The Mighty First, Episode 3

by Mark Bordner

  Surrounded by her own kind, she wondered what the smoothies aboard her boat were doing. There was also an Attayan among them. By the terse terminology of her order packet, she knew that they were on a rescue mission. POW’s! It was unheard of among the Storians, who traditionally killed everyone. Mercy was not in their vocabulary. Another thing that made her wonder was what exactly a four-man team would be capable of. Her curiosity was eating at her. Burns fidgeted until she could stand it no longer.

  “OOD. Please fetch me the team leader of this spec ops unit. Lieutenant Harris.”

  “Aye, Ma’am.”

  Burns had to restrain the urge to drum her fingers on the arm of her chair, but for all her effort to appear calm, her fur was frizzing out.

  Lieutenant Fred Harris happened to be shaving when the knock at the compartment door came. His team was asleep on the folding cots that had been provided, amidst their gear and weapons. Muttering a curse, he rose from his own cot, and opened the door, his face still half-covered with foam.

  The Attayan officer looked at him with open astonishment. Shaving was a concept that they were not accustomed to. The expression of his furry face only served to further irritate Harris. Seeing as they were the same rank, he allowed himself a measure of cockiness.

  “I’m not buying any cookies.”

  The Attayan blinked, not understanding.

  Harris sighed, and continued to trace his razor across one cheek, “Whadda ya want, Fuzzy?”

  The racial slur knocked the stupid look from the man’s face, and replaced it with resentment, the cat-like ears lying flat against his scalp.

  “The commander requests your presence on the bridge.”

  Harris nodded curtly, “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  He closed the door on the Attayan without giving him a chance to respond, and finished shaving. Toweling himself off, he grabbed a shirt, and began putting his boots back on. He didn’t bother with the uniform he’d worn when coming aboard, rather donning the black fatigues that they would be wearing once they deployed.

  Traversing the narrow corridor, Harris felt as at home as he did anywhere else. How many ship’s passageways had he walked in his career? How many drops into one trouble-spot after another to carry out missions that had never existed on paper? The century of peace that Earth’s populace had enjoyed came at costs that they would never know. This was but one more dark op for him, but it at least carried a wholesome purpose this time. Rescuing prisoners of war, and taking out a camp while they were at it. Perhaps making an example of the people running it as a warning to others.

  Having been on enough subs, both sea-faring and those of the stellar type, he knew how to read the clusters of numbers painted on the bulkheads that told of what frame and beam he was at within the ship. The ladder well for the conning tower was before him, and he climbed it easily, marveling at how accurate the artificial gravity was to Earth-standard.

  The sailors busy at their stations gave him brief glances as he pulled himself into the bridge, but refrained from openly gawking at his presence. As was the case with most naval vessels, there was usually a healthy mix of Attayan and Terran sailors serving together, but the star-subs tended to maintain a crew that was entirely of their own race. As a result, the crewmen of the Comet rarely encountered ‘smoothies.’ It was testament to their discipline at how they avoided appearing too curious.

  Being among those who really did not care for the cat-like race, allies or not, Harris pointedly ignored them as well as he slipped through the maze of consoles to the command dias. The fuzzy, orange-furred woman sitting in the captain’s chair regarded him with a professional interest that made him uncomfortable. It looked as if she were eagerly awaiting an old friend. The second thing he noticed was how fatigued she appeared to be; she had bags under her eyes that could have caught rainwater.

  “Lieutenant Harris,” she greeted pleasantly. “I’d like to finally welcome you aboard. You were whisked in so quickly, that we never had an opportunity to talk.”

  Harris accepted the offered handshake, surprised yet again. For a slender female, she had a powerful grip.

  “I won’t impose on the poop of your mission,” Burns told him politely, “but, I would love to at least know the perimeters. For instance, the fact that there are only four of you on your team.”

  Harris was unable to suppress a grin, “I believe you mean ‘scoop,’ Commander.”

