The Mighty First, Episode 3

by Mark Bordner

  The shells detonated in the air, about a hundred yards ahead of the lead vehicles and perhaps three hundred feet up. The blasts were not very loud, but they spewed great, yellow clouds of smoke that appeared to be quite thick. The mist spread and began to drift slowly to the ground in the still air, falling like amber snowflakes, hanging like a fog and coating the ground. There were about twenty shell bursts, all similar, and the barrage stopped, but not before filling the entire area in that strange mist.

  “What the sweet hell is that?” The cameraman asked.

  Major Rogett hadn’t the slightest idea, but he suspected it to be a smoke screen

  meant to conceal an attacking ground force. He motioned for the radioman to move near, and he activated the field-comm to his point team.

  “Sergeant Pizarro, take a squad and recon up ahead,” he ordered. “See what it is they’re trying to hide beyond that smoke.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the sergeant replied.

  The cameraman strained to see, “I’d like to go with them,” he said. “To get some close-up footage.”

  Rogett waved him on, “Be my guest.”

  The crew got up and jogged up the highway, hurrying to reach the head of the column before they left. The point team was waiting impatiently for them at the rear of the lead tank, Pizarro sporting a sour expression. She made a circling gesture in the air and the six soldiers began moving out single-file. The cameraman followed from behind the last man, filming as they walked.

  Entering the yellowish mist was like walking into a cool fog bank, the stuff gently swirling about in the air and puffing around their feet like a fine ash near the ground. It was damp and smelled faintly of almonds, clinging to the skin and their clothing. When the GNN man rubbed at it, the stuff smeared and took on a greasy texture, staining what it had touched. He noticed a coppery taste in his mouth.

  Something warm touched his top lip and he wiped at it absently, filming the subdued surroundings. He glanced at his palm and saw blood. Blood that was now trickling in rivulets from both nostrils and down his chin. It was in his mouth as well. His tongue began to tingle.

  “Hey, something isn’t right, here,” he voiced.

  The sergeant turned to chastise him for breaking silence, but fell short of saying anything, her eyes widening at what she saw. Blood was now seeping from the cameraman’s eyes at the tear ducts. There was a scratchy feeling in the sergeant’s own throat, and when she coughed, an alarming glob of bloody phlegm came out, which she spat on the blacktop.

  “Wha….” The cameraman felt all of his exposed skin beginning to itch and burn, and drawing air seemed to come with great effort. He was dizzy.

  Sergeant Pizarro cursed, blood now beginning to dribble from her nose as well. “It’s poison! Fall back!”

  The troopers turned and ran back the way that they had come, the sergeant and a corporal dragging the delirious GNN reporter between them. When they emerged from the cloud into view of their mates, cries of alarm went out.

  “Medic!” Someone yelled.

  All six succumbed to the strange gas at once, falling to the ground and convulsing. Their brothers-in-arms could only watch helplessly as the medics warned them not to touch anyone--- keeping them at bay with their arms out-stretched.

  Major Rogett ran to the front, sickened by what he saw. He took his canteen and tried to wash the yellow droplets from the sergeant’s face, and the woman screamed in agony as her flesh sizzled as if touched by acid and actually began to melt right off of her skull. Pizarro’s howls echoed across the area, gurgling and choking as she quivered and shook. Her nose, cheeks, lips, all of the soft tissue of the face bubbled off and seeped

  onto the highway like running taffy, leaving only white bone.

  Rogett drew his service revolver and shot her through the forehead, putting the sergeant out of her misery. The retort was sharp, putting an instant end to the howling. The five others and the cameraman were still convulsing, but not melting as the sergeant had.

  “Don’t pour water on them,” the major warned everyone. “It acts as an accelerant for whatever this stuff is!”

  The cameraman retched, his back arching, and an incredible fountain of blood erupted from his mouth, spattering all around him. He farted wetly and another river of blood poured from his backside. At last, he lay still. The other troopers soon followed the same, gory path to death. Rogett looked at his men, stunned, who returned his own expression of horror and disbelief.

