by Mark Bordner
There was a slight drop in the terrain, where the trees filled a shallow gulley. A tiny stream trickled through its deepest crevice, and this was where the largest concentration of marines were found, having been blown and tossed all the way to its bottom.
Amell called it out, and others converged on the area, pulling at the foliage and gingerly checking the unmoving, armored figures; careful not to jostle potential broken bones or move injured necks. The grim task of recording the names of the dead fell on young Ashley, who watched as friends and mates either cried out in joy or sorrow as the discoveries were made.
It took hours to comb the area and extract the members of 1st Platoon from the woods, shuttling the worst of them out who could still be treated. Those who were too far gone were triaged to the clearing and kept comfortable until nature took its course. As the search was winding down, Amell made one last sweep of the gulley and happened across the familiar sight of nano-armor peeking out from a small pine that had been bowled over. She hurried over and pulled the tree out of the way, revealing the marine lying there face-up, helmet visor spider-webbed. The sergeant knelt down and gently wiped the dirt and ash from the breast plate to reveal the name stenciled there, and she felt the strength drain from her. Amell gently pushed the visor up to see the face, needing to be sure, not wanting to believe.
Her breath caught. It took a few moments to collect herself enough to speak.
“Sergeant Major Ford,” She called on the net. Her voice came from far away, and was scarcely even audible. She swallowed hard, cleared her throat, and called out again.
“Ford here, what’s up, Amell?”
She swallowed, thinking carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing where everyone would hear it--- especially one person in particular.
“Do you have a fix on me? I need to see you. Alone.”
There was a moment of quiet, then, “Understood. I’ll be right there.”
The Attayan pulled her helmet off and sat it on the wet ground beside her, kneeling protectively over the prone trooper, one hand covering the name stencil on his breast plate. His eyes were closed and the expression one of peace; other than the dried blood that had trickled from his nose and down one cheek. She squeezed his gloved hand.
Master Sergeant Mark Corbin did not squeeze back.
When Ford finally made it to her location, Amell had finished crying and sat listlessly next to the tree that had covered her friend of several years. They had gone through basic training together, had participated in many a rambunctious weekend with their squad mates; had laughed and cried together. He had been a good friend, a dear friend, and this loss was one too many to bear. The hardest part was yet to come--- telling poor Minerva that her husband was gone.
Ford walked over to her, his helmet off, and looked down at the marine next to her. The visor had been closed again to keep the drizzle off, but the chevrons, the unit markings, and of course the name stencil spoke all that needed to be said.
The sergeant major looked away, out across the open field below at the Hueys that were flying the remainder of the casualties out. B-Company was finished lining the
bodies in a neat row and had set a perimeter across the road leading south. What was left of A-Company, 1st Platoon had mustered near the wreckage of the Storian tanks, waiting for orders.
The moment was surreal. He did not want to move or say anything. To do so would mean having to face this new twist in an already screwed up reality. He had allowed himself to befriend a subordinate, and now that was haunting him. Losing a friend in battle, no matter the reason why or how, meant leaving a part of one’s self behind. There just seemed so little left of himself to give. He was unable to even offer any consolation to Amell, but she did not appear to mind, preferring to remain in silence.
“I’ll talk to Minerva.” He finally said.
She stood, picking up her helmet and putting it back on, then shouldered her rifle. The Attayan bent and lifted the master sergeant with care, bracing him over her shoulders, and began the walk down to the landing zone.
Ford watched her go, waiting until he was alone to beat his fists against his thighs, holding in his rage and swirling emotions. He slapped nearby trees, kicked at the mud, and growled between clenched teeth. The fury, the pain, everything that was boiled up inside seethed out in dark hopelessness. When the fit waned, he felt somewhat relieved, but nowhere near better. He was a shell inside.
Ford began the long walk back to the Enon side of the river, to tell Minerva that her husband, and his own best friend, was dead.
Four
The Dayton Offensive
4:00 PM
The light rain had stopped and the clouds lifted higher, the day still overcast and chilly, but at least calm. From the south of Dayton, the sky was filled with formations of old-school rotor-driven Huey helicopters; hundreds of them. In the lead were Navy Cobra and Army Apachie attack helicopters. Behind the nearly 300 Huey U1-H1’s were seventy original-design Blackhawk choppers, ferrying troopers of their own. In total, there were better than 400 surface warfare units flying toward Kettering, prepared to drop the largest unified assault force yet against the Storians.
The attack choppers began unleashing their rockets, sending a myriad of trails soaring down across the security checkpoints that lined the south end of the city. The aerial bombardment continued for some minutes until the first Huey gunships reached the line, swooping down and pouring 60-watt fire over the enemy emplacements.
Ground-to-air fire leapt out at the choppers, filling the sky with tracers. The Hueys began to descend in rows, firing as they came in--- making their combat drops as quickly as possible to lift away and make room for the next wave. The Storians scrambled to respond.
The Army Air Calvary had arrived in-force.
