The Battle of Broken Moon

by Michael E. Gonzales

  "My ship put in at Sorong, once," Susan said.

  "Before or after the bombing?" Dolph asked.

  "Before, thank God. I heard it was horrible."

  "They hit the hospital, and the schools and the churches. They did not even try for the military targets, command and control, supplies, fuel storage, or anti-aircraft. No, the civilian population was their target," Dolph became even paler.

  "Where were you, Barney?" Susan asked.

  "Who, me?" the bookish little man answered in a high-pitched, thin voice.

  Susan nodded and smiled.

  "I'm Air Force S.F.—ah, security force. We were sort of all over."

  "Sergeant," Dolph asked, "is that not very much the US Air Force's version of infantry?"

  "Ah, yeah. I was the unit sniper."

  "You?" I asked.

  "Yes, me," he squeaked. "I'll have you know, I am perhaps the best at my job in the Air Force. If it weren't for that Marine, I'd have won last year's International Sniper competition!"

  "I'm sorry," I apologized, "it's just that you don't look the type."

  "It's the glasses, isn't it? They're safety glasses to protect my eyes, the most important tool of my trade."

  "Susan, what kind of ship did you serve on?" I asked.

  "I was an operations specialist aboard the amphibious assault ship the USS Tora Bora, LAH 22, out of San Diego."

  "Damn, were you aboard her when she—"

  "Yes. That's where I got this," Susan unbuttoned two buttons of her uniform and pulled her T-shirt aside to expose her right shoulder, revealing a large, scarred area. "I was burned." She buttoned her blouse then asked me, "What about you, Matt?"

  "Oh," I unconsciously let out a breath, "I was with the Crusaders of the 617th Infantry Brigade Combat Team."

  "You were the guys cut off in the Blood Archipelago during the hurricane last August, weren't you?" Barney asked.

  "Yeah, that was us, the lucky six-one-seven."

  "I remember that," Barney said. "Planes couldn't fly; no support, no re-supply."

  "It's okay, Barney, I don't blame you." Barney looked at me very much confused. "It was a joke, Barney," I said.

  "Maybe, but what happened to you guys in the 617th wasn't. I read where—"

  "Barney," I barked his name to interrupt him. "Yeah, it was rough. I don't care to talk about it."

  "I'm—uh, sorry," he murmured.

  "Speaking of sorry," I leaned in toward Barney, "can you tell me what's the matter with Walker?"

  "What makes you think I know anything about him?"

  "Nothing, it's just that you're both Air Force and I thought that—"

  "It's a big Air Force, ya know."

  Susan looked over her shoulder at Sergeant Walker who was eating alone. "Matt, what makes you ask that question?"

  "He's my roommate, and he's been nothing but an Alpha Hotel,” I looked over at Dolph, “Sorry, it means asshole.” Then I looked back at Susan, “Oh, sorry,” I said.

  “So-kay,” she said, smiling. She then blinked slowly and said, “Go on.”

  “Well, he seems to have something against the Army, or Infantrymen, or...maybe it's just me he doesn't like."

  Barney looked up and cleared his throat. "Pete is a sixty-eight Whiskey, a Health Care Specialist, what you'd call a combat medic. He was in Makassar on Sulawesi with an Army unit, the 1st Cav I think, when the city got cut off and overrun. He was a different man after that. Rumor is, he was captured and they held him for something like seventy-two hours before he escaped. They say he was tortured."

  ○O○

  The next day, orientation began. As I entered the auditorium, the first thing I noticed was all the civilians. Very early on, we were made emphatically aware that the base on the Moon was a civilian show. The military's role was to be that of peace keeper and security guard. For the Air Force types, it meant keeping the survey ships flying.

  Next, we learned that attendance here was no guarantee of acceptance into the program. There would be a lot of attrition, we were told.

  There also existed a solid barrier between the military and the civilian attendees. Fraternization was discouraged, and the two groups would see little shared time together during the training period.

  Paramount in the training program would be physical fitness, what the Army calls PT. We did calisthenics for an hour every morning and were expected to walk or run, indoors on a treadmill, or outside for a minimum of twenty minutes daily. This was to be accomplished on our own.

