The Mighty First, Episode 1: Special Edition

by Unknown

  The officer saw her, and motioned for them to approach. It felt creepy to simply stroll out into the open like that, and she found herself looking about nervously. As she drew up to them, the trooper next to her started to salute, and Minerva quickly slapped the kid’s arm back down.

  “Damn it! You know better!” She scolded.

  It was forbidden to salute an officer in the field, as it made them targets for snipers.

  “Sergeant Carreno, Sir. Alpha Company, First Battalion.”

  The officer nodded, “Lieutenant Irvin, Charlie Company. Sounds like you’re about the only one that landed where you were supposed to.”

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  Minerva offered a grin, “More by chance than anything, Sir. We were shot down.”

  The lieutenant looked around, noticing that more and more townsfolk were gathering into small groups to watch. Some were circled around the burning wreckage of a minivan that had been hit by falling debris. Men were trying to get to the doors, but were unable to because of the flames. Wrenching screams were coming from within.

  “We need to get out of town,” Irvin said, “and make our way toward the wall.”

  Minerva was captivated by the burning van, “Shouldn’t we try to help them first?”

  The lieutenant shook his head, “Nothing we can do for them, Sergeant.”

  “But, they’re dying!”

  “They’re already dead,” Irvin said evenly. “We have a mission to uphold, and it’s time to move out.”

  Minerva glared at him, unable to fathom his callousness. He stared her down.

  “Fine. Sir.”

  The lieutenant glowered at her, then cocked his head, “You take point.”

  On fire with anger and frustration, Minerva started walking, following the street that would lead them most quickly to the north edge of town, not even looking back to see who was following.

  Avoiding the main road that snaked out from downtown, they trekked in zig-zag fashion in a north-easterly direction, crossing yards, gardens, and finally reaching the cover of broken sections of

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  woods. Along the way, they gathered up another marine here and there, slowly increasing their numbers.

  Irvin left her on-point the entire time, which suited her just fine. It gave her time to cool down, and better focus on what she needed to, which was staying alive. Nearly three hours passed, the entire time spent creeping, crawling, and darting to points of cover. She hated crossing the pastures the most, and tried to keep to the edge of tree lines whenever possible. Strangely enough, they had yet to actually encounter the enemy.

  The lieutenant finally signaled for a halt, and the kids spread out among the tall grass that lined some farmer’s fence line, blending in with the surroundings. They all had their visors open since the net was disabled. There was no need to have them closed without access to tactical or comms; one could not even draw a simple compass bearing on the heads-up display.

  Minerva leaned back against the base of a fence post, and took out her canteen. The cool electrolyte solution had never tasted so good. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. From where she sat, which was atop a pretty high rise, there was a rather clear view of the Storian wall off to the east. Throughout the morning, the bank of black smoke had never lessened. Had the breeze not shifted back to the south-east, the sky would have become overcast with it. The crackle of steady gunfire echoed across the shallow valley, and she watched tremendous explosions blooming across the far side. Fast movers, the term that she had heard used in reference to the fighter jet-shuttles, were still making strafing runs up and down the length of the wall, dropping smart-ordinance as they braved runs through the gauntlet of AA fire. The Storians had an impressive mastery of anti-aircraft weaponry, making things very difficult for the air wings.

  The sight of all of that drove home a fact for Minerva, enforcing even further the understanding that this was no game. War meant that people got killed. Having her own mortality shown to her

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  like that was inwardly shaking.

  She could not help but worry about her friends, especially so Mark. Minerva keyed the company frequency yet again, hoping, but it was still a wash of static. She scanned the layout of the land, which by any standard was pretty, but the current situation made that beauty a deadly one. She wondered where out there that the boy she loved so much might be.

  After a little while, the lieutenant called them back to their feet, and took point himself this time. He led them on down the hill, and continued the zagging pattern that seemed to add miles to their journey in the direction of the wall. It was necessary, according to training, to throw off anyone trying to track them.

  They came across another motely platoon that had captured a gravel crossroads that cut from town and intersected with a secondary road that connected to the highway. The staff sergeant in charge of that group informed Irvin that they had fought back a few minor skirmishes, which amounted to little more than Storian patrols that were in a big hurry to be somewhere else.

  By then, it was almost four in the afternoon, and the lieutenant could tell that his charges were exhausted. He decided to assume authority over the crossroads, which was just fine with the staff sergeant, and settle in to hold the position for a while.

  Minerva busied herself with helping to set a watch schedule, figure out where to dig foxholes, and which fields of fire would be most effective over the roads. They had two troopers with 60-watt machine guns, which made them the more important of what was by then a collection of marines very close to company strength.

  There were no other incursions, purposeful or otherwise, the rest of the afternoon. As the sun dropped lower into the sky, its light became blood-red as it filtered through the curtains of smoke. The landscape looked other-worldly.

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  Minerva wandered a short distance from the perimeter, and found a patch of brush to crawl back into so that she could move her bowels. After relieving herself, wishing mightily for a shower, she crossed back into the safety of the makeshift camp, and settled down in the tall grass of the drainage ditch that ran alongside the road. It just felt safer to keep foliage around her. She dined on field rations, and sipped at her canteen, watching the evening give way to night.

