The Mighty First, Episode 1: Special Edition

by Unknown

  She had remained steadfast, though, and eventually graduated with honors, no less. To her disappointment, though, the flight commander had assigned her to piloting cargo craft. Her true passion was to be at the controls of a fighter. Only officers were allowed into the jet wings, so Rose had bitched and moaned until the commander relented, and transferred her to the helo squadrons. Finally in a combat wing, her introduction to the Huey had resulted in love at first sight.

  Now, three years after joining the 1st Fast Attack Helo Squadron, Rose found herself a part of the liberation of Earth in what was shaping into the first galactic war in history. She had never imagined that the 1st FAHS would be on Earth, with her flying over an honest to goodness alien world. She was insofar unimpressed with what she was seeing, though. Rose had imagined cities of gold, so to speak, with alien technologies that were wondrous and full of mystery. Ohio looked every bit the same as Attaya Prime, and New Tonip City.

  The Terrans themselves were interesting, though. Their appearance alone was fascinating. Utterly naked of fur, having only patches of hair in the darndest areas of their bodies, and the universal clump of hair atop their heads. Some of the men sported mustaches or beards. Despite their odd looks, Terrans were a likable bunch. Humorous, passionate, unpredictable. They were far easier to associate with than the Storians.

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  Since the previous morning, Rose had been busy with the others in her wing in raking the Storian wall with suppression fire while running a gauntlet through the anti-aircraft streams. Since the beachhead had been secured, her job had become almost tranquil. A few calls for air support, and one cluster of enemy vehicles that deserved a missile, all the while having to dodge only the occasional shoulder-launched rocket from a sapper. She’d even had time to land for a bite of lunch. Now refreshed, she was eager to get back into the game.

  She eased the stick and cyclic ever so slightly, and the Huey lifted easily up and over the flight line, passing the wall and the newly claimed FOB. Above the treetops, Rose followed the highway west, cruising slowly so that she could scan the activities on the ground. Closest to the wall, marines were busy establishing the forward operating base. There were others beginning to set back out on patrols, searching for pockets of Storians that might be lingering about.

  Only a few miles into her flight, Rose spotted a line of Storian vehicles emerging from a narrow side road, and speeding west on the highway toward Hubbard. There were six of them; a Hummer-type jeep in the lead, followed by a pair of open-top troop trucks full of soldiers, and three slower APC’s taking up the rear.

  Rose pushed gently on the controls, and the gunship swooped, coming down and behind the convoy. The touch of a thumb button loosed the rockets. Three lanced out, each of them locking onto the armored personnel carriers in quick succession. The rear vehicles flew apart, scattering flaming debris across the blacktop as the carriages tumbled. The soldiers packed into the trucks were ducking down, or gesturing wildly. A few raised their rifles, and began to shoot.

  She squeezed with her index finger, and the forward-facing Gatlings roared. The twin streams of plasma streamed over the

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  heads of the Storians, chewing the Hummer-Jeep in the lead to pieces. It burst into flame, and veered off the side of the highway, rolling down the embankment and setting off a brush fire. The troop truck immediately behind it braked hard to avoid the sudden onslaught, forcing the other to swerve mightily in an attempt to avert a collision. The front truck’s brakes locked, and it fishtailed, rolling sideways down the center of the highway, throwing Storians every which way. The second truck slid through the dirt shoulder around it, the driver finding enough fortune to regain control, and steer around the wreckage. That one remaining truck then executed a hard right turn, and attempted to evade by following a gravel road that snaked through the trees, leaving a dust cloud in its wake.

  Rose ascended, and banked around, strafing the Storians that were attempting to flee from the wrecked truck. The Gatlings chewed the asphalt, plasma sending fountains of it into the air ahead of her. Not wanting to allow the last vehicle to get away from her, she climbed from her hover, and veered northward, over the trees.

