The Mighty First, Episode 3

by Mark Bordner

  “Hop up,” the Chief told him.

  “Really?” Dylan asked with a grin.

  The chief indicated for him to do so. Dylan climbed up onto the operator deck and sat in the metal seat. The quad-barrels were angled upward with an aviation-type yoke mounted before him, and triggers on either grip. A red safety lever was near his left foot.

  “This fires 200-watt bursts of plasma,” the chief explained. “When we go live, you kick that red lever by your foot that releases the safety. Then, you track your targets both visually and with this targeting monitor in the center of the console. When you want to let-fly, just pull the triggers. The breach holds a thousand-round shell distributor, which the loading crew handles from below. When it’s empty, the battery ejects it automatically.”

  “Sounds like a video game,” Dylan commented.

  The chief laughed, “Yeah, kinda. Tell you what, if we see any action while you’re assigned to me, you can take a swing at being the gunner.”

  Dylan beamed, “Thanks!”

  With most of Bravo Company billeted out on temporary duties, Manny and Ecu found themselves saddled with a new and daunting task as the senior NCO’s--- the electronic version of paperwork. They were seated on a bench in the park that skirted the Buck River tributary which ran through a portion of the city’s edge, helmet visors

  down, and mentally tapped in to the Command Net. They had to account for equipment and munitions that had been issued at the on-set of the offensive months prior, much of which had been damaged or lost. There was also the issue of pay, mail, and tracking time in the field for the purpose of earning hazard-points that would ultimately allow a trooper to rotate home. This latter was a belief that a Marine’s life span could last only so long in combat before his luck ran out. After so many engagements, (the exact number of which was classified information), the Brass would allow that individual to either serve out their term of service in a rear-echelon position, or simply accept an honorable discharge.

  After nearly an hour of sorting through one form after another that was displayed on their tactical screen, they raised the visors of their helmets and looked at one another in exasperation. They pulled their helmets off and moaned.

  “When did we become office managers?” Ecu complained. “All of this paperwork is making my nano-leg itch!”

  Manny grinned, rapping on her fake leg with his knuckles. It had blended itself with her body armor, and looked and felt exactly the same.

  Ecu slapped his arm, “I feel that, you know. The nano-what-ya-call-thems merged with my nervous system. It feels just like my real leg.”

  “Too bad they couldn’t do something for your personality,” he baited.

  Her eyes bulged and she squealed, issuing slaps all over his head. Manny took off running, laughing hysterically as she chased after him.

  Charlie Company had been assigned security patrol. Minerva divided her company into eight squads and sent them out in different directions along the western edge of Springfield. The day was clear, cool, and sunny--- a good day to be out walking. Autumn colors were just beginning to touch the trees and shrubs, tinting the city with a generous palette that blended beautifully with the golden sheen of the sun as it shined on the buildings and glinted off of the river.

  There was more civilian traffic along these avenues, so she kept her squad to the sidewalk that skirted the park. People smiled and waved, cars bleeped their horns in greeting; the whole experience was enjoyable.

  Minerva, who was walking point, glanced back and saw that Ashley, the 16 year-old volunteer who had lost her younger brother in the battle for Columbus, was hanging close to Amell. The two of them had bonded like sisters in the following weeks, and Ashley was finally beginning to emerge from her emotional shell. The grieving process was harder for the girl, as she was orphaned, and had no family to turn to. It was nice to see a smile on the kid’s face for a change. They were walking with visors up to enjoy the delightfully fresh air.

  Amell was looking out across the river and the park that ran along either side of it. Families were picnicking and children played. Cars busied to and fro, it was as if the war had never touched this side of the city. The soldiers and anti-aircraft batteries appeared grossly out of place there.

  “That smells good,” Ashley commented, sniffing the air.

