James Tarr - Dogsoldiers

He’d never been with an African-American woman before, and he’d treaded very carefully, doing his best to make sure he never said or did anything that could be construed as offensive, sexist, culturally insensitive or, God forbid, racist. Until she’d made it clear that she had no time for the political correctness that seemed to be strangling the officer corps of the military.

“Of course this skirt looks good on me!” she’d told him after he’d given her a vague compliment on her outfit prior to them heading out to dinner on their third or fourth date. “I’ve got a black girl’s ass. And it’s a good thing, too, since I’m a black girl. Wouldn’t be right to have some flat-as-a-board white girl’s butt, I’d have to go around calling myself Britney or Karen and talk about Starbucks and soccer or whatever.” If he remembered correctly, it was that night after the dinner and wine they’d first had sex. And he’d quickly learned she was completely unconcerned with gender pronouns or racial stereotypes when they were behind closed doors and naked.

Twenty-five minutes later they were walking up 2 ndAvenue toward West Grand. The huge 15-story Cadillac Place office complex was on their right, and the massive 30-story tower of the art deco Fisher Building was directly in front of them. Two of the men followed behind them in the Growler, while one was on foot in front and behind. There were a few people walking on the sidewalks in the warm afternoon sun, and the occasional vehicle, making this part of the city appear almost normal.

Directly across from them was the front entrance to the Fisher Building. The façade was three stylish stories of glass panes with gold lattice figurines just above the doors and black stone ravens on the exterior columns. The massive edifice was on the National Register of Historic Places and had somehow, so far, come through the war unscathed. Parker didn’t feel like walking a block to the nearest pedestrian walkway over the street, so he waved the Growler forward and had it block traffic as he and Lydia walked across West Grand. It was three eastbound and three westbound lanes separated by a grassy boulevard dotted with low trees.

Foot traffic passed in both directions, and there was actual vehicular traffic as well, personal vehicles as well as delivery trucks. West Grand was perhaps the busiest street in the city during business hours as so many corporations and city departments had their offices in nearby buildings. There were regular foot patrols in the area, to keep the civilians feeling happy and secure, as well as a few static posts that were more for visibility than function.

Compared to anywhere else in the city the foot and vehicular traffic made it seem like rush hour in Manhattan, but he’d heard from locals that even this relatively bustling area of the city was but a shadow of its former self. The Cadillac Place office building was mostly empty; the same was true of the Fisher Building, New Center One next to it… in fact, that could be said of most of the Blue Zone. Even with the military protection, being inside a war zone was hard on people and business. War was hard on people and business.

Like many skyscrapers and high-rises the footprint of the Fisher Building was actually rather small. It’s 100,000 square feet of space was due to it rising thirty stories above the street, and one story below.

As the local combined TV and radio station broadcast out of the building the military treated it like a potential terrorist target, even though there’d never even been unsubstantiated threats against the facility. Nevertheless there were jersey barriers and dragon’s teeth in front of all four entrances, north, south, east, and west, and there was usually a manned Growler or IMP parked in front of the Fisher, or nearby.

Parker led Lydia between two of the concrete barriers and then held the door open for her. He nodded at the men in the Growler parked at the curb about fifty feet away. The three-story lobby of the building was just amazing, and had won a number of awards when it had been constructed over a century before. The vaulted ceiling was richly decorated and he’d once heard they’d used forty different kinds of marble. The lobby walls and hallway ceilings were covered with artwork including eight-foot-tall tile mosaics. Parker spotted two additional soldiers loitering at the security desk near the entrance. They straightened up when they saw him, and saluted. He nodded as he and Lydia walked by.

The independently-owned coffee shop was deep inside the building, and even with the outrageous prices did a steady business, as it was one of the few places inside the city to find coffee. Still, Parker winced inwardly at the near fifty-dollar bill for two large cups of the stuff. Just one more reason to hate capitalism.

They were standing in the grandiose lobby talking and laughing and sipping at their black gold when Parker’s encrypted military satellite phone rang. He frowned. The phone never rang with good news.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he told Lydia, digging it out.

“Sure, no problem,” she told him, watching him over her cup as she took a sip.

“Parker.”

“Sir, it’s Chamberlain.”

“Yes Major?” Mike Chamberlain was his S3, in charge of Operations.

“We’ve had an incident I think you should be aware of.”

Parker took a deep breath, glanced at Lydia, and said, “What kind of incident?”

“We had a patrol ambushed on the west side of the city not quite an hour ago. When the QRF arrived on scene, apparently… well, there appears to have been a bomb, or a booby-trap, we’re not quite sure exactly what it was…”

“How bad?” Parker asked, a leaden feeling pulling at him.

“Fourteen KIA, six wounded. At least two missing. And we lost a Growler and an IMP. If there were any EKIA they took them with.”

“Goddammit.”

“Yes sir. We’re still searching the area. Sir, I’m beginning to think this isn’t random. Maybe ARF is making a move. The Kestrel a few days ago, which took out an entire squad of terrorists, but we’re thinking another squad got away. Those two dust-ups just south of the city yesterday, the one patrol taking fire and that truck running the checkpoint for no apparent reason. Whatever the hell happened at that apartment building tower the other night, which might have just been crazies, but maybe not. This ambush. I don’t know if I’m seeing a pattern, but it’s definitely unusually high activity. I’ve started plotting everything that’s happened in the last week on a map, and I’d like you to take a look at it. And the S2.”

“I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes, I’m off base right now.” He looked at Lydia and shrugged apologetically as he disconnected the call. “I’ve got to head out.”

She nodded. “I heard.” In fact, she’d been able to hear most of the other end of the conversation, he always had his phone’s speaker turned up to max volume. Hearing loss from a firefight when he was a Captain, he’d told her. She kissed Parker on the cheek. “Go on, get to work, do Army stuff. I’ll talk to you later.”

He headed toward the front door with his two soldiers, their boots echoing off the marble, and she watched him go, sipping at the coffee.

Early returned not quite two hours later with two squirrels, a pigeon, and the cargo pockets of his trousers stuffed with red-orange daylily blossoms. The men had learned the tender flower petals were very mild, with a faint mushroomy aftertaste.

Early and Weasel built a small fire about a hundred feet from the house they were using as overnight shelter. The fire was between two ramshackle homes very close together, barely six feet separating their burgundy brick walls. The space between the houses was entirely in shadow and cool; it felt like a tunnel. The walls seemed to lean in. Aircraft would need to be directly overhead to even spot the fire or the heat it was giving off. And then they’d only see the silhouettes of two men.