrine. You certainly will. When she smiled at the familiarity, his smile grew even wider. They were members of the Old Guard. They could break with the traditions they fostered, and no one had any right to question the double standard. They were relics of the past, after all.

Baxter slapped his shoulder then seemed to think better of it. She drew him in for a hug, its strength and power counterbalanced only by its brevity. Mulligan was so surprised that he couldn’t immediately process it. After all, even in the good old days, a general officer never hugged a senior NCO. But it ended an instant later, and Baxter immediately turned and headed for the elevator.

Mulligan looked after her for a moment then shifted his ruck and strode toward the SCEV. His boots clanked across the bay’s deck, the soundtrack to his purposeful march. Maintenance personnel moved this way and that, some of them slowing a bit when they saw the big NCO and his rifle filing across the chamber. Mulligan ignored them. Leona stood at the rear of the vehicle, completing her secondary walk-around. She gave him a small smile, but that was all the recognition he received. Mulligan nodded to her and climbed into the rig. Inside, he found Laird, Jordello, and the new crew chief in the second compartment. Mulligan shrugged out of his rucksack and dropped it to the deck.

Locker four is mine, he said to Laird and Jordello. Just in case you can’t read the name on the tape.

Yeah, yeah, we saw it, Sarmajor. We didn’t touch it, Laird said. How are you doing?

Fine, sir. Fine.

Glad to hear it. And honestly, it’s good to be crewing with you again, Laird replied.

Mulligan snorted. Uh-huh. Excuse me, please.

Laird and Kelly parted, and Mulligan pushed past them to stow his ruck in his locker.

Andrews called out to him from the cockpit. Mulligan, you’ll be right seat for departure.

Roger that, sir. Be right up. Mulligan stowed his gear then pushed toward the front of the rig.

As he passed the airlock, two younger men entered the rig, carrying their own rucks. They stopped short when they saw Mulligan, and he scowled down at them.

Well, well. Sergeants Cobar and Slattery. Thanks for coming over, ladies. Kickoff was ten minutes ago. I see you’re both fashionably late, as always.

Sarmajor, we were assisting Lieutenant Eklund. Cobar was dark and lean, with thick black hair. When he spoke, his accent still had a touch of Honduran, though he’d left the country as a child long before the war.

Oh, really. And what did the lieutenant need help with, Cobar?

Forward skid plate and lighting package, Slattery said. He stood right behind Cobar and was tall and fair-haired, with a slightly pimply face and pale-blue eyes.

Both men were crew chiefs. Cobar had been crewing with Laird for a few years, and Mulligan knew him to be a fairly competent mechanic. Slattery was relief crew, not assigned to any specific rig but available for appointment in the event a departing rig needed crew rotation. Of the two, Mulligan judged Slattery was the bigger shirker.

"She needed assistance with the skid plate and lights? That’s interesting, as all those elements are directly visible from the front of the SCEV. Are you sure you guys weren’t playing grab-ass in an elevator somewhere?"

Leave my crew alone, Mulligan, Laird said. I need these guys, so don’t start playing with their heads. All right?

Mulligan shrugged but kept his eyes rooted on the two soldiers before him. Get your shit squared away.

The two soldiers nodded, and Mulligan pressed on to the cockpit. He found Andrews strapped into the left seat, already engrossed in the departure checklist. Mulligan lowered himself into the copilot’s seat and buckled up his harness. He glanced out the viewports and saw Leona finishing her walk-around. She looked up at the cockpit and shot the two men a thumbs-up, indicating the rig was ready for transit. Mulligan gave her a quick salute, and her only response was a sly smile before heading for the airlock’s open outer door.

Okay, Lee’s coming aboard, Andrews said. Let’s get this pig started up. It’s gonna be a long trip.

Roger that, sir.

Andrews dithered over the checklist for a moment. Uh, you saw the duty roster, right?

Yes, sir.

You know I need to keep you and Eklund on separate shifts ...

