Beta Sector- Anthology

by Stephen A. Fender

  4. Under no circumstances should any commander bring their vessel into this neutral area, nor should they travel closely to it, lest they provoke the Kafarans into actions or hostilities which may jeopardize Unified lives or property.

  5. Unified Sector Command, working in close cooperation with Sector Command Security and the OSI, is continuing to monitor the UCS borders, and is investigating anything that may be considered out of the ordinary for this zone of space.

  6. Base commanding officers, as well as vessel commanders, are henceforth ordered to investigate any such irregularities or occurrences—as long as such investigations are performed within the guidelines as set forth by the Unified Council, and as long as such investigations do not jeopardize lives and property as set forth in stipulation three (3).

  7. The results of any such investigation made by any base or vessels operating with regard to verified or perceived threat forces near the neutral area should be immediately transmitted to Sector Command Security once any initial debriefing has occurred within the respective chains of command, and only as long as such debriefings include command-level representatives of Sector Command, or duly appointed representatives of the Office of Special Investigations.

  8. Detailed instructions for the transmission and encryption of data sent to Sector Command Intelligence will be provided shortly. Until that time, all commanders are advised to retain any and all data referencing the above transmissions in their local computer databanks. Representatives from either Sector Command Security or the OSI will retrieve the data in person.

  . . . End Transmission . . .

  * * * * *

  The only thing he remembered about that morning was that it was dark. The sun had yet to break the plane of the distant horizon, and already Christopher Flynn and the rest of the 7th Unified Marine Expeditionary Unit were being called awake by the sound of reveille being piped through the barracks’ speakers. He looked at his desktop chronometer in dismay. It was 0500. Lieutenant Flynn instantly regretted staying up the night before to squeeze in one last poker game with the rest of the battalion commanders. He grunted as he buried his face in his pillow, then reached over without looking to flick on the light beside his bunk.

  Flynn had been transferred—at his own request—to the Unified Sector Command Marines as part of an officer exchange program that had been set up some months before. He had the firsthand experience with the Kafarans that the Sector Command Marine Corps sought when training its new officers, and once his transfer had been approved, he’d been rushed to Triea Sector, Vega Quadrant, to form up with the 7th UMEU—or the Lucky 7th, as they called themselves—on the planet Nescov III.

  Christopher found himself in command of 200 personnel of the ground combat element of the 7th. In a relatively short time, Christopher Flynn had found his niche and was ultimately happy to be where he was.

  The morning routine had been the same for the last two months: arise at 0500, eat breakfast with the other officers, and then arrive for officers’ call at 0700, where the colonel would detail the plan of the day for the rest of the 7th’s officers. It would then be up to those officers to, in turn, divvy out the various responsibilities to their respective companies.

  Today, however, was proving to be different. Where Flynn would normally see Colonel Randolf sitting during the morning briefing, the base commander—the green-skinned and extremely stout Antosian, General Kaeso—was now perched. The equally impressive Randolf was seated at the general’s right.

  Colonel Randolf rose from his seat to greet his subordinates. “Come in and be seated quickly, people. We have a lot of material to go over this morning.”

  The officers acknowledged the statement for what it was: an order, not a request. They silently obeyed and were quickly seated in their chairs around the briefing room’s circular table. General Kaeso rose from his chair without introduction from the colonel, not that he needed such formality on such a small base. There were only about 3,000 Marines total in the camp, out of which the 7th was the largest unit. In fact, the camp itself really didn’t require an officer of Kaeso’s rank at all, except for the fact that Nescov III was so unnervingly close to Kafaran expansion in Triea Sector. It was this singular fact that necessitated the presence of a flag officer at the camp at all times.

  Antosians themselves were, by nature, a warrior race. As a species they had a genetic disposition toward violence. Once that nature had been properly channeled, however, they made brilliant strategists and tacticians. These traits gave rise to their vessels’ designs being legendary for their offensive and defensive capabilities. As officers of the line they excelled as leaders, most notably during hostile engagements.

  Kaeso’s reputation held that he was by no means an exception to these rules.

  “I received a top priority message from UMC headquarters late last night. Long-range sensors from Sector Command vessels in the area have detected a large Kafaran invasion force heading toward this system.” He let the words sink in, allowing a brief moment for everyone around the table to exchange worried glances with one another before he continued. He motioned toward the large computer screen that was behind him.

  “Computer, display information file Zed 1-8-3: tactical information on the Nescov system.”

  The screen image brightened into life, showing the eleven planets of the Nescov system and their regular orbits around the primary yellow star of the system. A group of bright red dots flashed in the top left corner of the screen, on the far end of the orbit of the eleventh planet. Kaeso withdrew a long metal pointer from beneath the screen and motioned to the blips.

  “This is the estimated location of the Kafarans. It was obtained at approximately 0200 hours by Sector Command destroyer, Vindicator.”

