Iron Mike Read online

  Copyright (c) 2015 by Patricia Rose

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Any reference to real events, businesses, or organizations is intended to give the fiction a sense of realism and authenticity.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording or otherwise—without prior permission in writing from the author, with the exception of a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  A House of the Blue Dolphin production.

  This ebook is for personal enjoyment only.

  Editing and Cover Design by Heather Anne Osborne

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1517286095

  Paperback ISBN-10: 1517286093

  Copyright (c) 2015 by the American Library Association

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015914932

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  Printed September, 2015

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to two people in my life who have always, always loved me and supported me in anything I’ve ever tried to do. First, to the spice in my life, Ellen and Kevin - I wouldn’t know what to do without either of you! Secondly, to the most beautiful Rose I have ever seen, my wonderful mother, Rose Garati Olson.

  The month leading up to the first printing of this book has been a challenging one. Several people who mean everything in the world to me have lost loved ones this month. First, Ellen lost her father, Earl Samuel (“Sam”) Elliott, a Christian gentleman with that American Southern courtesy and kindness you just don’t find anymore in today’s world. I know you’ve found your rest in heaven, Mr. Elliott.

  Second, Sarah lost her father, Jim Harned, a man with a wicked sense of humor who was always very kind to me, and who warmly welcomed my husband and me into his home. You made a beautiful daughter, Mr. Harned. I know you're so proud.

  Finally, Lynette, Bonni, and Pam are losing their mother, Joan Gurney, one of the most loving, generous-hearted people I have ever known, to end-stage cancer. Ma welcomed me into the family, adopting me immediately after I lost my own mother, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do. I love you, Ma.

  I love and miss you all!

  Scientist-Farmer

  Present Day

  Scientist-Farmer wasn’t a good pilot, which annoyed him more than he would have ever admitted. It simply wasn’t his calling. Curiosity was, and the land, crops, and animals; hence, the reason he was Scientist-Farmer, not Pilot-Mechanic or Pilot-Aerialist. The thought brought him no comfort as he struggled to keep the craft on an even course. By his nature, everything he chose to do, he did well, and that would include flying. But the atmosphere on this barbaric little rock was so thin! He checked a calibration, glancing away from the drive console for only an instant.

  In that instant, the craft dipped, diving precariously low in the virtually non-existent atmosphere, almost crashing into one of the tiny tunnels the savage, dominant species of this world created for travel. The tunnels were carved out of the earth itself, an egregious and offensive waste of the rich loam, pure and unpolluted soil, so dear in the galaxies. Scientist-Farmer corrected the calibration immediately, but not before he felt the animal’s cry of fear … and pain. Guilt overwhelmed him. He was not a cruel being. He had never been cruel. It was just the aircraft – like all of the Consortium’s vehicles – moved very, very fast. He was already far away from the creature he injured, but still, he could not leave it.

  With a sigh of resignation, Scientist-Farmer turned the craft around to seek the animal he had harmed. He would heal it, if he could – that was the calling of the farmer. If he couldn’t heal it, he would euthanize it. That was the calling of the scientist.

  Part One: Invasion

  January 1.

  Shepherdsville, Kentucky

  Kari

  Karissinna Kasoniak shifted in the tangle of sheets, her long legs stretching toward the bottom of the bed. Her left arm reached out automatically, feeling for Malik. He wasn’t there, the fucker. Kari opened her eyes with a squint, daylight rushing in way too fast. Her stomach heaved, and she fell out of the bed, scrambling quickly into the bathroom before her stomach lost its contents. She was throwing up alcohol bile when Malik stepped in, looking down at her with an amused, not-sympathetic-enough expression. She glowered at him, knowing her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, making her pale skin even whiter by comparison.

  “Told ya you should’ve eaten something before that tequila,” Malik said cheerfully, reaching for his razor.

  “Fuck you,” she mumbled in response, holding her long brown hair away from her face, keeping it out of the muck while her stomach twisted itself inside out.

  “Advil, sugar, and water,” Malik said, his deep voice more than a little smug. “Lots of water.”

  Kari glared up at him, but, even with her hangover, it was hard to stay mad. Malik had an engaging, friendly grin, and a lean body. His deep brown skin was smooth in all the right places, and hard in all the others. Kari managed a weak smile. “Yes, doctor,” she grumbled. “What’ve we got going on tonight?”

  Malik smiled. “Hey, baby, I’ll take care of you, you can count on it. I know you won’t do speedballs, but I got some fine ecstasy just for you.”

  Kari nodded with an appreciative smile. “Remember, I got to go early tomorrow – it’s my dad’s retirement thing.”

  Malik shrugged. “You got it, babe,” he promised.

  Kari grasped the toilet to help herself stand. “Well, I guess I better shower then, so we can start the par-tay.”

  “And while you make yourself even more beautiful, sweet thing, I’ll get the rest of the slackers up and moving.”

  Kari nodded as she stripped and stepped into the warm water. She couldn’t remember how many people crashed at Malik’s place last night, but it didn’t really matter. Most of them would stay on through the weekend but only she had shared his bed – this time, anyway.

