by Mark Bordner
The young man sat his duffle down with a heavy thud and extended his hand, “I’m Bill Sabin. Just arrived from Attaya RTC.”
Ford shook with him, “Sergeant Major Ford. This is Master Sergeant Manny Guverra. We’re both with the First, so you’re among friends.”
Manny was admiring Bill’s weapon, which was similar to the standard AR-44, but with the noticeable difference of having a stouter under-barrel and a doughnut magazine the size of a cheese roll. Bill noticed his gaze and un-strapped it, handing it to him to look at.
“It’s a semi-automatic grenade launcher,” The gunny explained. “The plasma shells are armor-piercing rounds. It’s a new toy that the Attayans cooked up.”
Manny’s eyes were glazed, “I am totally jealous. This makes my 60-watt look weak.”
Ford took it from him and examined its lines, popping the grenade clip to look inside.
“Only six shells at a time,” He commented.
“But, the extra punch will make up for it.” Bill stated.
“Are these in mass-production?”
Bill shrugged, “I guess so, Sergeant Major. They’re being issued to the new recruit graduates back on Attaya, and anyone from other divisions who volunteer for the line.”
“You can call me Ford, and where did you transfer from?”
The gunny looked uncomfortable, “Actually, I was a first-class petty officer in the Surface Navy, on the USS Belleau Wood II. She was an LHA. One of the few with a sister ship in the space fleet.”
Manny looked confused, “What the heck’s an LHA?”
“It was an amphibious assault ship with a flight deck like a carrier,” Bill told him. “It handled Harriers, choppers, the occasional space-borne aircraft, and could launch beach craft from its lower decks, straight into the water.”
Ford handed his rifle back to him, “Why’d you transfer from the Navy to the Marines?”
The gunny leaned against the wall, “I was tired of sitting out the war. There’s not much the Surface Navy can do to contribute. So, the Brass let me do basic training and come out of it with rank to boot, since I was already an E-6. A lot of people are transferring.”
Manny nodded approvingly, “Well, welcome aboard, Squid.”
“Thanks, Jarhead,” Bill returned without pause.
They sized one another up and mutually decided that they approved of each other, both breaking into a grin.
“If you run into an albino Attayan female,” Ford told him, “she’s the company commander for Alpha; Master Sergeant Amell. Check in with her, she needs to replenish her platoons.”
Bill hefted his burdens, “Thanks. I guess I’ll go get settled, then. Catch you guys later.”
“Ooh-Rah,” Ford replied.
Manny was watching the gunny walk away, still admiring the rifle slung on his
shoulder, “I gotta get me one of those!”
October 18th
Winslow, Arizona
The Carreno property had been tidied and kept by the neighbors while they had been at the hospital in Flagstaff. A call to a family friend had arranged their transportation home, and now as Minerva and her mother tried to help Cleo from the car, he grumbled and gently pushed them away.
“I can do it!” He complained.
Part of Cleo’s spine had fused together, forcing him to walk with a slight hunch, but he insisted that it was no issue for him to do things on his own. Andrea wrung her hands together, watching him navigate the porch steps, swinging one leg up at a time
while using the rail for support. He managed to reach the stoop, though, with a chuckle of triumph. Minerva smiled and put an arm around her mother’s shoulder while they followed. That was her Pappy, always fiercely independent.
Unlocking the door, they entered to find the floors cleaned and gift baskets of food and sundries waiting on the dining table. The sense of community in their small town prevailed anything that the war could possibly throw at them. Cleo retired to his soft chair and clicked on the TV with a sigh of relief. It was good to be home. Andrea clucked about the kitchen, organizing things while Minerva leaned in the doorway, watching her.
“What’s on your mind, Minerva?”
Her daughter smiled sadly and shrugged, “I just used to imagine doing what you’re doing. Being a wife. I’m already a widow.”
Andrea paused in her activity and led her daughter to the dining table to sit down, “You’re a strong, young woman, now. You need to live your life. It’s what he would have wanted you to do.”
“I know, Mama. It’s just, it was so soon! I really thought that if anyone could survive the war, he could have!”
Her mother squeezed her hands, “It doesn’t seem real, does it? It just doesn’t feel like he’s really gone. Part of me doesn’t accept it.”
“Is it hope or denial?” Minerva asked.
Her mother did not hesitate in her reply.
“Faith.”
USS Terra Daley
With the head portion of the bed elevated, Mark was able to better look about the ICU and feel more an actual part of himself. Since awakening that first time, his sleep had felt more refreshing, and after a twelve-hour slumber, had awoken again with a voracious appetite.
It was the middle of the night again, the ward dim and quiet. The nurse on duty this time was an Attayan who remarkably resembled someone he knew, but was unable to put a finger on exactly who. In fact, he couldn’t really remember much of anything at all. He knew what his name was, could figure out that this was some sort of hospital
ship, and knew that he was a Marine, but that was about all. Everything beyond that lie in a muted fog. His past, how he had gotten where he was now, all of that remained out of reach. He was living entirely in the present.
And presently, he was hungry.
The Attayan nurse smiled and made a notation on his chart, “I was told to expect that you might wake up on my shift,” she said. “How do you feel?”
