War's Edge- Dead Heroes

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  “Get up, shitbird,” someone said from behind the halo of a flashlight.

  Ward. “The fuck do you want?” Rizer didn’t have fire watch tonight.

  “Senior wants to see you.” He could make out Ward’s pale face now. He wore a smile of genuine amusement.

  “What time is it?”

  “Zero-one-thirty.”

  “Shit.” Rizer got up from his rack, moved to his footlocker for a uniform.

  “I don’t think you’ll need that, if you know what I mean.”

  “Fuck,” he muttered.

  “You’re catchin’ on now.” Rumors abounded that SSgt Mack had ordered several recruits, both male and female, into the DI hut at late hours. No one but the victims knew exactly why—and they never talked—but the implications couldn’t be denied.

  Rizer didn’t bother donning a uniform.

  “Be careful, Rizer. I hear she’s a real tiger.” Ward chuckled.

  “Fuck off.” Rizer didn’t care to hear his jokes. I don’t want to fuck that bitch. I want to rip her goddamn throat out!

  As he prepared to pound on the hut door and report as ordered, it flew open. “Get the fuck in here!” Mack growled, grabbing his wrist and dragging him inside.

  A single blue light illuminated the tiny room, the space overburdened with a desk and chair as well as a single rack. Mack looked him over, and he, her.

  God damn… She wore only panties and a sports bra, both a dark color indistinct in the dimness. The blue light accentuated her cut figure—muscles defined in bas relief, veins popping beneath her skin in spots. Then he noticed the scars creasing her skin in almost a dozen places, highlighted by a long and jagged line running from shoulder to elbow on her right arm. The biceps there appeared slightly deformed as a result. Mentally, he had to admit a slight attraction; physically, there was no doubt—as he felt the tingle of excitement in his underwear.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she said with a relaxed huskiness that he’d never heard before. A half-empty bottle of booze sat on the night table. Judging by the fumes she breathed off, Rizer assumed it was whiskey. “Looks like you’re happy to see me for once.” She took a step closer, her tight body pressing up against him.

  Rizer gulped. “You wanted to see me, ma’am?”

  “Yeah. There’s a first time for everything, dumbass. Truth be told I never wanted to see you, not from day fucking one until now. You’re still weak, but you’ve surprised me by hanging around this long. Now it’s time you truly prove your worth. If I don’t fucking get off the platoon is gonna pay tomorrow, you most of all. I’ll finally make a janitor out of your sorry ass. Now get busy!”

  He did as bid, dropping his underwear. His dick seemed to follow her as a magnet to iron. He went to remove her bra.

  She slapped his hand away. “Fuck me like you mean it, dipshit! I’m not your little split-tail from back home!” She hit him with a quick punch to the diaphragm, not very hard but enough to wind him for a few seconds.

  “Aye aye, ma’am!” he growled upon recovering. Like I mean it? Not a fucking problem! He stepped forward and ripped her bra off, shoved her down on the bed, and tore off her panties.

  Never had he felt so powerful… so enraged.

  “Get it in me already, you fucking college puke!”

  Rizer grunted his anger as he climbed atop her, pushed himself inside her, and fucked her as if she were the only woman left on a dead and sterile world. The slap of his hips against her echoed from the walls, might have been heard out in the squad bay. He didn’t give a fuck. Her nails bit into his back, making him fuck her even harder. The metal headboard clanked rhythmically against the wall.

  “Harder, motherfucker! Drive me through the fuckin’ wall!”

  He obeyed, paying her back for over eight months of humiliation and pain.

  “Is this all you got, shitbag? You better work your big balls harder!”

  The comment made him recall day one and brought him to the boiling point. He wrapped his fingers around her throat and started choking her. Her grunts intensified. Her blue eyes began to bug. She entrenched her nails deeper into his back, raising hot welts. Rivulets of blood ran from them, down to his ass.

  Fortunately, the choking and fucking quickly produced the ordered orgasm. He came mere seconds later. Had their lovemaking—he doubted it should be called that—gone much further, he would have strangled her to death.