  We learned that most of the civilians only went through training for four months. They learned mission-specific information and some basics of life on JILL in the low lunar gravity environment. That was it for them.

  Our courses were a lot more detailed. And, because we would be responsible for policing a large body of highly-respected international PhDs who were accustomed to receiving personal deference, we were subjected to sensitivity training, taught professional etiquette, and had our vocabulary worked on. Enlisted soldiers in every army tend to be rather illustrative and colorful in their daily conversation. Thus, the vocabulary thing was hit hard and included daily exercises. We were informed that any lapse into our former manner of speaking would result in serious penalties up to and including a BCD, bad conduct discharge. We all hated the training, but got the message.

  We learned all about JILL, the facility, its construction methods and materials. We learned about its systems and subsystems. We learned more about nuclear reactors than I ever wanted to know. Seems JILL has two in the old section and four in the new, so we needed to learn all about them, which I thought was ridiculous as I could not foresee any situation that would put me anywhere near a reactor.

  We had to learn the supply system, how to file requisitions, and so forth. Yes, it's done differently than it is in the military. We learned about maintenance, a whole lot about maintenance, and we learned about JILL herself, the facility. We were required to memorize the map of the place, but oddly were not shown all of the new Barbicane Science Center. It was explained to us that parts of the BSC were classified and these areas had their own caretakers.

  Regarding maintenance, it would occasionally become necessary to exit the facility for that purpose so we received a great deal of instruction on the Self-Contained Environmental Protective Suits, or S.C.E.P.S., called "Ess-CEPS" for short. This was nothing more than a standard "space suit," a lot less bulky than the previous generation, but basically unchanged since the days of Apollo. We were told that a new suit was in the works, currently being referred to as Ess-CEPS II, which would allow the user almost unlimited time outside. Again, I could not foresee a situation where I'd want to be outside for an unlimited amount of time.

  We also received training on the maintenance and operation of the two types of Lunar Conveyances. The larger is called the Lunar Personnel Carrier and can transport a squad and their equipment; the other is a four-man job, referred to as a Moon buggy. Both were a lot of fun to drive. We learned in the simulator that they drive quiet differently in the Moon's gravity than they do here at home. Regardless, we were scheduled to do a lot of orientation driving of these machines both on paved test tracks and on the simulated lunar terrain model in Arizona.

  We also learned about crowd control and optimum methods to both control large, near-panicked crowds and to move them where you wanted them. A fully-panicked crowd, called a mob, is a totally different equation. "Just hope you never have to deal with one," the instructor began by saying.

  Training went smoothly; all the military personnel were very familiar with training regimens, so we knew the drill. Frankly, we'd all been through much tougher schools.

  ○O○

  A few weeks after training got up and running, I tried again to have a chat with my roommate. We were both preparing to go on our separate evening runs and dressing in our PT clothing. As usual, he said nothing. It was raining outside, so I thought I'd catch up with him in the gym. No one ever got on a treadmill next to
him, so I figured I'd be the first, and try to open a dialogue.

  When I got to the gym I looked around, but didn't see him. I approached Dolph who was running flat out on his treadmill. "Dolph, you seen Walker?"

  He just nodded toward the large windowed wall. Outside, in the rain, Walker was at the track stretching.

  He started out running at a moderate pace, he'd wait for his heart rate to come up, then gradually increase his speed.

  When I came running up beside him, he was initially shocked but recovered quickly, and started to pour it on. I kept up with him. He was on the inside, so as we rounded the first curve, he dug in and started pulling away from me. I dug in, too, and stayed right by his side.

  My ability to keep up with him only seemed to anger him more, and he appeared to be determined to prove he was the better man. Without warning, he broke hard to the right, leapt the small fence around the track and headed out into the woods. I was right on his tail; he could hear me sucking air and pounding through the mud and puddles. He could hear the branches as I blasted through them, trying hard to stay close to his big, tank-like frame.

