by Trevor Wyatt
“Oh, so I’m wrong?”
“You’re right on all count, Commander,” he replies. “Division Fifty One is only known by a few people, including the President, the Commander of the Terran Armada, and the leadership of Terran Armada and Operations Command.”
“That’s a very tiny list,” I say.
“We are a very tiny Division,” he replies.
“How many?”
“This ship carries a detachment of super marines,” he replies.
“How super?” I ask.
“Nanites enhanced,” he replies.
“That technology doesn’t exist,” I reply.
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” he says with a wink. “We are basically the guys you send in when there’s no hope. We are the ones you send in, when the odds are impossibly stacked up against you. We are the ones that get the job done by all and every means necessary. With me so far?”
I nod vigorously. This is my kind of shit.
“So, we have permanent bases on Earth and New Washington,” he says. “We have three teams. A team, B team and C team. A team is mobile upon this vessel, which is the third base. Team B is on New Washington, near the forefront of the war effort, while Team C is back on Earth.
“Each team consist of a three-hundred-man assault group, all super marines, all highly trained and efficient killers. And an advance team of ten specialists led by a Commander…”
“That’s me,” I say, feeling excitement pulse through my veins.
He nods. “The advance team goes in first to gather intel or neutralize specific targets or to open the door for the main assault team to move in.”
He pauses and looks at his quipping tablet.
“I’m going to have to cut this short, Commander,” he says and stands.
I stand too, saluting him. “I understand, sir. I can come back when you need me.”
He looks up at me as though I’ve spoken out of turn. “You misunderstand me, Amanda. I have to cut this short because you have to get going to the command center. You’re going on a mission.”
The command center is on the other side of the CNC. It has two access points. One access from the CNC for the Vice Admiral and the CNC crew, while the other access is for the rest of the ship crew.
There is a circular central table with a computerized interface. There are workstations along the walls with ensigns calling out information and taking orders. There are several officers in the room, each of them in charge of a section of ensigns.
Looking on the map on the central computerized table are the two officers who had met us in the shuttle bay.
“What’s our status?” Vice Admiral Shane asks the moment we are by the table.
“We are thirty minutes outside the system sir,” one of the officers at the table replies. “We just intercepted an outbound transmission from the Sonali occupation force. They are expecting a Sonali supply ship and fresh soldiers.”
“When is this happening?” the Vice Admiral asks.
“Within an hour,” the officer replies. “We have to change our plans. We can’t spend another three hours bombarding their generators to take out their surface to space precision guided missiles.”
I look at the map and quickly study the mission parameters. It appears that this planet in question was once a Terran-run planet, but fell into the hands of the Sonali who are keeping the Terrans hostage. It doesn’t say why this planet is so important as to warrant Division Fifty One’s involvement.
Whatever the case, for we to have been called in, two things are sure. One, this case is impossible for the conventional Armada or Intelligence. Two, this mission goes all the way to the top, giving the caliber of people who know about Division Fifty One.
“How about I take the advanced team planet to the control room and neutralize the operators,” I say. “If we have control over the control room, we can stop the generators and divert power away from all offensive and defensive.”
Everyone in the room stops to look at me.
Vice Admiral Shane beams at me with pride. “That can work.”
The lead officer says, “An orbital drop then?”
“Orbital drop?” I say with incredulity. “I thought that was just a conjecture. We can’t actually dive from a space ship onto a planet.”
No one is smiling.
“Orbital drop it is,” Vice Admiral Shane replies. “Commander, take point on this.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, still shocked to my bones.
Vice Admiral Shane walks out of the control center, leaving me in charge of the mission.
Within the next thirty minutes and with the help of Lieutenants Derrick “Bullet” Silver and Prince “Hammer” Shultz, I familiarize myself with the layout of the main prison facility and the terrain of the planet. The planet is really a vegetative one with a harsh environment that humans can barely survive on, even after Terraforming.
