To make doubly certain of the long term control of Titan One, a full battle group was sent out more than two weeks ago, en route to the space station. Earth Command did not know how many men and women—and reptilians—were still on Titan One. None of their communications received any response in over a month. If the Yellow Man could effectively control Titan One, he would be well on his way to Mars, and then Earth itself. They must regain full control of Titan One at any and all cost. Earth Command ordered as few casualties as possible; capture, don’t kill. Damage to the space station was to be kept to a minimum.
The “capture, don’t kill” directive was why Mason was brought in to the scheme. He knew the base well, and knew where its command and control operations were located, and fourteen ways to get inside. He was outfitted as a walking armory: the usual laser rifle and side-arm; weapons belt with its various “toys;” incendiaries for close range use; portable hand-held energy shields; stun gas; and a plasma cloak to render its wearer virtually invisible. Mason would blend into any background, and become invisible, as long as he did not move.
In keeping with the “capture, don’t kill” directive, he was issued a physician’s injection gun, normally used by high-end concierge physicians. They could be programmed to deliver a wide variety of drugs in individual injections. Mason’s gun contained only two drugs, one for a tranquilizer and the other a heavy sedation drug. He also carried his usual long knife and several other straight blades of various lengths, and his kung fu throwing blades, all razor sharp. Mason was a lethal weapon, a master of killing. But this time he was ordered to capture.
During the flights and jumps, newly-winged pilot Mason was to get flight time in, and learn the fighter’s weapons system and tactical capabilities. He knew he was being trained as a one-man hit squad; capable of insertion, goal achievement, and withdrawal all by himself. He would be able to work alone, or with as many as the Joint Chiefs wished. He would have maximum flexibility for their missions.
The squadron was halfway to Titan One when Admiral Baines met with the Commandant, and Admirals Worthington and Wilson for their biweekly luncheon at the Officers’ Club. “So, has your team’s genetic testing of the reptilian DNA provided any clues as to how we can kill their genes, Admiral Baines?” Admiral Wilson asked during lunch.
“That is the crux of the matter, isn’t it really?” She answered his question with one of her own. “It is similar to our Houston cockroaches, gentlemen; difficult to kill individually, without poisoning your own environment, and nearly impossible to eradicate en masse.” The men laughed at her simile. “Even when the host dies, the alien DNA survives for tens of thousands of years, as does our own. But their DNA never loses its genetic information, suffers weakening within any strain, or loses its ability to bind and replace the host’s DNA with that of its own. We have estimated some of their individual gene pairs to be millions of years old.”
“The introduction of this alien DNA has yet to be labeled for what I think it is: an invasion, pure and simple. If it were to be named as such, perhaps the URE would place more resources at our disposal to combat it,” Admiral Wilson continued.
“Are you gentlemen aware the introduction of this alien DNA was labeled as an invasion several years ago, when the first tube of the DNA substance was discovered aboard the Hesperia?” Admiral Baines asked.
“No, I am not. Who correctly identified the invasion, Admiral? Your late husband, then Captain Baines?” Admiral Worthington asked.
“No, Admiral. It was then Gunnery Sergeant John Mason, your Prime Marine. He called it for what it is: an invasion. He said the tubes were the first wave of their invasion, and that it represented pure genius,” she informed them. “He’s the one who found the first DNA tube.”
There was silence at their table for a few minutes. “He has certainly demonstrated highly perceptive skills in both deductive and intuitive reasoning, that’s a documented fact,” the Commandant offered.
“His recent implant enhancements have heightened his extra sensory perceptual abilities, as well, according to Dr. Brandt, his neurologist. His intuition is formidable. Perhaps he could be useful to the Joint Chiefs as an investigator. It is his field of focus for his PhD, I understand,” Admiral Baines recommended.
“We’ll have to look into this potential for him when he returns, Admiral Baines. Right now, he is otherwise engaged in a mission of great importance to Earth Command,” Admiral Worthington offered.
