by Doug Hoffman
With Captain Jack missing and Earth under continued threat there was nothing else that could be done—things at home must be put in order before any impulsive mission of revenge. The wounded members of the crew were transferred to Farside Base, along with members of the science section and all their data. It was that data and those scientists who held the key to Earth's future defense. Also deposited at Farside was NatHanGon, ambassador to Earth from the strange inhabitants of Gliese 581d. The Triads, long lived, highly intelligent, trisexual plants, were the only alien race discovered so far that was not openly hostile to Earth creatures.
Trips were made to the shattered planet below to recruit new personnel among the survivors, and to salvage irreplaceable scientific equipment and genetic samples. Pilots and crewmembers participated as a way to stay active while in port and as a way to help those few who survived. New crewmembers were added and immediately engaged in intensive training—drills to increase their proficiency with Peggy Sue's weapons and internal systems.
Munitions and other supplies were loaded, new armored shuttles were added along with a larger compliment of Marines. Then, satisfied that things at Farside were stabilized, at least to the greatest extent possible under the circumstances, Captain Curtis took the Peggy Sue in pursuit of those trying to kill her planet.
Accompanying the Peggy Sue were four of the six small ships built by Farside shipyard during the former's absence. Not intended for long interstellar voyages, they were the only other combat craft in humanity's arsenal. If the Peggy Sue was the size of a Navy destroyer then the corvettes, as they were officially designated, were more the size of PT boats. That was a moniker their six man crews adopted with pride.
Once it became clear that the moon base powers-that-be would not allow all of them to join the hunt for the alien invader, the PT boat crews drew lots to decide which of them would accompany the Peggy Sue. Those who lost were greatly disappointed—everyone wanted to get some payback for the surprise attack on Earth.
Those titularly in charge of humanity's space defense force consisted of a council of billionaire industrialists, who had backed the construction of the Peggy Sue and Farside Base, and senior scientific advisers, who had signed on to the project when its primary aim was to take mankind into space on a permanent basis. At least that was the publicized mission. Those in the inner circle, led by former Texas oil-man TK Parker, knew the real story behind the construction of the Peggy Sue, her amazingly advanced technology and the real purpose for her initial trip to the Moon.
Decades ago Parker came into possession of an ancient device of alien origin, found in a mountain on the Arabian peninsula. Spending years of effort, and a significant part of his fortune, Parker managed to assemble a team of scientists who discovered how to access the device known as “the artifact.” The device turned out to be the long-term memory store for a self-aware alien computer—an Artificial Intelligence or AI. From it they learned many marvelous things, and several shocking things.
Things about the origins of mankind and why certain polar bears can talk. Things about the history of the galaxy and an ancient war fought millions of years ago. Things about the destiny of bears and humans and the mysterious creatures known as the Dark Lords. But there would be time to ponder all those things later. Right now, Peggy Sue's pitifully small armada was closing in on the enemy at hand.
As if on cue, Lt. Billy Ray Vincent called out from the helm “Captain, we have the enemy on targeting sensors and are closing at 14,000 m/sec. We should be able to disable their propulsion systems with the main railguns on the first pass.”
They had been observing the alien ship for days with Peggy Sue's two meter optical telescope, using light from the infrared to the ultraviolet. The ship was a monster over five kilometers long with a swollen head where it carried captured asteroids for dropping on its targets. Based on the ship's IR signature, the main propulsion systems were located in the aft portion of the intruder. There were also signs from neutrino emissions that a cache of antimatter was stored just forward of the engines. The plan of attack called for the PT boats to sweep the hull forward while the Peggy Sue disabled the enemy's maneuvering capability.
More problematic was the second phase of the attack, which called for two assault shuttles full of Marines to board the disabled ship and secure its antimatter stores—assuming the invader survived the initial attack. A secondary objective was to try and identify any computer navigation equipment from which the location of the attackers' home system might be ascertained.