Mark made a mental evaluation of himself. Overall, his body was sore and stiff, but everything seemed to be functional. He was able to move now, if with some effort. That damned tube was still in his front door; that was annoying, but the protests coming from his stomach were more demanding.
“I need something to eat,” he said hoarsely, his throat feeling as if it hadn’t been used in a few thousand years.
The nurse nodded, “The Doc says it’s ok to give you soft foods, but only in small amounts. We can’t overwhelm your system, it’s still on the mend.”
He nodded again. She left and returned a little later with a tray from the galley, setting it on a folding table in front of him. There were some mashed potatoes with gravy, a small dome of corned beef hash, and a cup of apple sauce. The drink was a tumbler of cherry Kool-Aid in ice. This simple tray was a gourmet feast, flavors and textures that he had been deprived of for an eternity. It was a disappointment when it was empty so soon, but no amount of begging would sway her to bring more.
She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him, “Tell me what you remember.”
Mark thought for a moment, searching, but nothing new or profound revealed itself.
“I know that I’m in the Marines, and my name is Mark. I’m on a hospital ship.”
She blinked, “That’s it?”
He shrugged, “For now, I guess. I must have been pretty beat up when I came, eh?”
The nurse huffed, “You were practically dead, Mister! You were actually down in the Graves compartment being prepared for military burial, but a sharp-eyed tech noticed that you still had some fight left in you.”
Mark grinned, “So, what happened to me?”
“We’re not sure, exactly,” she replied. “Commander Gilliam is pretty sure that you were too close to some kind of explosion. You were mush, almost literally. The over-pressure wave actually killed the nanos in your armor.”
“Wow,” he said, impressed.
She laughed, “Yes, wow sums it up. It’s no wonder your brain is a little mudd
led right now. Your memory should start coming back to you a little at a time.”
He finished the drink and pushed the table aside, “It’s the dreams that bother me.”
“What kind of dreams?”
Mark closed his eyes, picturing them, “Fragments, mostly. Flashes of light. Screams. A lot of rifle fire.”
The Attayan nodded sympathetically, “Likely, those are memory fragments. Don’t fight them, that’s your brain re-booting.”
He harrumphed and shifted his weight, wincing.
“Pain?” She asked.
He shook his head, “Nothing too bad. It’s this thing in my privates, it feels huge, and I need to pee.”
She blushed through her facial fur, which was as white as snow, “Oh, your catheter. It can come out in the morning, now that you’re awake. The Doc wants you to begin physical and mental therapy as soon as possible.”
As she gathered his tray and started to leave, he stopped her, “You remind me of someone. I know an Attayan whose fur is just like yours.”
The nurse paused, her expression one of intrigue, “There are few albinos among my race,” she told him. “I have a sister in the Marines, her name is Amell.”
Mark’s heart seemed to skip a beat, and his eyes bulged, “Yes! I know her!”
She gingerly sat the tray down and grabbed his chart, writing excitedly, “I think we might just know where you came from, then!”
October 19th
Lt. Commander Gilliam was not intimidating as far as senior officers went. She was a tall, thin, jovial lady who wore a perpetual grin, as if she were thinking of a joke that she had recently heard. She stood over Mark’s bed, hands in her smock pockets,
looking at him with an expression of wonder.
“The nano-injections really pulled the trick, didn’t they?” She asked.
Mark smiled back, “I guess they did, Ma’am. I feel sore, and have some memory issues, but I really don’t feel that bad.”
Gilliam lifted the blanket to examine his torso. The bruises were already fading, and the muscle tone filling out to a healthier texture. Not as firm and defined as before, as it was all regenerated, but exercising would restore it soon enough.
“What I gather,” Gilliam said, “is that you were hit with one hell of a shock wave. Your armor protected you from internally bursting from the over-pressure, but it was still enough to totally mash your structure. The armor itself was destroyed.”
Mark nodded, “That’s what the night nurse explained to me. She seems to think that she knows where I’m from, because I remember her sister.”
The commander was pleased, “Yes, we’ve made some progress there. We know for certain that you were attached to the First Marine Battalion in one capacity or another. They’ve lost a large number of troops lately, so we’re still trying to nail down exactly who you belong to. There were nine marines with your first name listed as either KIA or MIA. We’ll figure it out.”
Mark frowned, thinking, “That does sound familiar. First Battalion. There’s also a face that I keep remembering. A young woman, Hispanic, pretty face. I feel like I miss her real bad, but I can’t put a name to her, or remember how I know her.”
Gilliam replaced the blanket, scratching at her chin, wondering, “How about yourself? Do you remember your rank, or anything like that?”
“No,” Mark answered, playing absently with the ring on his left finger. The doctor noticed this and commented on it.
“That’s a wedding band. Maybe the girl you remember is your wife.”
Mark grinned, “I hope so. She’s pretty.”
Gilliam chuckled and motioned toward the foot of the bed, “Your catheter was removed while you were asleep, so if you need to pee, page the duty nurse to help you walk to the Head. Your legs aren’t strong enough to really be reliable on your own, yet.”
“How long have I been here?” Mark wanted to know. “I’m in good shape. Or, at least, I was.”
