The Spoils of War

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Alaska. 2010.

 

The phone rang.

David McGivern clawed himself free of the stifling covers and slapped the handset off the cradle. "Lo."

"McGivern?"

That voice made him want to snatch the bottle off the bedside table and down every pill in it.

"Who's'is?" He struggled into a sitting position, kicking the blankets off his legs.

"David McGivern?"

That voice made his stomach drop right through the floor, into a pit of the past he thought he had pushed back into his dreams and nightmares.

"Yeah." He said cautiously, despite the fear.

"Mac, this is Jan."

The name sunk into his consciousness like a bomb hitting a bunker. "Jan." He repeated it as knowledge dawned.

"Janine. Parker."

Mac didn't reply. His eyes blank with memories, he turned his head slowly to look out of the window at the snowy Alaskan morning.

"I need your help, Mac."

He put the phone down, and flopped backwards, exhausted by the recall. David McGivern stared up at the ceiling and let waves of memory wash over him.

 

Running a snatch squad out of Europe. Liasing with combat teams who thought Mac and his squad had things easy. Boy, did they have the wrong end of the stick on that one.

Mac's outfit had the lowest mortality rate of any snatch squad in the 'Com, but it was still more than fifty per cent. Despite that, it was seen as easy duty. Simply because snatch squads only went out once every three or four missions, and they usually dropped in after the main combat team.

Whenever the hypercoder boys decided this or that craft had important personnel that needed to be captured, a snatch squad was sent out, sometimes with a combat team, sometimes without, and they would bring in as many targets as possible.

Alive. Preferably unharmed.

But sometimes maiming them was the only way to bring a target down.

Mac sat up, rubbing his face with both hands.

Stubble was out of control again. Time to shave, tidy himself up. He glanced around the room, at the heaped clothes and the clutter. Tidy this place up.

Mac yawned, leaning over and plucking the bottle off the bedside table. He took two small yellow pills, dry-swallowing them and wincing at the lemony taste.

"I need your help, Mac."

He took another pill, and moved on into the bathroom, shivering in the cold air.

 

Mac stared at his reflection as the hot water ran, the boiler at the other end of the house groaning up out of its slumber, banging and clanking cantankerously.

He was good looking, with a broad honest face and strong bone structure. His nose had been broken and poorly set, squashing it a little, the bridge thick with compressed cartilage. It gave what could have been a bland face character. His eyes were a glassy blue, a little too intense for most. A bad break of the jaw had led to some surgical reinforcement, giving him a thicker jawline and a firmer chin.

His dark blonde hair was thick and shaggy, but the stubble was mostly grey. He ran his hand over it again, feeling it rasp against his palm.

Time catches up.

He bent at the waist, turning the tap off, and dipped his face into the full sink. The hot water took away the cold in a blush of heat, stinging his cheeks. He stood, wiping water out of his eyes, relishing the hot little dribbles running down his chest.

Lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He was turning from handsome to dignified.

He didn't like it one bit.

He shaved.

The phone started ringing when he was half done.

Mac put down the razor, and stared at himself in the mirror until it stopped.

 

Feeling better with the most obvious evidence of his age gone, he pulled a shirt and jeans on and made breakfast, bacon and eggs. He had coffee with it, though he knew he would regret it later on. It always upset his stomach. Always had.

Jan used to rag him about it endlessly.

That was all it took. The cup shattered against the wall over the sink. His hands grabbed up the plate next. Then he stopped, and shut his eyes. He took his hands off the plate and folded them in his lap.

"Shit." Mac said, very deliberately.

His kitchen wasn't big or empty enough to echo, but the word hung in the air.

He got up and cleaned up all the pieces of cup, wiping the coffee smear off the wall and washing the breakfast things as his mind worked, turning over and over slowly.

None of the possibilities were good.

Mac went into his bedroom and stared at the phone, for five minutes. Then he made a call.

 

"Don't even want talk about it on the phone, man. Are you nuts?" Perry's voice was even higher than normal.

Mac suspected he wasn't taking his medication. "Just tell me what's going on with Jan."

"She's in some kind of jam with the Feds. Been stewing a year, looks set to stew another year."

"Why?" Mac paced the length of his bedroom as Perry ummed and aaahed.

Too much mess to pace over. He sat on the bed.

"I don't want get into it over the phone, buddy. Cross border, meet you at the-"

"Just tell me, Perry, or the 'Com are going to find out what happened to-"

Perry couldn't interrupt fast enough. "Alrightalrightalright." He sighed. "Ever hear of phone taps, asshole?"

"Ever hear of loyalty?" Mac wasn't in the mood. "Sick it up, Perry."

A moment's silence. "You know the US isn't too happy about what's going on with the 'Com. Losing what they thought they'd get."

"I know." Mac swung his legs up onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard.

Perry was going to make a meal of this. He usually did.