A distant third priority was to capture any aliens left alive for interrogation. The Triad ambassador, NatHanGon, was positive that any spacefaring race would know at least one of the ancient trading languages and that communication with any prisoners could be established no matter what their mode of interchange. The Earthlings were not so sanguine.
“Steady on Mr. Vincent, bring the main battery online,” the Captain ordered. The main battery consisted of two railguns that ran almost the full length of the ship itself. Because of this arrangement, the railguns were aimed by pointing the entire ship, an action under the control of the helmsmen. Billy Ray, the XO, had more experience piloting the ship than anyone else and would be at the controls during the attack.
“Mr. Medina, make ready all shields and secondary weapon systems; gunnery crews and torpedomen look alive,” Curtis ordered. Unlike the main battery, the secondary X-ray laser batteries and the torpedo launchers were targeted independently by their own crews.
“Aye aye, Captain,” responded Jo Jo Medina, the ship's chief engineer. Lt. Medina had been with the Peggy Sue from the beginning and was among Earth's most seasoned space war veterans.
“All weapons manned and ready, Captain,” announced a subtly feminine voice. It was the voice of the ship's computer, a highly capable but non self-aware quantum device based on alien technology. Interfaced with part of the artifact's memory system, the ship's computer was constantly discovering new information left by its builders—a long dead race known as the T'aafhal.
“Peggy Sue, send a message to Farside: Enemy in sight, maneuvering to engage.”
“Yes, Captain.”
It was after the last great battle of the long war against the Dark Lords, four million years ago, that a badly damaged T'aafhal battleship took refuge on Earth and set in motion events that would eventually lead to the evolution of a bellicose, intelligent native species—Homo sapiens. The aliens' goal was to create a race to succeed themselves as defenders of the Galaxy's warm life. How well the plan succeeded was about to be demonstrated, for the aliens who had attacked Earth were about to find out just how bellicose Earth-creatures could be.
“Task-force Alpha, Peggy Sue,” Captain Curtis signaled, “We will be in position to begin our initial attack run in five minutes, on my computer's mark.”
Cargo Hold, Peggy Sue
Standing in silent ranks, like graphite statuary, Peggy Sue's Marine contingent observed the developing tactical situation on their suits' heads-up displays. Normally, the ship carried twelve human and two ursine Marines, but this time there were four times that many on board. There would have been more but that was all that could be squeezed into the ship's two large landing shuttles. The task of leading the Marine boarding party fell to Captain Jennifer Rodriguez.
Capt. Rodriguez, newly promoted from the ranks, had been with the Peggy Sue from the beginning and had participated in every major battle fought with aliens so far. She had been the gunnery sergeant of a squad of Marines originally sent to capture the Peggy Sue but ended up leading the ship's Marines on both its interstellar voyages. The only action she missed was the first skirmish beneath Crater Giordano Bruno.
Since she was the senior Marine with the most extensive extraterrestrial combat experience, Rodriguez was commissioned directly as a captain so she could command the boarding assault. She had still not come totally to grips with becoming an officer, but fortunately mustangs—officers promoted from the enlisted ranks—had
a long history in the U.S. Marine Corps. One of the newer crew members made the mistake of wondering aloud if Rodriguez deserved such a promotion in front of Senior Chief Zackly.
“Listen, you snot-nosed excuse for a sailor. There ain't many things more aggressive than a Marine Gunnery Sergeant except maybe a Marine Captain,” the grizzled Chief replied. “The first is too mean to quit and the second will just as soon shoot you and get it over with. So yous better watch yer mouth in front of Captain Rodriguez.”
The boarding party itself was organized into four fourteen member squads, each leavened with a few veterans from the ship's previous engagements. Not that the new Marines were untested in battle—they had come from the SAS, U.S. Army Rangers, Russian Spetsnaz, Australian Commandos, Navy SEALS and U.S. Marines—combat veterans all. Most had been rescued from untenable positions on Earth following the alien bombardment. All were given the choice of being repatriated ground-side or of joining the fight against the marauding aliens that had tried to snuff out humanity. Some chose to try and salvage their lives and their countries back on Earth, but most chose the chance to strike back.
