The Last Run: An Earthfall Novella

"So, are you all packed up?"

Scott Mulligan looked up from his office workstation at the thin, flat-faced man standing in the doorway. The Scowl, aka First Sergeant Bob Randell, leaned against the doorframe and slid his hands inside the pockets of his multicam combat uniform. And, per usual, Randell was scowling at him. It had taken Mulligan a while to get used to Randell’s perpetual scowl. The truth was, Randell was an all-around good guy, and a born practical joker. He wasn’t really scowling, at least not most of the time; it was just how he looked. It certainly got most face-to-face meetings off on the wrong foot, but in the end Harmony Base’s cadre of enlisted troops had come to love the base’s First Shirt. Eventually, Randell’s good nature had won Mulligan over as well. More importantly, Randell had proved himself to be a fantastic right hand man when it came to representing the troops, and that was what had impressed Mulligan the most. Even if The Scowl was a traditional infantryman.

What the hell are you talking about? Mulligan asked.

Randell’s perpetual scowl deepened. Heard you put your papers in, he said.

Wow, that was quick—I only did it yesterday. Where’d you hear that?

Base NCO telegraph. You think I’d miss something like that? Thought you were gunning for a CSM slot with one of the groups.

Yeah, well, that didn’t happen, Mulligan said. Another guy got the Group job. Leaves me with a choice of a staff job at the Swick, Special Forces Command, USASOC, or maybe a Civil Affairs unit. All pretty good postings, but I want to stay operational. I’ve been sitting on my ass out here in the middle of nowhere for three years, and I’m tired of the same old, same old.

What, would Group be that much different?

Mulligan snorted. "Dude, being the command sergeant major of an entire Special Forces group is entirely different. I wouldn’t be in the field all that often, but I’d definitely be able to shape some things, and that would be my ticket to Valhalla."

Randell looked suitably unimpressed. Well, I can see why they didn’t choose you. SF stands for ‘Slow and Fat,’ right? I’m afraid you scream epic fail in both categories, big man. When’s your separation date?

End of the month from Harmony. Another month and a half on terminal leave, then I’m history.

No shit. Well, hell, Scott. That’s a bummer, but I get it. So you need help packing up, or what?

Look pal, do I appear to need a couple of steamer trunks and a pack of porters? Mulligan waved around his small office. Other than the well-worn desk, less-than-comfortable chair, a single visitor’s chair, and a credenza behind him, the office was the epitome of Spartan. Randell slowly looked around the room, as if inspecting every nook, crevice, and cranny in the gray-walled space. Finally, he turned back to Mulligan.

Well, how many paper clips are in that desk of yours? A big guy like you should be able to lift at least one or two boxes, but if you need help, I can pull some guys in here to get you squared away, Sergeant Major.

I wouldn’t want you to waste your time on something so trivial, First Sergeant Randell. Now where’s my fucking coffee, sweetheart?

Randell snorted and stepped into the office. He slipped into the lone visitor’s chair and leaned forward, placing his elbows on Mulligan’s desk. You know, Scotty, this place is going to suck when you leave.

"This place already sucks, man. You know that."

The hell it does. Ever since you arrived, you’ve had the Old Man eating out of your hand. And most of the command staff, too. That Special Forces juju you wield is mighty stuff.

Mulligan shrugged. Ah, there’s nothing to Benchley. He’s like me, on the graveyard tour.

Randell looked perplexed. How do you mean?

He got passed over, Mulligan said.

Randell leaned back, apparently surprised by the newsflash. No kidding? How’d you find that out?

He told me when I threw in my papers. He beat me by a week.

Wow. You know, we talk a lot of smack about him, but I always thought Benchley was a pretty good guy, for a general officer. So the Army’s showing him the door, huh?

Up or out, Mulligan said. He paused for a moment. I guess it’s kind of the same for me. I wanted Group, but the Army found other faces for the spaces. After that, I pretty much decided to pull the pin. But Benchley’s got a lot on the ball, he’ll land on his feet if that’s what he wants to do.

Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m sure he’ll be okay, but if there was a guy who deserved a third star, it’s him.

Mulligan spread his hands. Onward, Christian Soldiers, he said. So what can I do for you, Bobby?

Nothing, just slacking off. I figure since you’re leaving, I might as well cool my heels and act like the usual malingerer, just to make a definite impression on your replacement. Who is…?

"Mike Lerner. An aviation guy, of all things."

This just keeps getting better and better. Don’t know him. Is he one of those silk scarf dilettantes from the 160th, maybe?

Mulligan chuckled. Please. From the 227th, if I recall properly. Thirty-plus years of service, another dinosaur coming to the graveyard.

Gosh, I didn’t know Harmony had such star power. As in, it kills stars.

Mulligan looked around the office. We’re the future of mankind, Bobby. Now that things are heating up with the ‘new’ Russia again, the Army’s suddenly sending its rejects here. I guess it makes sense to someone.

Hey, thanks for the vote of confidence. But of course, you’re apparently one of us poor rejects.

Mulligan shook his head. I asked for the posting, sweet cheeks.

Randell cracked up, guffawing loudly. "You asked to come to Harmony Base?"

"Yeah. I thought the Army was serious when it said it had a super-secret installation that would serve as the launching point for rebuilding the country if things ever hit the fan. Big budgets, big mission, big opportunities. It was like I was seven years old and watching all the ‘Be All You Can Be’ commercial breaks during Buck Rogers."

You fell for that shit?

Mulligan nodded. Believe that?

Randell threw back his head and laughed again.

***

Major General Martin Benchley walked down the hallway, his attention more-or-less fixed on his tablet. For once, he wasn’t using it to check base functions or schedule another staff meeting. This time, he had an eye on the news feed. Things were heating up in Europe, with a resurgent Russia puffing out its chest and throwing its weight around the continent. Benchley had been a young officer during the latter part of the Cold War—he had gotten his butter bar in 1986, in Reagan’s new, improved Army—and he was intimately aware of how adversarial the Russians could be. But after the dissolution of the Soviet Union in the 1990s and the nation’s retreat into economic shambles, Benchley had joined the rest of the world and pretty much forgot about Russia. There were other things to worry about—the Chinese, the terrorists in the Middle East, and what he personally viewed as a creeping socialism that was beginning to take root in the United States. But when Russia started to get its act together, Benchley realized that he and many of his fellow officers had overlooked something critical: yes, the Soviet Union was as cold and moldy as a corpse in the mausoleum, but the remains of the Russian leadership was frankly pissed as all hell that their nation, once an international player like no other, had suddenly found itself to be just another floundering medium power up to its neck in water. And one that couldn’t swim, at that.

The grievousness of the nation’s meteoric descent from grace had galvanized the Russians, especially