  The Vindicator, as well as a group of other destroyers and the Marines’ own assault carrier, Iwo Jima, were stationed permanently in the Nescov system to provide spaceborne cover for the Marines stationed planetside. It was hoped that the presence of the destroyer squadron would be a deterrent for the Kafarans to enter the system; it now appeared that the tactic was far from successful. The small red blips on the screen inched ever closer to the orbit of the eleventh planet, intersected with it, and then were on the other side before the general began speaking again.

  “The Kafaran group is comprised of mostly heavy landing ships, defended by a squadron of cruisers and an additional squadron of light destroyers.” The general pushed a blinking blue button on the right side of the screen and the image zoomed into a close range scan of the Kafaran vessels, showing a detailed schematic of the different Kafaran warships. One was a heavy cruiser, another was a destroyer, and below the two was an imposing assault ship equal in firepower—and greater in length and complement—to the Iwo Jima.

  “We are estimating their total strength is in excess of 6,000 warriors, with about 5,000 of those pasty-faced bastards committed to actual ground combat operations.” He again let the words sink in as he scanned the room. “The assault ships can send down their full complement of 800 troops, support vehicles, and heavy tanks in about twenty minutes. I don’t need to tell you people how vastly outnumbered that makes us down here. I’m counting on each of you to give two hundred percent, because that’s what it’ll take to almost even the odds.”

  Outnumbered is an understatement, Flynn thought to himself. The 7th had its own share of heavy antigravity tanks as well, but the Unified AGVT-6s were few in number. Flynn could think of no more than twenty of them that were fully operational at the moment. That put the Kafarans’ heavy cavalry numbers at something like ten-to-one odds over the defending Unified Marine forces, and that was before Christopher calculated the odds of the enemy troop combat units. He decided that doing so would only worsen his mood, so he stopped calculating.

  “It is very likely that none of us will survive the encounter,” the general said with little remorse in his voice. “The Kafarans aren’t known for taking prisoners and I, for one, don’t relish the idea of it any
way. However, should any of you be captured, Colonel Randolf and I have decided a little ‘disinformation’ dissemination would be in order. Each of you officers will be supplied with falsified command documents and manipulated ranks.”

  With that, Colonel Randolf stepped up from his chair, handing a colored computer cartridge to each of the fifteen officers present. “You will find all your disinformation on these cartridges,” he said as he handed them out. “Study it well. It may save your life or the life of someone you may or may not know. Our hope is that it will throw the Kafarans in this sector for a loop and help to disguise Sector Command’s true plans for the war.” Randolf then returned to his seat at the general’s side.

  Flynn, looking at the name printed on the front of his cartridge, smiled. Colonel Zachary Gunda. That’s a nice little promotion, even if it’s not factual.

  General Kaeso sat forward in his chair, hands folded calmly on top of the table. “We need everything tight at as a drum, people. I want full weapons inventory on my desk in fifteen minutes. All transport personnel carriers and assault fighters are to be placed on a five-minute readiness alert within the next thirty minutes. Stow every conceivable combustible in approved containers, move all construction equipment indoors, and reinforce as many of the structures as you can. Lieutenant Flynn, we need a recon patrol assembled in the hangar as soon as possible.”

  Christopher sat back in his chair—cool as a cucumber on the outside, yet shaking like a leaf on the inside. “Understood, General. I’ll have a team there in ten minutes.”

  “Excellent. Let’s get going, people. We don’t have much time.”

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes later, on time and as promised, Flynn had a security detail waiting in the carrier hangar. The building was an immense concrete and plasti-steel rectangular structure with large bay doors on either end. Inside the hangar there was a bustle of activity. Flynn had to station his detail on the far end of the building in order to stay clear of the Marines who were currently readying the assault personnel carriers.

  The personnel carriers had long, flat sides of gray steel. The front end was angled out slightly and was inset with three transparent view ports that could be closed and shielded from the inside. The rear end was entirely dedicated to a ramp that could be lowered in seconds. Unlike the standard personnel carriers, however, the assault personnel carriers were incapable of leaving the planet’s atmosphere. Their primary drive units were a set of thrusters on the port and starboard side that pushed the carrier as it hovered about two meters from the surface. They were also twice as long as the standard carrier. These modifications allowed the Marines to load a full complement of troops in the personnel carriers, as well as various equipment items or small vehicles they might need for a particular mission.

  The 7th had four such personnel carriers, as well as three specially modified ones that the Marines had outfitted for their own purpose. This included—in two of the modified assault craft—cutting rectangular holes in each side of the carrier just ahead of the thrusters to allow Marines to defend the personnel carriers from incoming ground attacks with pivoting laser cannons.

  Flynn surveyed his squad with admiration. To his right was his senior enlisted sergeant. The sergeant acted as a go-between for the officers and the enlisted personnel of the unit. The man had served in the Corps for almost six years, and was as good as any officer out in the field. His presence and his demeanor demanded respect, and it was given to him freely by all those who served under him.

  In formation and facing Flynn was his handpicked reconnaissance unit. There was Cameron, the best sniper in the whole 7th. Next to him was Lance Corporal Gudel, the large and imposing Antosian manning the rapid-fire laser rifle, and Yoven, whose martial arts skills were unequaled. Behind them stood Tech Sergeant Ichiro, the squad’s communications officer, and Elric, computer specialist and sensor operator. Next to Elric was a Zagradian, Private V’rot, the heavy weapons specialist who was armed with the squad’s concussive grenade launcher. Directly behind them stood a group of three other grunts who would provide additional cover, should the need arise.

