The Mighty First, Episode 1: Special Edition

by Unknown

  Then, the dust was abruptly washed aside by the exhaust of a low-flying Huey-shuttle. She rolled onto her back, and looked up at the sweetest sight she’d seen all day. The belly of a gunship. Its Gatlings began to roar, filling the gulley with a bath of destruction. The rifle fire instantly dwindled as Storians fell.

  Minerva peered over the lip, amazed at the firepower flooding into the drop. There wasn’t a soldier left standing. The armored battery, however, appeared unfazed. Its turret was slowly cycling around and up, attempting to draw a bead on the Huey.

  Again, training and instinct took over, overriding her fear. Minerva was on her feet before she even realized what she was doing, scrabbling down the side of the slanted rock face, and charging toward the tank. She sprinted at it, leaping to reach its track base, and finding handholds to reach the crew hatch. The sergeant had a grenade in her hand without remembering having pulled it from her harness, thumbed the activator, and yanked back on the heavy hatch. She tossed the grenade in, and slammed the hatch down.

  A satisfying, hollow blast clanged from within, blowing flame and smoke from the ventilation ducts. The turret paused in its maneuvering, but she wanted to make certain that it was really out of commission. Minerva looked about the surface, searching for what might be the ammunition box. She finally found it, and dropped another grenade. This time, she jumped, and ran as fast as she was able toward the trail that the machine had followed in.

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  The first explosion was muffled, those that followed becoming more and more intense until the waves of hot air threatened to make her stumble. Finally reaching the top of the hill, she stopped and looked back, panting. The AA gun was a mass of smoky flame.

  Her adrenaline was spent, and her legs gave out. Minerva dropped to a sitting position, and pulled her helmet off, desperately needing to feel air against her face, even if it was tainted with the stench of burning oil and flesh. Gradually, the marines that she’d spent the past day with began to filter together, finding her, and standing there watching the enemy burn.

  From the vantage point of the gunship, the entire spectacle had been filmed by the on-board cameras, and transmitted live back to HQ, to the command ship in orbit, and every GNN receiver that was tied-in to the unsecured spectrum of the net.

  Minerva had in that few minutes been catapulted into stardom across the allied system, becoming the heroine of the fight for liberation whether she liked it or not.

  As the second day of battle drew to a close, Minerva watched the last of the sun’s rays disappear behind the horizon. Riding in the back of the troop truck that had been sent to transport the survivors of her make-shift platoon back to the FOB, she leaned against the side of the cab, utterly spent. Her body ached, her mind was mercifully numb. It felt good to not think, or feel anything. The troopers around her looked much the same way.

  Her eyes grew heavy, and as an exhausted sleep began to slide over her, she held the image of one young man with deep, green eyes. A warmth filled her inside, and she knew that her love

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  for him was enough to comfort her, at least for the moment.

  D-Day Plus One gave way to night.

  Twelve

  The Battle for Hubbard

  Omaha Forward Operating Base

  May 3rd 06:00

  D-Day Plus Two

  She floated in a dreamless sleep that was somewhere between actual slumber and the beginings of wakefulness.

  A voice beckoned, but she did not wish to follow it. If she did, Minerva knew that it would lead her back to the fear, and the exhaustion that came with the battlefield. But, the voice would not let her alone, continuing to call her name until she was forced to secede to full consciousness.

  “Sergeant Carreno.”

  It was a man’s voice, coming from her helmet pick-up. Her visor was shut, and she felt closed in. Her body ached, muscles stiff, feeling as if the armor had shrunk against her swollen muscles.

  “This is headquarters, Sergeant Carreno. Wake up.”

  Minerva thought-keyed her mic, eyes still closed against the coming day, “Go ahead, I read you.”

  Her own voice was cracked, throat sore from all of the shouting the previous day. She swiped the visor open, yawning. Morning had broken, bringing its light to a clear sky. Other marines milled about listlessly, rousing from where they had lain down the night before. She herself had hopped down from the truck, and

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  bedded down on the first patch of open grass that she could find.