  Louisville, Kentucky

  Mike

  Mike Sanderlin and his father, Kevin, left the deer stand, tracking the eight-point buck through the forest. They placed each foot carefully in the snowy undergrowth to minimize the noise they made. Mike’s breath came out in frosted plumes and his ears were frozen, despite the covering flaps of the orange hunting cap. He considered untying his ponytail, but the warmth wasn’t worth having the hair in his way. His Hoyt recurve was slung over his shoulder, one hand resting on it protectively. The seven hundred dollar bow was last year’s Christmas present, and it was his prized possession; he had put in countless hours of target practice and small-game hunting, and worked hard to make the bow an extension of his own arms. He’d waited eagerly for bow-hunting season to start, anticipating it even more eagerly than rifle-hunting season. This was his first opportunity to go hunting deer with his new bow, and he and his father had been walking through the woods since dawn.

  “There,” his father whispered, indicating with a nod. Mike’s eyes followed, his heart thumping in anticipation. He slowly drew the bow up and sighted. After this kill, they could only hunt antlerless deer for the rest of the season, so he was pleased that the last buck – and the first with his bow – would be a beauty.

  Mike drew the arrow back, letting his breath out slowly as he did so, finding the inner calm that allowed for a perfect shot. The better the shot, the better the chance of
actually felling the deer and not making the animal suffer while they tracked it down.

  Mike stared for a long moment at the animal in his sights, and then he slowly, carefully, released the tension on the string, un-nocking the bow and returning the arrow to the quiver at his waist. He and his father stood together for several long minutes, watching. The buck had been joined in the clearing by a smaller, more timid doe. She stepped up to the buck, nuzzled its nose for just a moment, and then the two began grazing, the buck scraping at the snow to search for more fodder.

  Kevin Sanderlin looked at his son for a long moment, clapping the boy on the shoulder. The sound, muffled as it was by layers of jacket and hunting vest, startled the two deer, and they bounded deeply into the forest.

  “Time to head home, son?” he asked, the question making it clear it was Mike’s decision. This hunting trip was, after all, part of Mike's Christmas vacation from school. It was an annual tradition for the Sanderlin men, and one Mike looked forward to all year.

  “Yeah, I guess it’s time.” There was a twinge of reluctance in Mike’s voice.

  The father and son walked beside each other on the trail this time, still stepping silently and watching the woods around them. They didn’t speak for almost an hour as the sun neared its peak, each caught in his own thoughts. When the back porch of home was in sight, Kevin slowed, studying his son appraisingly. “That was a beautiful buck, Mike.”

  Mike shrugged. He probably should have taken the shot; he’d been questioning his decision all the way home. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess I was just thinking it would be better to wait, let those two have a fawn or two, so I can hunt them in a couple years.”

  His father laughed, clapping him on the shoulder again as they headed into the mud room and the warm aroma of the venison stew Mike’s mother was simmering. “You’re a good hunter, Mike. You got nothing to prove.”

  Mike grinned, knowing he’d been busted. He simply hadn’t wanted to take the shot. Maybe next time.

  Mike unstrung his bow carefully and began taking it down, wiping each section with a soft cloth before returning the pieces to the cherished takedown kit. By the time he was finished, his ears were warm again, and the aroma of lunch made his mouth water.

  Fort Knox, KY.

  Kasoniak

  Thirty-four years.

  It was a hell of a long time, thirty-four years. Dick Kasoniak drew the electric razor over his face, studying his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t feel old enough to have spent thirty-four years in the goddamned Army. The face looking back at him had its share of wrinkles, true enough, and there was a bit more salt – okay, a hell of a lot more salt – than pepper left in his hair. But still … what, in the name of all that was holy, would he do with his days, once he retired? There was only so much time he could spend on the golf course or trading war stories in the Officers’ Club. Hell, he was already sick and tired of that from his first two months of terminal leave – how was he going to fill the days now?

  “I miss you, Carolyn,” he murmured quietly, as he did every morning. His own face looked back at him expectantly, but, as usual, he received no reply. Undaunted, Col. Kasoniak continued his morning ritual, expertly shaving his face and trimming his nose hairs while chatting with his dead wife. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, you know. We were supposed to do this together, you and me, and we were supposed to travel the country in that tin can you wanted.” Kasoniak smiled wistfully. “Now, what do I do?”

  He stretched his jaw, allowing the razor to buzz away the stubble. He had been on leave for two months but had not missed a single day of shaving. “Sloppy” wasn’t in his nature.

  “I suppose,” he mused, wincing as the trimming scissors caught a nose hair, “I could get some kind of job to pass the time. What do you think, Carolyn? Would you like fries with that? Welcome to Wal-Mart, may I help you find anything?” Kasoniak smiled, imagining Carolyn’s indulgent head shake. He’d already had several offers for teaching positions. So far, he wasn't that bored.