  “Without touching them,” the major said shakily, “Record their names. Then we back the hell up and get away from this cloud before the wind comes up. Quickly!”

  The 101st wasted no time in doing what needed to be done, regretting the fact that they had to leave their dead mates lying on the highway like that, but touching them was simply too dangerous. They double-timed east for a full ten miles, casting weary glances behind them at the eerie, yellow cloud that seemed to hang in that one spot, never moving. Only when it was well out of sight did Rogett allow them to slow to a normal walk, and even then they hiked an additional ten miles just to be sure.

  At the twenty mile marker on the Ohio side of the state line, Rogett directed his men to cut the barb-wire fence on the shoulders and stretch it out and back until it was able to be tied in the center of the highway, weaved with tree branches and planks---

  anything to create an effective roadblock.

  Using their black face paint, they drew a skull and crossbones on the largest piece of wood in the center of the barricade, writing the words BIOHAZARD underneath. That approach into Indiana would not be a viable option anywhere near in the future.

  Irvington, Ohio

  New Allied Forward Operating Base

  October 11th

  Ford checked his sleeve chronometer, it was just after eight in the evening. He and the other senior staff of the unified forces were lounging in a make-shift headquarters within the protective confines of the Wal-Mart. The aides had erected a huge square of canvas with open sides, and beneath it was the office set-up featuring the communications stations, officer’s desks, map table, and dining area with folding chairs.

  It was around the latter where the staff was lurking at the moment, conducting an informal meeting of sorts. The store lights were half-dimmed, cutting down on the glare and giving the interior more of a nighttime environment. Through the glass doors in the front, the evening was one of rain and autumn thunderstorms. Lightning flashed periodically, followed by the soft rumbles of thunder. The rain was heavy and

  consistent.

  The staff was sipping a variety of preferred alcohol and munching on chips, talking in softened tones. The current topic was of the chemical attack that Grozet had launched just west of the state line, rendering the I-70 approach impossible.

  “It’s clearly an act of desperation,” Lt. Colonel Harper of the Air Cav was saying. “Grozet knows we’re backing him into a corner. He’s also running low on resources.”

  Major Rogett of the 101st Airborne shivered, remembering how his men had perished in that cloud. He finished his second beer and reached for a third, “The Intelligence Office told me that stuff was a nano-based bio-weapon. The samples they took died and became inert after a few hours, but while it’s fresh…” He tapered off, picturing how that poor woman’s face had melted, “It dissolves anything moist. Inside and out.”

  “So, we could roll down the interstate again, then,” Captain Hannock suggested, “if it’s broken down by now.”

  Colonel Strasburg sipped at his scotch, “Not necessarily. Grozet likely has more of that stuff in reserve, ready to lob more of it as soon as we come motoring through. No, we’ll have to detour south and flank that artillery position.”

  “Why not take it out with an air strike?” Captain Sunwa asked, himself enjoying licorice Shnapps.

  “That could spread the stuff everywhere,” Colonel Lafferty answered him around a mouthful of Pringles. “There are more than a dozen towns inside the danger zone, far too ma
ny civilians to put at that kind of risk.”

  Sergeant Major Ford was leaning back in his chair, puffing at his cigar while nursing a 2-liter of Nestea. He had overdone it on the whiskey the other day and was making an effort to stay clear-headed, “So, now we have to face the Storians in another protracted operation. They’re dug in at Cincinnati, which is exactly where we’ll have to go next. It’s what they want, to wear us down.”

  Strasburg nodded, “I know, but we have no real choice. Once we take Cincinnati, we’ll have access to I-Seventy-Four, and will be able to resume our march on Indianapolis. One city at a time will win this race.”

  Ford sighed, “Time is what concerns me. We’ve been fighting for Ohio for six months. We’re burning through Marines and Allied troopers like dollar bills.”

  There were a few moments of quiet at that, then Strasburg gently prodded, “How’s Master Sergeant Corbin, by the way?”