"Well, they're not too keen on the 'Com, or Americans who volunteered for it after the first compulsory period. Which is why you're living in Alaska and I'm singing O Goddamn Canada. They're doing everything they can to make the 'Com look bad, digging up all sorts of shit that's best left buried, civilian casualty reports mainly. They tried blaming Beijing on the 'Com, they successfully blamed New York on us, now they're hunting down honest hardworking Americans who did their bit for their planet, threatening them with charges of treason if they don't cough up dirt on others, preferably foreign types but ranking Yanks will do." Perry took a deep breath. "The US government wants the lion's share of the 'Com when it shuts down. But it's not going to get it. Europe said no politely. Africa didn't bother to reply. Asia told them to stick their stars and stripes where the sun don't shine. South America claimed they didn't understand English. The Antarctic base isn't operational and it's going to be abandoned before it gets repaired. The Scandos are already drinking it up in the Arctic station."

Mac frowned. "I thought the Canadians-"

"Nah, man, country's not interested. They just want the US to shut up about the 'Com and sort these trade resolutions. You seen what Doritos cost this side of the border? Motherfucker."

"Focus, Perry." Mac warned.

"Sorry. Worst thing is, the government shut 'em down last year, kicks all personnel out of the country and swears up and down they'll take care of any alien threats. Result? More than a dozen USAF interceptors down, and a body count close to ten thousand racked up, most of 'em spics from the Mex City disaster." Perry laughed. "Y'know they didn't even send anyone to that? Not Delta, not SEALs, no one. They let the Mexicans sink."

Mac grunted. He wondered if Perry would ever get to the point.

"Said all resources were engaged. Watched the entire thing from umpteen satellites, trying to get data on alien tactics. 'Com puts out a manual every year, two hundred pages, and ten years into the war some CIA dipshit decides they need raw data." Perry laughed. "They kick out pilots with dozens of interceptions, sack soldiers with dozens of missions, replace 'em with standard forces guys and think everything's going to go swimmingly"

"You're yelling, Perry." Mac noted.

"Oh. Sorry."

"No problem. Now, what's Jan doing time for?"

"Didn't I say? Murder, thirty-five counts."

Mac's mouth went bone dry. "What?"

"Some clean up went wrong. Year and a half ago, I think it was. She could have run, but didn't. Stuck with the 'Com until her base got shut down, arrested on-site, charged a week later. 'Com can't keep a cover up in place if they've been persona non grata'd."

"She wouldn't kill thirty-five-"

"They have her on tape, man. Ice cold. They've put it up on a Goddamn website for the world to see. I'll give you the net address."

Mac closed his eyes. "Perry, are you sure?"

"Checked the footage myself. Passed it around, had friends check it. Victims identified by relatives, confirmed by genetic testing, there's pics of them alive and comparison pics of them dead, on the site. Real no-holds-barred shit."

Mac leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. "Ok. Where is it?"

 

Roberta Marquez, 33, mother of two. Alive, a petite Hispanic woman with a bright smile. Dead, a greying rag doll chewed raw with 5.56mm.

Victim 35. That was all of them. Mac leaned back from his computer and scrolled back up the page. Names, places of residence, places of employment, who their bodies were identified by, the identifier's relation to the deceased...

He'd watched the Morgan trial go down, a continent away. The evidence against Colonel Dwight Morgan, X-Com, hadn't been half as good as this, and he had got lethal injection.

The whole European base had watched it, live, as the United States of America executed Colonel Morgan for treason and multiple counts of murder. Morgan had been faced with a crowd of civilians between himself and a pair of Chryssies in tight quarters. By all accounts, he had opened up with his autocannon, mowing down every single civilian before the bugs could get to them.

"Immunising him against life." Perry had joked as the plunger went down.

Morgan, a New York City boy, had just caught some whiplash, just a little repercussion from the fall of Manhattan, just a little taste of official US government anger, and he had died with a look somewhere between betrayal and resignation all over his face.

An impossible decision. Mac was glad he had never been faced with it. He had been, in some respects, lucky.

Morgan, fighting for his home, the place he grew up, had chosen between letting those innocents get alien fucked and spawning more Chryssies or killing them.

Perhaps he was glad he got executed. That way, he didn't have to live with himself. Mac clucked his tongue. The Siege, for him, had been easy. Almost.

 

"What are we doing?" Perry asked, his slender frame poised behind his skeletal black assault rifle, a H&K G36, standard X-Com issue.

"Blocking action." Parker said from her chair by the door.

They were in an apartment building, across the road from the UN headquarters. That tall dark slab of steel and glass was already burning. Pitted with holes, most of the glass gone or cracked, the face of the building was scarred beyond healing. Flashes of gunfire could still be seen behind its smoke-fogged windows. It looked like an interior fireworks display, flares of green and yellow and white overlapping.

