First Strike

by Richard Turner

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 threw up 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. Sheridan 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 the tragic accident that had taken his sister’s life when he was only ten. His 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. 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 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 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. On 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 t
hem 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 bald head, 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.”

  Tarina shook her head. “Michael, you need to open your eyes. She’s not as old-fashioned as you keep saying; she’s a racist. If I were white, things would be different, but I’m not. And you know it.”

  Sheridan reached over and took her right hand in his. “Tarina, you know I don’t care about your skin color.”

  “I know you don’t, but I will never be part of your life if your mother has anything to say about it and until you stand up to her, we can never be together.” Tarina fought back the mix of feelings raging in her heart. She let go of Sheridan’s hand and melted into the crowd.

  “Michael . . . Michael!” called out a woman’s voice.

  Sheridan turned to see his mother, escorted by a Marine colonel, making her way toward him.

  “Was that Miss Pheto?” asked Sheridan’s mother.

  “Yes,” replied Sheridan bitterly.

  “I thought you two weren’t together anymore.”

  “We’re not.”

  “Well, it’s for the best with all that’s happening along the Disputed Zone.”

  Sheridan ground his teeth. He wanted to lash out at his mother and tell her to go to hell, but his strict upbringing and the colonel standing a few meters away prevented him from showing his true feelings.

  “Have you heard from Father?” Sheridan asked, steering the conversation away from Tarina.

  “Yes, I have great news. He’s been promoted to vice-admiral and given command of the newly formed Sixth Fleet. If anyone can give the Kurgan Empire a good swift kick in the behind, it’s your father.”

  Sheridan forced a smile. “Mother, I doubt I’ll get a chance to speak to him before I ship out, so could you please pass on my congratulations.”

  “You can pass them on yourself. I bet you’ll be serving under his command before too long.”

  Sheridan cringed at the thought. The First Division was assigned to the First Fleet and he wanted to serve there and nowhere else. “Well, I find out soon enough.”

  For the next thirty minutes, Sheridan made small talk with his mother while several admirals and generals, all of whom knew Sheridan’s father, feted her. If there was one thing he had to give his mother credit for, it was her ability to schmooze with party guests. He soon grew bored, gave his mother a hug, and joined the stream of young officers making their way toward the main hangar.

  Harry Williams ran over and enthusiastically slapped Sheridan on the back. Together they walked in silence. Sheridan could feel the tension building in his chest. Four years of school all came down to this event. Where you went after Battle School determined your future.

  Inside the hangar, the air was electric. On the far wall were several screens broken down alphabetically. Sheridan and Williams ran toward the monitor with their names on it. Together they elbowed their way to the front and searched for their duty assignments.

  Williams let out a loud whoop. “Second Regiment, First Division.”

  Sheridan found his name; it was listed beside the Third Regiment, Nineteenth Division. Feeling as if he had just been punched in the gut, he stepped back and dug out his phone. With a growing sense of panic, he looked up the Nineteenth Division and where its regiments were stationed. His eyes widened when he saw that the division was responsible for a sector of the Disputed Zone. It has to be a clerical error, thought Sheridan. He had come near the top of all of his classes. Only the best officers went to the First Division and not to some unheard of unit in an out of the way corner of the galaxy.

  Sheridan’s instructor at the Battle School walked past. “Sir!” Sheridan called out trying to get the major’s attention.

  “Yes, Mister Sheridan,” said Major Jowett, a short, balding man with a crooked nose on his weathered face.

  Sheridan came sharply to attention and saluted Jowett. “Sir, I think there’s been a mistake with my duty assignment.”

  “Oh, why is that?”

  “Sir, I’m posted to the Nineteenth, not the First Division,” explained Sheridan.

  “It’s a good division with a fine reputation. It’s on the front line, so you’ll be in action long before many of your friends.”

  Sheridan didn’t give a damn about the division’s reputation or where it was located. He blurted out, “Sir, I’d expected to go to the First.”

  Jowett looked into Sheridan’s eyes. “Mister, we go where the Corps wants us to go. We don’t always get what we want. Get used to it. Remember, we all serve at the discretion of the Corps.” With that Jowett turned around and walked away, leaving Sheridan wondering what he could do.

  Williams walked out of the sea of well-wishers and placed his hand on Sheridan’s shoulder. “Hey, Mike, I just saw your duty station. There has to be a mistake. I came behind you in every class. You should be the one going to the First Div, not me.”

  Sheridan shook his head. “It’s no mistake. I’m being sent to some second-rate division in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Say, why don’t you talk with your mom. I bet she can straighten this mess out.”

  For a brief moment he thought about going to see his mother and asking her to chat with his father’s friends to get him re-assigned. However, that would mean he would be indebted to his mother and that was something he wasn’t about to do, not after the way she had treated Tarina. Cursing his unbelievably bad luck under his breath, Sheridan congratulated Williams and wished him luck. Reluctantly, he downloaded a copy of his orders and saw that he was due to leave in three hours. With a tension headache building in the back of his neck, Sheridan turned on his heels and went to pack. Why he wasn’t assigned to the First Division dug at him. With each step he took, he grew angrier. By the time he reached his room he was in a black mood.

  3