“Which one, Admiral Worthington? I assume every mission is of great importance, else why would we put our men and women in harm’s way,” she asked delicately.
“Second Lieutenant Mason is harm’s way, Admiral Baines. You have seen him in action. He is a singular weapon of mass destruction, and he is needed elsewhere at this time,” the Commandant replied, effectively shutting down her line of questioning.
Four days later, the fighter squadron made their final jump. Titan One was within communications range. They flew over the battle group yesterday. The lead fighter hailed Titan One, and requested landing and docking support for their squadron. No reply came. They repeated the request, and received no response. The pilot notified Earth Command of the situation, and they were given the authorization to commence the covert mission: Operation Clean Sweep.
Seven hours later, Titan One occupied the windows of his fighter. Mason was in the co-pilot seat, as ordered. He was to be a cocky pilot, and saunter aboard the space station. No problem there. He would be less noticed as a pilot than a Prime Marine. The eight designated fighters landed on the retractable site, and it began to lower and cover them with the dome that would provide their pressurization and breathing air. The other eight fighters went to their separate docking stations for lockdown.
The men donned their thin space suits and tethered together, not trusting whoever was left aboard Titan One to provide life support for them. It was a good decision; as they were walking halfway between their fighters and the air locks, the dome opened to space, letting out their precious air. They used their mini-thruster jets in the space suits to go forward towards the air locks. Their scanners showed good air inside, so they quickly shed their suits. Mason donned his combat gear and took his backpack, and ran full speed towards the center lifts.
The 112 men of the attack group headed out in their assigned directions. Search and capture any and all personnel; kill only if necessary. Mason was to take over the computer command console, located deep inside the central core. He knew its location, and many ways to get there. He hopped on the lift, pushed the E-deck button, then sprayed black-out on the lift’s monitoring camera lens. He removed the upper access panel and climbed on top of the lift while it continued down to engineering. Replacing the panel, he braced himself, feeling the lift stop several floors above his E-deck. He saw four men rush in for him; they found it empty, and decided he was still on the main deck. They left, and the lift continued down. He reported their location and number to his squad.
When the lift stopped in engineering, Mason climbed up one floor and watched five men storm the empty lift. They quickly left. He waited for the lift to go up past him, and climbed sideways to an access panel, silently opened it and got inside. Mason climbed down to the engineering deck and opened the panel door a crack and peeked inside. Eight officers working at their stations, as if it was business as usual. There should have been twice the number of officers on the deck. The central console only had two officers manning it. They were preoccupied with something on the monitor, probably the Space Marines coming their way. Mason took out two canisters of stun gas, donned his thin mask, and threw them inside, closing the panel. Someone hit the Red Alert button, but they weren’t upright for long.
Mason used his drug gun on each man and sedated them, locked down the main door, and took control of the computer console. He very quickly followed his programming directives, and gained control of all Titan One’s systems. He called his progress to his squad, and heard laser firefighting erupting close by. He n
otified Earth Command and Admiral Worthington: “Admiral, I have the computer control console. Laser firefighting has erupted on sections 3, 7, 8 and 10. Scans from life support indicate 221 life forms in addition to our personnel. Engineering is secure, sir.”
He was told to hold his position and try to monitor the rest of the squad’s movements. What bothered him was this was way too easy. He surprised them, to be sure, but he should’ve had some resistance. He expected something to happen any second. “Marine squad 6 team leader to squad 6, respond,” Mason called, and received no response.
“Marine squad 6 team leader to fighter pilot 6, respond,” he called. No response. “Marine squad 6 team leader to all squads and pilots, respond at once.” Dead silence. Had the Titan One traitors trapped or killed all 112 men? Or, merely blocked their comm-links?
Mason reported his inability to communicate with the squads and fighter pilots to Earth Command, and was told to hold his position. He checked the security vid cam feeds for the eight docking stations and landing decks; no action. Where were they? Were they all carrying out their assignments, or all killed?