"Reckon they've got it evaced yet?" Mac asked, casting a tired eye over the UN building.

"No." Parker stretched her long legs. "We wouldn't still be here if they had."

"Who's doing it, anyway?" Perry sighted down the scope of his G36.

"Scandos and Canadians. Backed up by SWAT." Parker stood and walked over to the windows.

The corner apartment offered an excellent view of the streets, both exterior walls being nothing but glass. Broken glass, now.

A cold wind howled in off the water, tugging at their hair and clothes. Parker leaned out, looking down into the street below. Mac shoved her gently.

She teetered before grabbing at his shoulder. "Asshole."

"Bitch." He replied fondly, sitting back in the armchair.

Sat back-to-back with Perry in the corner of the apartment, they covered First Avenue, in front of the UN building, and Forty-Second Street, connecting to it. From this position, they could engage any alien forces making their way from Central Park to UN HQ.

"Hear about Mount Sinai?" Perry asked.

"Moses got the Ten Commandments there." Mac contributed.

He didn't need to turn around to know Parker was grinning and Perry was scowling.

"The hospital, you gink." Perry elbowed him in the ribs.

Mac elbowed right back, jostling the smaller man roughly.

"Behave." Parker warned, leaning out. "Thought so. Mac, on your two, street level."

Mac got his G36 against his shoulder and leaned forward, aiming down into the street. He turned about thirty degrees to his right, panning along the street, and picked up the target.

He bent his head and sighted through the scope.

"What is it?" Perry interrupted, nudging him.

Mac ignored him. The target was a man, shabbily dressed, staggering along the sidewalk. There was a trail of blood behind him.

Mac glanced up at Parker. She was watching the man through binoculars.

"What do you think?" He asked, returning to the scope.

"Possible zombie." She mused, getting on the radio. "Rudd, are we secure?"

"Safe as houses, bru." Rudd's South African twang was thick, made worse by the crackle of the radio.

"What does that mean?" Parker got irritated easily, and didn't mind showing it.

"Proxy on every landing, I'm waiting at the top." Rudd sounded like he was holding back laughter.

"Good, stay there." Parker lowered the binocs. "Mac?"

"I love being stuck out here on me ace."

"Shut up, Rudd. Mac?"

Mac watched the man walk. He was unsteady, but no more than if he was drunk or wounded. He didn't have the shuffling gait of a zombie. Mac put his finger on the trigger, just in case.

Abruptly, the man staggered across the pavement and sat down on the bonnet of a taxi. He laid back, smearing dirt across the shining yellow paint. He was muddy, and a dirty bandage covered his right forearm.

"Survivor from the Park." Mac moved his finger to outside the trigger guard.

"Maybe we should warn him." Perry suggested, looking over his shoulder at Mac.

"Sure, run down there and give him directions, Perry." Parker's tone dripped acid sarcasm. "Better still, go give him a gun. Your gun."

Perry ignored that. "I heard they're bringing Gearhead in."

"You heard wrong." Parker checked her GPS for something to do.

The display showed one group of friendlies half a klick north. That would be Ground Team (Blocking) 7, callsign Golf 7. Set up in a similar position, they were the other half of Mac's snatch squad. Tomlins, Waziri, Brown and Pikowicz.

There was another group, to the east, though their signals were muddled. Possibly the building structure, or the aliens interfering, but the signal from the 'Com troops in the UN HQ wasn't clear.

"Golf Seven, Golf Six. Status?" Parker sat back down, tucking the GPS away.

Waziri came back, surprisingly comprehensible. "Golf Six, all clear. You?"

"All quiet, Golf Seven. Out." Parker checked her watch. "Due an overflight."

"Stop worrying." Mac advised, still keeping a careful eye on the man sprawled across the car.

"Is that the kind of attitude that got you running a snatch squad?" Parker snapped.

Mac felt Perry flinch. "No," he said after a moment, "it's the kind of attitude that's kept me alive, and made sure I successfully carried out twice as many missions as you."

As soon as he said it, he knew he should have kept his mouth shut. Parker leaned forward, intent and angry. "Go on."

Mac glanced at her. "No. The operation gives you tactical command, despite the fact we both have the same rank."

"Yes." Parker got up, shaking. "It does."

She strode over to the door, flung it open and stormed out.

Silence for a long moment. Perry cleared his throat. "Well."

"Perry, if you mention time of month, or shit like that, I will punt you out of this Goddamn window."

"Noted." Perry coughed. "You hungry?"

"Could eat." Mac lifted his eye from the scope, blinking.

He swivelled his head, scanning the street and working the stiffness out of his neck. Perry got up and hurried over to a cardboard box in the corner of the room. He rifled through it, and came back with two tins and two spoons. Handing one of each to Mac, he dropped back into his seat. "We're ruining this apartment, man. Hardwood floor, nice leather furniture, good prints. Whoever owns this place is rich."