  A short time later, the fat, yellow face of a full moon began to climb above the western horizon. She reclined comfortably against the burm, and watched it rise ever so slowly higher, wondering if Mark were looking at it, too.

  With her body, mind, and patience spent, Minerva gave in to her emotions, and wept softly. For the first time in nearly two years, she was closer to home than ever, yet may have well as been light years away. The people that she cared about most were out of reach. Her mind was finally having time to begin processing the day’s shocking, and frightening events, playing them over in unwanted detail.

  Her tears lulled her to sleep.

  During the course of that same day, Mark and Ecu had managed to link up with Amell, and a few others from their own company, building their numbers to near-platoon strength. In their efforts to make their way to the wall from their side of it, they had been involved in a few brief skirmishes of their own, but the fights had been brief, and against small numbers of Storian infantry. As with Minerva’s group, they discovered that for some reason, the Storian squads appeared to be uninterested in a dedicated fight, instead preferring to melt away, always in a big hurry to be somewhere else. There was also the impression that there seemed to

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  be widespread confusion among the enemy. When pressed into a fight, they would lay down wild suppression fire, and vanish, leaving behind any wounded.

  By the time evening was setting in, they had gathered nearly a dozen wounded prisoners, none above the rank of a corporal. They had been bound with cord, and corralled in the side yard of some farmer’s chicken coop.

  The marines were resting, eating field rations while keeping a weary eye on their surroundings. They were within a fe
w miles of the wall, and presumably well within the company of the enemy. The fighting going on to the east was as intense as it had been all day, and gave no signs of letting up.

  Mark leaned against the side of the coop, glaring at the prisoners, his mind a million miles away. He had waited for so long for his opportunity at vengeance. He harbored a deep resentment for what the Storians had done to not only his own father and brother, but Star Harbor as well. Literal millions had been robbed of their lives, and for what? Some mad man’s agenda to racially purify the universe to his own liking?

  He remembered pulling the trigger for the first time that afternoon. The feeling of elation had bordered pleasure, and that had alarmed him. That wasn’t the kind of person that he wanted to be, someone that justified their sick want of revenge by killing. It was one thing to shoot an enemy that was trying to kill him, and entirely another to enjoy it.

  While Mark stood there, one of his marines came up beside him with a SafeSmoke sticking out of his mouth. The kid looked like a twelve-year-old trying to play the part of a grown-up. That kid had made his first kill earlier, and was trying to deal with it in his own way, by hiding behind bravado.

  “Hey, Sarge,” he asked, “what are we gonna do with these

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  lizard heads?”

  Mark shrugged, “Can’t call for a prisoner pick-up, and I’m not keen on dragging them around with us all night.”

  “Let’s just shoot ‘em.”

  The statement hung in the air between them. The faces of the Storians turned, looking with open fear. Mark had to admit to himself that he, too, had allowed that consideration to cross his mind. Just shoot them in the head, and leave them for the birds. He met their gazes, though, and knew that he didn’t have that kind of cruelty in him. These soldiers did not look much older than any of his marines. What the hell were kids doing carrying this war, anyway?

  “There’s a difference between killing, and murder, Private.” He answered.

  The kid frowned, not comprehending, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mark spat, and started to walk away, “It means that we’re not like them.”

  He walked over to where Ecu and Amell were sitting, finishing their dinner while gazing at the flaming sunset. Ecu looked up at his approach, and indicated the grass nearby.

  “Saved you a seat, Sarge.”

  He looked about at his marines, seeing how tired they were. Darkness was falling, and they were without night-vision. None of them had any idea what they were supposed to do, beyond the general order of attacking the wall, or any anti-aircraft batteries that they happened to come across. Mark wished that he could somehow get in touch with Ford for some guidance. Even more, he wanted to hear Minerva’s voice.

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  Corporal Amell seemed to sense his uncertainty, and stood to confer with him privately, “Wondering if we should keep going tonight?”

  Mark nodded, “We could use the cover of darkness to a certain advantage, but on the other hand, the Storians are better at this than we are. I’m afraid they’d rip us up.”

  “You just summed it up right there,” Amell told him.

  “How do you mean?”

  She motioned her head, indicating the rest of the platoon, “None of us have any experience at this. We go stomping any further tonight, we’re going to get slaughtered. We should set camp for the night, get some rest, and figure out our attack in the morning.”

  Mark peered into the growing darkness, watching the strobe-like flashes of plasma fire and explosions coming from the direction of the wall. The 2nd and 3rd Battalions were out there, maintaining their assault. They also had a more established command structure, medics, and the ability to rotate people from the line for breaks. He had to admit that he was scared.

  “I can’t see a damned thing, anyway.”

  Amell waited patiently for him to make a decision, not wanting to sway it either way. If he said they were going to attack despite his misgivings, then she would support it fully even though she hoped otherwise.

  “Fine,” he said finally, the fatigue audible in his voice. “Establish a perimeter, and set up a watch rotation for me. How many sixty-watts do we have?”

