The Mighty First, Episode 1: Special Edition

by Unknown

  “Being without my java is my biggest phobia,” he admitted.

  She chuckled, passing by, and entering her NCO quarters. The room was scarcely large enough for her rack, a wall-mounted desk, and the stand-up locker. Regretting that she had not had a chance to shower, she whistled happily as she at least donned a fresh set of fatigues and socks before beginning the arduous task of latching on her armor. She had mixed feelings about finally shipping out. Afraid for what combat might be like, yet anxious to dish out some payback on the Storians. Above all of that was the thrill of being engaged. She had known that she loved Mark months before, and was certain that he felt the same for her. This cemented the fact that they were truly dedicated to one another. She imagined the surprise her parents were going to feel when she told them. That thought made her smile falter a little, but Minerva forced it to return. She had reassured herself persistently that her mom and dad were still alive, absorbing every morsel of off-world news that made it to print.

  It did, indeed, appear as if Arizona had been spared any direct damage from the invasion, as was New Mexico, and Texas. That bolstered her hopes for them.

  Suited up, Minerva donned her harness, adjusting the positions of the pouches, and the field pack. Checked the snugness of her knife sheaf, and the pistol strapped to her hip. Lastly, she took her helmet, and rifle. Ready to go. One last look at her small, private room. No telling when she might see it again.

  “Ready to go, Pretty Lady?”

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  Mark was at her door, fitted out, and eager to get the platoons formed up.

  She went to him, stole one last kiss, and surprised him with a solid swat on his butt plate on her way past, swinging her armored hips coyly.

  The squad bay was a flurry of activity, laced with energetic profanity. People were for the most part ready by then, making last-minute checks of their gear.

  “Time for the Prom, ladies!” Ford bellowed, striding toward Quarterdeck Hall. “Fall out!”

  Mark led 1st Platoon outside first, forming up while Minerva emerged leading 2nd. Across the division area, other companies were doing the same, producing a low roar of chatter and shouts of enthusiasm. First Sergeant Ford called Alpha to attention at the approach of the lieutenant, captain, and major, all also decked-out in armor. No matter the rank, everyone in the division would be in the first wave; that was the creed of the regiment. First in-last out.

  A row of deuce-and-a-halfs pulled up to the curb, their tailgates already down, engines loud. The major made a twirling motion with one hand, and Ford ordered his company to begin loading up.

  Once crammed full, the trucks began their trek across the base, in the direction of the air field, where four of the Galaxy transports idled at the ready lines. Through the gate, and circling toward the open area along the fringes of the tarmac. Then they were unloading, and forming up yet again. There were more trucks arriving, delivering nearly every marine on the base, as well as newly graduated recruit companies. Minerva watched with mild wonder as the entire area surrounding the hangars gradually filled to beyond capacity. Section upon section of companies, all laden with gear, and ready to go.

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  She looked over her own platoon, satisfied with how they looked. Fully equipped, and practically bouncing on their heels with anticipation. They were as ready as they ever going to be. They were restless, as was she. The late afternoon sky was pregnant with thunderheads, threatening to let go at any time. The air thick, and humid. There was a stillness to the air, as if waiting for all hell to break loose.

  First Sergeant Ford followed his company and division commanders to the command briefing that was being set up within one of the hangars. The officers and senior sergeants waiting inside were just as pumped with adrenaline as their troops were, talking excitedly among themselves. The three officers of Division One found seats, and offered one to Ford, but he preferred to stand---mostly due to the fact that he was weighed down with nearly forty pounds of gear. Trying to sit comfortably in a small folding chair would likely tip him on his ass. The officers wore only their armor, which made sitting a lot easier to do.

  After a short time, everyone came to attention anyway, as General Towers entered, followed by his staff aides.

  “As you were, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Towers took a stance before them, a smug expression of his face, “Over the course of the past thirty-six hours, the Attayan space navy has not only turned back yet another Storian resupply convoy at the Kuiper Limit, but also managed to engage, and proceed to tear Grozet’s 3rd Fleet a new asshole!”

  Cheers and clapping went up, which the general permitted to continue for a few moments before motioning for everyone to quiet down.

  “The Attayans now hold orbital dominance over Earth,” Towers announced. “Which means we are now clear to launch our counter-offensive.” He pointed toward the huge hangar doors.

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  “There are eleven thousand marines out there waiting for their chance to take a slice of Storian butt cheek, and another two hundred thousand preparing for deployment. The entire Eighty-Third Combat Regiment will be riding down on this first wave.”

  The general turned his attention to a large map set up on a board, “The North American theatre has remained deliberately stagnant this entire time, with the lines holding steady. Constant harassment has forced Grozet to whittle down on his munitions and supplies, weakening his ability to continue to hold for much longer.

  “About three hours ago, we began openly transmitting lightly coded orders to battalions that don’t even exist, instructing them to prepare for an offensive push against the southern lines. The Storians will de-code these transmissions, and in falsely believing that a push is coming in battalion-strengths along the Kansas, and Missouri front, will hopefully pull resources from his nearest bunkers---the eastern front.