  We entered a large clearing and I pulled up next to him. He looked down at me and I smiled as I started pulling ahead of him. Looking back, I saw his face displaying either seething anger or solid determination—I wasn't sure which. I heard him grunt as he pushed hard.

  Again, we slammed into the green wall of the forest, now without even a semblance of a trail, so we wove between the trees and brush, leapt fallen logs, and ducked low branches.

  We came upon it at the same instant, running at break neck speed. A creek loomed before us, two meters wide with near vertical banks nearly three meters deep. I was fortunate and jumped far enough to clear the obstacle. But as Walker pushed off the saturated earth, the edge of the bank gave way. He fell, and he slammed full force into the opposite embankment. I heard the impact and the "oomph" he made as he hit the muddy wall.

  I instantly stopped and turned back. When I got to the creek he was at the bottom, on his back, awash in the flowing rainwater. I jumped down into the creek and turned to help. He was already getting to his feet, he was gasping for air—we both were. He bent over, putting one hand on a knee and with the other he bid me stop. "I'm...all right," he gasped.

  "Good," I panted, and also put my hands on my knees. We stood there for several minutes gasping. Then Walker took a step backward and sat on the muddy bank with water flowing over his running shoes. I sloshed toward him and leaned against a log, my feet ankle deep in the creek. We were still gasping and squinting against the now driving rain.

  "I'll say this, grunt," he looked up at me, "you...can run."

  "For...an Air Force puke...you can, too."

  We remained silent for several seconds, then he rose, put his hands on his hips and stretched backward, looking up at the falling rain, his eyes tightly closed and his teeth bared. When he relaxed, he looked down at me, squinting, but otherwise without expression.

  "I'm told you were in Makassar with the 1st Cav," I said.

  "Who told you that? Goldman?"

  I just looked at him.

  "He don't know shit."

  "So he was wrong?"

  Walker looked up at the overcast sky again. "No."

  "That was rough."

  He slowly looked at me again. The steam rising off his drenched shoulders made him look angrier than perhaps he was. In a low voice, he said, "What do you know about it?"

  "I served in the 1st of the 278th before my first deployment. I had friends in that unit. You know what happened to first of the two-seven-eight Infantry, right? Well, my platoon leader back then, Lieutenant Bétan, survived Makassar. He lost both legs. I vid-linked him in the hospital and he told me all about it. So…I know."

  Walker remained stoic a minute, again looking up at the sky. "Lieutenant Steve Bétan?" he asked, still looking up.

  "Yeah."

  "I worked on him, got him medevac'd out. He was one of the last out. I'm surprised to hear he made it."

  "He made it. You must have done a good job."

  "Yeah, we all did good jobs. Did you know the commander?"

  "No."

  "He was the grunt son-of-a-bitch got me captured. Him with all his 'no man left behind' bullshit. He saw what was happening and just—"

  "Just what?"

  "Cut out like all you dog faces!" he hollered at me.

  I just stood there, didn't say a word. He took a few steps up stream. "You did a tour didn't ya?" he had calmed down some.

  "Yeah."

  "So, who with, dummy?"

  "The Crusaders of the 617th," this made Walker turnabout. His eyes seemed to have changed.

  "The 617th?" he repeated in a calm, low voice. "You captured?"

  "No," I answered, and he turned back around. "You want to talk about it?" I asked.

  "No."

  I noticed the water was much deeper than when we first dropped into the creek. "Well listen, don't you think we ought to get out of this sewer before we drown?" I asked him.

  I helped him climb up by becoming a footstool, he then turned around and jerked me up with one hand like I was made of cork. We started walking back without speaking.

  At last, we exited the wood line and could see the jogging track. It was getting dark and the lights had just come on. The walk in the warm, south Texas rain washed most of the mud off, but not all.

  "Hey, Strum," Walker said in a low voice.

  "What?"

  "Don't think this makes us friends, or anything."

  "Hey, Walker."

  "Yeah?"

  "You have mud on your butt."

  Chapter 3

  Cottonwood

  At breakfast the next morning, I sat with Susan, Barney, and Dolph, as usual. As we began to eat, Walker passed our table and went to his usual solitary perch.