The facility sits on a stretch of barren land smack in the midst of a forest. The north-eastern section of the area is where the generators are housed. Near there is also where the land to space missile system is set up. It wouldn’t be a problem for this ship, but it would be a problem for the landing assault force.
We calculate our drop speed and drop vector. We will be dropping in the light side of the planet, meaning they will see us coming only when it’s too late. If it were nighttime, our reentry speed will give our position away because they’ll be seeing ten fiery objects in perfect formation, headed for camp.
The control center is a squat building under guard by a small army of about a hundred Sonali, both within and around. Apparently, this is the base of operation of the commander of the occupation force. This is where their space vehicles are also located.
There are about ten thousand Terrans imprisoned by a small force of a little above a thousand.
Our entry trajectory will put us right in their front door.
“Have you ever fired a weapon dropping from space before?” Lieutenant Prince asks me by the time we are done and heading to the shuttle bay.
I shake my head, expecting the condemnation.
“It’s fun,” is all he says. “You’ll like it.”
I join the ten-man advanced team of super enhanced marines in the specialized EVA suit, specifically designed to withstand the high temperature of reentry. We take off from the spaceship that hides behind one of the moons of the planet (the planet does not have long range scanners). The shuttle carries onboard a tech that obscures its signals such that if it’s scanned by a short range scanner it will register as a space debris. To aid that effect, the shuttle is put in a course for a low orbit swing by before the engines are switched off. No floating asteroid will make a course correction.
“We go down at the tough of our swing by,” I say to the marines.
They all replied and agreed.
The gravity pull increases as we swing by. At the right time, the hatch open and one by one, the marines jump out of the shuttle. I am the last to jump out…yes, totally terrified too. We are sucked into reentry by the powerful gravitational speed. I crane my neck to see the hatch of the shuttle close and the shuttle begin to exit the gravitational pull of the planet.
Fire engulfs my suit soon enough as we gain speed, a terrible roar in my ears in spite of my covering. Minutes later, we break into the atmosphere, on course for the control center.
As we get closer and closer to the ground, the stretch of land becomes more visible, then then the squat control center becomes visible.
“Computer shows about seventy-seven tangos on site, ma’am,” Lieutenant Prince says in the mission wide channel.
“Roger that, Hammer,” I say. “We proceed as planned. Once we neutralize the exterior tangos, I want you to remain behind to secure the facility while Bullet and I take the rest of the team inside.”
“Copy that, ma’am,” Lieutenant Prince replies.
Guns come up by the time we are in range, and we let hell loose. Tangos fall all around
the one-story complex. There are small explosions around as drums carrying explosive ores are hit. At the very last minute, we pull our parachutes, landing with a heavy thud, a jerk and then rising up to full high, still shooting.
The alarms go off.
“Let’s go!” I yell. I tap a red button on my chest that causes the EVA to crack and fall away from my body. I bring my rifle back up, aimed at the open door. Five other Marines form around me and we enter the facility. Clinically, we spread out and kill every Sonali soldier in the building.
The last is the main control center, which we enter. There are four Sonali computer geeks. Three have weapons trained on the door. The blasts miss me by whiskers as I dive for the nearest work station. They don’t get any other shot as I cut them down with a wide spray of my gun.
The fourth reaches for the gun of his fallen comrade. Instead of shooting him, I bound for him and kick the weapon out of his hand.
“Don’t even think about that!” I roar, my gun pointed at his head.
He flinches and retracts his hand.
I approach him, stopping at about six yards to him. I look around. Aside from the three dead operators, the control room is abandoned. The several work stations are still running, but unstaffed.
“Power has been shut down, ma’am,” says one of the marines. “And we’ve apprehended the base commander in his private chambers.”
“Roger that,” I say. “Hammer come in.”
“Go ahead, ma’am,” he replies.
“Send word to the ship,” I say. “We have control of the command center. Let them send in the Cavalry so we can take back the planet.”