  He climbed off and looked down at her. She stared at the ceiling, not meeting his gaze. Her eyes drifted closed; her rapid breathing descended into a steady rhythm.

  “Am I dismissed, ma’am?” When she didn’t respond, he found his shorts and pulled them on.

  Suddenly she spoke in faint gasps: “I missed you, Cyrus.” A few seconds later she fell into deep sleep.

  Who the fuck is Cyrus? He stared at her for a moment. Naked and asleep she almost seemed human, a real flesh and blood person. He quickly pushed the thought from his mind as he slipped from her room.

  Rizer returned to his rack.

  “Holy fuck, Rizer!” Ward appeared from the darkness. “She tore you to fuckin’ shreds!”

  “Yeah? Well, you ought to see her right now.” He got into bed, felt the blood soak into the sheets, and didn’t care.

  “So what was it—”

  “Go away, Ward. I’m not in the mood for gossip. Fill in your own blanks.” God forbid Ward’s talking awakened Stubs in the next rack. Then I’ll never get back to sleep.

  Reveille didn’t sound until 0630 the following morning. What the fuck? They’d slept for two extra hours. Weak white sunlight slanted through the windows.

  “No PT this morning,” Alpha announced as he roamed the center of the squad bay. “Now let’s go, cocks and socks, fucksticks, you know the routine. We march for chow in fifteen minutes.”

  All the usual yelling filled the squad bay, yet it was half-hearted today. No sign of SSgt Mack.

  And I know why. He half-smiled as he donned his boots.

  CHAPTER 11

  Spectral blue heads, holograms of fleet staff officers, floated above the table in the conference room aboard the USAS Resolute. The massive space carrier served as the command ship of the Sixth Fleet. Fleet Admiral Pamela Erskin could not deny the old maxim that war was hell, but reassembling Sixth Fleet from its various deployments across the galaxy wasn’t much easier.

  Even with the most meticulous planning, problems always occurred. Only this morning, Erskin’s fleet S-4 officer, Rear Admiral Wicks, had informed her of a delay in collecting 3rd Service and Support Group, Third Marine Corps, from the Rigel System. Wicks and three other staff officers sat physically at the table with Erskin to converse with the commanders deployed in space. “Has maintenance identified the malfunction on the Infinity yet?” Erskin asked of Rear Admiral Biddle, CO of Task Force 4, Logistics.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Biddle’s hologram answered after a slight lag. His image and words transmitted rather clearly, unlike the flickering images and garbled messages from commanders aboard ships jumping through space. Infinity was presently docked in orbit around planet Trapez-2, where the Navy stationed refueling and repair vessels. “There is a problem with the reactor cooling system. The maintenance officer has given us top priority. We should be back underway in under twenty-four hours.”

  Erskin nodded. “And your other vessels?”

  “They remain on course for the Rigel system. ETA approximately forty-three hours.”

  “Very good, admiral. Demand status reports from the maintenance officer every two hours. Impress upon her the importance of your mission and the grave repercussions should you not be underway in time.”

  “Aye, ma’am. She has a fine reputation of getting ships repaired on time. I don’t foresee any further issues.”

  “I am aware, admiral. Still reputations rest on past deeds not current performance. Keep abreast of the situation and report back to me every six hours.”

 
“Aye, ma’am.”

  “Upon reaching Rigel, you will load the remainder of the support group and depart immediately for Verdant. That should put all of your elements there within two weeks, is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am, provided my ships remaining with the fleet arrive on time.”

  “They’re departing tomorrow with the remainder of Forty-Second Division,” Wicks responded. “ETA thirteen days.”

  With that matter put to rest, Erskin turned her attention to the next problem. “Rear Admiral Paulson, your status report.”

  Paulson, commander of the Patrol-Reconnaissance Task Force presently en route to the surface of Verdant, responded via a garbled transmission that took several minutes for the computer to decipher. All proceeded according to plan, a rare enough occurrence. Erskin’s S-2 intel officer, Rear Admiral Turner, rode with him. Turner would be Erskin’s first man on the ground and would report the situation on Verdant by the hour. When General Hella arrived, Turner would assist him in deploying forces. You have my best man at your disposal, Aaron. Don’t ever claim I hung your corps out to dry.

