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  Galactic Marine

  (A Traveler Novel)

  by Vaughn Heppner

  Illustration © Tom Edwards

  TomEdwardsDesign.com

  Copyright © 2022 by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  -1-

  I must have still been drunk when I fell out of bed on Monday. My mind was hazy and I’d forgotten all about Juanita Bolivar’s promise to meet me at the Red-Hot Chili Pavilion at six this evening.

  I’d been executing the perfect campaign with her, working the angles to that most provocative moment last night when she’d finally laughed the way she does, flicking her hair to the side, and agreed to a date with yours truly.

  But, as I said, when I fell out of bed on Monday morning, with my alarm ringing, I was not thinking about Juanita’s perfect smile or the sway of her hips as she danced.

  I was late, muy late for work as the lousy alarm had rung for Sunday.

  It didn’t help that I’d broken a ton of protocols lately, and if Master Gunnery Sergeant Hendricks wanted to make a big deal about it, he could. It would likely mean a dishonorable discharge from the U.S. Marines, which I wanted to avoid.

  Do you hear that? Avoid. Two years ago, I would have died of shame if there had been a mere suggestion I might be dishonorably discharged from the Corps.

  Two years ago, I hadn’t been in that mix-up in Bhutan, of all places. Check it out. Bhutan, Druk Yul, or “The Land of the Thunder Dragon,” as Bhutan was known: a tiny landlocked country in the Eastern Himalayas sandwiched between Tibet and India.

  Our time there had been a bloody mess of ambushes and—

  I shook my head before the bathroom mirror, rubbing my chin, feeling that the razor had done its job of making me presentable.

  I was big and brawny, and yes, it had been crazy that the Marines had ended up in Bhutan, maybe even crazier that I had been there with them. My MOS was 0311, rifleman. The captain back then had once said I was a born warrior, but I figured he meant that as an insult, as we were supposed to be professionals.

  Anyway, I ran out the door, hailed a taxi and muttered instructions to the driver in Spanish.

  I know, I know, if you know anything about Marines on consulate duty, you must be scratching your head about my setup. I had twelve days left in Santiago, the capital of Chile. In twelve days, I would go home to the States, receive my honorable discharge and head out to Hawaii to start my life as a surfer-slash-beach bum. When I ran out of money, I’d find a job as a security guard or something.

  You see, I planned on being free the way a knight-errant had been in the medieval chivalric literature like Gawain and Lancelot in the Arthurian cycle of the Round Table. The adjective errant meant wandering or roving. Probably, in the end, that meant I’d become a private detective. I wasn’t going to be slaving away in a grind of a job, climbing a corporate ladder and toadying to the Karens and their lapdogs.

  Bhutan had taught me so much. Consulate duty in Santiago had also shown me that—

  No. I’m not going to complain. I’m going to tell you what happened starting on Monday, January 8.

  My mindset that morning was fuzzy, although I remember telling myself to hold it together for another twelve days. A dishonorable discharge could complicate my future. Besides, I’d been a good Marine in Bhutan: the best, if you judged me by my fighting skills. The bastards there had learned the hard way that messing with the USMC was hazardous to their health.

  Incidentally, Chile is that long narrow country that runs almost the entire length of the western side of South America. It was summer now on the bottom half of the globe, a fine time to be here.

  As the taxi pulled up, I thought about sneaking into the consulate building, but rejected that as unworkable. Instead, I sauntered in boldly, gathered my equipment in the armory and ran into Hendricks as I clicked the chin strap to my helmet.

  “There you are,” Hendricks said, scowling at me.

  He was short, bordering on obese, and had wrinkles in his uniform, but he knew secrets that kept the right people off his back. Leverage, he called it.

  His frown deepened as he took a better look at me. “What’s wrong with you?”

  I shook my head.

  He pushed up against me, looking up. “Open your mouth. Breathe at me.”

  My shoulders twitched as I automatically started the motion that would shove him away. Then, the thought struck just in time: You only have twelve days left. Don’t screw it up, Bayard.

  That was me: Sergeant Jake Bayard, in case I’d forgotten to tell you.

  Hendricks’ scowl deepened. “Are you deaf? What did I just say?”

  I breathed into the man’s splotchy face.

  He stepped back sharply. “I can’t believe this. You’ve been drinking before work. Not even you can be that stupid.”

  “Last night,” I mumbled, hating making any excuses to him. Soon, though, I’d never have to make another excuse in my life. I kept reminding myself of that.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Last night,” I said. “I drank way too much last night. Then I slept. Still sweating it out.”

  He stared at me, and I could see the wheels turning in his mind. “You know—” He stopped himself, knowing that I knew the rules. He shook his head. “You’re lucky, Bayard. I don’t know why, but you’re going on a little jaunt today. It could be overnight. I don’t know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Grab some extra gear just in case. Put in a few civvies, maybe some boots. You have an extra pair in your locker, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “What jaunt? You’re not making sense.”