  That was when from a thick copse of woods on her left came a blinding stream of 200-watt anti-aircraft fire. The plasma slammed into the Huey’s midsection and walked back over the tail. Her gunship was knocked sideways with such stunning force that she was hardly able to keep her bird in the air. The power plant screamed as she attempted to climb and steer back toward the highway, away from the AA fire. The stick was sluggish, and the cockpit filling with smoke that stung her throat and eyes, forcing her to drop-visor for the suit’s filtered air. Tell-tale alarms bleeped and whined as she struggled to remain airborne.

  Avionics Failure began to flash on the heads-up display, and the stick became ever more resistant to movement. With gritted teeth, Rose coaxed all the power she was able from the dying engine, and managed to line up with the highway as the Huey sailed downward. The cyclic gave at the last moment, slewing the tail sideways as the nose kissed blacktop. The gunship skidded at an

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  angle, throwing a wake of sparks and black smoke behind it.

  Finally coming to a stop near the shoulder, Rose popped the emergency release, and the cockpit canopy blew open. Unstrapping herself, she climbed down from her ruined ship, and began to walk back in the direction of the wall. She did not look back, not wanting to see her beloved Huey in that condition. Filled with frustration and anger, she kept going, hands balled into fists.

  A few minutes into her hike, the ordinance still in the Huey’s boxes cooked off and exploded with a series of harsh claps, each one sending waves of air that thumped against Rose’s armored back. She fought back tears, and kept walking.

  After knocking out the gun battery earlier in the morning, Lieutenant Irvin had led his platoon to disable another before the comm-net was restored, and they found out that both Omaha and Dog One had been secured. Elated, he decided to return to the crossroads where the other half of the group had remained behind to keep it clear, so that they could rest up, and maybe grab some lunch.

  As they dined on their MRE’s, the lieutenant and the NCO’s sat together discussing what next to do. The net was so crowded with comm-traffic that it was nearly impossible to get through for any meaningful information, so what they did next over the course of the day would be entirely up to them. The general consensus was that they should abandon the crossroads, and head toward the new FOB so that they could hook back up with their respective companies.

  While Irvin droned, Minerva discreetly made an attempt to cue up the company freq so that she could finally talk to her boyfriend, but found it under a near-constant flood of overlapping

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  chatter. She resigned herself to having to wait still longer to see him.

  She had just finished her field ration, and drained the last of her canteen when they were distracted by a gunship out by the highway, laying down a hellstorm on something. The rise of the woods blocked the view of the blacktop, but being where the action was taking place, it was pretty obvious that some Storians must have been caught out in the open.

  Minerva stood, as did many others, and watched as the Huey dished out a rather impressive beating, the sound of it telling a noisy story of woe. Some clapping and cheering went out as wisps of smoke began to rise over the trees. That celebration was short-lived, though, when the AA fire erupted from the woods off to their two-o-clock position. They watched in muted dread as the pulses smashed into the side of the Huey, and it veered away with smoke billowing from it. It disappeared behind the trees, and after a few minutes, marked its location with claps of thunder as its armaments cooked off.

  Lieutenant Irvin cursed vehemently, angrily slapping a fist into his palm. He pointed to the section of woods that the AA fire had come from.

  “Look at that! We missed one that was practically in our own back yard!”

 
Minerva was eyeballing the area, “That can’t be more than a few miles. Let’s go take care of it.”

  Irvin turned to say something, but a new sound demanded the attention of everyone present. The unmistakable whine of a heavy plasma-diesel engine was approaching from the south. A cloud of dust drifted up from behind the trees that filled a bend in the dirt road.

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  “Sounds like whatever that Huey was after is coming this way,” someone commented with growing concern.

  “Cover!” Irvin ordered.

  Marines scattered. There was no significant cover nearby, so most simply lie down in the tall grass. Others dove into the shallow gulley along the road edge. Minerva stepped backward, sidling up against the base of the nearest tree, which was a centurion elm with a base three feet across. She checked the load count on her clip, slapped it home, and loaded a few grenades into the lower chamber. It clacked reassuringly when she pumped the first round into the chamber.