  “Once we see these movements have begun, the surface army will initiate a feint, launching coordinated artillery attacks where Grozet expects them to be.”

  The general grinned at his audience, “While this little ruse is taking place, we should already be in orbit. This is where our part comes in.”

  The aide draped the U.S. map over the top of the billboard, exposing another, this one a topographical type focusing specifically on the state of Ohio.

  “Indianapolis, Indiana is the command and control center for Storian operations. It lies in the center of several concentric rings of heavily fortified divisions radiating outward toward the front lines. With the Rockies protecting his west flank, the rugged remoteness of the northern lines, and our need to avoid exposing the false push from the south, we are left with only one conceivable place to focus

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  our attack. That is here.” He tapped the eastern border of Ohio.

  “Over the course of the past year, Grozet had been constructing a hard line of defensive positions along this border, a line that our strategists found very similar to the type utilized by Germany during World War Two at Normandy Beach. We will initiate a full frontal assault on this wall, using the same tactics used by the military commanders of that era, which produced favorable results. This mission’s official call sign is Operation Overlord Two.”

  Towers fixed the officers with a serious glare, “The Second Battalion, now bulked up to four thousand infantry with additions provided from around Fort Dixon and the recruit training depot, will be deployed here---just east of Hubbard, Ohio. This section of the Storian wall is code-named Omaha Beach. Second Battalion will land in-force, and execute the direct attack backed by the 108th Armored Division. You will have eight heavy battle tanks at your disposal.

  “This fortification is literally a concrete wall thirty feet in height, and God-only-knows how thick. There are machine gun emplacements spaced every fifty feet. Expect the approach to be mined, and to be under mortar cover as well. Enemy troop strength is uncertain, but you are expected to encounter heavy resistance. This is why Second Battalion has been packed with
so many extra marines. We anticipate a high casualty rate, but it is imperative that you keep sustained fire on this wall, and strive to overrun it.”

  A hand rose in front, the battalion commander for 2nd. The woman sounded understandably ill at ease.

  “General, why are we throwing infantry at a fortification that is so heavily defended? Wouldn’t it be wiser to take it out with aerial bombardment?”

  Towers nodded, “I agree that bombing it would be far easier,

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  and save a large number of lives. This is why we cannot do that.” He tapped the map again, pointing out the sprawl of a small town that hugged the wall.

  “There are about eight thousand civilians that still reside in Hubbard. Eight thousand men, women, and children that have been suffering under Storian rule for nearly two years. Even with smart weapons, we would not be able to accurately lay ordinance on the wall without putting those people in danger of a stray hit.”

  “Our air wings will be on stand-by for close-in air support, on-station from orbit on the USS Goliath. They will make a low-level pass, launching straight-line rockets at the emplacements along the wall in the hopes of neutralizing some of those heavy guns. Our gunships will also accompany the infantry landing, so you will not be totally without air cover.”

  The battalion commander nodded her understanding, and sat back down.

  General Towers went on with his briefing, “Approximately six miles to the south is the township of Campbell, population seven thousand and some change. This is where the wall peters-out, merging with a sheer cliff face of some rather significant land formations. This has been coded Dog One. In following the attack alignment, Third Battalion, consisting of twenty-five hundred infantry backed by the 83rd Armored, will make landfall there with the same objectives in mind. Take. That. Wall.”

  Towers searched the hangar, looking for a particular face, “Major Gold, where are you?”

  Gold rose a hand.

  “Ah! Now, listen carefully. The First Battalion will be deployed by chopper landings along the western flank of the wall, behind enemy lines, about two miles back. You will be dropped in

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  platoon strengths, and are to hit the wall defenses from the rear. Your objectives are to assist in taking out the heavy guns and mortar positions, thus crushing this thing from both sides.”

  Towers sighed, and cupped his hands together, “We cannot bomb Grozet’s C and C in Indianapolis for the same reasons. We have to keep in mind that on this march to Indianapolis, we will be tasked with liberating populated towns and cities every step of the way. There will be a heavy restraint on loose artillery near populated centers. Collateral damage is something that we have to remain very vigilant against.

  “Allied forces from across the planet will be mustering their resources to support this initiative, but you need to understand this here, and now. We are literally the last line of defense. If we fail, there is no one else to call. The future of Earth rests on our shoulders, ladies and gentlemen, as it never has in the course of history.”

  First Sergeant Ford remained off to the side, lighting a cigar, and keeping to himself while the others gathered to talk after the briefing had ended. He studied the faces of the officers, trying to get a feel for what they might really be feeling about this operation. There was the usual banter, and displays of confidence, especially so among the junior officers. It was the faces of the senior NCO’s, the company first sergeants that bothered him the most. Their faces reflected what he, himself was feeling.

  They were afraid.

  Eleven

  Retribution

  USS Goliath, CVN 17, super-carrier

  Sol System

  April 30th Earth Standard Calendar

  The Goliath task force dropped out of Anderson drive en masse just beyond the moon of Earth, already in a wide attack formation. The destroyers, nine in all, were the vanguard for the fleet, and steamed in a V pattern in the lead. Missile cruisers made up the outer flanks with the carrier in the center, and a consist of armed support ships guarding the rear.