I get it, sir. It’s not a problem. Fraternization amongst SCEV crews was forbidden, at least out in the field. And while Mulligan knew of at least three instances in which SCEV crews were hot-racking it in the sleeping compartments of their vehicles, he understood that the command sergeant major couldn’t come under that kind of scrutiny and retain any semblance of command presence. Keeping Mulligan and Eklund on different work and sleep schedules would help ameliorate the circumstances.

Okay. I just wanted to make sure you were cool with it.

Mulligan smiled slightly. Captain? You really don’t have to explain the duty roster to me, sir. I still get it. We split you and Rachel up last time out, remember?

Ah. Andrews nodded sheepishly. Right.

So. Departure checklist?

Andrews smiled. Yeah. Let’s get the wheels turning.

***

The departure was as standard as any Andrews had ever made, despite the nominal importance of their mission. No gathering of well-wishers waved farewell to the SCEV as it made its way to the elevator. The transit to the surface of the planet was as unremarkable as always—the lift worked, and after a few minutes, the SCEV was admitted onto the plains of Kansas. As the rig pulled out of the elevator and trundled across the pancake-flat terrain surrounding the lift, Mulligan handled the departure communications while fine-tuning the navigation. The ground outside the lift was rutted from multiple vehicle departures and arrivals, and the cold weather had hardened the torn soil into something approaching solid rock. The SCEV jounced as its big tires rolled over the distressed soil. Andrews listened for any sounds of shifting items on the other side of the padded bulkhead that separated the cockpit from the second compartment but heard none aside from the usual creaks and groans of a multiton vehicle swaying over a rough passage. The SCEV wasn’t impaired by anything so minor as some broken ground. Andrews pushed the rig onto their course and slowly accelerated to forty-five miles per hour once the ground became more uniform. The terrain surrounding Harmony Base was as familiar to him as the curve of his wife’s hips, so he knew exactly how fast he could run and not thrash the crew to death. Crew comfort was important, especially over long-range recons. If the crew wasn’t getting enough rest, then they would not only get cranky but also start making mistakes. Despite the technological marvel that cocooned them, mistakes in the post–nuclear holocaust world could be fatal for the SCEV’s occupants.

Plus, he didn’t want any of them getting even with him later in the trip. The last thing he wanted was to be hurled headlong out of his rack. Though the rig’s interior was wrapped in impact-absorbing padding, he wouldn’t put it past Laird to come up with a nice get-even plan—all in good-natured fun.

Initially, the route—or plot, as it was called—paralleled that of the one Andrews had set out upon when heading to San Jose, California. The rig would retrace what was becoming one of the busiest courses Harmony had run over the past year. Several SCEVs had rolled out to San Jose while conducting support and sustainment operations for the survivors of Law’s family. The route was well mapped, and where Andrews and his crew had initially needed to invent the track while picking their way across the Sierra Nevadas, the follow-on crews had further refined the route and marked each and every obstacle. Now, the rig’s onboard nav system could pilot the course without fear of fault. Andrews was hardly acting the part of pioneer at that point in the mission. His role was more of an airline pilot—just fly the course and manage to wake up if something went wrong along the way.

But once they hit the navigational phase line known as Delta Two Seven, which would be after the rig descended from the Sierra Nevadas, they would turn right instead of continuing straight on. Picking their way across the Death Valley basin, they would track westerly past Mount Whitney until they made it to Interstate 5. If the interstate was still serviceable after a decade of neglect, they would use it as a high-speed approach up to an area east of Sacramento. There, they would navigate to a hardened bunker that had been established before the Sixty-Minute War and held pre-positioned supplies to ensure Harmony could sustain its missions even hundreds or thousands of miles from the base. The cache contained suspended fuel supplies that had been treated to prevent the substance from degrading, along with stabilized food, clothing, maintenance spares, medical supplies, and anything that would be of importance during a long-term mission. The contents of the bunker—and several were scattered all across the nation—were only for Harmony’s initial use. Their true design was to serve as forward-located supply points where SCEV crews would load up and surge aid outward to whatever human establishments they had previously contacted. A smaller cache had been tapped in the vicinity of Las Vegas, and its contents had been slowly pushed out to the survivors Andrews and the others had found in San Jose. While Andrews hadn’t seen the supply point himself, he had read the reports, and virtually everything in the bunker there was fully mission capable.