  “Status report on Task Force 3, Admiral Green.”

  Green, a stout bulldog of a man who sat next to her, responded, “All systems go, ma’am. Any word on a new captain for the Illustrious?” They had lost the previous captain upon his promotion to rear admiral.

  “Word came up this morning: your new captain will meet you at Verdant. Captain Cobb has limited combat experience, yet the actions he has participated in were successful. I believe he’ll make an excellent commander for the Illustrious.”

  “I’ve worked with him before, ma’am.” Her XO Vice Admiral Hale likewise sat in the room. “He is thorough and diligent, well suited for command.”

  “Excellent, I look forward to working with him.”

  With the exception of Paulson’s disabled ship, assembly of Sixth Fleet at Verdant proceeded on schedule. But Erskin hadn’t received all her status reports just yet. One unit remained; she’d saved its commander for last, just in case he wasn’t up to speed. A definite possibility.

  “Admiral Stillwell, your transmission is coming through clearly. I take it your task force hasn’t jumped yet?”

  “No, ma’am,” Stillwell responded in a manner too cheery for her liking.

  And here we go… A battle commander needed to convey and inspire confidence, and a bit of swagger was to be expected. Stillwell, however, had always been a bit jocular for her tastes. It bothered her particularly that he turned up his charm when dealing with female officers.

  “Why?”

  “Awaiting resupply, ma’am.”

  “Of what, exactly?”

  “Provisions, ma’am. Food stores are too low for the jump, but Webb Interstellar has assured me that they’ll get to us within the next four days.”

  “I see.” She glared at his smiling hologram, then addressed the other absent commanders: “Gentlemen, ladies, this meeting is adjourned. Carry out the plan of the day, status reports to be submitted every six hours. You are to stay online, Admiral Stillwell.”

  The other commanders acknowledged and signed off. Stillwell’s hologram remained.

  “Your expeditionary task force is crucial to this operation, admiral. I need you at Verdant asap; a four-day delay is unacceptable. You should have been underway already.”

  “Ma’am, I’m ready to fly. The wait is on Webb Interstellar—”

  “Webb Interstellar is not our only food supply contractor. Find another supplier working in that sector. And quickly. I want your force underway no later than forty-eight hours from now, is that understood?”

  “Ma’am, I’ve known John Webb for over twenty years. I can lean on him, get his ships here in three days for sure.”

  “Not good enough.” She pointed at his image. “Get this straight: your networking will not hamper the battle readiness of Sixth Fleet. You want to befriend contractors and schmooze your way to the top? Then do it on your own time. I don’t care if you and John Webb had the same wet nurse; his schedule doesn’t suit my requirements. Find someone else.”

  “Ma’am… I don’t know of any other contractors in the area.”

  “Interspace Fleet Services operates in a nearby system,” Wicks supplied. “I’m sure they can be there in less than two days.”

  “There you go, Stillwell.” Erskin folded her hands on the table. “Contact them immediately and get provisioned. If you don’t call them in the next six hours, I’ll have Admiral Wicks do it for you. And if my S-4 has to do your job, then I certainly don’t need you, do I? Have I made myself clear, admiral?”

  Stillwell’s idiot grin didn’t crack beneath her assault. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get on it immediately.”

  She wanted to reach across the stars and smack the smirk off his face. “I expect the problem to be resolved when next you report. Dismissed.” She pressed a button on the table and cut his transmission.

  Wicks shook her head. “That man is living proof that it’s not about what you know.”

  “His friends will be his downfall someday,” Erskin said.

  “Which is a shame,” Green added, “because he’s a damned fine battle commander.”

  “Only reason I keep him around. And even that might not save him.” Erskin turned to other matters concerning the deployment, spending another half hour in conference before she dismissed them.

