The Vixen War Bride Read online

  The Vixen War Bride

  Thomas J. Doscher

  Copyright © 2021 Thomas J. Doscher

  All rights reserved.

  Dedicated to Cam, Ryan and Vanessa.

  You know why.

  Contents

  Table of Contents

  Common Acronyms

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Common Acronyms

  CJTF – Combined Joint Task Force

  DV – Distinguished Visitor

  FARP – Forward Air Refueling Point

  FOB – Forward Operating Base

  ID – Infantry Division

  LT – Lieutenant (pronounced “El-tee.”

  LTV – Light Tactical Vehicle

  LZ – Landing Zone

  MEDEVAC – Medical Evacuation

  NCO – Noncommissioned officer

  SeaBee – United States Naval Construction Battalion. Hetergraph of “CB,” for “Construction Battalion.”

  SNCO – Senior Noncommissioned Officer

  Prologue

  “Anyone remember what day it is?”

  Captain Ben Gibson didn’t look up from the Light Tactical Vehicle’s onboard computer as the question came over the rumble of the Army vehicle from the driver’s seat. It didn’t matter what day it was on Gamma Hydra as the Army routine on this world had been the same since their unit arrived. Get up, brief, patrol for six days, come back, sleep, repeat. He was more concerned with trying to determine the position of his other Rangers on the holographic display in front of him.

  “Monday?” someone spoke up from the backseat. “No, Tuesday.”

  “Coming home on a Taco Tuesday,” the driver commented. “Life doesn’t get much better than that.”

  “No, it can definitely be lots better,” another voice in the back piped in. “Those chow hall tacos suck.”

  “I think it’s the meat,” the other backseater commented. “I mean they say it’s cow, but a lot of those food containers have an Australian return address. Now, I’m not saying I know what kangaroo tastes like, but I know the shit in those tacos ain’t beef. Just say’n.”

  “You gotta broaden your horizons, bro,” the driver replied. “I bet kangaroo is chock-full of vitamins and minerals ‘n shit. What do you think, Sir?”

  Gibson still didn’t look up from the screen. “I think we’d be lucky if it’s kangaroo,” he said.

  “He’s not wrong,” a backseater commented. “What’s that giant South American rat? Cappuccino-something? It could be that.”

  “You guys are too picky,” the driver said, turning the LTV into Forward Operating Base Ingram’s sally port for inspection. Putting the vehicle into park, they waited as the security guards scanned the vehicle for hidden explosives, chemical weapons traces, unknown biological signatures, contraband, or anything else the Defense Department could build a scanner for.

  “You’re not picky enough, Ramirez,” one of the Rangers in the backseat threw in as he tried to adjust himself in his seat to get more comfortable. “Shit was probably grown in a vat.”

  “And chock-full of vitamins and minerals!” the driver, Ramirez, threw back as if the other Ranger’s comment had proven his point for him.

  Ben shut down the computer and sighed. The computer had to be broken. It was telling him that all the Rangers on-planet belonging to the 5th Ranger Regiment were on the Forward Operating Base, and he knew that wasn’t supposed to be the case.

  “Piece of shit,” he breathed in frustration. Army equipment being broken wasn’t new. Shoot, if something worked properly, that was suspicious. This time, however, something tickled the back of his mind. Their patrol was supposed to last two more days, but they had suddenly been called back to the FOB. That, in itself, wasn’t so weird. Sometimes they just needed you for another mission or to fill a hole somewhere else. But the order, given without a reason, combined with all the Rangers being on the FOB at once. Now, that was a bit weird.

  The inspections ended and the red, steel gate to the base opened. One of the sentries waved them to move out. Ramirez gave him a wave and eased the patrol vehicle through.

  “You guys need to look at the bright side,” Ramirez said. “We could be up on that mountain for another two days, in the rain, looking for Furries that probably aren’t even there. Instead, we get hot showers, a warm cot and it’s Taco Tuesday.” He pulled the LTV into the roundabout in front of Bravo Company’s hardened shelter headquarters. “That taco could bark, and I’d still be happy!”

  Gibson barely waited until the Light Tactical Vehicle had come to a stop before hopping out of the passenger seat, being careful to ensure his weapon or equipment didn’t catch on anything on the way out. Many a soldier had tried to make a cool-looking dismount only to get caught on a sharp corner and find themselves face-first in the dirt in front of the entire rifle company, and no company commander, particularly a Ranger, could afford that.

  Four days in the wilderness rooting out enemy positions had given the twenty-six-year-old the beginning of a dark beard to match the short, dark brown hair up top under his helmet. Dirty, grimy, tired and hungry, he knew they’d have, at best, a day to rest, clean weapons and re-equip before they’d be sent out again and back to looking for their painfully elusive enemy. Before that, Ben had a to-do list, in no particular order: shower, hot food, check messages, and sleep for more than twenty minutes.

  He walked through the door and into the temporary shelter that housed his “office,” a small desk where he performed the administrative part of his job and where he kept his tablet and computer, so messages, he decided, could be first.