  Kasoniak put the shaving gear away and wiped the sink, washing the stubble down the drain. He straightened his polo shirt unnecessarily and stepped into the hallway, his eyes taking in the personal possessions packed into neatly-labeled cardboard boxes. Kari promised to come help him pack up the important things, but she hadn’t shown. Not that he’d actually expected her to, but he had hoped. Much of her childhood was being put into storage, as well as his life with Carolyn; you’d think the girl would have shown some interest, at least in her doll collection, if nothing else. Dick Kasoniak collected dolls from each duty station he’d ever been assigned, and every time he brought one back, Kari squealed with delight, proudly adding a new doll from a new part of the world her daddy helped make safe.

  He shook his head as he moved out of the master bathroom and headed toward his closet. Kari was a child then, and she was a woman now. Twenty-one – no, twenty-two years old. Jesus. How the hell had that happened? He frowned, his thoughts darkening as he recalled Kari’s “boyfriend” – the slick-talking, disrespectful little punk who thought Kasoniak actually believed his bullshit about being an intern at University of Louisville Medical. Col. Kasoniak had his sources, and they had run a full background check on Kari’s drug-dealing, parasitic bedmate. Markers were called in, and the threat was being eliminated. The young man would be out of his daughter's life before the holidays were over.

  Kasoniak sighed, looking at the neatly dry-cleaned Class As hanging in his closet. He hated the new dress blues – what the hell was wrong with the old Class As, anyway? “She misses you, too, Carolyn,” he said softly, as he fingered the aiguillettes and ribbons to ensure they were on tight and straight. “I think she’s even more lost without you than I am, my dear.”

  His morning shaving ritual complete and the retirement ceremony still a day away, Dick Kasoniak wandered back into the living room of the home he had shared with his wife and daughter for more than six years. That was a record – Kari had managed almost two years in the same high school.

  He sat in his comfortable recliner, pulled out his reading glasses, and picked up the Tom Clancy book he was reading for the third time.

  Portsmouth, Virginia

  Hershey

  Hershey followed his human as she moved about her house doing the puzzling things she did almost every day. She put the clothes that were just getting a decent scent to them into the loud machine that would fill with water and sneezy soap. She washed the food off the dishes, ignoring Hershey’s hopefully wagging tail, and she took out the trash container, firmly tying the bag shut on all of those interesting smells as well. And then, finally, she fed Hershey his breakfast!

  Hershey ate quickly. Not because he was hungry – he hadn’t been hungry in months, and never once since he had come to live with his human, Clare – and not because he was afraid she would take it away too soon, like one of his other humans did. He ate quickly because – well, because he was a dog, and that’s what dogs did.

  He was certain it was a hard and fast rule of dogdom. Hershey had watched a lot of dogs eat in his time, and he knew they all ate fast, unless they were persnickety little yippy-faced dogs or ill. He had seen several sick dogs, often in the pens right next to him. He ignored the sick dogs, unless they came too close to him, and then a low growl and a showing of teeth was all that was needed to send them huddling back into their corner until one of the humans took them away. Hershey wasn’t a big dog, and he wasn’t mean. Other dogs just knew he meant it when he told them to go away.

  Hershey had been in a lot of cages and a lot of trucks. Before his human adopted him, he never liked riding in the trucks – the humans always kept him in pens, and he couldn’t see outside so the motion made his stomach sick. He had only been in his most recent cage for a few weeks before his human started letting him out during the day. He followed Clare around the pens, watching avidly as she cleaned the floors, fed the dogs, and gave them fresh water in their bowls. He liked fo
llowing her, especially because he was the only one she allowed to do so. The other dogs stayed in their cages or in the yard. He loved it best when she took him into the office and made the clicking sounds with her fingers while she sat at her desk. Hershey got to sit under the desk, and she would often stop what she was doing to pet him, or sometimes give him one of the treats she kept in a desk drawer. Those were the best times!

  He smiled a doggy smile as he licked the bottom of his food bowl, just in case he missed anything. He’d been terrified that first afternoon when Clare had told him to get into the truck. He liked this human, and he was convinced she was going to take him to another cage, someplace far away, and the humans there were not likely to be so kind. Still … Hershey was a good dog, so he jumped into her truck, resigned to his fate.

  She had not put him into a truck pen, but instead let him sit up in the front seat, next to her! Even more astounding, she put his window down halfway, so he could stick his head out! He had stuck it out as far as it would go, his shoulders straining against the window, while he sniffed all the glorious smells of the city.

  It was wonderful! He smelled meat cooking, gas exhaust, newly-cut grass, and autumn leaves. They drove for a short while, and then she put the leash on his collar and took him from the truck into a yard that had her scent everywhere. He marked the yard as his territory several times, and then she took him inside a home. Hershey sniffed everywhere, but he knew what a home was – he remembered living in a home as a puppy, with his first human, a young boy. He loved that boy. He would have died for the boy, but the boy’s parents made loud, angry noises all the time. The boy’s mother took Hershey to his first cage, and he had lived in a cage ever since. He wasn’t a puppy anymore – he was two years old, the humans said.