  Ford gazed into his drink, “She’s coping,” He answered. “It hasn’t been easy on the unit, either. Mark was popular among them, and his death is hitting them hard.”

  Lightning flashed outside, and the thunder rolled near. Rain continued to pour. A pair of Marine sentries walked past the command hooch, saluting respectfully. The officers returned the gesture, silent until they had gone far enough down the aisle so as not to overhear.

  Colonel Strasburg, helped himself to Sunwa’s chips, “Well, General Towers has decided that the Seventy-Seventh Regiment will handle the assault on Cincinnati. The Eighty-Third will remain here in reserve. Our kids need a break, and this is the closest

  to one that we can give them. Tomorrow, begin rotating companies for two-day R & R periods with restrictions to stay in town.”

  Ford nodded, “That’s good news, thank you, Sir.”

  Colonel Lafferty, his ears twitching as the alcohol took its effect, made a suggestion, “Perhaps it would help the First Battalion to hold a memorial service for their fallen. Having the command staff show some respect would likely be appreciated by the troops.”

  Strasburg grunted, “That sounds appropriate. We’ll arrange something.”

  Ford finished his smoke and ground it out under his boot, “The GNN boys will like that. More prime-time footage.”

  The communications tech on duty turned in his chair behind them, “Colonel Strasburg, you have a call, Sir.”

  The colonel made a face and got up to go over to the comm-console, picking up the receiver and speaking into it. The conversation seemed to be mostly one way, with him on the listening end of it. It did not last long, and he hung the replaced the receiver to its cradle; standing there for a few moments, just staring at it.

  “Dwayne,” He finally called. “Can you come here, please?”

  Ford capped his bottle and sat it down, standing and going to him with some apprehension. It was clear that this would just be more grief on his plate. The colonel motioned for him to follow, and they walked away from the hooch for some privacy.

  “That was the Red Cross,” Strasburg explained. “It seems that Miss Corbin’s father is in the hospital. He’s been shot.”

  Ford gaped, “I met him! He’s a sweet, old man! Did they say how this happened?”

  The colonel’s eyebrows went up, “They say that the details are classified information, sealed by the President herself. Interesting, huh?”

  Ford sighed, rubbing his face, “This poor girl, how much more can go wrong for her?”

  “He’s alive,” Strasburg told him. “He made it through surgery, and is in ICU for recovery in northern Arizona. I’ll grant her some leave time to go see him; we’ll see if we can’t get her flown out of here in the morning.”

  The sergeant major nodded, “Yes, Sir. I’m not going to tell her until then, she needs her sleep.”

  “You could use some, yourself,” Strasburg said. “You look like my wedding day.”

  Ford chuckled, “That good, eh?”

  Strasburg grinned, walking back to his chair, “Could have been worse.”

  USS Terra Daley, SNMS 13

  Stationary Earth orbit

  October 14th

  The Intensive Care Unit of the medical ship was filled to the gills with row upon row of beds occupied by marines recovering from life-saving surgeries. Nearest the aft entrance of the ward were those who were further along in their rehabilitation. They were awake and chatting with one another, reading mail or books, watching the TV mounted on the bulkhead. They were of a range in age from 14 to mid 20’s, with an equal variety of wounds. Those missing limbs would be fitted with nano-prosthetics and returned to their units. Internal injuries and brain-related effects from blast concussions would require longer stays, but the kids were jovial for the most part. Glad to be alive, eager to return to their buddies.

  From the middle of the ward and to the aft section were those who were more serious. They were expected to survive, but likely faced extended periods of rehab--- or would be discharged from the service with honors, no longer fit to be in the field. The troopers who were awake here tended to keep to themselves, not interested in small talk or reflecting on what the future might bring. Being closer to death tended to change a person, especially when they witnessed unspeakable carnage or lost dear friends in the process. These were men and women, or kids in many cases, whose lives would be forever altered from the path that they had intended, and were generally not happy with the change.