  Other soldiers scurried around the room, some rather hectically, and Ben figured another operation was either starting up or reaching a climax. He decided to grab his tablet and get to the chow hall before he got dragged into it. He placed his M-31 carbine in the wood rack next to his desk and took off his helmet, placing it next to his government-issued laptop and running his hands through his sweat-slicked hair. He removed the harness that held what was left of his ammunition and grenades and locked it in the security cabinet before snatching up his personal tablet. Booting it up, he read as he walked toward the exit, a definite no-no at home station. You didn’t read and walk in uniform. But this was the front, and things worked different here. Any officer giving you crap for stuff like that here marked themselves as brand new and received a quick lesson on how to keep their mouth shut.

  Ben paused near the door as messages started to populate his screen, each one only a subject and an author.

  ARE YOU OKAY?!

  Are you there? Please respond ASAP!

  Have you heard from Jessie?

  Where are you?!

  Before he could open the first one, Ramirez, still in helmet and battle-rattle, opened the door in front of him and came up short. “There you are, Sir,” he said. “The colonel needs all of us at Gateway.”

  Ben arched an eyebrow. “’All of us?’” he repeated. “For a debrief?”

  The noncommissioned officer shrugged. “Him and a bunch of senior NCOs ran up to us just after you went inside and started rounding all of us up. Didn’t tell us anything.”

  It looked like Taco Tuesday was cancelled. “Damn,” Ben sighed, putting his tablet in his pocket. “We must have lost someone.” He started past the staff sergeant out into the sunlight, putting his patrol cap on instead of his grimy helmet. “Come on, let’s not keep them
waiting.”

  “No reports of contact on the comms,” Ramirez commented as he fell into step with his captain. “Accident, maybe?”

  Deaths in combat were a part of war, but usually they didn’t make a big announcement like this unless the death was unexpected, an accident or a suicide. Ben wondered who it was. Bravo Company of the 1st Battalion, 5th Ranger Regiment was a small community, and everyone knew everyone else.

  Gateway was the part of the base where people arrived from orbit and received their inprocessing briefings, and so it was the only place on the base that could comfortably seat fifty people. By the time Ben arrived, the rest of the convoy was already there, sitting in uncomfortable metal chairs and wondering what was going on. Their weapons had been locked in metal racks along the wall, and now it was time to hurry up and wait. Ben noted with interest that a group of NCOs who had not been part of the convoy were going from weapon to weapon, removing magazines. It made him wonder if they thought someone in the unit was suspected of something illegal… illegal enough to risk making a last stand.

  Being the company commander, Ben didn’t necessarily have to wait as long as the others to find out what was going on. He spotted the brigade executive officer near the front, standing next to the commander and made for him. He knew Major Donnelly pretty well and could count on him to get a run-down of what was happening.

  Donnelly saw him approach and stepped forward to meet him. Not even offering him a greeting, the field grade officer took Ben by the elbow and directed him around the corner. Ben gave him a questioning look but waited until Donnelly stopped before speaking up.

  “What is it?” Ben asked, already knowing that whatever it was, it must be really bad.

  “Ben,” Donnelly began quietly, sounding as if he, himself, were about to fall apart, “There’s no easy way to do this, that’s why they’re telling all our guys at the same time like this.”

  Ben noticed that Donnelly was pale, white as a sheet. Something had shaken the veteran officer to his very core. Suddenly Ben didn’t want to know.

  “Tell us what?” Ben pushed. “We get hit?”

  The exec opened and closed his mouth for a moment, as if the words themselves were refusing to come out. Finally, he just came out with it. “Persephone’s gone, Ben,” he said quietly.

  He stared at the other officer, not able to link the words he was saying together. “What do you mean, ‘gone?’” he asked.

  Donnelly swallowed. “It happened while you were out,” he said. “Tod used a few ships to shift an asteroid out of orbit and dropped it right on top of the settlement. Hit with the force of a hundred megatons, they’re saying. Fort Accetta, the city, it’s all gone, Ben.”

  Ben stopped listening as Donnelly kept talking. His hand had dropped to his pocket and pulled out his tablet, the messages still on the screen from friends and family on Earth, on Vega, but nothing from Persephone, nothing from home.

  Have you heard from Jessie?

  He swallowed as his blood ran cold. “Survivors?” he breathed. “Is there a survivor list yet? You better not be telling these people about this without being able to tell them who’s alive and who’s not.”

  Donnelly took a breath, and Ben immediately regretted asking the question of him. Donnelly, he knew, had a steady girlfriend and two kids on Persephone. The pain was front and center in his face as he shook his head, not sure how to translate grief into words.

  “Ben, they’re gone,” he whispered. “All gone. All of it. Gone.”

  Gone. They’re gone, his mind tried valiantly to process that information. The fort was gone. His friends were gone. The little blonde woman who worked the counter at the mess hall was gone.

  He heard the whine of microphone feedback and the voice of the brigade commander booming through the clamshell, but he couldn’t make out the words through the black curtain that fell over him. How could it be all gone?

  And Jessie…

  Jessie was gone.

  Chapter 1

  Six months later…

  Coffee made the Army run.

  Amateurs debated tactics, professionals discussed logistics, grunts left all that stuff to them, stood in the back of the room while they talked and drank coffee.