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  Amell thought for a moment, “Just one, I think, but he lost his ammo pack in the bail out, so it’s useless, anyway.”

  “Figures.” Mark pulled his helmet off, and rubbed at his head. He felt the day’s stresses draining away at his reserves. Nothing sounded better than a nap right then.

  “What about them?” Amell asked about the prisoners.

  “Lock them inside that chicken coop, and keep them under guard. We’ll leave them there when we pull out at first-light.”

  Amell studied Mark’s face for a moment, “You look like shit, Sarge.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it,” she insisted. “We depend on you to lead us. Get some sleep. Ecu and I can get things squared away.”

  Mark regarded her blankly, unsure whether or not to take offence, but he knew that she was only looking out for him as a friend.

  A rather profound explosion bloomed from the east, casting an eerie glow over the landscape as its concussion banged outward loud enough to shake the ground. The fireball rolled upward, merging with the curtains of smoke still boiling from fires burning along the length of the wall.

  “Give ‘em hell, Marines,” Amell said.

  Mark sighed, and wandered off to find a place to curl up and wait for sleep to take over.

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  Through fits of broken slumber, Mark managed to find enough to feel recharged by the time the sky began to bruise with the coming dawn. Muscles stiff and feet sore, he roused from beneath an old car body, and began limbering up. Nodding hello to the marines standing watch, he weaved over to an open area to pop his pelvic plate and relieve himself.

  Afterward, he made rounds to all of the sleeping figures scattered about the barn yard, gently nudging people with his boot.

  “Up and at ‘em, Marines. Answer Nature’s call, and grab some chow. We got work to do.”

  As the platoon went through the motions of gearing up for another day, the sergeant used the twisted limbs of an apple tree to clamber up on top of the chicken coop for a higher vantage point, and stood gazing east. There was not near as much churning smoke as the previous day, now little more than a few thin lingering columns. The severity of gun and mortar fire seemed about the same, though. The assault had gone on all night.

  As he stood there, Mark noticed movement along a tree line about a half-mile out, and off to the right. Squatting down, he felt his pulse begin to beat a little faster as he watched intently. Trying the visor for zoom enhancement did no good; the net was still out of commission. Somehow, the Storians had knocked out their most important resource, or were jamming it. Their resourcefulness made it clear that it was ever so important to make decisions wisely. Those lizard heads knew their game.

  Along the spot where the brush had moved, a figure emerged. They took a few steps and paused, looking around. Immediately, Mark could see that it was the familiar form of gear-laden armor. Breathing out with relief, he keyed the suit-to-suit, and called out.

  “Alpha, First Battalion to your nine-o-clock.”

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  The figure froze, head swiveling in his direction. There was a pause, then a tentative wave. Mark stood upright again, and returned the gesture. His helmet pick-up crackled to life.

  “This is Ford.”

  Even greater relief washed over Mark, “Top, Corbin here. Damn, I’m glad to hear you!”

  “Move on up.”

  Mark hopped down, opening his visor, “On your feet! We’re moving out!”

  The tone of his voice meant business, so there was little grumbling about the interruption to breakfast. Stuff was tossed aside, and weapons checked as the platoon formed up into smaller squads and spread out to combat spacing.

  The hike to Ford’s position did not take long, and was proba
bly the closest to experiencing any feeling of confidence since the day before. Mark was immensely glad to have someone leading them who actually knew what they were doing.

  The two shook hands once they reached one another. Ford was grinning like a kid on a nature hike. It struck Mark that the guy appeared to be actually enjoying himself. He looked invigorated. Looking around, it was evident that Ford had gathered a few stray marines as well.

  “The command chopper was shot down on the way in yesterday,” Ford told him. “Far as I know, we have no officers on this side of the wall.”

  Mark’s eyebrows went up, “I guess that makes you the ad-hoc battalion commander, then, doesn’t it?”

  Ford shrugged, “For what that matters. I’ve only been able

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  to round up a baker’s dozen since yesterday. Found a lot of marines with broken legs, thanks to never practicing a parachute jump. They’re laying low until the net comes back up, and can call for a retrieval.”

  Mark indicated his group, which had crouched down along the tree line, “We’re about platoon strength. That fiasco yesterday spread the battalion out all over creation.”

  A fast mover streaked past, fast and low, its afterburners blasting thunder across the countryside. It loosed rockets on the wall, setting off another round of explosions. The din from the east increased significantly with rifle and machine gun fire.

  “This is Dog One, am I correct?” Mark asked.

  Ford nodded, “I believe so, which puts us almost ten miles south of where we’re supposed to be. But, what the hell? The wall’s the wall, right?”

  “Shall we join the party, then?” Mark suggested. “Why should Third Battalion have all the fun?”

  Ford grinned again, and took out a half-smoked cigar stub from one of his pouches. Lighting it with his Zippo, he issued forth an impressive cloud of smoke from his nostrils, “Who takes point?”

  Smiling himself, Mark held out a fist. To the utter astonishment of the marines around them, the two played paper-rock-scissors. Ford won with paper over rock.