I hear the smile in his voice when he speaks, “Copy that, ma’am.”
“Why do you spare me?” the Sonali asks. His voice is like a grating sound. All I can feel from his is hatred and anger and bitterness. A lot of bitterness. It almost makes me to back down.
I don’t reply to him.
“Commander Amanda, come in,” says Vice Admiral.
“Here, sir,” I reply.
“Good work,” he says. “The assault force is already en route. They will be landing in less than three minutes. We’ll need to come up with a call sign for you though.”
“Roger that, sir,” I say with a smile.
I hear the sound before it struck. It’s a space to Earth missile that strikes the control center. There is a great explosion and I am thrown aside by the concussion. I struggle to hold on to my gun and aim, but I am having difficulty hearing and staying awake. The Sonali recovers faster and runs away into the mist of dust particles.
I try to get up to pursue but I was hard hit by the concussion. I am helped out of the building by one of the marines before it collapses in rubles.
I see that the assault team has already landed. They have broken into teams as per my instructions and have started spreading throughout the area. The afternoon air is filled with the sounds of explosions and firefights.
“What the heck happened?” I ask, now outside and in the air.
Up ahead I can see a small Sonali frigate fleeing the planet. It’s the Sonali I didn’t shoot. Why I spared his life is still a mystery to me.
“The Sonali supply ship dropped out of FTL without warning,” Lieutenant Prince says. “I guess they wanted to destroy whatever secret information they had in the control center’s computers. Our ship and the Terran vessel that came into the system chased the ship away”
I nod. Gripping my weapon, I say, “Come on, let’s wrap up here.”
By night fall, the planet colony is back under Terran control. All Sonali were killed in action. Though it was a victory, I am impressed by that Sonali man that survived me.
Back in the shuttle, on our way to the ship now in orbit along with another vessel named The Phantom, Lieutenant Derrick says, “Commander, have you thought of a call sign?”
I shake my head.
“Commander Amanda,” says Lieutenant Prince as though tasting the words in his mouth. “Co Mander…Coma.”
There’s a rigid silence as everyone looks at me.
Coma. Sounds very badass.
Coma. That’s what Terran enemies are when they come face to face with the Operations Commander of Division Fifty One.
I smile. “Coma,” I say. “I like it.”
The Marines cheer.
9
Atonement
Marcus
“Doctor Carson.”
“What?” Marcus’s head snapped up to glare at his assistant, who shoved a bag in his face. From the tone, he guessed Trevor had been trying to get his attention for a while, but he was too intent on the data readings on the tablet.
“Dinner.”
Marcus took the bag, which reeked of grease, and smiled in apology, “Sorry, Trev. I just can’t seem to make heads or tails of these readings.”
“Another all-nighter?”
“I’m afraid so. You can go. Enjoy your rest.”
Trevor nodded and turned to go. Before taking that first step out of the office, he hung his head and turned back, “I’ll call your wife,” he sighed and plodded to the office next door, “Eat your dinner,” he called before picking up the phone.
Trevor was the best assistant Marcus ever had. As the reluctant head of Weapons R&D of Ribhus Industries, he was thrilled to have someone willing to take care of the logistics so he could focus on the science.
Trevor also made sure that he always ate. He grinned and dug a fat sandwich out of the bag. Trevor found a reference to an old recipe and improvised the ingredients that could no longer be found. He still called it “cheesesteak” although there was no meat nor cheese in it, and Marcus had the suspicion he made the pocket bread from scratch. It was his favorite, and Trevor brought it at least twice a week. Marcus absently took a bite while thumbing through the readouts when the screen froze.
That could only mean one thing. His gut rumbled in protest when he put the sandwich down and waited. Giant neon orange letters took up the entire screen.
Alert! Section 23 blinked in and out, filling him with dread as he slipped the tablet in his lab coat pocket and ran.