  The last few beds were home to the comatose patients. One trooper had horrible burns, another whose body was so broken that the surgeons were astounded that he had lived at all. The human will was a powerful thing. Even unconscious, if a man wanted to live, the body seemed to draw strength from that determination. It was at the bed of the latter where a trio of physicians stood, one examining the data chart, the other two looking over the heavily bruised torso of the young man who was oblivious to their presence.

  One of the doctors stood with arms crossed, shaking his head in disgust, his eyes following the kaleidoscope pattern of deep tissue damage that whirled angrily from groin to neck and followed the arms down to the elbow, “What in God’s good name happened to this guy?”

  The woman holding the chart, Lt. Commander Carol Gilliam, was the surgeon who had saved the kid’s life, “Blast energy. He was too near to one hell of an explosion. His armor saved him, but barely. Even the nano-integration of his suit had been killed by the force of the over-pressure wave; total system crash. The suit falsely registered his life signs as deceased before it shut down itself.”

  The third doctor, a tall, dark-furred Attayan, nodded in agreement, “His bones and internal organs were intact, but the musculature had been pulverized. He was at risk for fatal blood clotting. We injected massive doses of nano-bots to facilitate repairs to his circulatory and nervous systems, which seem to be taking rather well. His kidneys stopped passing blood this morning--- another good sign. I’m concerned about brain damage, though. We won’t know anything regarding that until he emerges from his

  coma.”

  Gilliam muttered a complaint under her breath, “One of the issues we’re dealing with, is that we don’t know who this guy is. His armor was already removed and sent to recycling when we got him, and his fatigues destroyed. So, we don’t have a unit designation, a name, anything at all to identify him.”

  The Attayan shrugged, “A John Doe, then. Hopefully, he’ll be able to tell us who he is at some point.”

  “The sad part of it is,” Gilliam said, replacing the chart to its hook on the foot of the rack, “is that somewhere, his next of kin is getting a Killed In Action telegram. The Graves unit must have recorded it when he was still on the field, and we have no way of tracing it back without a name. That’s a hell of a thing to put on his loved ones.”

  The Attayan was looking at the left hand, “As young as this one is, he’s married. There’s a wedding band here.”

  Gilliam nodded, “Yes, it’s engraved on the inside, but nothing real useful. It just says ‘Winslow Jewele
rs.’ ”

  Flagstaff, Arizona

  October 15th

  In the military’s dependable method of hurry-up-and-wait, Minerva had been shuffled from one flight base to another until finally arriving in Flag’ that morning, disheveled and tired. Her Class-A uniform was wrinkled, and she felt in bad need of a shower. The cab from the airport pulled in front of the medical center and the driver got out to pop the trunk and retrieve her travel bag for her. She stepped outside and started to reach into her purse for her wallet, but the man held up a hand, refusing payment. The master sergeant thanked him, taking the bag, and watched him drive away. She needed a moment to just stand there and collect herself. The air was cool and moist, smelling of pine. Puffy clouds drifted in front of the sun, casting their shadows, only to move on again, teasing the high-altitude city with brief glimpses of afternoon light. It was a pretty day, even if in front of the hospital.

  Minerva steeled herself, determined to keep control of her emotions. It was important to stay strong for her mother, who had endured the past weeks alone for the most part. She hefted her bag and proceeded into the main entrance, approaching the courtesy desk, where an elderly woman sat reading a book. The lady looked up at her approach and put the book down, smiling.

  “Can I help you, Sergeant?”

  Minerva returned the smile with one of her own, weary as it was, “My father is here, Cleofas Carreno. Can you tell me where to find him?”

  The woman consulted her computer, and her smile faltered slightly, “He’s under protective custody, you’ll have to be escorted.”

  This was not a surprise for Minerva, as what little details there were had already been explained to her by Colonel Strasburg. She waited patiently while the woman phoned the charge nurse upstairs. It took only a few minutes for a man to appear, dressed smartly in a business suit. The jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the sidearm tucked beneath it. He went to her and drew an ID case from an inner pocket, flashing the badge.