The supply point outside of Sacramento was a larger presence, however. It had not only the requisite disaster aid but also something that only four other sites in the nation had: four fully assembled Self-Contained Exploration Vehicles. It was from this site that Laird, Jordello, Cobar, and Slattery would revive one of these vehicles and move it into active service. Once the rig was inspected and certified, it would be redesignated as SCEV Five. Jim Laird would finally have a command again. Using the newly restored SCEV Five, he and the others would follow SCEV Four’s path to the north and link up with Andrews and the others outside of Eugene, Oregon. The journey wouldn’t be terribly taxing, and for the return trip, SCEV Four would be on hand to take on the crew if the new rig suddenly shit the bed. No one was counting on that happening, but after lying dormant for a little more than a decade, anything was possible.

Once Laird and the others had been delivered to the site, Andrews would take Four up north. There, at the southern end of the Willamette Valley and near the confluence of the McKenzie and Willamette Rivers, they hoped the environmental conditions would be more amenable to supporting life without the need for millions of dollars’ worth of filtration gear, pre-positioned food supplies, and hardened subterranean bunkers. If so, Andrews and the crew of SCEV Four would observe and collect intel until the newly restored Five linked up with them a month or so later.

Once that happened, they would make contact.

Andrews couldn’t wait.

CHAPTER FOUR

Though the route had been travelled a dozen times and navigational refinements had been made by the follow-on teams, it still took several days for the rig to wend its way across the mighty Rockies then the smaller but no less hazardous Sierra Nevada Mountain ranges. Andrews and the rest of the crew had enough to do, and while the newly rebuilt SCEV Four handled the voyage like a champ, an undercurrent of stress about being so far away from home in a vehicle that was only now facing its true first endurance test ran through them. All the earlier shakeout jaunts hadn’t been nearly as punishing. After all, the plains of Kansas and eastern Colorado didn’t offer much in the way of extreme elevation changes. Just the same, the rig handled the climbs and descents as normally as it had before it had been pretty much destroyed by Law.

Look at it this way, Captain, Mulligan had told him as they picked their way down from the Sierra Nevadas when Andrews gave voice to the fear of a mechanical failure stranding them. We’re on a cardinal route to the west, so we’re only a few weeks from being rescued. SCEV Three is scheduled for a run to San Jose, so they’d come across us.

Good to know. Thanks, Sarmajor.

Hey, won’t do shit if the CO2 scrubbers quit—we’ll be long dead, even with emergency reserves. But that probably won’t happen. Right?

Andrews snorted. Bright beam of sunshine you are, Sarmajor. Thanks for the pep talk. Now shut the hell up.

Mulligan laughed. His right hand was on the instrument-panel visor, the left resting comfortably on the seat’s left armrest. They all rode that way when they were right-seating it. It was a straight drop from the instrument-panel sun visor to reach the second control column, whereas moving one’s arm from the armrest actually took fractions of a second longer—one of the little things one learned from practical experience that even talented design engineers had never taken into account.

Andrews scanned the instruments as the SCEV continued its route on autopilot. Everything was good to go. Mulligan kept eyes out, regarding the terrain ahead of the rig. If there was something out of place, he would point it out before the SCEV blundered into a sticky situation. The copilot’s job was normally to monitor the instruments while the rig commander kept an eye on the external environment. Andrews had long since broken with that tactic, as anyone could get bored doing only one thing for hours on end. Boredom was a breeding ground for mistakes, where accidents waited to happen. Mulligan agreed with this approach and had modified the operational standards to include it. It was now the preferred method of SCEV pilotage.

Hey, Scott. I want to talk to you like a brother, man, Andrews said suddenly. Like two guys, not as an officer to a subordinate.

Mulligan didn’t look away from the diamond-matrix viewport in front of him. The windscreen was so hard that it could deflect fifty-caliber bullets without failing. "As if I’m your subordinate. Go for broke, sonny."

What?