  Each of the Marines was outfitted in the same fashion. They had a standard-issue laser sidearm holstered to their sides, their uniforms all the same matching drab brown and green camouflage. Their faces had been painted in various patterns of the same manner of camouflage to better blend the visible portions of their bodies with the natural environment of Nescov III’s lush vegetation near the camp. After a cursory inspection, verifying that each member of the squad was properly outfitted, Lieutenant Flynn addressed the team.

  “Good morning. By now you all know that the Kafaran forces are quickly approaching this planet. We’ve been ordered to recon out about three kilometers from the camp near the western perimeter. Command has decided that this is the most likely spot for the Kafaran assault forces to form a beachhead. We’ll be taking two vehicles out with us, both armed, one for transport and the other for cover. Our call sign for this mission is Foxhound, and our aerial cover will be known as Sparrow. Should we encounter any enemy forces entering the area, we are instructed to observe and not to engage them unless we are first fired upon. General Kaeso needs all the information we can gather on the strength of the enemy forces. We need to be light on our feet, people. There is a strong possibility that we will need to make an immediate evacuation of the ridge, so keep your communicators open on coded frequency alpha-2. Any questions?”

  As Flynn had expected, there were none. Each of his troops was well trained and each trusted Flynn’s leadership and decisions with their lives.

  “All right. Prepare for dust-off in five minutes. Get your gear stowed and strap yourselves in tight.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the personnel carriers were streaming across the green valley just outside the camp. As the assault personnel carriers hovered a meter or so above the green grass, the blades were gently pushed aside by the low proximity of the thrusters on the personnel carriers’ rear quarters. Flynn, in the lead carrier and sitting in the copilot’s seat, gazed out the forward view port at their surroundings. On the port and starboard sides of the personnel carriers, some two kilometers distant, were lush forests full of the tallest trees Flynn had ever seen. They resembled Terran pines, but the colors were off. Where pine trees had thick brown trunks and long green needle-like leaves, these trees had trunks of dark orange with bright yellow needles. The smallest of them couldn’t have been less than forty meters tall. At first glance, Flynn was amazed by their height and contrasting beauty to the green field the personnel carriers were in. At a second glance, he thought that they would make excellent cover for any ground forces that found themselves among them—be they UMC or Kafaran. Best to stay clear of those if we can, he told himself. In front of the personnel carriers, the great western ridge loomed up from the gently sloping field. The mountains were almost small enough to be classified as hills, but they would still provide an excellent field of vision into the valley that lay on the other side—precisely where the Kafaran forces were expected to land and make their initial push.

  The personnel carriers came up to the slope of the rise and began to ascend rapidly. Flynn could immediately feel the pressure difference in his body as the personnel carriers gained altitude. He felt his ears pop, then heard similar grunting from the rest of the squad seated in the rear of the carrier. A small green light on Flynn’s status board began to flash in rapid sequence, telling the lieutenant that the Marines were about to arrive at their destination. Flynn flipped the switch, which caused a red light to flash in the hold area of the carrier—thus alerting the rest of the Marines that the carrier was about to set down.

  The carrier landed with a soft thud and the rear ramp immediately lowered. The Marines filed out in pairs, each one taking up a predefined position outside the carrier. This was the practiced drill: to secure the landing site before proceeding with the mission. Once the team had completely evacuated the carrier, the rear hatch rose quickl
y and the craft lifted gently off the surface, hovered briefly over the rocky terrain of its mountain landing spot, and then moved off to its cover position.

  Flynn flipped open his communicator. “Sparrow, copy?”

  “Sparrow copies, Foxhound,” the observation pilot quickly responded.

  “Anything on sensors?”

  “Negative, sir. Foxhound is clean.”

  “Affirmative. Maintain surveillance. Keep your scanners tight and all communication channels open. We may pick up a stray Kafaran transmission if we’re lucky.”

  “Sparrow copies. Out,” the pilot affirmed before signing off the channel.

  Flynn turned to his squad. They each looked to him, waiting for the next order, looking like a group of cheetahs waiting to pounce on a helpless gazelle. This was what the years and months of training had led up to, and Flynn was pleased to have these fine Marines with him. “Squad, take up assigned positions. Check-in time is 1005 hours, mark.”

  Each of the Marines checked their chronometers. Five minutes. They all moved out, weapons drawn, in varying directions from the center of their makeshift camp, where Flynn would stay and coordinate their efforts. As soon as the final Marine, the Antosian Gudel, had checked in, there was a call on Flynn’s communicator. Flynn flipped it open.

  “This is Foxhound One, go ahead,” Flynn called into the communicator. It was Elric who answered.

  “This is Foxhound Six. I’m picking up something on the scope.”

  “Specify.”

  “Looks like multiple landing craft coming down from orbit, Lieutenant.”

  “Location?”