  Burns’ smile widened, “What did I say?”

  “Poop. That’s an entirely different visual.”

  The commander laughed heartily, her ears twitching. The high-pitched giggling was contagious whether Harris liked it or not, and he had to chuckle himself.

  “Anyway,” Burns said at length, wiping tears from her eyes, “if I may ask, what can only the four of you possibly accomplish down there?”

  Harris had been prepared for such an inquiry, and handed her the brown service folder that he held, “This should clarify any doubts that you might have. Look it over in your spare time.”

  Burns flipped the cover open, and skimmed through the contents, unable to wait until later. Her expression changed several times while Harris stood patiently by. After a few minutes, Burns looked up at him, utterly shocked. She recited a few of the highlights that had caught her attention.

  “Lieutenant Fred Harris, US Navy SEAL. Sergeant Keven Cumpean, Army Ranger, Sergeant Andrew Gaverro, First Marine Mountain Division, and Sergeant Jeffery, Attayan Elite Command.”

  Harris nodded, shrugging casually.

  “Four elite forces operators,” Burns went on, “under the direct jurisdiction of the GCA, answerable only to the U.E President, and Prime Minister Ro.”

  An uncomfortable silence lingered between them, until Harris had to break it.

  “Impressed?”

  “No,” the commander replied. “Frightened, actually. This is beyond spec-ops, isn’t it? This has ‘black-ops’ written all over it!”

  Again, a shrug, hands in pockets. Expression neutral.

  “You’re not just going after our POW’s,” Burns probed. “What are you going to be up to once you make that drop?”

  Harris scowled slightly, “You promised that you weren’t going to dig around in my mission detail.”

  Burns’ fur began to frizz again, “I need to know a certain amount. I’m hauling enough nuclear firepower to lay that planet to waste. I have to know what to expect while we’re waiting on-station.”

  The lieutenant considered that, his jaw clenching and unclenching, “Let’s just say that it’ll be some very ill shit. Once we’ve extracted the prisoners, you’ll be able to go into action.”

  Burns frowned, ears twitching, “I don’t like the sound of that. Are you aware that I’ve been ordered to maintain a launch distance?”

  Harris nodded, his expression meaningful, “There’s a reason for that.”

  The captain’s eyes widened, “Are you telling me the Galactic Command Authority will be transmitting launch orders? This is Denmoore!”

  “There are things in motion that you know nothing about, Commander,” Harris told her sternly. “It may not make sense right now, but believe me, it will all come out in the wash.”

  Burns was shifting from shock to fury, uncaring that her voice was carrying to the rest of the bridge crew, “Not make sense! You’re damn right it doesn’t make sense! Denmoore is an Attayan territory! Do you honestly think I’m going to willingly rain a volley of nuclear warheads down on them?”

  “Lower your voice, Captain,” Harris spoke low, and calm, but it carried a definite tone of authority.

  Burns was about to remind him that he was outranked by several paygrades, but looking into those cool, blue eyes told her that such trivial details meant nothing to what amounted to a trained assassin.

  “Denmoore has revolted,” Harris explained, nearly whispering.

  It took a moment to sink in. When it did, Burns felt her insides fill with ice.

  “They’ve joined the
Storians?”

  Harris nodded, “They helped orchestrate the entire invasion.”

  Burns had stood during her tirade, and sat heavily down in her chair as the strength drained from her legs. The sense of betrayal was to the bone.

  “By the Creator,” she whispered.

  Harris actually felt sorry for her, especially with the open hurt on her face.

  Burns found some reserves of energy, and rose again, but had to lean on the dias rail. A few of the technicians cast weary glances in her direction, aware of her distress.

  “Do you have family down there?” The lieutenant asked gently.

  She shook her head no, “It’s just that, our world ties were far more than mere politics. Attayans take alliances deeply to heart. This is no different than an adulterous loved one.”