All squads were to carry out their assignments and rendezvous in four hours at the landing site for further instructions from Earth Command. The battle group would dock in two hours. Their short range fighters should be in range within a half hour, flying well ahead of the battleship.
Mason held his position and waited. He ran systems checks for engines and life support; all good. Ship wide communications; check. He decided to run an analysis of station security capabilities. Twelve full size battle droids, full base armory, and the usual array of defensive weaponry for the station: laser cannon; six different missiles’ firing systems with a hundred missiles apiece; full shields’ array; and plasma burst torpedoes, the big ones. Thirty escape pods and eight shuttles, all locked down in their bays and holds. The usual complement of defensive weaponry for a space station this large.
Mason checked the location of the battle droids. All were activated upon their arrival, stationed at the bridge, main arrival deck, communications deck, and engineering. He commenced a sweep of the deck he controlled for the battle droids. They were not inside with him, or outside the door. Where were they? Those full-sized droids were two meters tall, shiny black, weighed 110 kilos, and carried enough weaponry to take out a hundred men in seconds, just like he did.
Mason closed his eyes to listen more closely. The battle droids weighed too much to be in the ceiling. If he could use the access panels, so could they; the floor panels were also to be considered, as well as the walls. He quietly pulled out his scanner, swept the entire room, and it read nothing. He rechecked the positioning of the droids, same as before. He decided to recheck systems control to make sure the central computer console he controlled was in command of the entire station; the computer said it was. What if it was programmed to give false information?
Mason sent a communiqué from his wrist comm-link to Admiral Worthington directly: “Have secured central computer console. However, readings may be a false program. Please check. Unable to communicate with any squad member.”
The other stations in the command center were operational but unmanned. While waiting for the Admiral’s response, Mason went from station to station, performing systems checks on each station; all were 100%. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. He quietly lowered his helmet’s visor and brought his laser rifle around to his arms, and took position alongside the wall where the main door opened. He swept the room again with his scanner; it showed activity beyond the main door and underneath the main control station. Here they come.
Mason lay down flat on the floor. He held out a mirror tile from his weapons belt to watch the main door, listening for any sound at all. A floor panel lifted as the room lights were suddenly cut off. A canister was tossed on the floor. Mason quickly took out another thin gas mask and put it over his helmet and secured it around his neck. He waited in silence; he could see 75% full vision even in pitch blackness. The floor panel was raised and removed, and a man’s masked head popped up looking about in the darkness. “All clear,” he said. Mason watched four men come through the floor panel and stand around the console.
“Bring the lights up now,” the first man said through his gas mask. The instant the lights came up, they headed for the main door. They were treated to stun-level shots from Mason’s laser rifle. He quickly got up and gave each of them a sedation shot, and went to his position on the floor. He knew there was more fun ahead. Another head came through the open floor panel.
“Garza, where are you? Garza, did you switch over control to the bridge, Garza?” The man asked, standing there, looking about. Mason played dead, finger on the trigger of his laser rifle. “Come on up. I can’t find Garza,” the man said. When another five men came through the floor opening, Mason took them out with stun shots, followed by his sedation gun.
Mason’s wrist comm-link beeped. “No contact with any Clean Sweep squad or pilot. You have control. Secure and maintain. Await battle group fighters in 45 minutes.” So, he was to keep playing “Whack a mole” until the fighters surrounded the space station, another 45 minutes. But who was outside the main door, battle droids or traitors; or both?
A change of tactic was in order. Mason changed the setting on his laser rifle to “Kill” from “Stun.” Whoever was outside the main door was not going to stun him. He scanned the floor panel opening again; no more activity. He gingerly crawled over and closed the floor panel, and put a sedated body on top to make it more difficult to open. He checked the vid cams; still no activity anywhere, so he rebooted the vid cam security system as a precaution.