  Susan looked up and her eyes followed him across the room. Then she looked hard at me.

  "What?" I asked.

  "You know good and well what—everyone is talking about it. You and Walker were seen running off into the south woods and returning all covered in mud. What happened, a fight?"

  "Do I look like I was in a fight last night with Walker?"

  "You're all scratched and bruised."

  "If I'd fought with Walker I'd be in a tad bit worse shape, don't ya think?"

  "The fact that you still draw breath is proof you did not fight," Dolph said.

  "Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence."

  "So," Susan persisted, "what did happen?"

  "We just had a friendly race to the creek, is all."

  "A friendly race?"

  "If you wish, Strum," Barney interjected, "I can teach you some hand-to-hand. I'm an instructor, you know."

  "You?"

  "I'll have you know that—"

  "Yeah, yeah, and if it hadn't been for that Marine. I get it."

  "Okay, so you and the brooding giant are buddies now?" Susan asked.

  "Nope, I wouldn't say that. However, I don't fear falling asleep now."

  ○O○

  In the weeks that followed, Susan, Barney, Dolph, and I became known as the fantastic four. We aced every test, and completed every assignment on time and on target.

  One of the more rigorous tests was the lunar survival course. We were dropped off in west Texas in simulated Ess-CEPS with limited power and limited air. The terrain was hilly and rocky. It would be easy to fall and damage the suit. Each of us was provided the same repair kit found on the actual Ess-CEPS; if you had to use it, it had to be done right.

  The objective was to manipulate your air and power so that you make it across some twenty kilometers of this mess, on foot, and arrive at the finish with power and air remaining. This was a make or break test.

  We set out individually at twenty-minute intervals. Our GPS kept us on the right heading, as long as we had power for it.

  The suit keeps its wearer’s temperature regulated, as it would do on the Moon, b
ut this sucks up a lot of power. On the Moon, shutting it off would spell death, so that was forbidden in this test, as well. But the power usage could be adjusted by manipulating the thermostat. Of course, in this heat, with all the exertion, it got hot fast in the suits—but you couldn't keep the thermostat high for very long without draining your battery.

  There was very little chatter over the COMdes, the communications devices provided to all IIEA personnel. These advanced devices are a generation beyond the various cell phones being used by the general public, and are for the exclusive use of the military and the IIEA. The device itself is small and suspended from the operator's belt, but it’s activated by a chip implanted under the skin at the temple of your head, left or right, your choice. The operator's dominant eye is fitted with a contact lens that allows the operator to see and read visual information. In the suit, these communications devices were blue toothed to the suit itself.

  The only talking going on was the required com checks and check point reports. Being military, we did not clutter up communications with a bunch of prattle.

  I was the last to depart. Ahead of me was Walker.

  The march started off easy enough, but quickly became quite difficult. The rocks were bleached white and seemed to reflect the sunlight directly into my eyes. Even the gold sun visor seemed of little help. The larger boulder-strewn fields slowed us down as we climbed over and around them. The areas with the smaller rocks slowed us down as we tried to pick our way through them without falling. The hills were a pain as well; most were very steep and the rocks loose. Everything required us to exert ourselves a great deal, which caused us to breathe faster and deeper, burning up our supply of air, and required additional cooling to maintain core body temperature. This was harder than it looked on paper.

  Entering the eleventh kilometer, I was calculating in my mind that I'd be able to make it if I could suffer additional heat for at least two more clicks, lower my oxygen levels, and control my breathing, when ahead I saw a glint of light. I looked directly at whatever it was just as it flashed again, the blinding light caused me to jerk my hand up to block my eyes just as my left foot came down on a loose rock. I stumbled and fell, causing a searing pain to rocket through my leg from my ankle. I quickly checked my suit—it was undamaged, but I had sprained my ankle, and it hurt badly. It was all I could do to stand under the weight of the suit. I limped forward, fighting against the excruciating pain. I looked at my power and air reserves. At this pace, I'd never make it. Regardless, I pushed on through the pain, hoping I would not injure myself further.