  From the business side of the street, the aromas of chocolate and coffee wafted from a café. Diners were seated out in front on its patio, enjoying the fine, early autumn day. The people waved and the Marines waved back. United Earth and Attayan flags were flying from nearly every storefront. The kids were feeling pretty good about themselves right then. They were young, yes, but out on their own for the first time, graduates of Marine Corps basic training, and now on the front line defending freedom.

  The majority of them were new and had yet to see combat. They were cocky and over-confident; it was all nothing new to the surviving veterans, who knew that smirk would be wiped clean soon enough.

  Sergeant Jovannah Brion led her squad through a commercial area, lined with mom-and-pop markets, bakeries, and butcher shops. Delivery vans, escorted by U.S. Army hummer-jeeps with four-man security details, were already making their way in to the newly liberated portions of the city in order to bring fresh goods from the Free Zone.

  Large duece-and-a-halfs were backed up along alleyways, their backs open, and troops labored to hand out meals-ready-to-eat rations and jugs of water to lines of starving civilians. The crowds were rowdy and desperate, but the sight of armed soldiers kept an anxious peace. People remained in line, casting weary glances at the armored Marines as their patrols passed by.

  “Hey, Sarge,” one of her cadre called out. It was the marine walking a few feet behind her, a younger kid by the name of Brian Hernando. He was one of the 14 year olds, still cocky and full of vinegar.

  Jovannah looked back as she walked, visor open, and cast him a scowl, “That’s Sergeant Brion, Private!”

  Brian, who also had his visor open, wore an expression of a chastised puppy, “Sorry.”

  She returned her attention to the front, eyes scanning both sides of the street as they proceeded, “Well? What’s on your mind?” She asked, using the helmet mic and their own squad frequency.

  “I was wondering,” the kid told her, “see, back in boot camp, word was that this Grozet guy had plans not only to occupy the U.S., but eventually the whole world. Then maybe the universe. He’s got like, several million troops that haven’t even arrived to our star system yet. How are we supposed to fight something like that?”

  “Hopefully, we don’t,” Brion answered. “The Space Navy is engaging the enemy re-supply convoys at the asteroid belt. So long as they can keep doing that, we only have to beat down the Storians that are already here.”

  Some other kid from further down the line sounded off, “Can’t wait to see some action. This is boring!”

  Brion remembered the nightmare that she endured during the taking of Columbus, shivering inwardly.

  “Careful what you wish for, Private,” she warned dully.

  Alpha Company had been trucked via APC to Enon, assigned as a security detail for the artillery unit stationed there. The arrival of yet another 160 Marines further served to stir the feelings of unease that drifted among the residents, who were not accustomed to having so many numbers of guns walking around. For the first time since the earliest days of the invasion, people were huddling indoors and peering out from behind curtains. The neighborhood streets were deserted save for the troopers walking their patrols. Even the local watch group had taken to the shadows.

  Master Sergeant Corbin found himself in charge of the company, as Sergeant Major Ford and Captain Hannock had remained behind in Springfield with the command element to get the new forward base organized. Mark divided his double-sized company into two platoons, and had each one cover either side of town; one near the artillery camp, his own on the opposite end to watch for any sappers that might try to sneak up from the rea
r and take pot shots at them. It was eerie, flanking a town that was intact and seemingly deserted. He knew that there were eyes on them from any given direction, watching every move they made. The GNN crew that was embedded with the company even seemed ill at ease, constantly glancing over their shoulders.

  Not all of the suspense was imagined, though. Alpha was now taking a position just over twelve miles from enemy lines, being forward-deployed eight miles away from friendly forces, which may well have been a hundred if fighting broke out this near to such superior numbers. Mark had his people begin digging foxholes in a north-south line and set up outposts a little further out, along a drop in the terrain so that covering fire could come from behind over their heads if need be. Those look-out holes were

  camouflaged more thoroughly to the point that they blended completely in with the surrounding grass.

  By the time the daylight began to wane, the company was dug in and waiting for the noise to start.