Jennifer would personally lead 1st and 2nd squads in Shuttle One while Shuttle Two would carry 3rd and 4th squads, led by Lieutenant Westfield. Westfield was also a former U.S. Marine, a Lieutenant Colonel, and therein lies a tale...
* * * * *
The mountain passes of the Hindu Kush, an 800 km (500 mi) long mountain range that stretches between central Afghanistan and northern Pakistan, are some of the most desolate and isolated on Earth. The range separates the basins of the Kabul and Helmand rivers from that of the Amu River, known in ancient times as the Oxus. There has been a military presence in the mountains since the time of Darius the Great. Over millennia foreign armies marched into the Kush only to return shattered and defeated. The armies of Alexander the Great, the British Empire, the USSR and, most recently, the United States of America left their blood on the arid slopes of those jagged peaks. Even when the belligerent natives did not attack, the mercurial weather could strike an army down. In 1750, the army of Ahmad Shah, retreating from Persia, is said to have lost 18,000 men from the cold in a single night.
In a remote pass northeast of Kabul the remains of a battalion of U.S. Marines was fighting for its life, fleeing from an impromptu coalition of Taliban, foreign al-Qaeda and opportunistic locals. Being far inland and a good distance from the nearest asteroid impact, the Kush suffered only secondary effects from the space-borne attack—the aliens primarily targeted heavily populated littoral regions. Meteor showers from ejected material reentering Earth's atmosphere were followed by ash and heavy overcast that triggered early snowfalls.
More critical from the Marines' point of view was the total destruction of the chain of command. Contact with the outside world simply ceased, along with air and logistics support. In effect, the battalion was cutoff from the world in a matter of a few hours, left abandoned among a superstitious, hostile population who blamed the presence of foreigners for the frightening, unnatural events unfolding around them.
LtCol Reginald “Dirk” Westfield first attempted to move his Marines southwest, toward Kabul and the larger UN forces stationed around the Afghan capital, but ran into heavy resistance and blinding snow storms. Given little choice, he reversed his march and led his battalion back to the northeast, higher into the mountains. Understrength at only 300 Marines, they fought a running battle as they retreated.
Two days later the battalion was down to fewer than 200 effectives, those bone tired and freezing. In keeping with Marine tradition, they carried their dead and wounded with them, hoping against hope for evacuation or at least safe haven. Running into armed men in front of their line of march, the harassed group of Marines pulled back into a side valley where they faced their pursuers on a narrower front.
Soon they were being pushed back, farther up the narrowing valley. The Colonel ordered his men to dig in, though the frozen ground offered little purchase. It had started snowing again and visibility dropped to a dozen meters. The Colonel called his remaining officers together to plan what was probably their last stand.
Known as Dirk to his colleagues—he never really liked the name Reginald and despised “Reggie”—the Colonel had only recently taken command of the battalion. The rumor was that he had been a fast riser who put a foot wrong back in the States and had been banished to the wilds of Afghanistan as punishment. That story was half true: LtCol Westfield had been in command of the Marines who captured and incarcerated the squad from the Peggy Sue when they returned after the starship's first voyage.
His treatment of the returning Marines had been less than collegial, leading to bad blood between Peggy Sue's Marines and their former comrades in arms. When the squad, led by then GySgt Jennifer Rodriguez, was rescued from under the noses of the Colonel and around 40,000 other Marines stationed at Camp Lejeune, it was decided to put those directly involved with the internment on ice. Westfield and his men were sent to the most remote location possible, hence the Colonel's arrival in the mountains of the Hindu Kush in time for the end of the world.
The reason for his being located in the asshole of the world not withstanding, he was actually a pretty good Marine—his only concern at present was trying to save the lives of his men. Unfortunately, there seemed little hope for escape from their predicament, being surrounded by Afghanistan on three sides and angry Afghans on the other.