  Ben grunted as the three sugar packs he was tearing open burst between his fingers and dropped half the sugar onto the cheap table on which sat the coffee machine, sugar and powdered creamer. Without missing a beat, he grabbed another sugar packet to compensate and ripped it open before moving onto the creamer.

  “Gibson!”

  He turned and found another captain had come up next to him, shaking his hand before reaching for his own paper cup. “How’ve you been?”

  “Living the dream,” Ben told him. “Finally made it to Va’Sh.”

  “Better late than never,” the other captain said with a grin, taking a sip of the scalding hot coffee without batting an eye.

  “Awww,” Ben cooed in mock sympathy. “If we had known you 40th ID guys needed help here, we would have hurried.” He smiled. “How’s things, John?”

  “Touch and go for a bit, but it all turned out all right,” his friend told him. His expression turned serious a moment later. “Sorry about…”

  “Yeah,” Ben cut him off. “Thanks.”

  “How are your guys taking it?”

  Ben shrugged as the two moved toward their seats, remains of their coffees in-hand. “Best they can,” he finally said. “Most of the unit stayed on for this. Nowhere else to go, you know? We were hoping to all stay together, but they broke us up, sent us all to Hell and gone.”

  John nodded, then, as if eager to change the subject, he nudged the other officer with an elbow. “Where do they got you?”

  “Sector 13,” Ben said proudly. “Lucky, lucky, lucky.”

  “That’s south, right?” John asked. “Real lucky. None of the rads from up north.”

  “You in the single digits, then?” Ben asked seriously.

  “Sector Two,” John told him. Ben winced in real sympathy this time. “I’m already swapping my plates out with lead.”

  “You should at least get the good VA percentage,” Ben told him, only half-joking. The cash-strapped Veterans Administration didn’t give anyone a good percentage of medical retirement pay anymore.

  His friend shrugged and smiled good-naturedly. “Hey, who wants kids anyway, right?”

  “Room, stand-by!” the call from the back came, and the two quickly found their seats, not bothering to sit as soon the rest of the room would be standing with them.

  “Room, tench-hut!”

  The other assembled military officers sitting in the rows of cheap metal chairs inside the tent rose to their feet as a gray-haired man wearing eagles on his collar strode past him to take his position at the front of the room. The twenty or so officers and senior noncommissioned officers wore a smattering of slightly different camouflage patterns, some of them coming from different U.S. military services and a few from allied countries, all members of “the Coalition,” but not a one of them higher in rank than a major, and even that guy was an anomaly.

  The colonel turned to them and leaned casually against the podium he was supposed to be standing behind, giving an impression that this meeting was going to be far less formal than was probably envisioned by the people who set up for it. Despite the casual manner, his hair and mustache were short and neatly trimmed, and Ben wondered if that meant there was a barber on base. The colonel waved them to sit down. Ben found his seat, resting the thick, white three-ring binder he had brought all the way with him from the ship in his lap and his coffee on top of that.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the colonel began. “Welcome to Jamieson Airfield, Va’Sh. I’m Colonel T. C. McDowell, the deputy chief of operations. On behalf of Major General Stevenson, who couldn’t be here today, thank you for coming.”

  This last part was said in an almost exasperated tone. Ben had heard the Army was having a hard time finding people to fill these posts, but f
or the first time he wondered just how hard. He supposed that was just an inevitable difficulty that came with the end of every war. Once you did your duty, you went home. That was the deal. Staying behind wasn’t something most people thought of when they did their part.

  Without thinking, Ben’s fingers found a folded piece of paper in his pocket. Most people had that option. He absent-mindedly rubbed the paper for a moment as the colonel went on.

  “Most important thing out of the way first,” McDowell said. “As you have been briefed and are already aware, the electromagnetic interference here our comm folks affectionately refer to as ‘the Fuzz,’ severely impacts wireless communications, even with our ships in orbit, so for those who have not heard, the Browns did beat the Vega Vacuum ten to seven in overtime.”

  One guy in the back cheered, and the rest of them smiled. Landing at Jamieson and finding no web connections three days before the Star Bowl may have been the biggest source of stress for a lot of the new officers.

  McDowell smiled tiredly. “And that is likely to be the last bit of fresh news from home you get for a long time. Jamieson is the primary spaceport and airfield for Operation Unified Resolve, and even what we get is usually weeks old. Most of you going to the hinterlands probably won’t know who the new commander-in-chief is until a month after the election. The Fuzz makes most computers and complex electronics unworkable. Aircraft and dropships function well enough because they’ve been hardened against electromagnetic interference, but even their functions are degraded. For those of us on the ground… well, I could put you all in old World War Two uniforms, and it would probably be almost indistinguishable from working in 1944.”

  He straightened and took a breath. “The end result is that most of you are going to have to function without regular command guidance. And that’s just the start of your problems.”

  Ben bit his lip as McDowell went on. After three years of war, this was supposed to be the easy part, the kick back and relax while no one shot at you part. He’d had his ass in the grass, and this was supposed to be where things got better, but McDowell’s tone was every bit as grim as a commander about to tell his men they were outnumbered. At least Ben was used to hearing that.