Steven Kent - The Clone Elite

The three aircraft were also painted white. They also stood out when environed by the city.

“I saw Admiral Brocius,” I said. “He says you made a deal with him to get your family off Little Man.”

Freeman nodded. “He and I are square.”

“Where are they now?” I asked, as we headed toward the helicopters. “Are they safe?”

I felt a strange pang in my gut when I thought of Freeman’s family. The only time I had ever felt something that might have been love was for Freeman’s sister, a single mother with a teenaged son. Her name was Marianne. Her son was Caleb. Marianne and I might have had a romance, but our relationship ended prematurely. I still thought about her from time to time.

“They’re as safe as they can be in this galaxy. Brocius relocated them here.”

“New Copenhagen?” I asked.

“It was the best Brocius had to offer,” Freeman said, as we reached my men.

“Sergeant Thomer, what is the status of the platoon?” I asked, when we reached the helicopters.

Standing at attention, Thomer yelled, “All men are present and accounted for, sir.” It was formal, the Marine Corps answer to a minister welcoming his congregation to church, but discipline was a facet of Marine life that could not be ignored. I had fought with some of these men, but others were new to me. If we went into battle without going through the formalities, the new ones might get the wrong idea and think I did not care much about discipline.

“Very good, Sergeant,” I said. “Load the men on the choppers.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Thomer yelled. He was a quiet man but also a by-the-book Marine. Freeman and I waited for Philips and Thomer to direct the platoon onto the choppers, then we climbed in. Including Freeman and me, we had forty-four men.

Assuming Naval Intelligence interpreted the aliens’ simulation correctly, the invasion would take place today. Data from past attacks suggested the lights would appear in the early evening. That was the Pentagon’s best estimate. What we gleaned from our long string of losses was that the lights generally started near the largest city on the planet and almost always in a northern region of that planet. The brains at the Pentagon might not have the slightest clue about what would happen next; but when it came to where and when the invasion would begin, they had it down.

I wanted to see when and where the enemy landed and watch for any vulnerable moments. Would they have their weapons drawn when they first appeared? Would they arrive in formation? Did they have protection when they landed, however they landed? I wanted to see if we could surprise them behind their lines and maybe end this fight early with a well-timed bomb. If we managed to hold out against the first wave of their attack, maybe we could bring a division out to greet them the next time they arrived.

For this little field trip we would travel in helicopters. No bulky transports for us, just sleek atmospheric vessels. The rotary blades on the top of the choppers made a suppressed tock-tock-tock noise as they began to spin, and we lifted into the air.

As we took off, I looked around the well-fortified city of Valhalla. Even from here I could see batteries of rocket launchers, gun emplacements, and troops …lots and lots of troops. It was late afternoon. The sky no longer looked white as paper. It had turned blue and orange as the sun slid toward the horizon. I had my armor on, but not my helmet, and the cold air stabbed imaginary needles into my cheeks.

“We’ll put up a good fight,” I said as I watched an armored column roving outside the landing-field gate.

Freeman did not respond.

The three helicopters formed a caravan, the gunship leading the way, with the two choppers remaining side by side behind it. Some of my men sat quietly, staring out the portholes, studying the landscape below. The forests ahead were cold and full of shadows.

I donned my helmet and checked the ocular controls. From here on out, I would see everything through the lenses of my visor. Marine combat armor had night-for-day lenses, heat-vision lenses, automatic tint shields that protected against blinding light, and farseeing telescopic lenses. The equipment also included sonic locators, smart tags for identifying personnel, and interLink communications gear. General-issue armor would not stop a bullet or absorb a particle beam, but the bodysuit would keep me comfortable even on a long march through the snowy woods.

Though he was not a Marine, Freeman had been fitted for armor as well. Where they found a suit that could fit him, I had no idea. His chest and shoulders had to be eighty inches around; his biceps might have been a full twenty-five inches.

“What’s the plan?” the pilot asked me over the interLink, as I settled in.

“First, we’re going to kill time until we know where to go,” I said. “It might be an hour, maybe more. You see that forest? In a little while some bright lights are going to appear out there.”

“And there’s going to be an army of aliens out there, too,” the pilot commented.

“First the lights, then the aliens. Take my word for it. The Marine Corps has experience with these things,” I said. The pilot was Navy. Navy chopper pilots tended to be a bit more skittish than Marine Corps pilots in these situations.

“So we’re looking for the light?” the pilot asked.

“I need you to drop us as close to the lights as you can, then head back for base. Our goal is to slip in unannounced; having choppers thumping overhead isn’t going to help with the mission.”

“Understood.” The pilot sounded relieved.

We had reached altitude and were now flying across an outer suburb. Below us, Valhalla was a grid of plowed streets and houses with an occasional park or school or shopping center.

“You interested in heading anyplace in particular while we wait?” the pilot asked. We were speaking on an open frequency. Every man in the platoon could hear us. So could Freeman. As a civilian advisor, he was not technically a member of the platoon.

“Freeman, got any ideas?” I asked.

Because of his huge size and icy demeanor, Freeman’s intelligence often went unnoticed. He did not stumble into situations. He considered the angles, studied whatever information he could, and had a keen eye for any advantages to be had. With Freeman, I never needed to worry about uninformed opinions blending in with the facts. Since he did not know any more than me, he simply shook his head.

“What’s it look like beyond those hills?” I asked the pilot, pointing to hills to the west.

“It looks dark; that’s how it looks,” the pilot said. I got the feeling he did not want to stray any farther from town than necessary.

“I can see that,” I said. “What is the terrain like?”

“Forest, mostly. It’s pretty dense.”

“Use your radar; see if you locate a clearing. You may need to drop us off out there,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said.

The sun set quickly during the New Copenhagen winter. First the horizon became red and gold and orange—a molten copper sun sinking behind clouds that looked inflamed and infected. Then the sky was purple with gray clouds. As the last streaks of light slowly drained from the sky, the horizon went from indigo to black. Snow-covered trees formed a carpet below us, and mountains looked like phantom shapes in the distance.

“How far out do you want to go?” the pilot asked.

I glanced at Freeman, then said, “Ten, fifteen miles, not any farther than a half day’s hike back to town.”

The pilot headed out over the woodlands, cruising quickly while remaining no more than ten feet from the tops of the trees, a tactic called Earth mapping. The pilot kept us low enough to pass under most tracking technologies. It was a wise precaution.