  Three

  Sorrow of Enon Pass

  Springfield Museum of Art

  83rd Regiment Forward Operations Base

  From the rooftop of the museum, the senior officers had what was nearly a festive atmosphere established. There was a table with a selection of fruits and sandwich meats on crackers, wine, and off in one corner, the ever-present media.

  Ford remained off to one side, finding it difficult to fathom. Officers definitely had a different view of the war than he did. The officers were chatting and laughing, watching the western horizon as the sky grew darker, checking their wrist watches in giddy anticipation--- as if waiting for a 4th of July fireworks to begin. The entire evening was spent in this manner, driving the sergeant major into a fit of boredom. For the first time in his life, he resorted to playing one of the idiotic video games that he was able to key into his helmet visor by tying into the net.

  At 10:00 PM, the west suddenly lit up in an undulating strobe effect, the lightning-like flashes producing a low, steady roll of thunder that created an unnerving vibration beneath their feet. There was cheering and back-slapping. The artillery barrage had finally begun. Wright Patterson Air Force Base, now held by the Storians, was getting pounded. Soon the flashes began to back-light huge blooms of smoke, and the horizon emitted a dull, orange glow as fires reflected off of the layers. There were

  occasional profound explosions that threw streamers into the air, which were likely the heavy bombers caught on the ground going up with their ordnance. It was extremely satisfying to be on the delivering end of such firepower.

  Ford remained off by himself, reserved and frowning. He was nagged by the feeling that something important had been over-looked. Some small, but significant detail. For a reason that remained elusive to him, his mind kept jogging back to his conversation with Whittney, the surgeon. The tid-bit was driving him bats, tauntingly remaining just beyond his grasp.

  Colonel Strasburg approached him, glass of wine in hand, grinning from ear to ear, “You look like someone just pissed in your Cheerios, Dwayne!”

  Ford couldn’t apologize for it, instead choosing to be direct, which was what he was best at, “We’ve forgotten something, Sir. We’re screwing up right now, but I just can’t figure out how.”

  The colonel regarded the man-made lightning storm, pondering that statement, “I don’t see how, we’re dropping a few country-tons of plasma on his planes, and---”

  Ford’s eyes widened and he reached out, grasping Strasburg’s arm, “Planes,” he said with dawning alarm.

  Strasburg wasn’t following yet.

  “Planes!” Ford repeated, “I had a conversation with a civilian, whose daughter was killed in the Chicago strike. She had been at the airport!”

  The colonel’s eyes bulged now, as he got what the sergeant major was driving at, and they said it together.

  “The airport!”

  They had been so intent on hitting the Air Force base that they had completely over-looked the municipal airport, where the enemy could have more fighter craft stationed in reserve. Strasburg dropped-visor and activated the command net, hoping that it wasn’t too late.

  Enon, Ohio

  The ground shook constantly, as if it had become Jello. The din of the plasma cannons was thunderous, even with the dampening protection provided by the helmets. Windows rattled and dogs went berserk, running in circles and barking wildly. The pieces were firing one after the other down the line, then repeating without pause. The muzzle-wash stirred clouds of dust that filled the air, obscuring everything. Overhead, sheets of smoke from the fires to the west were drifting past, creating the visual effect of the out-going rounds seeming to disappear into storm clouds.

  It was because of all of this that no one was aware of the Storian gunships that had arrived, hidden above the layers of smoke. They began firing blindly onto the town, walking rockets forward from the freeway, toward the plasma trails that betrayed the locations of the cannons. The world lit up in Enon, as explosions ripped through homes, across roads, and finally into the school building.

  Two of the artillery pieces were hit in the bombardment, their ordnance stacked to the side going up as well. The detonations were earth-shattering, sending debris raining down all across town.

  From his fox hole, Mark wasn’t sure exactly what was taking place, whether it was an air strike or counter-artillery, but one thing was clear. They were in trouble. He keyed the command net and relayed the situation as calmly as he was able while his troopers hunkered down to ride it out.

