The Mighty First, Episode 2
Page 5
“You look familiar.”
This came from the man behind the counter. Ford looked up from the paper, slightly amused. “Really? I’ve never been in Arizona before.”
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The shop keeper held out a friendly hand, “I’m Tom McCauley. This is my store.”
They shook hands after Ford returned the paper to its place on the rack, “Dwayne Ford.”
Tom was squinting in thought, “I could swear that I know you. I never forget a face.”
Amell approached the counter with a bag of black jelly beans, “We’ve seen his face a bit too much ourselves,” she quipped.
The shop owner looked at her, then back at Ford, realization dawning, “Marines!”
“Guilty as charged,” Amell replied, “how much for the licorice beans?”
Tom waved them off absentmindedly, “No charge for service members.” He couldn’t stop staring at Ford, trying to place where he had recognized him.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Mister McCauley,” Ford told him, by then beginning to feel ill at ease.
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They left the store and crossed the street, heading for the small town park. Glancing back over their shoulders, they saw that McCauley was peering out at them from the doorway of his store, snapping a picture with his cell phone.
“I don’t understand this,” Amell said at one point, as they rested on park benches near the town square. “How is it that everyone knows who we are? We’re not in uniform.” The bronze statue of a guitar player stood on the corner, facing the Route 66 emblem etched into the brick-lain intersection. Her eyes fell on the plaque that explained its dedication to a band from more than two hundred years before. Piped music played from outside speakers, a catchy tune about standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona. The band’s name was The Eagles; she did not recognize it, but found the rhythm intriguing.
Ecu had been standing nearby, sipping on a fruit smoothie while reading a public announcement board. She had been impressed by a color photo of Meteor Crater. What she found after that intrigued her more. “This might explain it,” she mentioned.
The others moved to see what she was looking at.
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Centered among various advertisements and hand-written notes was a colored poster, similar to those that one would see outside a theater. In bold lettering across the top, it read, The Mighty First. Beneath that, New Episodes Every Mon, Wed, and Fri. on all major networks!
The faces of Ford, Ecu, Amell, Minerva, Mark, Manny, and Colonel Strasburg were side by side above a dramatic photo of the napalm explosion outside of Hubbard the morning that the Storians had been pushed back just after D-Day. There were smaller scenes along the edges of Hueys dropping Marines, of a tank firing its side guns, and the image of an armored trooper facing a sunrise, the light glinting from his closed visor.
Minerva appeared to be a network favorite, though. Her face was plastered on several GNN advertisements, sometimes smiling, others appearing on the verge of exhaustion. The most dramatic was a photo taken of her just after the battle for Hubbard, Ohio. She was on her knees, face buried in her hands as she wept. The bodies of torn marines lay in the foreground.
The kids were speechless.
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They gawked at the posters for some moments, not knowing what to make of them. Ecu finally voiced what was a shared thought in their heads.
“They’ve turned this whole thing into a damned soap opera!”
Ford just shook his head, disgusted. It was clearly evident now why GNN had been permitted to embed reporters with the line units. He had tolerated their presence, assuming that it was to get the word out at how evil Grozet was, and to expose the atrocities that his people were inflicting on anyone he deemed unworthy. This, though, was an insult to anyone who knew what it was like to be out there every day, seeing their fellow marines being butchered while trying to defend the right of their countrymen to live. In the very least, moments like the last photo captured deserved to be left to the privacy of the trooper. It was a feeling of personal violation.
“The next chucklehead that asks me for an autograph is getting punched,” Manny declared.
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Ford put a hand on his shoulder, “We can’t blame Joe Public,” he said firmly. “These people don’t know or understand,” he said, motioning at the civilians walking about downtown. “They’ve been frightened and alone for over a year, and they genuinely appreciate what we’re doing. It’s GNN that’s capitalizing on our blood. Unfortunately, our own Brass is going along with it. We’ll figure something out, but in the meantime, it’s important that we don’t do anything to cast shame on our Corps. Stay professional. Stay humble.”
The kids were reluctant, but they understood what he meant. It didn’t take the sting of it away, though.
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By late afternoon, they returned to Minerva’s house, hungry and ready to relax. Ford had a big bag of charcoal under one arm, his coveted box of cigars in his free hand. Manny and Mark carried paper bags full of groceries and hard-to-find steaks, while the girls lugged cases of beer and soda. A barbeque would be just the thing to cure their diminished mood.
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Minerva greeted them happily when they entered, kissing Mark and taking the bag of food, “I’m so excited!” She exclaimed, eyes dancing, “Can you believe it? We’re going to be married!”
Her friends put on happy faces, determined not to ruin her glee. Andrea rummaged through the bags, oohing and ahhing at the cuts of meat.