  “You know what DARPA is?” Hendricks asked, with an edge to his voice.

  I stared at him.

  “DARPA,” he said slowly, as if I were an idiot. “Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.”

  “What does any of that have to do with me?”

  “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said today. You have no idea what DARPA is, do you?”

  I didn’t care for his smirk, and my mind finally started to engage. In case I haven’t said, I look like a big tight end, a football player, but I read all the time. Books gave me most of the ideas that drove others batty.

  “DARPA is part of the DOD,” I said. “They’re responsible for developing emerging technologies for use by the military.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Hendricks said. “You’re a bright boy. This morning, a DARPA scientist called and asked for you personally.”

  “Me? What for?”

  “I already told you what for. Pack for an overnight. The egghead should be here in a few hours.”

  That was when I remembered about my date with Juanita Bolivar at six tonight. I absolutely could not miss that. She was the hottest girl I’d ever asked out. There was no way I was going to miss dancing with her. And more. I hoped.

  “How long is this little jaunt supposed to take again?”

  “How do I know? One day, two, maybe three.”

  “Uh…”

  Hendricks stared at me, and he must have read my face. His broke out into a huge grin. “Just in case you don’t understand what’s happening, Sergeant, the DARPA scientist just saved your sorry ass. I could bust you for being drunk on duty, but I’m not going to, provided you hurry and get ready for your little TDY.”

  I needed to get out of this, but Hendricks had me, and I could see no way to wriggle out of the assignment without ending up with that dishonorable discharge I know he was itching to stick me with. I couldn’t believe it. I’d have to call Juanita and work something out. Hmm. I must have left my phone at home. I’d have to borrow one once Hendricks left.

  I brightened as I realized how to do this. I’d talk the DARPA scientist into letting me go and have Townes take my place.

  Besides, this sounded weird. How could a DARPA scientist borrow an on-duty Marine from the U.S. Consulate? It made no sense whatsoever.

  “I don’t understand this,” I said, trying a last stab with Hendricks.

  He cocked his head as if thinking about it. “You know, I don’t understand it either. It’s more than odd, but I’m guessing the scientist has major pull.”

  “What does he want me to do again?”

  “I have no idea. Now, grab your gear so you’re ready. I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough what he wants with you. And Bayard—”

  I waited.

  “Lay off the sauce out there. Don’t make us look bad. You understand me?”

  Twelve more days, I told myself. After that, I’d be a free man.

  -2-

  After I packed,
Townes and I had to move over a thousand boxes on the double, and I forgot about calling Juanita—thanks, booze brain.

  Then, at one-sixteen in the afternoon, Hendricks raced into the conference room. “Set it down,” he shouted at me.

  I put down the big box I’d just lifted. Townes and I had to clear out thirty-two more before we were through. I was hungry, as we hadn’t had any lunch yet.

  For the record, Townes had just walked out with his latest box.

  Hendricks, who was holding my duffel bag, threw it at me.

  I grunted catching it.

  “You won’t need your helmet, baton or weapon,” Hendricks said. “So, leave them here. I’ll take care of them.”

  I unbuckled the baton and holster, setting them on a table with my helmet. Then, I trotted after Hendricks, who kept twining his thick fingers together. That wasn’t like him. He usually showed a placid face to the world. He glanced back at me, and I realized he was sweating, with a hoggish look to his features.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

  “Don’t screw this up, Bayard. I’m passing on the warning to you.”

  I frowned, wondering who’d passed the warning on to him.

  I would have asked, but Hendricks hurried through a side door into the main lobby. He used a sleeve to wipe his lips and slid to a halt before two rangy men wearing black suits and dark sunglasses.

  I came more slowly, eying them. They were almost my height, with black shiny hair and an athletic quality to the way they stood. They struck me as gunfighters. They had expensive suits that fit perfectly and wore fancy shoes. I had no doubt each had an automatic in a shoulder rig.

  “Keep out of trouble, Bayard,” Hendricks said.

  The two did not acknowledge Hendricks or me. They simply turned around and headed for the door.

  “Go on,” Hendricks told me. “They’ll take you to the scientist.”

  Shrugging inwardly, surprised at Hendricks’ servile antics, I followed the two. Which one was the boss? As in, which one did I have to convince to let me go?

  I grinned, remembering again. Juanita Bolivar was waiting. I could practically see her swaying hips with my hands on them as we danced the night away.

  There was a purring Cadillac SUV waiting outside. One of the two men had the back open. The other slid into the front passenger-side door.

  I slung my duffel bag into the back.

  The rangy man in black slammed the door shut, motioned for me to follow him and opened the back passenger-side door for me.