"They can afford to replace it then." Mac popped the tab on the top of the tin, leaning his G36 against the side of his chair after flicking the selector to safe.

"Not necessarily." Perry popped his too, tucking the can in close to his stomach, cradling it there in one hand as he swept the street with his rifle scope.

"Insurance, then." Mac snapped.

"Don't think it covers acts of alien, man." Perry said, calmly.

Mac sighed. He just wanted to warm his hands around the self-heating can and eat. "Aliens didn't smash these windows, Perry."

"Sure they did. God knows, we didn't. We wouldn't damage private property unless it was absolutely necessary to ensure cessation of a threat to human life."

Mac shut his eyes. Perry was a good man, but he just couldn't shut up. "The glass is in the street, outside. How could the aliens smash a window from outside and have the glass fall outside?"

"Who knows what sort of weird tech they've got." Perry waved his spoon airily.

Mac tuned him out, enjoying the heat seeping through the metal and slowly baking the numbness out of his fingers. Overflight soon. New orders. Maybe a displace, maybe a pick up and a nice short flight back to a nice hot meal and a nice cold beer.

"Golf Six, Sierra Fifty-Six. Golf Six, Sierra Fifty-Six."

Mac dropped the can, grabbing up his rifle and leaning out into the wind. He could hear engines. "Sierra Fifty-Six, Golf Six. Status clear. News?"

The Skyranger rumbled overhead, engines scaled way back, swooping into a slow descending parabola that would bring it almost to the base of the UN HQ. Mac grinned at the thick profile of the plane as it swept by, tremoring the air.

"Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges are down. Holland and Lincoln tunnels got flooded an hour ago, impossible to hold. Brooklyn Battery and Queens Midtown tunnels are holding, barely. Queensborough and Washington bridges are holding strong. Hostiles stopped at north Harlem, but it's shaky.

"How's the evac going?" Mac winced as his earpiece thrummed.

"All UN personnel are out. Dropping hitters to finish the fight. Back to pick you and Golf Seven up tonight."

"Roger, Sierra Fifty-Six, pick up tonight. Good luck." Mac dropped back into his seat and picked the can back up, peeling back the lid and staring at the mush inside.

Perry was halfway through his. "You know, no matter what the label says..." He stared down into the can.

"Yeah?" Mac rested his rifle in his lap and dug his first spoonful of mush out of the container.

"It always tastes like shit." Perry sighed.

Mac stared at the steaming stuff. It was supposed to be bacon and beans. It looked like a Goddamn bowel rupture, all brown and slick. He grimaced.

"Bugs coming up the stairs"

Mac dropped the spoon and ran for the door, juggling his rifle.

Thank God.

 

He drove across the border to see Perry. It was fall, and the snow was coming down thickly, a heavy blanket that blanked out colour and noise, cloaking everything. The scenery was wasted on him anyway. He drove through thick woods and by craggy mountains and noticed neither.

Mac was focused on the road ahead, which was leading him to Captain Janine Parker, X-Com.

He picked up hitchhikers, to try and take his mind off things. He wasn't terribly worried about being murdered. He had his 'Com pistol in an under-seat holster. And he had fought aliens from another world. Humanity really didn't hold much terror anymore after you'd seen an alien explode out from your best friend's spine.

But they didn't take his mind off anything. One girl chattered nervously non-stop, obviously more frightened in the car with him than she had been walking the road alone at night. Another never said a word, watching him steadily from the corner of her eye. She kept one hand in her pocket, and Mac suspected a knife or gun, but didn't say anything.

He slumped a bit, to try to minimise looming, and otherwise was as pleasant as possible. There wasn't much you could do when you were six-two and still carrying a lot of muscle from your military days.

She only spoke when she got out, in a town so small it didn't even have a name.

"Where are you going?" She asked, holding the door open.

Mac looked her over. Her eyes were silver-grey and her hair was black. She was timidly pretty. Too young to be working for anyone.

"Inuvik. See a friend." He glanced around, just in case.

No one sneaking up, no ambush. Something inside him relaxed a fraction.

"Inuvik." She sighed, breath clouding out in the icy air. "What's he doing there?"

"Hiding." Mac smiled at the thought of Paranoid Perry hiding in a foxhole somewhere, dumpster diving for food and being generally nutty.

He could believe it.

"Good place to hide." She nodded. "What are you hiding from?"

Mac felt himself blush. "The past. You?"

"My dad." She somehow managed a bright smile, which made her look like a different person. "Thanks for the ride."

"Welcome. You've got a place to stay?"

She nodded, though her eyes avoided his. "Thanks again."

She shut the door and walked off down the town's main street. Mac watched her go.

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Mac checked his watch. Perry was late, as usual. He was always late. Paranoid Perry. First thing he

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