  Now, she sat up, rubbing at her face, trying to coax the sleep from her eyes.

  “The regimental commander requests your presence in the headquarters tent,” the voice persisted.

  “Can I at least pee first?” She snapped, still groggy, and not fully comprehending the nature of the invitation.

  There was a pause, then a reply with laughter in the background, “Colonel Strasburg says that attending to your morning needs are fully encouraged. He’ll see you as soon as you’re done.”

  The glue in her brain finally gave way, and her eyes popped open with the realization that this was the top echelon officer summoning her for a meeting. She jumped to her feet, berating herself for her stupidity. The need for relief would not allow delay, though, so she sought out the latrines, and stumbled into a free stall. She shivered with the pleasure that comes with the release of bodily demands after a hard sleep.

  Regretting that she’d failed to refill her canteens, thus without a way to wash her hands, Minerva emerged, and scanned the ever-growing base, looking for what would be the HQ tent. There were so many marines milling about that it seemed as if all of Fort Dixon had arrived, then she remembered that in fact was very much the case. The entire division had been deployed on this operation. Somewhere in that sea of marines was her fiancée, at least she hoped. It was frustrating. Now that she had time to find him, there was this meeting that she was being paged for.

  She spotted what had to be what she was looking for on the far end of the FOB, and began walking toward it. The route took her near what remained of the battered fortification that had been dubbed

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  ‘the wall,’ and glanced through one of the gaping blast holes, pausing in her hike to have a better look.

  The eastern side of it was a wide, long expanse of churned soil pocked with craters. A ruined farm saddled the far end, where a motor pool, and a flight line were being established. There were still rows of covered bodies waiting for transport to the Graves Division. Far too many rows. To her surprise, there were scores of civilians clustered out on the highway, behind a roadblock set up at an old service station. Among the throes of people were news vans with their camera poles extended up into the air. What had been the site of a massive military engagement the day before was now a tourist attraction.

  There were also flatbed trucks being loaded with crates of supplies being delivered by the helo-shuttles; a lot of supplies.

  “Best not to keep the colonel waiting.”

  Minerva turned to the source of the familiar, basso voice. Ford was standing behind her with his helmet in one hand, and a canteen cup of coffee in the other. A cigar jutted from its proper place in one corner of his mouth. An expression of mild amusement sat pleasantly on his usually hard face.

  “Top!” She beamed, happy enough to almost hug him. It was so nice to see a familiar face. She noticed the additional rockers on his rank insignia, “Sergeant major? How long was I gone?”

  Ford laughed good naturedly, “Long enough for you to make a reputation for yourself.”

  “Huh?”

  Ford casually sipped at his instant coffee.

  Minerva shuffled her feet, “Um, do you know anything about Mark…I mean Sergeant Corbin?”

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  “If you’re referring to Master Sergeant Corbin,” Ford answered, puffing smoke, “he’s not only fine, but pretty well going apeshit with worry over you.”

  With a mixture of relief, and additiona
l surprise, she slowly shook her head, “I was gone only a day, wasn’t I?”

  Ford held out an elbow, “C’mon. You’ve got a date with the colonel.”

  Minerva took his arm, and allowed him to lead the way. It seemed that things were going remain a mystery for the moment. She contented herself with knowing that at least she would soon be reunited with her friends.

  Entering the headquarters tent was not unlike entering a cave, with its dim interior in comparison to the bright morning sunshine. The vast canvas palace was lined with work stations powered by plasma-diesel generators on one side, a desk and planning table on the other, and the officer’s sleeping area in the back. She took notice that within the confines of the tent, Ford stopped to offer a proper salute to the colonels, and she did likewise.

  Strasburg was seated at his desk, polishing off a tray of scrambled eggs and sausage. He casually returned the salute with his fork, and indicated the chairs before his desk, “Sit, please.”

