First Strike (The Kurgan War Book 1)

by Richard Turner

  FIRST STRIKE

  The Kurgan War - Book 1

  by Richard Turner

  ©2014 by Richard Turner

  Published 2015 by Richard Turner

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 1

  Lieutenant Commander Moore’s commanding officer once described convoy escort duty as nothing more than herding cattle. Freighters of all shapes and sizes filled with fuel, food, and spare parts, the lifeblood of the outer colonies, followed close behind the warship. Until they became self-sufficient, which Moore knew could take decades if not centuries, the colonists and military detachments on the far-flung borders of the ever-expanding human colonization of space needed constant re-supplying.

  It was the third watch aboard the Terran Star Ship - Raleigh and Moore, as second officer, was on duty on the bridge. The Raleigh was a light cruiser armed only with guided missiles for engaging targets and anti-missile batteries for defense, not that she had fired a weapon outside of training since she had been commissioned nearly twenty years ago. Aside from the occasional skirmish with rebellious colonists or acts of piracy, the Terran Fleet had not fought a war in almost a century.

  Moore sipped his coffee as he paced around the bridge. A tall, thoughtful man, Moore had never intended to make a career out of serving in the military; however, after twelve years of service, he did not see a good reason to change professions. He turned his head and studied the tactical display on the main viewing screen. There were two dozen dots on the screen; each one indicated the exact location of the ships in the convoy trailing closely behind the Raleigh. He had made the run from the supply depot in orbit above Valerin-7 to the outer colonies four times in the past year.

  It was becoming routine and dull. He had asked for a transfer in the hopes of doing something more exciting, but had been turned down. He would have to finish his two-year assignment on the Raleigh before moving on.

  On duty with him were three other people: Lieutenant Takeda, the navigator, Chief Petty Officer Murphy, the helmsman, and Petty Officer Ramirez, the ship’s communications officer. They were half-way through their watch when one of the vessels in the convoy reported that they were having engine difficulties and asked if the Raleigh could cut her speed slightly so she wouldn’t be left behind.

  Moore nodded his head and then asked the navigator to re-compute their arrival time at Tyr-431, a barren rocky planet used as a military surveillance station monitoring the Disputed Zone. The Terran-Kurgan War fought almost one hundred years ago had ended not in victory but in a ceasefire. Both sides still claimed vast stretches of space; however, the treaty strictly forbade either side from entering the Disputed Zone without the permission of the other side…and this was never forthcoming.

  Lieutenant Takeda, the navigator, looked up from his screen and said, “Sir, we can adjust our course and skirt the asteroid field on the far side of Tyr-431. We should be able to make up for any time lost due to the ailing freighter.”

  “Do it,” replied Moore. “PO Ramirez, please inform Tyr-431 that will be arriving a little late and that their shuttlecraft should be prepared to receive the freighters once we are in orbit.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied Ramirez.

  Two hours later, Moore finished up his duty report and started to get ready to hand over the bridge to the ship’s captain. He glanced down at his watch and saw that he had less than fifteen minutes left on shift. Moore was looking forward to getting a bite to eat followed by a run on a treadmill in the ship’s gym before putting his head down. On the tactical display, he could see the convoy passing by the asteroid field. There were millions of rocks floating about. Some were no larger than a pebble, while some nearly dwarfed the Raleigh in size. He ordered the helmsman to keep a respectful distance from the asteroids until they reached their destination in three hours’ time.

  The doors to the bridge slid open.

  Moore turned his head and expected to see the captain; instead, Lieutenant Ford, a pale, slender blonde-haired man, who usually kept to himself, walked onto the bridge.

  Perplexed, Moore said, “Mister Ford, what are you doing here? You’re not due on watch for another eight hours.”

  Ford looked past Moore, his eyes fixed on the tactical display. “Where are we?”

  “Passing an asteroid field near Tyr-431,” answered Chief Petty Officer Murphy, the helmsman, without looking up from his station.

  “Good,” said Ford, his voice cold and emotionless.

  Something told Moore to be wary. “Mister Ford, I asked you a question. Why you are on the bridge?”

  “To do this,” replied Ford as he suddenly pulled a hidden pistol from behind his back. Before anyone could react, he fired three shots, coldly killing each man on the bridge with one shot to the head. He walked over to the engineer’s console, locked the doors to the bridge and quickly changed the passcode preventing anyone from overriding the computer to open the doors. Next, he moved over to weapon’s console and with the flip of a switch, he turned off all of the ship’s self-defense systems. It was now helpless against an attacker. Ford smiled, made his way over to the communication’s console and pushed the dead body of Petty Officer Ramirez onto the floor. Using his sleeve to wipe away the blood on the workstation, Ford opened a channel.