From I-70, the 2nd and 3rd Marine Infantry Battalions came speeding into the eastern edge of Dayton via APC’s, backed by tanks from the 108th Armored. As they roared dead-on toward the check-point at Huber Heights, defensive fire began lashing out at them, clanging off of the armored hulls. Side gatlings, main guns, and Bushmasters opened up from the assault column, blanketing the concrete bunkers and guard shacks with plasma rounds. Main gun shells blasted gates open and smashed gaping holes through buildings.
The APC’s braked and popped the deployment doors. Marines by the hundreds spilled out and charged forward. The offensive was in full-swing.
From the Storian garrison, alarms brayed mindlessly while soldiers shouted and ran in all directions. The sounds of a heavy attack thundered outside. Sergeant Ara had been napping and was jolted to full wakefulness in an instant by a tank round blasting the far end of the bunkhouse to rubble, filling the room with dust. He instinctively grabbed at his rifle, which was always next to his rack, then donned his helmet, and rushed for the front door.
As he rounded a turn in the hall, trailing other soldiers streaming for the same exit, the unmistakable roar of a Bushmaster split the air, and soldiers in front of him began a macabre dance as they were torn to pieces under the barrage. The rounds were being directed right into the doorway from outside the barrier by an Allied APC, chewing everyone to bits. Ara ducked to the floor as people fell around him and chunks of concrete torn from the walls peppered his back.
He scrambled backwards, keeping low, and made it back around the corner just as
an RPG sailed into the hall and detonated, the blast flipping him sideways and over several bed racks; skidding to a painful halt on the floor. His ears rang from the concussion. The sergeant realized that he had lost his rifle in the explosion and made a frantic search until he found another. Ara checked its load count, slapped the clip back in, and hurried to the blasted portion of the barracks, carefully easing toward the open edge to peer out.
The Marines were launching a full-bore assault against the main gate, their tanks and heavy weapons having quickly neutralized the defenses set there. Enemy troopers were pouring into the garrison, and too many Storians were paying the
price. A tank round slammed into the command quarters, putting an end to that damned, braying alarm horn. Unfortunately, the command staff had been silenced with it.
There would be no fighting this wave off; there were simply too many of them coming in with tidal force. It would be better to fall back and link up with other units further in the city center. Ara chose to make his way through the rubble and run off in the opposite direction.
Vandalia, on the northern limit of Dayton
The Attayan 2nd Light Infantry Brigade had managed to lie low and unnoticed among abandoned houses, trash, and over-grown weeds among alley ways and yards for the better part of the day--- avoiding detection from passer-by and Storian patrols that tended to stick to the main streets closest to the highway overpass. Captain Sunwa had his people spread somewhat evenly across either side of the highway so that maximum firepower would be able to be directed against the checkpoint near the center.
Lying low had given them a chance to take turns catching up on their rest and keeping fed and hydrated, but boredom was threatening to set in by the time the sudden eruption of the attack a few miles away signaled their cue to launch their own.
“Sergeant Patti,” He called on his helmet mic, to the leader of his 3rd Platoon positioned nearest the freeway overpass. “Begin your assault.”
As Patti, a tall, thin, Attayan woman known for her speed as a runner, set off pre-set charges hidden along the guard shack and street gate, Sunwa led his own teams from hiding and ran in a wide arc across her left flank, bringing them in to hit the Storians from the south approach of the main street.
The attack was vicious and fast-moving, giving the Storians little time to react. The battle pushed them back toward the city center, sending civilians running for cover. Patti jogged and jumped from one area to another with such ease and grace that it was difficult to believe she was so capable of issuing such destruction. She fired and lobbed grenades with what appeared to be an effortless display of dexterity, leaping from the
tops of parked cars and dodging rifle rounds, rolling and bounding like a gazelle.
A Hummer-Jeep appeared from a side street, its 60-watt mount chattering rounds at them, but she gracefully somersaulted from atop a cab, tossing a grenade at the gunner as she went into a roll, and came up firing straight into the windshield. What was left of the Storian units turned and fled.
The remainder of 1st Battalion, mostly consisting of Bravo and Charlie companies, was tucked into Navy Sea Stallion helicopters that had leap-frogged all the way up from the Louisiana gulf from aircraft carriers on-station there. Re-fueling points along the way were allowing the Surface Navy to begin taking part in the fight for the central United States. F-31 fighter jets were sending smart-ordnance down all across the Dayton skyline, precision-bombing anti-aircraft batteries and infantry strong-holds. The Navy SEALS were deploying their special warfare teams throughout the region, conducting covert operations to further reduce the Storian ability to fight.
An incredible measure of firepower and resources was descending on Ohio, the resolve of not only the American people, but the unified effort of the entire world now raining down on the alien occupation forces.
Alpha Company, reduced to 64 out of 160, had been rotated back to Springfield for a rest period and to refit the unit with fresh troops. Bravo and Charlie were divided into two platoons, each riding in its own Sea Stallion, escorted by four Cobra attack
choppers each. The four-Stallion formation rode in low and fast from Enon, heading south-west past the remains of Wright Patterson Airbase with the intention of deploying at Beavercreek--- thus closing the entire eastern perimeter of Dayton.