  It was a bit of a challenge to sit in the folding chairs with all of their field gear strapped to their armor. Minerva figured out that it was easier if she balanced her butt plate near the outermost edge.

  “Would you like a coffee and a sweet roll?” Strasburg asked. “The navy cooks that helped to set up the chow line really know their stuff. Highly recommended.”

  Minerva was absorbed by the colonel’s barely contained energy. His eyes danced with a mad glee, lighting a gaunt face that

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  emoted the full gauntlet of emotions in the spans of mere seconds at a time.

  Ford accepted the offer, so she did the same, following his lead.

  Strasburg reached for a TV remote, and pointed it at a monitor next to his desk. A recording began to play, one that Minerva watched with shocked fascination. It was the newsfeed of her the previous evening, taken from an aerial viewpoint, showing every graphic detail as she single-handedly attacked the anti-aircraft battery. The colonel paused it as she lifted the crew hatch, and dropped in a grenade.

  “Can you explain this to me, young lady?” Strasburg asked. His voice was hovering somewhere between curious and threatening, it was difficult to ascertain which.

  Minerva swallowed, and shifted uneasily in her chair. She was at a loss for words, feeling cornered. She wondered if she were somehow in trouble. Not knowing what to say, she decided to simply voice the first thing that came to her mind.

  “Sir, it was them, or us. I chose them.”

  Strasburg blinked, then ever so slowly, bloomed a toothy grin. He shifted his gaze to Ford, his eyebrows going up. Ford said nothing, merely accepting his refill from the aide, and taking a sip.

  The colonel waggled a finger at Minerva as his grin broadened impossibly more, “You, Sergeant Carreno, sport what is referred to in the business as ‘brass balls.’”

  Minerva’s jaw dropped of its own accord.

  Strasburg waved the remote at the monitor, “Do you realize that this has been played on every newsfeed across the planet? Shit, across the allied frontier!” He shifted forward abruptly, folding his

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  hands like a studious student, eyes bulging.

  “You, Sergeant Carreno, have sent a message to not only the citizens of the Trade Alliance, but to the Storians as well. You have said that we are one very pissed off society, and that we’re on the warpath.”

  Minerva forced her mouth to close. She inwardly questioned the sanity of her regimental commander, or whether his display was merely an impassioned one.

  Strasburg’s gaze bored into her, “Well? You sit there quiet as a church mouse. Don’t you have anything to say about that?”

  Choose your words carefully, she told herself.

  “Sir, I’m a Marine. I was just doing what needed to be done.”

  Strasburg sat back, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, never allowing his gaze to waiver, “I see.”

  Minerva returned the stare as neutrally as she was able, not wanting to appear disrespectful, but neither desiring to show weakness. Either could be dangerous with this man.

  To her relief, that strange grin reappeared, “I just needed to be certain.”

  Confused, she allowed herself to ask, “Sir?”

  Strasburg steepled his fingers, “That you weren’t some sort of gung-ho media whore, out to make a name for yourself. That sort of mentality gets good marines killed, you see.”

  Minerva accepted the cup of coffee that appeared next to her, courtesy of the tireless aide. In his free hand he held a plate of steaming cinnamon rolls.

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  Strasburg waggled that finger at her again. She wanted to snap it off at the knuckle, and waggle it back.

  “Your mentality, however, dictates what I seek in my leadership,” the colonel went on. “I can see that you truly do not understand the magnitude of your actions yesterday. You not only saved your platoon, and that gunship with your selfless actions. You set a precedent. You displayed fast-thinking under duress. The tone of this entire operation will ride on the coattails of one Minerva Carreno, the marine with gunpowder-filled testicles!”

  The colonel shot to his feet with such speed that it startled both Minerva and Sergeant Major Ford. They stood quickly as well, coming to attention. Strasburg stepped from around his desk, and stood squarely before Minerva, near enough for her to smell his coffee-stained breath.

  “Not only am I putting you in for the Marine Corps Cross of Gallantry,” he whispered, “I’m field-promoting you to the rank of master sergeant. I want you commanding Bravo Company, First Battalion. Think you can handle that, Carreno?”