  Troy, Ohio

  16 miles north-west of Enon

  Captain Sunwa and the Attayan 2nd Light Infantry Brigade had just turned onto the I-75 overpass and was about to continue south, ready to begin their northern assault. The convoy of APC’s dominated the freeway, forcing what little traffic there was to veer out of the way. People gawked, not believing what they were witnessing. Things spun rapidly out of control from there.

  A trio of Storian gunships, similar versions of the Allied Huey-shuttle models, came streaking in low from the west, raking plasma rounds across the freeway. The gatling guns ripped into civilian vehicles caught in the way, turning the traffic lanes into kill-zones. The APC’s dared not stop, crashing against cars, plowing through the stopped traffic, their Bushmaster guns mounted on top pounding rounds out at the gunships as they circled. The rolling fire fight continued for the next mile, creating a path of destruction behind it. The troopers inside the heavily armored personnel carriers were jostled roughly in the manic maneuvering and crashing; the sounds of plasma strafing across the hull unnerving to even the seasoned Attayan veterans.

  As they approached the next freeway exit, the gunships abruptly pulled away. The drivers at first did not comprehend why, but sensing equipment began to bleep from their dashboards, answering their unasked question.

  Fast-movers were closing in fast from the south.

  The drivers stomped the brakes and slammed the release button that dropped the deployment doors on the rear of the APC’s.

  “Run for cover!” They warned on the general frequency. Troopers scrambled out and scattered, running at full tilt for the off-ramp, diving for cover beneath the overpass or behind anything that might offer some form of protection.

  The rockets arrived ahead of the jets, homing on the APC’s and blowing them to pieces. The bursts rocked the overpass and shredded other vehicles unfortunate enough to be nearby. Flaming debris rained down on the freeway below. The jets roared past an instant later, vanishing back into the night. The gunships closed back in and poured fire down across the entire area, aiming at nothing in particular, simply trying to suppress and panic the Attayans.

  The troopers of the 2nd Brigade were not greenhorn youths, though. The Attayans calmly waited for each barrage to pass, then one of them would raise and take cool aim with an Anti-Tank Round. The ATR zipped out and up in bazooka fashion, and would plow into the side of the nearest helo, blowing out its center. The first burning hulk spun and fell to the ground, smas
hing into an abandoned cargo truck. The truck’s load, which happened to be produce, began to burn, filling the air with the aroma of fried potatoes mixed with fuel.

  When the second gunship met a similar fate, the remaining one veered away to the west from where it had come. Sunwa quickly gathered his troops, making a casualty count. They needed to move out of there, as Storian ground forces would surely be on their way.

  Springfield, Ohio

  Storian fast-movers and gun ships were now harassing the western edge of the city, firing indiscriminately into the streets, wreaking havoc in general. Parked cars were burning, storefronts and apartment windows had been blown out, and anti-aircraft batteries were blasting rounds into the sky. What had been a peaceful setting only hours before was now a raging conflagration.

  As one of the gunships sailed down for another strafing pass, Dylan, who was in the gunner’s seat of one of the batteries as the crew chief had promised, zeroed in on it as best he could. The controls were automated in that all he needed to do was move the

  yoke, and the entire firing section would turn or angle as he wished. He squeezed the triggers and the quads lit up, two barrels firing at a time, sliding back on the breach to absorb the recoil. Spent plasma casings spewed out of the side, clanging on the ground. The muzzle flash was all-encompassing and the din bone rattling. Dylan walked the streams forward from the tail of the Huey and connected solidly across its engine housing. The gunship bucked to the side and spun down toward the river in flames, splashing down with jarring force, sending water out toward the shoreline.

  A battery down the line, about a block away, was firing after another helo. A fast-mover arced down and loosed a rocket, which plowed into the gun crew. The explosion was big, its shockwave slapping into Dylan’s position with brutal strength. Other crews fired after the jet, but it was far too fast, already climbing to safety.