  As she waited, her heart began to hammer. The image of the Storian she had killed earlier that morning reappeared in her head, accompanied by a sickening pull in the pit of her stomach. Minerva wondered if she were going to throw up, but managed to swallow it down as she willed her breath to calm. She reminded herself that this was something the Storians had forced on them, and of the stories of horrible things that had been inflicted on innocent people. That turned her fear into anger. Her face transformed from an expression of sick doubt to resigned determination.

  Using the base of the tree to brace against, she brought her rifle up to the ready position, sighting coolly down the barrel.

  The source of the engine noise came into view. A Storian duece-and-a-half that was rolling hell for high water as fast as it could go, churning dust behind it. Soldiers clung to the rail and hung low.

  “The minute that thing reaches the crossroads, everyone open up on it,” Irvin’s voice instructed over the helmet pick-ups.

  Minerva let out her breath slowly, focusing. The driver was apparently unaware that the gunship was no longer in pursuit of

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  them, and kept the accelerator floored. That told her that he did not intend to attempt turning east or west. At that speed, he would have no choice but to continue north on the straight-away.

  The truck bore down on the intersection, and AR-44 fire erupted from three sides, bombarding the vehicle and its passengers with plasma bolts. Minerva squeezed the secondary trigger, releasing a rifle grenade. It shot straight and true into the radiator block, blowing the hood up against the windshield as fire and burning fuel spewed downward and around the tires. The truck veered, and barreled into the ditch, slamming against the embankment so hard that the rear of the truck tipped upward several feet. Storians were flying everywhere.

  The barrage homed in on the disabled vehicle, felling every figure that moved. After a few moments, it became evident that the threat had been put down, and Irvin began shouting for everyone to cease fire. In the sudden silence that followed, the scene was surreal. Dust and smoke swirled, clearing gradually to reveal dozens of bodies.

  Minerva waited from where she stood while a few of the others cautiously stepped among the scattered Storians, checking for survivors. There were none. When that was announced, she allowed herself to relax her stance, and lean against the tree, wishing for something to drink. Her canteens were empty, and the thought of taking one from among the newly killed enemy repulsed her. Better to stay thirsty than to drink water from one of them.

  Lieutenant Irvin approached her after a while, his face dirty and sweat-streaked. He took a swig from his canteen, and poured some over his head to cool off.

  “What do you think, Carreno?” He asked. “Should we try to take on that gun battery, or just call in for artillery, and hike the rest of the way to the wall?”

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  Minerva considered it. She’d had quite enough excitement as it was. Beyond that, she was remembering her making Mark promise to refrain from acting the part of a hero. He would be expecting the same from her.

  “I say call for the artillery,” she answered.

  Irvin nodded, grinning. He’d obviously thought the same thing, but wanted to have his thoughts reaffirmed by someone else. That bothered her. As an officer, he should have been more confident with his decisions.

  It took a few minutes to get through the sea of other calls jamming the net, but he finally did. After identifying himself, and giving the coordinates for the strike, he was denied the request. They were too near to the edge of town. Collateral damage limits were being enforced.

  The lieutenant sighed, and looked at Minerva with an expression that was nearly beseeching. She could only shrug.

  “Looks like it’s up to us, sir.”

  Her thirst was getting to her, and she boldly reached out to take the lieutenant’s canteen from his grasp, gulping down most its contents before handing it back to him. Minerva then began walking in the direction of the tree line, leaving the young man standing there dumbfounded.

  Omaha Beach Forward Operating Base

  Back at the headquarters tent, Ford, Corbin, and Guverra were standing tall before a stack of ammunition crates that served as a

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  makeshift desk for Colonel Strasburg. The colonel had just finished reviewing a stack of situation reports with Lafferty, who was assembling an after-action plan now that the FOB had been established.