“We need to find some cover, ASAP,” the Colonel said to his subordinates. “The locals are probably going to try and overrun us as soon as they gather sufficient strength.”
“There's not much cover to be had, Sir,” replied one of the Lieutenants. Westfield's second in command, a Major, was among the wounded, by now possibly among dead.
“The men can't hardly dig in this frozen shit, Sir,” the First Sergeant said. “We can use what little cover nature put here and stack gear to fill in some of the gaps.” It's not going to do any good, was the Sergeant's unvoiced conclusion.
As the Marine officers conferred sporadic gunfire could be heard—the crack of AK47s and the higher pitched snap of M4s returning fire. The snowfall eased and, as visibility improved a bit, native fighters could be seen working their way up the surrounding ridgeline. Soon the Marines would be totally encircled and enfiladed by their foes. Westfield thought he heard a low thrumming sound over the incessant moaning of the wind. Straining his hearing, he longed to identify the sound of rescuing aircraft, but then dismissed it out of hand as wishful thinking.
“What the hell is that?” demanded the Lieutenant, his extended arm pointing up slope to the detachment's rear.
“I don't know,” replied the First Sergeant, turning to follow the Lieutenant's gesture, “but it sure wasn't there a few minutes ago.”
“Is it some kind of helo?”
“I didn't hear any rotors or engine noise,” said Dirk, focusing on the large dark shape 200 meters behind their position. “Sergeant! Get some of the men to cover that thing, but do not fire until we find out if it is a friendly.”
“Yes, Sir!”
The Sergeant moved down slope, shouting orders to the nearest Marines, who quickly positioned themselves to cover the strange craft. As they watched a large door opened, dropping down and outward to form a ramp wide enough for a Humvee to drive up. Before the ramp even touched the ground large dark figures descended, looking like something from a video game or Hollywood SciFi movie.
“Holly shit!” said one of the Marines, “are we in Halo 9?”
“Maybe we got bigger problems than the towel-heads,” replied another.
“Belay the chatter and keep them things covered,” snapped the Sergeant. “Sir, are you seeing this?”
Before the Colonel could reply several muffled thumps were heard, like a door being repeatedly slammed in the distance—the sound of heavy mortars being fired. Someone yelled “Incoming!” and the Marines hugged the ground for all they were worth. From the dark craft behind them came a cra
ckling sound and overhead a number of detonations—the mortar rounds exploding ineffectively in the air.
As mortar fragments rained down on the Marines' positions, their fatal energy already spent, a pair of odd six-wheeled vehicles emerged from the sides of the unidentified intruder. One went to either flank and opened up with what sounded like mini-guns on the locals along the ridge tops. Again the crackling sound could be heard, followed by more aerial mortar shell detonations.
“They seem to be attacking the locals, Sir,” said the Lieutenant, stating the obvious. “Does that make 'em friendlies?”
“That thing looks like some kind of transport. We need to see if they can get us off this damned mountain. Tell the men to pull back toward the aircraft!”
“What if they are hostile, Sir?”
“If they are they can shoot us,” Dirk shouted, because that is surely what the Taliban will do if we stay here. He turned and started moving up slope toward the beckoning craft. As the Marines advanced another of the robot like figures descended the ramp and stood as if waiting for their arrival.
As Dirk neared the figure he noticed that it was constructed of a gray-black, graphite colored material. It's limbs and joint areas were banded by strips of varying widths—from half a centimeter to several. Its head was a smooth bubble, seemingly made of the same gray material; covering its chest and around its waist were straps, pouches and pieces of gear. Cradled across its chest was a very large, very nasty looking multi-barreled weapon of some kind.
As the Colonel neared the imposing, seven foot figure he lowered his M4, letting it hang from its carry strap. I don't think these fellows are from around here, he thought. Holding up both arms, hands open in what he hoped was a universal sign of non-aggression, he called out, “I am LtCol Dirk Westfield of the United States Marine Corps. I don't know if you can understand me, but we are under attack by indigenous hostiles and need shelter.”