“Only about two weeks,” Gilliam told him.
“Like I said, the nanos really hurry healing along. With some physical therapy, you’ll be back to your old self in about a month.” She tapped the side of her head, “It’s getting your thinker back on-line that we need to accomplish. There are a few different therapies that we can try to hurry it along.”
Mark looked pensive. The doctor sat on the edge of the bed, her perpetual grin hesitant, “What is it?”
The young man looked at her imploringly, “I’m not sure, but I feel like as if it’s really important that I get back to where I came from.”
Gilliam was apprehensive, “If you’re talking about returning to the line, I think that’s a very bad idea. Your service days are over, Mark.”
The boy’s hand shot out from under the blanket and gripped Gilliam’s arm, “That
decision should be up to me, Commander Gilliam. Right now, this is all I know. You can’t take that from me.”
Gilliam smiled, sighing, “One day at a time, then. Let’s agree on that.”
Irvington, Ohio
Colonels Lafferty and Strasburg were sitting at their desks in the command area of the Wal-Mart, laboring their way through the seemingly endless supply of paperwork that managed to follow them no matter where the war took them. Their signatures were
required on requisitions, payroll slips, inventory sheets, and personnel matters of every type. Even with junior officers assisting them, it took hours of their day to wade through it.
“Grozet may not have to fight us in the field to win the war,” Strasburg quipped. “All he has to do is make sure we stay mired under these forms.”
Lafferty sat his pen down and rubbed at his sore hand, “If it isn’t actual paperwork, it’s digital data over the net.”
Strasburg sighed and reached for the now-cold coffee waiting near the corner of his desk, “I had Major Rogett ask me yesterday why we couldn’t walk through that bio-hazard cloud in our armor, since we would be protected. I told him that, yes, we’d be fine, but then everywhere we went could be contaminated from what was clinging to the outside. It just isn’t worth the risk.”
His Attayan counterpart was frowning over a particular report, only half-listening. “This is interesting,” He commented.
Strasburg sipped at his cold java, “What’ve you got?”
Lafferty looked up at him over the page, “This is a communiqué that just came in from Orbital Command this morning. They’re requesting personnel data on all Marines lost in action over the previous month, who’s first names are Mark. Specifically from the First Battalion.”
It was Strasburg’s turn to frown, “I wonder what they’re up to.”
Lafferty shrugged, motioning for one of the operations techs to come take the form, “Who can guess? We’ll just send them what they want.”
USS Terra Daley
Lt. Commander Gilliam was seated in the meager compartment that served as her office, making notations on patient files, enjoying the relative calm that had reigned for the past few days. There was apparently a lull in the action on the Ohio lines, and what casualties there were being incurred were of lesser severity, allowing treatment from planet-side facilities. A rap on the hatch drew her attention.
“Come in.”
The heavy door was pulled aside and her secretary handed her a small stack of folders, “The personnel files you requested just beamed in, Ma’am,”
Gilliam took them and sat the manila envelopes atop the other things on her desk, “Thank you.”
When the hatch closed again, she began flipping through them, taking care to pay particular attention to the photos. Nothing. Nothing. Nope. It was not until the last one that she felt a thrill run through her.
There, in the top corner of the service record, was the photo of his patient of interest. Master Sergeant Mark Corbin, A-Company Commander, 1st Infantry Battalion,
83rd Marine Combat Regiment, 1st Global Marine Division.
She picked up the receiver of the com-set mounted on the
bulkhead, and dialed the communications center.
“Patch me in on the net to the command element of the 83rd Marine Regiment, flash traffic!”
Irvington, Ohio
Strasburg had just excused himself from the hooch, and was heading outside for some fresh air---already to the exit doors when one of the aides came running after him.
“Sir, you have priority com-traffic from Orbital Command.” The young woman told him.
The colonel grunted, “Well, I almost made it out.”
He returned without much hurry, rather dreading what might be waiting for him. Likely, it was mobilization orders. The 77th Regiment was pretty bogged down in Cincinnati; the Storians having been lying in wait for just such a maneuver, knowing that the route from I-70 had been cut off.
As Strasburg re-entered the hooch, he noticed Colonel Lafferty still sitting at his desk, hands folded together, eagerly waiting to find out what was coming down the pipe. The com-tech handed him the receiver.
“This is Strasburg.”
“This is Lieutenant Commander Gilliam, the head surgeon aboard the Terra Daley,” The voice on the other end announced. “I’m contacting you with some information regarding one of the Marines under your command.”
The colonel’s interest was piqued, “Yes, go ahead.”
“Colonel, I’m happy to inform you that a Master Sergeant Mark Corbin is currently under my care. He was listed as killed in action.”
Strasburg broke into a grin, “That is remarkable, Commander! There will be a lot of happy people down here. What’s his status?”
“Recovering rapidly,” Gilliam said. “Already complaining that he wants to get back on the line.”
Laughing, the colonel nodded even though the gesture couldn’t be seen, “That sounds like the Corbin I know. When will he be released back to me?”
There was a pause, “There are still some issues with brain trauma; he’s trying to remember a lot of things. Can you fill me in on what happened to him?”