  “At ease, men.” Strasburg told the three, “Please, relax.”

  The colonel took a seat behind his desk, and propped his feet up atop the desk while reaching down for something. He came back up with a bottle of whiskey, and unscrewed the cap, helping himself to a swig. After a brief grimace, he offered the bottle. Ford accepted it, and downed a healthy swallow of his own before passing it to Mark and Manny.

  “I understand that the command shuttle for your battalion took a hit on the way in yesterday,” Strasburg directed at Ford.

  “That’s right, sir. We lost all of our senior officers.” The first sergeant replied.

  Strasburg fixed him with a studious look, “Which makes you senior man for the First Battalion. You feel up to being an officer?”

  Ford returned the look, “Not particularly, sir.”

  The colonel’s face lit with a wide grin, eyes dancing, “I figured as much. You worked your way up the ladder all the way from a private, didn’t you, Ford?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Strasburg nodded, “Guys like you come few and far in between. You aren’t interested in obtaining authority, yet you wield what you have like a sharpened blade. That says a lot about you.”

  Ford remained silent, not sure what he was supposed to say to that. Even his silence seemed to have been the correct decision.

  “Well,” the colonel added, “I suppose I can accommodate

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  your wishes while still accomplishing what I need. Fact is, I need someone to head up the First until a new command structure can be put in place. That person is you, Ford. I’m giving you a battlefield promotion to the rank of sergeant major. High as I can place you without putting officer’s bars on those shoulder plates. Deal?”

  Ford relented with a nod, “Sounds good, sir.”

  Strasburg let out with a bellow of laughter, his face turning beet-red. “Sounds good! You hear that, Lafferty?”

  Lafferty gave a chuckle from where he stood, ruffling through stacks of papers.

  Strasburg shook his head slowly, grinning like a proud father, “Tell me, Ford. Do you plan to remain an E-Nine for the rest of your career?”

  Ford shrugged noncommittally, “Fact is, Colonel, I just feel that I can contribute more to the Corps as a senior NCO than a first-tier lieutenant.” He surrendered a grin of his own, “Besides, I like to intimidate the junior officers.”

  The colonel laughed heartily again, reaching out for his whisky bottle from Manny. He stood, a nano-baton in one hand, and stepped around the desk. It tapped against Ford’s armor, and the chev
rons altered to those of a sergeant major. Afterward, he stepped before Sergeant Corbin.

  “I took a peek at your service file, Sergeant,” Strasburg stated. “Spotless. Excellent performance reviews. You seem the kind of guy that Ford would want taking his place as the company commander for Alpha. Congratulations, master sergeant.”

  Mark’s eyes widened. He had just been bumped up three full pay grades. He could not resist looking at the new chevrons the nano-baton produced.

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  “My condolences, by the way,” Strasburg offered, his grin falling away, eyes taking on an intense seriousness. “Your father and your brother made the ultimate sacrifice for a greater good. Be proud of that.”

  Mark nodded, still surprised.

  The colonel then turned his attention to Manny, the wide grin restoring itself, and his face going red again with restrained laughter. Manny shifted uncomfortably under the amused scrutiny.

  “I’ve heard tale that you gave our captured Storian officers a rather unique reception,” Strasburg finally got out.

  Manny blushed, and offered a timid grin, “Sorry, Colonel.”

  “Sorry! You’ve set a new precedent for the Geneva Convention! Thou shalt not shit upon a prisoner’s feet if they hold the rank of lieutenant or above!” The colonel wheezed, laughing so hard that he actually leaned on Manny for support.

  Ford and Mark exchanged a grin.

  As if flipping a switch, Strasburg recovered, his face all business again. The change was so abrupt that it was startling.

  “Anyway, I’m bumping you to sergeant. You can take over First Platoon for Mister Corbin, here. In the future, keep your bowels under control.”