“I’ll get some fresh onions and peppers from the garden,” she muttered. “Oh, and garlic, and we’ll need---” she was like a happy hen, eager to cook for her suddenly expanded family. Cleo took the charcoal and set about cleaning his grill, singing an up-beat Mexican ballad for a change. Ford took in their contentment and whispered to the others.
“No one speaks of what we found out today. This family deserves their time in the sun.”
They agreed to put it behind them, and embraced Minerva’s joy.
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July 15th
The morning had begun early. After a quick shower, Minerva found herself at her mother’s mercy while the woman fussed over her hair and tediously applied make-up in a slow, careful labor of love. Her mother’s friends had started to filter in as the sun was scarcely peeking over the horizon, and divided a multitude of duties among themselves. One coaxed Minerva into the dress so that last-minute adjustments could be made, while another compared the material to a selection of shoes. Yet another woman doted over Minerva’s short-trimmed nails, applying fake ones and painting them an iridescent pearl to match the dress. There were others in the kitchen, toiling over the stove, preparing huge dishes for the reception. The house had become a veritable factory.
Ecu and Amell were swept up in the activities and found themselves surrounded as well, with women fussing and debating how to best beautify them to their standards. Every male in the household was ushered outside, hastily dressed and somewhat
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bewildered. Still more women were arriving, many carrying Tupperware, talking excitedly as they hurried through the front door, ignoring the men standing in the yard as they passed by them.
Ford looked at Manny and Mark, a lost expression on his face, “So, what do we do now?”
Cleo was muttering to himself in Spanish, scratching his head, “We didn’t even get breakfast!”
As they stood there on the lawn, another car pulled up to the curb, driven by a wild-haired man that Ford thought resembled Albert Einstein. The guy got out and leaned over the top of the cab, “Pile in!”
“Us?” Ford asked.
“No, the tree behind you,” the guy retorted.
“Of course, you. All of you. I’m supposed to get you guys fitted for the tuxedos!”
Ford made a low, growling sound, but held his temper in check. He motioned for the others to follow and they complied, squeezing into the vehicle. The kooky driver sped off, playing
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some fast-beat classical music, and making up words to it as he sang along. The old fellow seemed half out of his wits. They ended up parking in front of Greer’s Mortuary.
Manny gawked out at where they had stopped, his uni-brow bouncing up and down as his face dropped in disbelief, “ Oh, heck no ! Tell me you’re joking!”
The driver killed the engine and cackled, “Nope. This is it. Best selection in town, with every garment factory on the west coast converted to war production.” He regarded Ford’s gargantuan muscles with some doubt, “We might have to do some tailoring for you, though. No one your size has died in some time.”
Ford’s eyes bulged, and he fumbled for the doorknob, trying to get out as quickly as possible.
“Madre de Dios!” Cleo intoned, crossing himself.
Reluctantly, they allowed themselves to be ushered through the entrance. Ford slapped Mark across the back of the head, “This is your fault!”
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The fitting for the men turned out to be a comical affair, with none of them used to being measured and poked and prodded in the process of being paired with adequate formal wear. At one point, a lieutenant from the local Army depot arrived sporting a full-dress Marine uniform and handed it off to Mark. The master sergeant did not know what to think.
“How did you know about this, Sir?”
Lieutenant Tyler Watkins gave him a look of disbelief, “Are you kidding?”
Mark exchanged glances with Ford, who was trying to squeeze himself into his white shirt. He had to hold his breath to get it buttoned, but when he relaxed, it gave with a tearing sound and most of the buttons flew off.
Ford looked at the Army lieutenant, “Did Minerva’s mom arrange this?”
The officer moved to a television mounted on a nearby wall and turned it on, flipping to the newsfeed.
GNN was busy broadcasting an entire segment on the coming wedding and the excited bustle involved.
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The officer thumbed toward the screen, “It’s the happiest news that housewives have had to buzz about,” he stated sarcastically. “You can’t even get a decent sports report anymore!”
‘Einstein’ came back into the dressing room with an armful of clothing and made a noise of disdain upon seeing Ford’s shirt split open, “No! No! No! Take that off, I’ll find another. Maybe sew a bed sheet or something!”
Manny was posing before a full-length mirror, eyes still alight with apprehension. His tux was a turquoise blue with ruffles down the center, “What is this, a slam because I’m Hispanic? You think I’m going to whip out a guitar and sing mariachi for the wedding march?”
The parlor director made a dismissive gesture, “Beggars can’t be choosers. It’s what I have in your size.”
Cleo was the only one in a decent, black tux, and laughed heartily at Manny’s plight.
Ford tore the remains of his shirt off and tossed it at Einstein, who in turn threw his armful of black jackets back at him, “Try these on. Please don’t destroy them!”
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Lieutenant Watkins took this all in with something less than approval. He wandered out before the crazy old man tried to fit him with something.
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By noon, the men were on their way to the Catholic Church, riding in of all things, a hearse. Of course, the driver was the frizzy haired old fellow that Ford had dubbed Einstein.