Mulligan rolled his eyes and sighed. Jesus, you kids make me feel a million years old. Go ahead, Mike. Say what you wanna say. I’m a captive audience, as you might have noticed.

I want to know why you took Benchley with you into the house, Andrews said. "I thought I was going to have that job. I mean—I’m not pissed or anything. I just assumed it would be me. Junior man and all that."

If you recall correctly, Benchley invited himself along.

And that was pretty crazy. The CG going EVA? Holy crap, if there were still a US Army in existence, I’d be up shit’s creek, right? A mission commander allowing a general officer to step off into the shit?

Don’t worry about that, kid. Plenty of people were pissed about it, most notably our DCG, but she had advance word from the man himself. Benchley doesn’t do anything spur of the moment. It was a planned attack.

So why him?

Mulligan paused for a moment. It wasn’t something I was in control of, you know. I mean, yes, I could have cold-cocked the guy and tied him up in the sleeping compartment, but he had his mind set on helping me out. He’s from my era. He’s Old Guard. Not to sound elitist or anything, but we’re all connected in a way you kids don’t get. Like the way you and the others are just automatically in sync, and the rest of us dinosaurs are standing around and scratching our heads, wondering what the hell you guys are up to. This is generically referred to as ‘the generation gap,’ in case you were wondering.

Yeah, well, you’re not exactly answering my question.

Mulligan looked over at him then, a small smile on his lips. Andrews admitted it took some getting used to, seeing Mulligan actually smile. Pushy little bastard, aren’t you?

Andrews smiled back. Hey, I’m just trying to understand. Were you more comfortable with him than me?

You had to stay with the rig, Mulligan said. And you had to keep Leona in check. Leaving Benchley and her behind with only young KC to stand watch wouldn’t have made a ton of sense. And the fact of the matter is, the Old Man needed to do it. By helping me straighten out my past, he helped lay his own family to rest—in a way, anyhow. Mulligan fell silent for a moment as he scanned the terrain ahead. It’s complicated. Most of us have a history that leads us to make the decisions we do. What Benchley did was reckless and against regulations, but it was the only thing a decent man could do. And no matter how much smack I might talk about old Martin, he is very much a decent man.

I never thought otherwise. It was the right thing to do.

Then you won’t mind taking a couple of hours to deviate from our planned course to return the favor, Mulligan said.

Sorry?

Mulligan reached into a pocket and pulled out a piece of paper than had been neatly folded then inserted into a plastic carrier. He handed it over to Andrews without taking his eyes off the landscape ahead.

Andrews accepted it and turned the carrier over in his hands. What’s this?

You could always open it up and find out.

Or you could just tell me.

It’s an address in San Francisco, along with GPS coordinates—2358 Jones Street, in the neighborhood of Russian Hill. It was the Old Man’s son’s place.

Andrews looked at the plastic-ensconced paper once again. At first, he didn’t know what to say. Is it an order? It couldn’t be—it wasn’t commemorated in the mission essentials task list. Is it a request? If so, why did it go to Mulligan and not me? Andrews had been brought up to adopt a regimented existence of discipline and forbearance. While things didn’t always go that way, he had never expected Harmony Base’s commanding general to make such a request and, if so, to the post command sergeant major as opposed to the mission commander.

I don’t really know what to make of this, he said finally.

It’s not set in stone. San Francisco was severely nuked with direct strikes that the missile interceptors failed to splash. Benchley knows what happened to his son and daughter-in-law and grandkid, but he’s a human being, and he still wants to be sure. He’s not asking us to go EVA and bury the bodies—basically because there won’t be any. But if we can, I’d like to send the scout out, collect some video, and take it back to him. Mulligan took his eyes away from the vista beyond the viewport and looked at Andrews. "It would mean a lot to an old man who’s going to spend his last days underground while trying to faithfully architect America’s renewal. He and I both realize it’s a big ask, given the nature of our current mission ... but it’s a request I both understand and actually want to try to accommodate. But it’s always your call, Andrews. You make the decision. If the mission can take the diversion, then you’re free to order it done. If the risks are too high, then don’t. Sacrificing