  The moment they entered inner space, the Goliath began transmitting the flag code, alerting the Attayan fleet holding Earth’s orbit to their arrival. GNN crews were permitted to film the sight, which was spectacular to behold. The feed went live, boosted by newly launched satellites to receivers not only for the free zones of Earth, but Attaya as well. Billions of people were watching the cavalry finally riding in.

  The effect on the civilian populace on Earth was that of elation. People took to the streets in free countries all over the world, celebrating with an almost manic fervor. Word spread quickly through the underground resistance, and began to circulate among communities within the occupied zones, restoring hope.

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  Most importantly, it was seen on TV by the Storian occupation forces---which was the true intention of the entire act of the beaming to begin with.

  Slowing gradually from flank speed, the arriving fleet settled into a wide orbit, cruising slowly at a distance far enough out from Earth to remain beyond the reach of any particle beam weapons, or ground-launched defensive missiles. The Attayan task force held their tight ring closer in, risking taking fire to provide yet another layer of shielding for the Terran strike force.

  In the CIC of the Goliath, Admirial McKee and Marine General Towers hovered over a digital plotting table, studying a 3-D holographic display of the southern front that ranged across Kansas and Missouri. The compartment was dim, most of the lighting coming from the multi-colored screens and indicators from consoles. The combat control center was busy, with a low drone of voices from operators overseeing various activities among the fleet.

  The ship’s captain stepped in, entering the one place on the ship where a call to attention was never announced for a senior officer. Operations were far more important than that traditional courtesy.

  The captain was followed by a pair of Marine officers, one a Terran, the other Attayan. The men were both stern-faced, and carried a casual air of authority and confidence. Men who were accustomed to possessing the power to move worlds when necessary, yet refraining from being corrupted by it.

  “Sirs,” the captain greeted McKee and Towers, presenting the two officers that he had in tow, “your field commanders have just arrived by shuttle from the USS Damascus.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” the general said, looking from the display to Admiral McKee.

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  “Admiral, this is Marine Colonel Strasburg, and Attayan Colonel Lafferty. They will be commanding the regiment from the ground.”

  McKee shook their hands respectively, “Welcome aboard, gentlemen.”

  Towers indicated the holographic display, “We were just watching Grozet’s troop movements along the southern lines.”

  Colonel Strasburg, clad in his field armor, leaned in closer to study the image. He was an imposing figure despite his slender frame. His facial features were gaunt, as if he hadn’t eaten or slept recently, yet still radiated a kind of energy that deserved a second-glance. His eyes were bright and active, flitting constantly, aware of everything that was going on around him. He looked to be in his sixties, but was by no means deserving of the assumption to be getting old. In fact, that same nervous dance of his eyes seemed to hold power over the rest of his body. The man could not stand still for a moment, shifting from one foot to another, or wringing his hands together. His tongue often snaked out to wet his lips in a predatory manner.

  “Has our false intelligence had the desired effect?” He asked.

  Towers folded his arms, nodding, “It appears to have, yes. In the past three hours, we’ve watched Grozet pulling men and material from the eastern front, and putting them on the move south. It looks like they’re preparing to bolster the Missouri line first.”

  Strasburg grinned, and it sent shivers up the general’s back. It was the sort of smile that one might expect from a demonic clown out of a nightmare. Towers actually took a ste
p backward without realizing it.

  “Groovy,” the colonel stated.

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  Unfamiliar with the antiquated slang, Towers only stared blankly.

  The admiral cleared his throat, and pointed at a particular spot of the image hanging in the air between them, “Anyway, we expect the Storians to have sufficiently pulled enough of their infantry from Ohio to initiate phase two by tonight.”

  Strasburg frowned, and pointed at an area along the intended landing zone, “What are these structures here? The objects smattered about the town of Campbell behind Dog One sector?”

  Admiral McKee shrugged, “Radar and tracking stations, most likely.”

  “Most likely.” Strasburg repeated flatly, his eyes ceasing their dancing long enough to fix McKee with a focus that the senior officer felt intimidated under. “Most likely. I see. Has anyone considered a reconnaissance fly-over to make sure?”

  McKee shrugged yet again, appearing uncertain, “No need for that. We already have excellent intel on the area. Anyway, if we make a fly-over, it’ll give away our intentions of making a landing there.”

  Strasburg released another unsettling grin, eyes dancing with a glee that bordered the insane, “Not if other fly-bys were made at the same time over Missouri. We would only be gathering tactical data for the entire area as far as the Storians might be concerned.”

  The admiral cleared his throat a second time, and looked away, back at the image, “Yes, well, we’re satisfied with the current intel.”

  “Satisfied.” Strasburg echoed. “Yes. Carry on, then, Admiral.”

  McKee gave a look to General Towers, who only shrugged

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  his own shoulders. Strasburg was reputed to be an odd duck, but like a choice few others in the Corps, was the best at what he did.