  Minerva was once again shocked. Things were happening so fast, and made all the more strange by her commander’s bipolar personality. She figured the best way to interact with him would be to emulate his own quirky mannerisms. She moved her face slightly forward, almost touching noses with him.

  “Damn right, sir,” she whispered back.

  The colonel’s eyes widened even further with surprise and delight. That toothy grin was so big, his own head looked ready to fall into it. He began to chuckle, a wheezy laugh that came from deep down in his belly, making his face turn a beet-red.

  The nano-baton came up, and tapped her sleeve plate, “Carreno, I love you. If the Corps had a hundred more of you and Ford, the war would be over. Damn fine work.”

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  The colonel then saluted her.

  Minerva’s arm flew up to return it so quickly, that she inadvertently slapped the coffee mug out of Ford’s hand, flipping it over, and spilling its contents all over the front of his armor.

  Strasburg regarded the sergeant major’s chest plate with an expression that bordered horror, “Oh, your lifer juice!”

  Ford was nonchalant, “Armor needed cleaned anyway, sir.”

  The colonel’s grin restored itself, and he returned to his seat, digging in to his sweet roll, “Dismissed.” He said around a mouthful.

  Back outside, Minerva stood beside the tent entrance, somewhat stunned at the events that had just taken place within. Ford gave her a curious look as he enjoyed the fresh coffee that the aide had given him before leaving. She thumbed toward the tent door.

  “What was that?” She asked. “What just happened?”

  Ford chuckled, “That, young lady, was high praise. Treasure it, because it doesn’t come around very often.”

  Minerva touched her new chevrons, never having imagined having that many so soon. It had taken Ford the better part of sixteen years to earn his four rockers beneath the top three.

  “I’m glad that everyone seems so happy with how I did yesterday,” she said, “but, it doesn’t seem fair to guys like you that have spent your whole lives in the service to get where you are, and here I just got bumped three or four pay grades in one shot. I’m only eighteen years old, Sergeant Major.”

  His grin remained steadfast, “First of all, I think that by now, you should be able to call me Dwayne away from formal situations. Agreed?”


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  Minerva smiled, and nodded yes.

  Ford began to stroll south, past the MASH units, “What just happened to you is due to what is called ‘attrition.’ In a hard combat push, oftentimes it’s the senior sergeants, and junior officers that suffer the heaviest casualty count, creating gaps in leadership. It’s not uncommon at all to find people like yourself, who have what it takes to lead, being elevated through the ranks by leaps and bounds.”

  “Is that what happened with you and Mark yesterday?”

  It was Ford’s turn to nod, “We lost our entire command element for First Battalion during the landing.”

  Minerva took Ford’s canteen cup for a sip of his coffee, “Be honest with me, though, Sergeant Ma…I mean Dwayne. Doesn’t it bother you in the least that a kid like me is already a senior NCO?”

  Ford paused in their walk, and placed a hand on her shoulder plate, “Believe me, Minerva. After what I saw on that tape, and with the growth I’ve watched you make in the past year, I know damn well that I’d feel just fine having you watching my back in a combat zone. I mean that. Stop sweating the small stuff.”

  Their stroll resumed, now beyond the medical area, and approaching the chow line set up beside the mess tent, “Thanks, Dwayne. That means a lot coming from you.”

  The sergeant major motioned toward the line of marines with trays receiving their breakfast, “Now, I believe that there are some people over there that would be very happy to see you.”

  She spotted the four most important faces in her immediate life right away. Ecu and Amell were next to each other, chatting it up about something while the server slopped scrambled eggs onto their trays. Lunk was trying to coax an extra serving out of the guy handing out sausages. Tears welled at the sight of her fiancée. Mark was drinking down a container of juice. It felt so good, so reassuring

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  to see them alive and well, and doing such a mundane thing as simply getting breakfast among a long line of fellow marines.