  “It is done,” he reported.

  A second later, just over three hundred kilometers away a dozen triangular-shaped fighters detached themselves from behind some of the larger rocks they had been using as cover in the asteroid field and raced towards the hapless convoy. As soon as they had a lock on all of their targets, the fighters let loose with a barrage of missiles. Without waiting to see the impact, the fighters quickly banked away and sped back into the asteroid field.

  Alarms noisily rang throughout the ship. Ford shook his head. He had forgotten to disable the alarms. Not that it mattered anymore. He stood there watching the incoming missiles speed towards their intended targets. He felt nothing for the thousands of people that were about to die. He was doing his duty. Over the speakers, he could hear the ships calling, pleading for help. None would be coming today. He reached over and turned off the comms system. Ford sat down on the captain’s chair and watched as one by
one the ships vanished from the tactical display. Behind him, people were frantically banging on the sealed doors demanding to be let into the bridge. He knew that it would not take them long to find a torch to cut their way in, but they would be too late. Ford stared intently at the screen as three missiles streaked through the vacuum of space towards his ship.

  Opening his arms as if he were about to embrace a loved one, Ford warmly smiled, closed his eyes and said, “Lord, protect me and cleanse my soul of all my sins.” A second later, the first missile struck the Raleigh, obliterating the bridge section and Ford with it. In the blink of an eye, the other two missiles hit, blasting the cruisers into a million pieces, killing the fifty men and women on board.

  The first act of a bloody war had just been played out.

  Chapter 2

  The sound of an alarm clock buzzing slowly stirred newly commissioned Second Lieutenant Michael Sheridan to life. Without bothering to open his eyes, he reached over and turned off the alarm. He took a deep breath and then felt his stomach turn. Like a runner taking off at the sound of the starter’s pistol, Sheridan ran for the bathroom. In the dark, he nearly tripped over one of his friends still passed out on the floor of his room. A second later, with his head spinning and his guts churning, he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and retched out everything from his stomach.

  Gagging and gasping for air, Sheridan cursed his stupidity. He and three of his friends, recently graduated from the Marine Ground Warfare Battle School, had gone on an all-night bender, drinking anything and everything they could get their hands on. When all he had left in his stomach was bile, Sheridan let out a moan and sat down on the cold floor of the bathroom. For a minute, he waited to see if he was going to be sick again; when he was not, Sheridan reached over, grabbed hold of the sink and pulled himself up.

  He flipped on the light above the sink and felt his pupils shrink as the light burnt his bloodshot eyes. Taking a minute to wash the sleep from his face, Sheridan looked at the young man staring back at him in the mirror. At twenty-two, he was just about to begin his career as an infantry officer in the Marine Corps. He had short black hair, deep-green eyes, and a square jaw with a scar running down the right side. For him, it was a constant reminder of a tragic accident that had taken his sister’s life when he was only ten. He body was fit and toned. At just under two meters in height, Sheridan was of average height for the Corps. The son of a Fleet Admiral, Sheridan had been expected to follow the family tradition of serving as an officer in the fleet. However, he had never liked the idea of being cooped up inside a ship for months at a time. He preferred getting his feet dirty and breathing real, not recycled oxygen.

  He quickly brushed his teeth and then, feeling somewhat more human, he walked back into his room and flicked on all the lights. “On your feet, you lazy bastards!” Sheridan hollered at his still sleeping friends. “It’s five in the morning and we’ve got a lot to do today.”

  “Jesus, Mike, turn off the light and let me sleep,” protested Harry Williams, Sheridan’s closest friend all through the academy.

  “Get up, get up!” yelled Sheridan nudging his friend with his foot.

  “I’d tell you to fuck off, but you’d just ignore me, wouldn’t you,” said Williams as he sat up and ran a hand over his smooth shaven head. Williams was also the son of an officer in the fleet. In fact, almost the entire graduating class from the academy had a connection to the military in one way or another.

  “Wake the other two sleepy heads, while I throw on some clothes and rustle us up some coffee.” With that, Sheridan picked up some clean looking sweatpants from the floor and pulled them on. He made sure he had his debit card with him and then walked out of his room down to the vending machine at the end of the hallway. He returned a couple of minutes later with four piping hot cups of coffee in his hands.

  “Thanks,” said Williams, taking a coffee.

  Kicking an empty bottle of Scotch across the floor with his foot, Sheridan took a deep breath and vowed to himself that he would never drink again; at least, until tonight.