On the chopper carrying C-Company, 1st Platoon, Minerva sat nearest the deployment hatch in the rear. Her visor was open, eyes gazing down at the deck, not seeing anything from this world. She was oblivious to the shaking and rotor noise that they were unaccustomed to from their own shuttles--- her mind off in another time, when her world meant something. The memory of looking into her lover’s green eyes, of kissing his soft lips, of how he looked on their wedding day such a short time ago. Her love for him had been whole, her heart stolen from the first time she had met him, and that had been torn from her.
Her soul was lost, a cowering thing tucked far back in her consciousness, replaced by a bloodlust that encompassed her being. She wanted nothing more than to be set loose to plunder, to destroy, to utterly murder every Storian that dared confront her. They had taken what was dearest to her, and she intended to return the favor a thousand-fold.
Amell, seated next to her, placed a hand on her shoulder plate, but Minerva was not even aware of it. She closed her visor and waited for the one-minute warning, ready to go the moment the door was open.
Many of her fellow Marines, though they did not voice the fact, felt much the same way as she. Mark had been an integral part of their company for a long time, and his death had been a blow that was far too personal to forgive.
The Storians had no idea what was about to ride down on them.
In traditional fashion, the gunships first wreaked havoc with suppression fire and rockets, softening the landing zone before the troop carriers descended. When the helos finally did touch down, the Marines advanced with a ruthlessness that was unparalleled. The Storians, stunned by this sudden escalation in brutality, fell back, giving ground.
It did not matter. The regiment stampeded over them, shooting, stabbing, beating them to death without mercy or regard to personal risk. The Storian positions were being literally butchered. Those that could went into a full, running retreat.
Later, members of the company would recount that they had been both astounded and terrified by Minerva’s savage brutality. She had been a killing machine that day, her furious screams filling the comm-net so badly that Command had resorted to cutting off their frequency.
When it was over, her armor was bathed in blood from top to bottom, and no one, not even her dearest friends, dared go near her.
Huber Heights District
9:00 PM
The garrison had been lost, and the Allies were closing in all the way from Fairborn to the upper- east side, attacking with a ferocity that had yet been seen. The Storians were regrouping in medium-size pockets and resisting as best they were able,
hoping that reinforcements might make it in time.
Sergeant Ara had taken refuge in the residential district where his child-friend Andy Holden lived. Ara was standing atop an observation platform next to the artillery pieces that had been positioned up and down the street. The gun crews had abandoned their posts, leaving everything for capture. This unprecedented military response by the Earth-dwellers had unnerved them, so accustomed they were to the enemies of wars past either surrendering immediately or putting up an insubstantial fight at best. What had seemed a weak and inadequate society had rallied the largest response that any Storian had ever witnessed.
From the platform, he could see his enemy gradually closing in; closer from the north and north-east, with intense fighting to the south and the south-west. The sounds of battle were prevalent at varying distances, the glows of fires casting their light against the overcast night sky. Allied helicopters were thumping noisily through the city, strafing the ground and firing rockets. The unmistakable din of tanks utilizing their main guns split the air. Rifle fire was constant. It was clear that Dayton would be reclaimed--- likely within days, if not hours. Things had gone so horribly wrong!
Ara climbed back down, and was met by ten-year-old Andy at the bottom; clad in his honorary uniform, holding a plasma rifle that he had found lying on the street. The boy was eager to please, ready to commit himself to something that he had no chance of truly comprehending. The kid just wanted to be accepted.
“You might want to take that uniform off,” Ara told him “It could get you shot.” The kid shook his head, “I’m ready to fight, Ara. Why did everyone run away?”
The sergeant looked at him sadly, “This fight is lost, yo
ung one. It’s clear that the Creator does not want us here.”
“Who?” Andy asked, not understanding.
Ara smiled, playfully yanking the kid’s cap one last time, “I have to go now, Andy. You take care of yourself.”
Andy’s face twisted, “No, Ara, you’re my friend!”
The sergeant started to say something, perhaps to give the same compliment, but a rifle shot rang out from behind them from down the street. The plasma round punched into the boy’s back, and he grunted, falling to his knees, still looking up at Ara. Andy could not hear Ara screaming his name, and the Storian’s face seemed to be fading behind an enclosing curtain of darkness. Andy became limp in Ara’s arms as the life drained from him.
Another rifle burst chattered out, this from a 60-watt machine gun. The rounds chopped into the street near Ara, but he had not the strength, nor the resolve to flee or try to defend himself. The Storian remained where he was, kneeling on the sidewalk, holding the boy’s limp body in his arms. Some part of him deep inside had broken, and he wept bitterly.
The marine that had shot them came trotting up, followed by his squad. Manny, at first, was braced to shoot the enemy that was on his knees before his squad, but something in the Storian’s demeanor made him pause. It took the Marines a moment to realize that the man was weeping over the body of a child, a child that wore the uniform of the Storian infantry, yet was very much a Terran.
Ara looked up at Manny, his scaled cheeks shining with tears, “What have I done?”
Manny had no idea what to say to that, not understanding.
Ever so gently, Ara laid the boy down, and stood, holding his arms out at his sides. He surrendered, allowing the Marines to bind his hands behind his back. He knew that his life would never be the same again, and was glad for it.