  I slid in and he shut the door.

  The driver was a third man in black with dark sunglasses. He wore a stylish hat and waited with his hands at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel.

  The other slid into the seat behind the driver, shutting his door.

  “Uh,” I said. “Before we go, I need to tell you—”

  The Cadillac smoothly moved away from the curb, heading into traffic.

  “Hey, wait,” I said. “I have to tell you something.”

  All three ignored me.

  “Listen,” I said, putting my left hand on the side headrest of the front passenger-side seat. I figured the one riding shotgun must be the boss. “You don’t understand. I can’t come with you.”

  The one riding shotgun twisted back to stare at me. I couldn’t see behind the dark lenses, but the skin of his face seemed stretched tight, almost as if it was going to rip and reveal something sinister underneath.

  “Are you hearing me?” I said. “I have a hot date tonight. It’s taken me time to set it up. Townes is your man, not me.”

  “You are the one,” Mr. Shotgun Seat said, using an accent I couldn’t place.

  “Would you listen for a minute?” I said, reaching over and grabbing his nearest shoulder.

  It was like grabbing a hot band of steel. I’m not saying he was made of metal, but his muscles were taut and noticeably hotter than what I’d expected, as if his black suit were also a heating pad.

  I released him, as he twisted more fully around as if he planned to do me harm.

  I didn’t like that—no, not one bit—and suddenly I didn’t like him either. “Who do you think you are?” I said.

  “Jake Bayard,” he said, the strange accent more pronounced than before. “You are Jake Bayard, yes?”

  “That’s my name; don’t wear it out.”

  He cocked his head as if he couldn’t figure out what I’d just said.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Look, do you have a cell phone? I need to make a call.”

  “No calls,” he said.

  “Hey, bub, I have a hot date tonight. Do you comprende?”

  “You are meeting Doctor Spencer today.”

  “All right, I get that. But if you guys would slow down for a second, I could get Townes to take my place.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean no? Townes can help this Doctor Spencer just as easily as me.”

  “No.”

  It was weird. He talked as if English was his third language or as if he was slow in the head. But his physical competence and presence proclaimed him sharp and dangerous. Then, it began to dawn on me what he was really saying.

  “What’s so special about me, huh?”

  The driver and Mr. Shotgun Seat traded glances as if that were a loaded question.

  “I don’t want to get rough with you guys,” I said, “but I really need to call Juanita.”

  “Jake Bayard,” Mr. Shotgun Seat said.

  “What now?”

  He gestured to the man in the back seat with me. I looked, and what do you know; the other had pulled out a taser and aimed it at my midriff.

  “Doctor Spencer needs your help,” Mr. Shotgun Seat said.

  I blinked in disbelief. This was crazy. Just what was going on with these three? “Are you kidnapping me?”

  This time, Taser Man and Mr. Shotgun Seat traded glances. The leader reached into his inner suit and pulled out a document. He showed it to me.

  “This is official,” he said. “Doctor Spencer has need of your aid.”

  I noticed the Ambassador’s signature on the document, which was a kick in the gut.

  “Is this for real?” I said, deflated.

  “Check it. It is quite authentic.”

  I studied the document, and realized he spoke the truth. Sitting back in bewilderment, frowning, shaking my head—

  “Why did you feel so hot when I touched your shoulder?” I said.

  Mr. Shotgun Seat stared at me, eventually saying, “Thermal gear.”

  “What?”

  “Fever,” he said. “I have a fever.”

  Was he making this up on the fly? “Why are you here if you’re sick? You should be in bed.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “You do what you want, and you’re not going to let me go. Just let me borrow your cell then, so I can talk to Juanita and tell her what’s up. That way, when I come back, I can still take her out.”

  He cocked his head. “We will ask Doctor Spencer about it.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “When?”

  He cocked his head the other way. “Ten minutes from now.”

  I stared at him, glanced at Taser Man and realized there was something going on here I did not understand. The steely muscles, the heat Mr. Shotgun Seat had radiated, the stretched facial skin and pulling a taser on a U.S. Consulate Marine—why me? Why did this Doctor Spencer want me specifically? That did not make a lick of sense.

  I folded my arms, noting that I was much brawnier than these three clowns. We moved through city traffic. When the car stopped…I’d watch and wait for a little while longer. But if this became any sketchier, I was going to be twisting a few heads or banging them together as if they were Larry, Curly and Moe.

  -3-

  Approximately twenty minutes later, the Caddy took turns that led to the Comodoro Arturo Merion Benitez International Airport, the main one for Santiago, a city of eight million. The airport was a beautiful place with plenty of palm trees, grass and sidewalks.

  “You’re planning on boarding a plane here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Shotgun Seat.

  “Are we taking a short trip inland then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where to?”