Downtown was crowded with throngs of people, many spilling out into the main drag, slowing down any vehicles that were trying to get through. The media had banks of cameras set up along the sidewalk across from the chapel. Einstein honked and eased his way through the crowd. The church parking lot was already full, so he had to pull over half a block away, along the curb, in front of The Soda Shoppe.
Peering through the windows, the guys took in the scene. The church was quaint, an old stone building from the early 1900’s, carefully preserved over the years.
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The chapel portion of it that jutted from one side had military policemen guarding the doors, allowing only certain people through. Townsfolk were snapping pictures left and right, some perched on the roof of the adjoining Wells Fargo bank.
There was a sudden throng in the crowd and people began cheering, pointing at something toward the main intersection, where the town’s one stoplight operated. The guys followed the shift in attention, and were open-mouthed at what they saw. A horse-drawn carriage was clopping toward the church, escorted by four Marines in full dress uniform, marching at each corner of it. A trio of town cops and the police chief walked ahead of it, clearing a path through the sea of on-lookers. GNN crews were panning in while a reporter babbled away into her microphone.
The carriage stopped at the edge of the church parking lot and the white-gloved escort made a big show of helping Minerva and her mother down from it. Another carriage came around the corner and stopped behind the first, carrying Ecu and Amell, in bridesmaid’s dresses. The four women were ceremoniously positioned together, and the Marines flanked them, standing at
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attention with parade rifles.
“That’s our cue,” Einstein announced. “Out! Out you go!”
Ford opened the passenger-side door while Mark, Manny, and Cleo exited the back. At first, they were unnoticed, as every eye in the crowd was focused on the bride. As they approached and entered the circle of attention, more cheers sounded followed by clapping as the crowd parted for them...
Mark was rendered speechless at the sight of his bride. Minerva seemed to glow in her dress. Her face was one of youthful beauty, eyes shining, and smile gracing an angelic presence. Their eyes met, and a moment passed between them that was shared only by them alone. For an instant, the world was gone, replaced only by a warm, gentle paradise that they dwelt in as time stood still. The noise of the crowd faded. All of the past hurts and horrors were forgotten, replaced by this one moment in the universe that would remain in their memories forever.
Minerva reached out with one hand, the other clutching a bouquet. Mark took it and she drew him near.
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There was no other place in the world he needed to be than right there before her.
“I love you,” she told him, touching the front of his uniform, admiring how its lines framed his torso.
Mark was still searching for his words, taking in her beauty, intoxicated with it, “ I love you, too,” he managed. His words seemed inadequate to him, unable to convey the true, burning passion that he felt for her right then. He wanted her to know that his every breath was blessed with the memory of her perfume, of all the special moments they had shared. That he was absolutely nothing without her at his side.
Somehow, she seemed to know his heart. Perhaps it was in his eyes. Minerva’s hand, so strong, yet so soft, touched his cheek, and his breath caught as tears welled.
Andrea wiped tears of her own from the corners of her eyes, and took Cleo’s hand as well, laying her head on his shoulder. Ford and Manny joined the girls, forming up the procession.
Clutching at Mark’s hand, Minerva began the walk that
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would take them into the chapel. Her soul cried out with inner joy. In only a short time, she would be his wife, and that was all that mattered.
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The wedding ceremony was being transmitted live via Anderson Beam. The Free Zone, all of the Allied Districts, and the planet Attaya watched the proceedings. Aft
er weeks of being bombarded with butchery, of seeing both Terran and Attayan youth sacrificing themselves in battle, this was a welcome moment of something spiritual and intimate. It was a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Even in the darkness of an unprovoked war, love had found its way to the fore. The cameras panned back as the ceremony drew to its close, capturing the Holy Cross in the background.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife, “the priest announced at the close of the ceremony.
The cameras closed in again, and the gentle kiss was shared
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across the galaxy.
This televised event served to inspire a renewed faith to those of the Allied nations, who prayed for divine intervention in stopping Grozet in his sick and self-serving purpose of erasing the universe of non-Storian life.
To the Storians, however, it elicited a wave of first disbelieve, then one of burning hatred. Grozet had been watching this in the company of his senior staff. He flew into a rage, eyes aglow with murder.
“DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT LEGIONS OF CHILDREN ARE FACING US IN BATTLE? THESE SO-CALLED MARINES ARE TEEN-AGE CHILDREN?”
The officers remained silent, unable to look him in the eye. No one dared move.
Grozet stomped toward the vid-screen and grabbed it, yanking it from the wall and throwing it across the room, “How long have you fools known of this?” He asked, his voice dangerously low, venomous.
No one could find it within themselves to reply. To be
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singled out could result in death.
Grozet reached down and picked up a newspaper from the conference table, one that had been confiscated from an underground organization. He turned it so that they could see the headlines.