“Trevor!” He yelled as he slid the keycard in the lock. Trevor was already two inches behind, waiting patiently for the door. The light turned green and Marcus jerked it open, speeding down the hall.
Section 23, the reason Dr. Marcus Carson had written a letter of resignation that he was too chicken to hand over to Corporate. With their classified military contracts, he would disappear. Or worse, his wife would vanish. He knew he should have some fanatic patriotism for the Terran Union, but he had seen too much in the two short years since the war began. He had built too much at the behest of the military and Corporate, and held no illusions of innocence. Section 23 was the worst. Taking a deep breath, he slid the keycard down and punched the extra security code into the number pad. He pulled the door open and two elderly security guards blocked the way, staring at him with expressionless faces. They parted to make a path for the two then closed back in. It was almost laughable to think they could protect anything, but the last person to mistake their ages for weakness was still in the infirmary. These were hardened military men, and the toughest employees in the lab. If they were here, shit just hit the fan.
The Section Head, a stern woman named Edie, met them in front of her office and nodded toward the back, so they followed. If she were walking any faster Marcus would have to jog to keep up. She led them down the endless hallway of cells made of soundproof triple-paned security glass. For added security, taser rifles are ready in their docking stations every third cell. In each cell was a Sonali patient shipped in for experimentation. All of them were in medically induced comas, as if that made it more humane. The only thing they have learned so far is the Sonali had slightly different reactions to electromagnetic frequencies. Not enough to be notable. Edie stopped in front of cell 18 and stared pointedly inside. Ethan rolled his eyes. Edie had the most annoying habit of only gesturing without words. He look
ed over and saw the problem. The Sonali prisoner was sitting up, staring daggers at them with blue blood running from his eyes and nose.
“What the hell is that?” Marcus asked.
He brought out his tablet and exited the alert screen. He tapped again to bring up the stats for the Sonali, a low-level officer whom Marcus named Ethan. He sucked in his breath and looked from the tablet to the patient, and back again.
“That, Marcus, is a clusterfuck,” Edie said, her voice shaky.
Marcus jerked his head up to stare at her in shock. Edie was the most professional scientist in the entire lab. She never swore. She gave him a Yep, I said that look. He smiled and went back to the stats. They told him the Sonali patient was in Delta sleep with no REM, yet there he was, sitting up and focusing. He glared at each of them in turn as if trying to decide who was in charge.
“Sleep disorder?” Marcus asked.
“Negative,” Edie answered.
“Virus?”
“Negative.”
He checked the stats again. There were no spikes in the thalamus, the EEG remained calm throughout. Either Ethan felt no pain, or all the readings were incorrect. Another possibility hit him and his heart began to pound. Whether in excitement or fear, he wasn’t sure just yet.
“Monitor all of the patients closely. I think this one rejected the thiopental-4.” He refused to call them prisoners. They were patients and Section 23 was a medical lab. It was the only way he could live with himself.
Edie nodded and they turned to walk back to the offices, and that’s when all hell broke loose.
Ethan ran straight for them, slamming into the glass and bouncing off. Screaming in rage, he jumped up and did it again, leaving blood smears in his wake. Undeterred, he slammed the glass over and over in a futile attempt to get at them. Trevor paled and looked as if he would vomit, but Edie just studied the behavior like a good scientist. Marcus was fascinated, and a bit frightened at the thought of the patient killing himself, preventing further study.
Edie’s fingers flew over her tablet. A few seconds later Marcus heard the clunky stomping of the guards rushing from the front. Ethan had taken to slamming himself all around the cell, flinging blue blood everywhere. The glass looked like it was filled with blue mist and he found himself wondering how much blood a Sonali could lose before death. They hadn’t experimented with that yet, and he damn sure wouldn’t suggest it. The guards grabbed taser rifles out of their docks without missing a beat, halting in front of the cell. The three doctors backed up until they hit the door of the adjacent cell.
