by Mark Bordner
Strasburg sighed, “His unit was defending a bridge against superior armored forces, and called in close-air support. A Thermite bomb was dropped practically on top of him.”
“That explains a lot. He was in bad shape when we got to him.”
“I hate to sound like a broken record,” the colonel told him, “But when can he rejoin the battalion?”
Gilliam relented, “It’s against my wishes, but I would estimate about a month. I’m going to employ some Attayan medical procedures to help with his memory issues. Also, he has a wedding band, so you may want to inform his wife that he’s alright.”
“Oh, I will,” Strasburg assured her. “Thank you for beaming me.”
“Glad to help.”
Handing the receiver back to the tech, Strasburg beamed at Lafferty, “You aren’t going to believe this…”
USS Terra Daley
October 20th
The therapy compartment was quite the well-equipped gym. Servicemen and women labored at a variety of different exercise machines, working to restore muscles and coordination. It was a scene of desperate effort and sweat--- some tears, but the troopers strived to inspire one another. When one gave up, another was right there to egg them on.
Mark was giving the pull-weights a run for their paces when Commander Gilliam entered. Clad only in gym shorts, the young man was glistening with perspiration, his form well on its way back to its previous chiseled build. The nano-bots coursing through his system provided Herculean properties to the muscle replenishment.
Seeing the doctor, he stopped and took a breather.
“How’s it coming with your memory?” Gilliam asked him.
Mark took a long drink from a water bottle, panting from exertion, “Bits and pieces.”
Gilliam nodded, “I would like to employ an Attayan procedure,” She said. “It involves a medical implant near the base of your spine, a nano-device. It merges with your spinal cord and sets about the same kind of accelerated repairs to your brain function that the injections are doing for your body. It should restore you within days, if not hours.”
Mark looked apprehensive, “Sounds risky. How long will it be attached to my spine?”
“A few months,” Gilliam explained. “Then it will deactivate on its own, and detach painlessly. You’ll be left with a repaired brain.”
“Are there side-effects?”
The commander nodded, “Yes, as with what you are seeing right now. Accelerated healing abilities, increased strength, faster reflexes, and a greater appetite. You’ll burn calories at a fantastic rate until the Device detaches itself, so you’ll need to eat more often and consume a much higher amount of carbohydrates.”
Mark thought about it and decided to go ahead with it. The sooner that he could recall his life, the better, “Let’s do it, then.”
Gilliam smiled, “Go get showered, and report to the surgical ward right after. We’ll do this today.”
The young man thought about that beautiful young woman that kept popping into
his head. While unable to put a name to her face, he knew that he was infatuated with her. He hoped that she was really his wife, and if so, that he could be reunited with her soon.
The surgical ward was separated by pull-curtains for privacy between the beds, and Mark found that the one where he had been placed was so small as to nearly be
claustrophobic. As he lay face-down on the cushioned table, a nurse swabbed cold disinfectant on his exposed back, the rest of him covered in paper sheets. When she had finished prepping him, Commander Gilliam entered, accompanied by an Attayan doctor, and the two of them drew the curtain closed. The Attayan carried a small, metallic box; which he sat on the tool table hovering over Mark’s back.
Gilliam sprayed a local anesthetic over the skin and toyed with a hypodermic, “You might feel some pressure, now.”
The needle was so thin, that he scarcely felt anything as it slowly entered the flesh, numbing as it went. If anything, it was an irritating tickle. Almost immediately, he could tell that the whole backside was deadened.
The Attayan opened the box and took out the wafer-sized chip. Mark could not see it as he held it low over the skin, which was probably fortunate. The nano portion of the device sensed his body heat and reacted, extending hair-thin tentacles from the bottom of the chip, wriggling excitedly. The doctor gently placed the devise over the
spine and the hairs dug in, pulling the chip snug against the flesh.
It really tickled now, as the hairs wound their way down, mining through the muscle, into the gap between the vertebrae, and around the spinal cord itself. Mark suppressed the desire to laugh. Once embraced with the cord, the nanos began to merge. It was nearly psycadelic. He saw vivid colors swim before his eyes, his limbs twitched, as if with electricity, and he became powerfully aroused for an instant.
The strange effects faded, and within his mind, it was as if a fog was lifting. Odd, random memories began to trickle in. Things from his childhood, the tastes of his favorite foods, smells, the bridge of his father’s battleship. His father. The day that someone had come to tell him that his dad had been killed, and the sorrow that followed. It was nearly an over-load of information. He willed it to slow down.
Mark opened his eyes and turned to speak to Gilliam, to tell her of these disjointed images, but the woman was no longer there. The little space was empty and dim, the ward silent.
Mark rose and swung his bare feet over the side of the bed, standing on the cold tile, and tied his robe shut before swiping the curtain aside. His legs felt a bit rubbery and tingled as feeling returned to them. It was night-mode again in the ship, and the ward was full of soft snores. The duty nurse was nowhere in sight. He questioned what the hell had happened. He wandered a short distance, toward the desk, and saw the clock, astounded. Nearly seven hours had gone by! He didn’t remember falling asleep.