  Slowly, his friends came to life. To a man, they looked as if they had been drinking for a month straight.

  “What time is the graduation ceremony?” asked Tony Hirato, still lying on the floor trying to focus his bloodshot eyes on his watch.

  “At ten,” replied Sheridan.

  “Then why the hell do we need to get up so early?”

  “Because we need to hit the gym for a couple of hours and sweat all this booze out of our systems,” answered Sheridan. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to the parade smelling like a brewery.”

  Gregory Shipov sat there on the floor looking as if he were about to be sick.

  “The toilet is in there,” said Sheridan, pointing to the bathroom. “I’ve already christened it this morning.”

  “Wonderful,” muttered Shipov as he struggled to stand. A split second later, his face turned green. He ran to the bathroom.

  “Here’s to being young and stupid,” offered Sheridan as he held up his coffee cup, toasting his friends.

  “To being stupid,” answered Williams, holding up his own cup.

  Five hours later, Sheridan and his friends, now dressed in their Marine Corps dress blues, stood on parade. The graduating class of nearly one thousand new Marine officers stood at ease and listened while the commanding officer of the Marine Ground Warfare Battle School congratulated them on completing the grueling three-month course in the deserts of Nevada. All Marine officers regardless of their future specialty had to attend the training. Infantry officers rubbed shoulders with pilots, logistical officers, and even padres. As their instructors kept pointing out, the job may be in outer space, but the battles were still won on the ground and that was why the Battle School was the final part of their combined arms training.

  Proudly, Sheridan ran his hand over his new gold bar on his jacket collar. He had worked hard to earn his commission, finishing in the top ten of his class at the academy as well as the Battle School. He already had his eye on an assignment with an infantry regiment in the elite First Division. Every Commandant of the Corps in the last century had served in the First Division, but only the best and brightest were chosen to be part of the finest fighting formation in the fleet. He was sure that after the parade wrapped up and the duty assignments were given out that his name would be found beside one of the three infantry regiments that were part of the First Division.

  After yet another long and boring speech that Sheridan tried his best to ignore, the graduating class was called to attention. The Commandant of the Marine Corps stepped up behind the podium and eyed the sea of officers before him.

  “Good morning, Marines,” said General Steinmetz, his voice deep and gravely.

  “Good morning, sir!” loudly replied a thousand voices.

  “Normally, at this time I would welcome you all into the Corps and wish you well with your chosen careers. However, events have transpired along the Disputed Zone, which has changed everything.”

  A loud murmur ran through the crowd of spectators watching the parade.

  Steinmetz continued, “Three days ago at precisely 0745 hours, installations and ships all along the Disputed Zone were attacked. The exact scope of the losses suffered has yet to be determined. However, initial indications are that we suffered heavy losses during this unprovoked and cowardly sneak attack. The Federation Council met in London this morning and authorized the mobilization of the fleet to safeguard the colonies. Marines, we are once again at war with the Kurgan Empire.”

  Some people in the crowd began to cry, afraid for their loved ones already serving along the Disputed Zone. The Marines on the parade stood silent, expectantly waiting to hear what was going to happen next.

  Steinmetz took a sip of water and then spoke. “Marines, effective immediately, all post-course leave is canceled. You will all be shipping out today. I will grant you have one hour to say goodbye to your friends and family who came to see you here
today. After that, you are to assemble in the main hangar where you will find your duty assignments already posted.”

  With that, the ceremony ended. Anxious family members flooded onto the parade grounds hoping to see their loved ones before they departed.

  Sheridan stood there, not sure, how he should feel. One the one hand he knew that this was what he had enlisted for; on the other, he struggled to believe that after a century of relative peace, they were at war. He turned on his heels and tried to see his mother through the swirling crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Tarina Pheto looking down at her feet. With a smile on his lips, Sheridan worked his way through the crowd. “Hey, there why the long face?”

  Tarina turned and looked up at Sheridan. “My parents couldn’t afford to make it here today. I was hoping to spend a few weeks with them before attending advanced flight training. Looks like I won’t get that chance now.” Tarina Pheto was from Soweto. A slender young woman with dark skin and a baldhead, she and Sheridan had had an on-again off-again relationship for the past three years. At the moment, they were apart.

  “Well, my mother is here somewhere, why don’t you come with me and spend some time with her?”

  Tarina’s expression instantly soured. “Michael, she’s the reason that we are not together.”

  Sheridan hated to admit it, but she was right. “I know my mother can be a bit old-fashioned at times.”