  Harris mused that thought, unaware that the race was so passionate.

  “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I think I’d like to be alone for a while,” Burns said throatily.

  Harris left the bridge the way he had come, with new questions spinning in his head. He’d never taken the time ever really talk to an Attayan before. This business of them actually being likable bothered his preconceptions. It had always been so much easier to simply dislike them, and remain focused on tasks at hand. Now, there was this unpleasant twinge of guilt that as far as he was concerned, had no business being in his damned head. He’d have to sleep on it.

  Minerva had never felt so lost.

  Unable to sleep, nor to stand remaining alone in the room, she chose instead to wander the streets. The night was so silent as to seem dead, which suited her mood perfectly. Her despondence was all-encompassing. There was no pleasure to be had in anything at all, including even the will to live.

  Anger seemed to be the foremost emotion in her awareness, and most of it was directed surprisingly at the boy that she loved so much. Her own husband. The one who had captured her heart from the first day, and respected her as spiritually as he had physically. None of this would have happened if he had just followed his own advice. Don’t be a hero. Just stay alive.

  Minerva smirked as she strolled the empty streets, looking at the darkened windows of apartment buildings and storefronts. Don’t be a hero. Yet, what was the first damned thing that Mark was to do? Calling in an airstrike on his own position. Yes, it had staved off an armored attack that would have likely brought the regiment to its knees. That logic only served to further infuriate her. It justified his actions despite her reservations, and that hurt even more.

  She had lost him once. Dead, for all intents and purposes. That had been hell to accept. Then, before the healing process could even begin, he had been returned to her. The joy! The relief!

  Now, to lose him again.

  A traitor. A puppet of the Storians.

  It wasn’t fair!

  Her anger even extended to the uppermost limits. She was angry with God Himself. How could He be allowing all of this to be taking place at all? A war that spanned galaxies. Dishing out hope amidst the chaos of it all, only to take it back again.

  Minerva paused at an intersection, and looked around. The traffic light was flashing yellow for automobiles that were not there. Save for the occasional Hummer-Jeep passing on patrol, there were no cars about, nor were there pedestrians. Across the street from where she stood was perhaps the only structure open at the late hour. It was ironic to her, seeing it for what it was.

  The church remained open at all hours, catering to the odd shifts that the military watches endured. Bright light flooded from the open doors that allowed the cool of the evening to enter. Considering how she felt right then, it was the last place she wanted to go, yet there was a tug in her heart. It took her back to the days when she was a little girl, angry with her parents for one reason or another. Angry or not, there was still love.

  Before she realized that she had taken the steps, Minerva stood in the doorway, gazing in. It was a simple church, without any ornate woodwork, or decoration. Humble rows of wooden pews, and a lectern in the front. A minister sat at a small table off to one side, writing in a notebook. He seemed to sense her presence, and looked up at her.

  The man stood, his bearded face friendly, “Come in, if you like.”

  Minerva remained near the doors, so he came to her, his demeanor casual.

  “I’m Ted Pate. Nice to meet you, Sergeant.”

  She shook hands with him, and his eyes studied her in a way that was very much like Ford’s. Seeing behind the protective curtain, and peeking into her soul.

  “You’re troubled,” he stated.

  Her anger peaked, face flushing, “You could say that.”

  Ted motioned toward the nearest pew, “Tell me about it.”

  After a brief hesitation, Minerva allowed herself to be led over, and sat heavily on the wooden bench. The minister sat a respectful distance next to her, and waited patiently. She swallowed, and proceeded to pour her heart out to this total stranger. The story went on for nearly an hour, all of her hopes, and hurts. All of the frustration, and anger. When at last she had spent all of her words, Minerva slumped forward, and sobbed into her hands.

  Through it all, Ted had listened, never revealing what he might be thinking. He also waited while she wept, silent. Her tears came for a long time, but they were bitter, and releasing them did not provide any relief. When she began to calm, Ted shifted slightly, and fixed her with a stern look.