His bionic ears picked up an extremely soft brushing sound from the direction of the main door. He quickly went to his spot and laid down, rifle in firing position. “Click-click, click-click,” was all he needed to hear. He reached into his pack and quickly pulled out two incendiaries, pulled the pins, and waited. The battle droids were activated.
The main door opened and two battle droids burst inside, firing in a wide, sweeping pattern. Several laser blasts hit Mason. Behind them were four traitors, holding their fire. Mason released the incendiaries’ clips and tossed them at the battle droids, rendering one inoperative, and blasting the other’s leg off. The four traitors behind the wounded droid began firing in Mason’s direction as the smoke cleared, and Mason was hit on his ankle. He was able to quickly get behind an engineer’s work station for more protection against their laser blasts, but the workstation was being fired upon by all four men, and would not hold much longer.
He had only two stun gas canisters left, so he pulled the plugs and hurled them over the top of the workstation at the traitors, and he put his last thin gas mask over his helmet. Two traitors stopped firing and grabbed masks off the sedated crewman lying on the floor, but the other two men were not that fast-thinking. They grabbed their throats, choking; Mason shot them, and decided to take advantage of the smoke while it lasted.
Mason kneeled behind the remnant of the workstation and pulled out his plasma cloak, a slippery covering which would render him virtually invisible. In a split second, he deftly swirled the cloak over him and held his breath. He became part of the chaos, invisible to the gas-masked remaining two traitors. They stood up and looked around at the crewmen lying on the floor.
“Where’d he go?” One of the traitors asked the other.
“You fucking idiot! He must’ve crawled out the door. You didn’t close the main door. You go get him, and I’ll transfer computer command to the bridge.” The young officer took off his mask, and went to the big computer command console in the middle of the room, as the other traitor ran out into the hall.
Mason very slowly moved to a pile of junk that used to be a battle droid, and stopped to let the plasma cloak settle to cover him. The busy traitor at the computer command console was still out of range, hidden behind the console. Mason was too close to stay invisible; time to rush. He picked up a fallen O-
ring from the battle droid, and tossed it away from him.
Hearing the noise, the traitor stopped, and started firing his hand laser at the sound. Mason leapt at him, firing his laser rifle. He hit him dead-on and took him out; but his rifle was now out of ammo. He hobbled to the computer command console to redirect control to the engineering station again.
“He’s not anywhere outside, Lieutenant,” the traitor said as he walked through the main engineering door. Seeing Mason, he blasted his laser rifle at him, hit Mason’s torso, and knocked him backwards. The young man rushed in towards the console, just in time to get hit by Mason’s kung fu throwing blades in his skull. The traitor stumbled and fell, but managed to get a couple of last shots off into Mason’ midsection. Mason jumped him and plunged his knife into his throat. The dead traitor fell on top of the console, and slid down onto Mason’s injured leg; it took several seconds to kick the dead traitor off his leg and hobble to the console.
Mason looked at his combat vest and coverings, nearly shredded on his chest, midsection, arms and legs, from all the close range laser rifle blasts. His extra nano body suit saved his life. He would have large bruises and some skin burns from the laser blasts, but he was still alive.
Quickly redirecting control back to his computer command console, Mason stood on one leg until the system confirmed the Titan One bridge control was off-line. He then closed and locked the main engineering door. His ankle was on fire. He untied his boot, cut where the laser hit him, and used his shoelace as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.
He stood on one leg and surveyed the carnage in the main engineering deck, and looked at the faces of the stunned and sedated crewmen and officers on the floor. No one above Lieutenant. Of the four dead traitors he killed, only one was an officer, and he was a junior grade Lieutenant. Where were the senior officers? No one on the floor looked over 23, maybe 25 years old. Titan One was too big, too important to leave in the hands of junior officers and crewmen. This was just not right, not right at all.
Vengeance of Sukesh: John Mason (Legend of John Mason) Page 17