There was a chair near the bulkhead and he claimed it, sitting there to figure
things out. His memory was back whole, as far as he could tell. He remembered everything that he thought he should. That last assault in Enon, the desperate call for ordnance. His wife. He wanted to see Minerva more than anything.
His stomach growled fiercely, loud enough to echo in the silent ward. The duty nurse came around from a curtain to investigate the noise, and he recognized her as Amell’s sister.
“Oh, it’s you!” She said with surprise. “The doctors were astounded at how the device took with your system. It’s never been so intense before. I bet you’re hungry.”
Mark nodded, “Yes, and no more of those infantile portions of mush. I want grilled beast, medium rare, all the sides, and some sort of caloric disaster for dessert!”
She laughed, extending a hand, “Come on, I’ll show you how to find the galley. Maybe the mid-watch cook will rustle something up for you.”
“When can I see my wife?” He wanted to know.
“Very soon,” She promised. “At the rate you’re recovering, Gilliam will likely release you in the next few days.”
Assured, Mark got up to go with her, “Ok, then. I need a snack.”
USS Terra Daley
October 23rd
The morning started early for Mark, roused at 04:30 by Commander Gilliam. Once dressed in the new fatigues that the doctor had brought for him, he reported to the officer’s office and thanked the woman for all that she had done. Gilliam, wearing her signature grin, handed him a packet containing his travel orders.
“You’re heading back to the line, Master Sergeant,” she told him, “as you requested. I wish you the best of luck.”
Mark accepted the packet with a smile, “God-willing, I want to see this war through to its end. Grozet has hurt a lot of people. His butt needs kicked right out of our star system.”
Gilliam nodded, “Understandable. There’s a new battle suit waiting for you in the armory, and I guess they’ll issue you your weapons there as well. You need to catch the 06:00 shuttle that’ll take you o
ver to the Goliath. You’ll be dropping planet-side with a new batch of replacements from there.”
“Sounds good, thank you, Ma’am.”
With that, they parted, and Mark never saw her or Amell’s sister again after that day, thanks to unforeseen developments further on that really put a new spin on the war. He found his way to the armory, where the technicians fitted him with his new body armor and cued it to his brain waves. The rifle was the newer model that he had yet to see, and he was delighted by its increased anti-personnel capabilities. Next came the harnesses and pouches to hold the warehouse of gear that he would need in the field.
With that done, he hurried through the galley to grab something to eat on the fly and just made it to the shuttle before the crew chief closed and sealed the hatch. The taxi detached from the hull of the hospital ship, making maneuvers to approach the super-carrier that was the flagship of the 7th Allied Fleet. They cruised in at an angle, coming about to line up with the upper flight deck, and entered the maw of the Goliath like a tiny bug in to the mouth of a dinosaur. The shuttle hovered down and whispered sideways into a parking slot, guided by one of the Navy yellow-shirts.
As soon as the chief opened the hatch, Mark was out and making his way toward the deck island, following the directions of the flight deck boss, who pointed in the
direction in which he was to walk. Each of the sailors in this area wore different colored jerseys and headgear, signifying their various departments. He could not recall what all of them were, but knew the purple ones were fuel crew, green was maintenance, red was ordnance, yellow were aircraft directors, and the medics wore white with the big, red cross on their backs.
The deck was a noisy and dangerous place during flight quarters, with different craft moving about, launching, and landing in a sometimes hectic pace. A fuels crewman standing near the main tower hatch opened it for Mark as he approached, permitting him to step inside. When the heavy door clanged shut, the thunder from the flight deck was shut out with it, much a relief to his ears--- as he had forgotten to close his helmet visor, which would have dampened the noise. He stood there for a moment, looking ahead of him. The brightly lit corridor was a bit wider than most, with the
bulkhead on the left occupied by a line of armored marines, standing there waiting. Their visors were open as well, revealing one very young face after another. Some of them stood barely up to his chest in height. He guessed that some of these kids might have been only twelve years old.
The oldest-looking one in the front, probably not a day over 14, was a corporal. All of the others were privates-- new graduates fresh out of Recruit Training Command- Attaya. There were a number of different unit designations on their breastplates, these were replacement troops on their way to fill slots left by those killed in action. They looked back at him expectantly, visibly intimidated at the sight of a higher-ranking veteran.
Mark looked at the corporal, “You guys waiting for the drop to the Ohio Line?”
The corporal nodded, eyes wide. Her name stencil read Ashburn. She had distinctive Asian facial features, “Will we be going in hot?” She asked nervously, wondering if this would be a combat drop. “I’m Dawn, by the way.”
Mark shook his head, “We’ll likely land near Springfield, and be distributed to our respective units from there. Relax.”
Ashburn’s stature eased, and she appeared relieved.
“You from Japan?’ The master sergeant asked.
She nodded, “Sasebo.”
He regarded the line of youthful faces, “What’d they do, recruit the grade schools?”
Ashburn smiled timidly, “Pretty much. There are rumors of a global draft, but so
far, it‘s just been a heavy recruiting effort from the schools and poor neighborhoods.”