  “Jesus tells us that there is no greater act of love, than to lay down our lives for our friends,” He quoted. “Isn’t that what your husband did for all of you?”

  Minerva snapped a hard expression at him, “Don’t give me that!”

  Ted considered for a moment, then moved on cautiously, “Let me show you something.”

  He took a pew bible from its pocket, and thumbed through it until he found what he sought, “This is from Romans. It says that in accordance with the hardness in our hearts, we shall be judged ourselves. What does that mean to you?”

  Minerva’s thoughts were swirling, intertwined with her emotions, but she fought to gain control of them. She shrugged.

  “It’s alright to be angry with God,” Ted told her frankly. “But, don’t let it harden your heart. Sometimes, what we need to do is admit to ourselves, and to Him, that we’re in over our heads.”

  She wiped her face with a sleeve, and looked beseechingly at the pastor, “So, what am I supposed to do?”

  Ted smiled, “Just hand it over to Him. Give Him the reigns, and let God help you.”

  Minerva shook her head, “And, how am I supposed to do that?”

  “Just tell Him.”

  Ted got up, and walked away, leaving her sitting there alone with her thoughts. She glanced down at the pew bible that he had left with her, and Minerva picked it up. The first thing that her eyes fell upon touched something within her.

  “The just live by faith.” Romans 1:16

  Conclusion of Episode 3

  Follow the fight to liberate Earth in the next installment!

  The Mighty First, Episode 4, Minerva Rising

  Books by Mark Bordner

  --- The Mighty First, Episode 1

  --- The Mighty First, Episode 1, Special Edition

  --- The Mighty First, Episode 2, The Children’s War

  --- The Mighty First, Episode 3, Sorrow of Enon Pass

  --- A Room Full of Smoke

  Visit the Mighty First website on Facebook, and watch for casting calls to have your name portrayed as a character in the series!

  The Mighty First series is available in paperback, and Kindle download on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Powell’s Books, Kobo, Alibris/UK, Target, and participating distributers.

  The Mighty First series

  © 2015, all rights reserved

  Currently under consideration for a Paramount major motion picture

  For more science fiction fun, check out Joseph Madden’s ‘The Starhawk Chronicles.’

  Available from Amazon, Barnes & N
oble, and other participating distributors

  http://www.amazon.com/Joseph-Madden/e/B00EO95A4O/

  The Starhawk Chronicles

  © 2015 Joseph Madden, all rights reserved

  Chapter One

  Obudon City Spaceport, Planet Ryca

  Just once, why can’t these dirtbags try hiding on a nice, resort planet? Jesse Forster thought as he made his way through the milling crowds, mindful of the traffic as he crossed a busy thoroughfare. They always pick the most miserable places to go to ground. Information better be right this time. I want off this planet.

  At least there was no rain. That much he was grateful for. Ryca in its rainy season was even worse of a slophole than it was now. The streets were muddy; the sidewalk was muddy, making navigation treacherous as his boots made wet, sluck-ing sounds with each step.

  He stopped before a dingy, windowless, two-story adobe building with a single carved wooden sign hanging above the door that read: The Wandering Nomad, Libations & Intoxicants for All Species.

  On the surface, there was nothing at all special about the Wandering Nomad. For the most part, it seemed no different from any other low-scale establishment in any city on any planet in the galaxy. Tonight, however, this particular watering hole was special.

  His prey was here.

  He paused as he stepped through the old-style wooden saloon doors, making a long survey of the crowd inhabiting the interior. A pair of spaceport punks, looking not much younger than he was, glowered when he ventured too near. He returned the look, flipping the folds of his duster back to reveal the twin Colt Seventy-Seven laser pistols he wore on each hip, and the two toughs decided they had better things to discuss. Paying them no more mind, he continued scanning the establishment. His quarry was not hard to find.