  Rear Admiral Hopper, her S-1 admin officer, lingered. “Ma’am, the commanding officer of the Astoria is outside your office, waiting to report for duty.”

  Kyle.

  Erskin needed a moment to remember the Astoria had been assigned to Sixth Fleet for the deployment three days ago. “Yes, of course. I’ll see him immediately.”

  She departed for her office with Vice Admiral Hale at her side. “I was hoping I would never have to go through this again.”

  Hale nodded as they walked the halls of the massive carrier. “It all seemed more exciting when we were younger.”

  Erskin smiled faintly. A grave man, Hale always seemed to know what she was thinking. And he’s honest to a fault. She couldn’t have asked for more in an XO. “Back then we only had to worry over a handful of personnel. Now it’s hundreds of thousands of people, plus all the ships and machines that go with them.”

  “If it’s any consolation, ma’am, I’ve never seen any commander manage a deployment better.”

  “Coming from you, George, it’s quite a consolation.” Though she had the right as a senior officer to address subordinate officers by given name under informal circumstances, she rarely did so and usually just with Hale.

  She bid her XO farewell before entering her office area. Her aide, a petty officer first-class, rose upon her arrival, as did the commander of the Astoria. She had always known Kyle Mako would be a success in whatever field he chose. He had a peerless record as a naval officer, and the looks to match, standing over six feet tall and ramrod straight in his tailored dress uniform that accentuated his athletic physique. He had his father’s jaw, though precious little else from him; his black hair and glacial blue eyes belonged to his late mother.

  He clicked his heels together, somberly uttered, “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “At ease. Welcome to Sixth Fleet, Commander Mako. Step inside.” She ushered him into her office, closed the door and bade him to sit.

  “It’s been quite a while,” she continued when they were settled. “You were a lieutenant when last I saw you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  And just yesterday you were playing with William and Tonya, running the streets of the base. Her daughter Tonya had since become estranged from her. William, her only son, died in an accident at the age of ten; after that, Kyle Mako became something of a son to her, though he’d still had a mother of his own. Not that I respected her marriage. But a woman married to Aaron Hella needed to expect some competition—the man inspired it in everyone around him. His son, especially, had picked up
Aaron’s competitive streak, forced upon him from an early age in a manner perfected only by Marine fathers.

  Kyle had turned the tables on his father in a couple of ways: first by taking his late mother’s surname. Then he joined the Navy as opposed to the Corps. Erskin admired him for both. Kyle could have joined the Corps and followed his father straight to the top, but he needed to know he’d earned his position instead of succeeding through nepotism. If he hadn’t changed his name from Hella, he would have been promoted on favoritism alone even in the Navy. The dashing officer who sat before her was a self-made success and, she knew, a more conscientious officer than his father, who often became distracted with political maneuvering and social climbing. Like herself, Kyle’s ambitions lay in being the best naval officer possible and nothing more.

  “I’ve already reviewed your records from the past couple of years,” Erskin said. “Very impressive, but I expected nothing less, particularly in regard to combat engagements.”

  “I had excellent tactical instructors at the Academy, ma’am. I was very fortunate.”

  “Indeed you were.” None were half so knowledgeable as your father. She knew better than to say so however. I wonder if he knows about Third Corps yet? If not, he soon would.

  “May I inquire about your husband, ma’am?”

  “Certainly. He’s doing well, same as ever, enjoying the retired life on Aldeb.”

  Paul Erskin had retired from the Navy years before, shortly after promotion to captain. A fine administrator but merely an adequate leader. Your father was better at both. Better at everything. Their marriage lost its bloom after Pamela met Aaron Hella, though Paul had never learned of their affair, which ended years ago.

  Kyle nodded. “I’m glad to hear it, ma’am.”

  “I would enjoy catching up with you in less formal surroundings, Kyle. Would you care to meet for dinner this evening?”

  “It would be my pleasure, ma’am, but I must respectfully decline. The Astoria is resupplying for the deployment, and we have an influx of new personnel who require additional combat and damage control training before departure.”