The hatch was pulled back open, flooding the corridor with noise again, and a yellow-shirt motioned for them to follow him. Mark closed his visor this time, and the others followed suit. He took the lead and the fifty-six marines single-filed out onto the flight deck, ushered toward four different shuttle-helos that resembled the Navy SeaHawk--- a heavy, bulky model used for moving large numbers of troops and supplies.
They piled in and strapped down on the cloth benches, crowded among secured crates of rations. Weapons were stood barrel-down between legs, safety-on, and latched in place so as not to fly around during the re-entry into atmosphere. The master sergeant settled in and leaned his head back, relaxing, while the others around him fidgeted nervously. He ignored them, it was always the same. The first few times of inter-atmosphere flight were mind-blowing, but it quickly became dull. There were other, more frightening things out there waiting--- namely the battlefield.
The shuttle-helos were given the signal to launch and lifted into the air one by one, following one another as they accelerated out across the flight deck and out into space. They arced upward from the perspective of the Goliath, heading toward the vast expanse of the Earth, spinning to orient themselves so that it became a descent. They entered the atmosphere over the east coast of North America and plunged, creating comet tails of fire as the friction super-heated air against their protective hulls.
Finally achieving optimal flight altitude and direction, they slowed, their journey becoming smoother to those who rode inside. Heat shields retracted from the cockpit windows, allowing the pilots to utilize visual control. Across the country and down through banks of clouds, they soon entered the monitored paths of the Allied traffic lanes. In less than half an hour, Ohio was below them. The helos circled a military airfield until gaining clearance to land, and cruised in to the Springfield Rear Operating Base, where the higher levels of command and logistics were stationed to support the line units operating along the fronts.
Once the SeaHawks had been parked, the troopers were permitted to disembark onto the tarmac, where troop trucks were already waiting for them. As usual, GNN had a camera crew hanging around, filming even something as simple as that. Mark walked past them without so much as a glance, but the kids, new to the attention, reveled in it.
A young lieutenant stepped from around the truck as Mark was ready to hoist
himself up into the open back, and stopped him. The master sergeant saluted respectfully.
“Corbin,” The officer said, reading the stencil. “You’re to come with me.”
The lieutenant led him to a staff car and popped the trunk, taking his duffle bag and rifle. Mark pulled off his helmet and tossed it in, too. The officer motioned for him to get in the passenger side. This was something new and extraordinary, but he went along with it, interested to find out what was up. He hoped that it didn’t take too awfully long, because he wanted nothing more than to reunite with Minerva.
The officer got in and started the car, giving Mark a ponderous look, “There’s quite a bit of buzz about you, Master Sergeant,” He stated, steering them away from the tarmac and toward the guard shack gate.
“That so?” Mark asked noncommittally. “What for?”
The lieutenant chuckled, shaking his head, “‘What for,’ he says. For what you did, that’s ‘what for!’”
“I’m not following you,” Mark told him. “All I did was get myself killed.”
The young officer broke out into laughter, “You front-line vets are all alike, so dark and pessimistic!”
Mark looked out the window, watching the scenery go by, refraining from comment. There were a few colorful things that he would have liked to have said, but really it was unfair to belittle those who were doing their part in the rear echelon. Their lack of understanding was not their fault, and it was impossible to describe the emotional torment of the front line. Living those abysmal days and nights with your friends dying around you, the interminable boredom followed by punctuated terror--- constantly wondering when you yourself might die or suffer a horrible wound, tended to make line troops the most intolerant, moody sons-of-b****s a person could meet.
“You’re up for an award, you know,” The lieutenant ventur
ed, trying to fill the lull in conversation. “They say you’re a hero.”
Mark broke out with his own laughter at that, “A hero! Superman is a hero. I’m just a grunt trying to do his job.”
The lieutenant just shook his head again, grinning, “Yeah, well, General Towers himself is waiting for you. That’s where we’re going.”
The master sergeant sighed. This was going to take a while after all.
The staff car pulled to a stop before an office complex that had been claimed for the use of the senior command. There was an over-abundance of Marines stationed as guards and walking armed patrols. The flags of the United Earth, the Attayan Republic, and the colors of the UEMC flew on the small lawn outside of a former real estate firm. The lieutenant parked and told Mark that he could leave his things in the trunk for the time being. The two of them got out and approached the entrance. The guards on either side of the door saluted and opened it for them. The officer returned the gesture and led Mark further into the building, passing several offices being used by other branches of the service, their walls adorned with maps and charts. Army and Navy
officers within looked up from desks piled high with paperwork, looking every bit as ragged as a field trooper.
Another pair of armored troopers stood watch at a door at the far end of the hall, snapping to attention. The room was full of more Brass than Mark had ever seen in one place, even that crazy ballroom with the President. General Towers was the highest -ranking of them, but there was an entire selection of full colonels, majors, and a number of captains. They were not all Marines, either; many were from the Surface Army.
Conversation in the room dwindled to a halt when they walked in. Mark followed the lieutenant’s cue and came to attention as he did.
“Delivering Master Sergeant Corbin, as ordered, General,” The young officer reported.
Towers, who stood near the window with a drink in his hand, smiled and nodded, “Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all.”