The Mighty First, Episode 3

by Mark Bordner

  He wanted to voice these thoughts, but the damn drug was still dampening his motor skills. He could only reply to questions. Mark tried to make eye contact with

  Strasburg, but the colonel was having none of it, avoiding his gaze. That was a good sign to him, though. Before, the officer had no trouble in burning into him with a hateful glare. Now, the man had doubts, and was unwilling to connect until he had more information. There was hope, then, that this madness would clear up.

  The agent got up and left the room to make arrangements for transport to another facility. Once alone, Strasburg moved to the open seat and took it, finally looking Mark in the eye.

  “You’re a damn fine Marine, Corbin,” He said softly. “If there’s any saving you from this, I’ll tilt the Earth on its axis to do so.”

  Mark wanted to thank him, wanted to ask that Minerva be spoken to, but all he could manage to do was weep like a damned baby.

  USS Terra Daley

  The Combat Information Center was quiet. The command center for a hospital ship is not as frantic or compartmentalized as one on a combatant. There were no weapons systems beyond the very basic for defense against close-in attack or the phalanx cannons to ward off in-coming missiles. The majority of the CIC’s components were for navigation, communications, and tracking.

  It was at the tracking console that Petty Officer 2nd Class Rich Mahan was currently trying to stay awake at. He was bored and unhappy with his current assignment. Just a year prior, he had been stationed on the Belleau Wood, a much more interesting space faring vessel that had a lot going for it. It was fortunate, this transfer, considering that the ‘Wood had been destroyed during the initial stages of the invasion, but that didn’t change the fact that the graveyard shift on this dump was nothing he wanted to be doing.

  The CIC was dead at any hour, and silent as a tomb. The watch officer was a surely, cocky little man that did not allow any small-talk among the operators, lest they miss that all-important blip on a screen that would likely never appear in his lifetime. There were only the medevac flights that came and went when there was action on the surface, and a few ship-to-ship shuttles from the Goliath. That was the crux of excitement in his corner of creation.

  Mahan glanced at the time read-out in the corner of one of his monitors, (his console had four of them), and saw that another two hours remained on his watch. He stifled a yawn and tried to entertain himself by flipping back and forth between the short and long range scanners, knowing darn well that nothing would be on either of them.

  To his mild surprise, a pair of blips did, indeed, appear on the edge of his LRS. They had just broken atmosphere, and were at the far edge of the curve of the Earth. He prompted his computer to begin tracking, and to plot their course and heading while simultaneously endeavoring to identify them. It took only a few seconds to recognize them as Marine Blackhawks, as their transponders were singing out their unit designations. They had traveled far enough to determine that they were in-bound as well. Mahan raised his hand and signaled the duty officer, but the lieutenant was absorbed in studying a manual of some sort, so he keyed the mic on his headset instead.

  “Sir, this is Tracking, we have two contacts in-bound from the surface, bearing aft-five-three-seven, true, and closing.”

  In the lieutenant’s typical form, the officer flew into a rage, wanting to know why he hadn’t been told off the net. Now the bridge crew would be wanting answers as to the reason things weren’t happening sooner.

  “Sir, they just now appeared on the Long Range Scanner,” Mahan explained. “You were busy over there, and---”

  The watch officer waved the explanation aside and hovered over the monitor, “Oh, they’re just troop shuttles. See if you can raise them.”

  Mahan found the correct frequency and called out, “This is the Terra Daley hailing Blackhawks on approach, please state your business, over.”

  There was a brief pause, then, “Terra Daley, this is DOD Special Operations, you are instructed to initiate radio silence and inform the Commanding Officer to await our arrival on your hangar deck. Out.”

  That was it. Short, and not so sweet. Mahan looked at the watch officer, whose expression was one of someone who had just discovered a cockroach floating in their half-finished coffee cup. The PO2 took inner pleasure at that, then wondered just what was going down.

  Things were no longer so boring.

  Space Navy Captain Eric Brion stood stiffly at the edge of the flight line on his ship’s small hangar deck. The Terra Daley was nowhere near the dimensions of an LHA or a carrier, and its aviation accommodations reflected that. This fact did not belittle Brion’s pride. To be the commanding officer of any vessel was an accomplishment in itself. He had dedicated years of his life to the Space Navy, sacrificing his marriage in order to achieve his current stature. His daughter, who had enlisted in the Marines, was his only other pride that he possessed.

  The sudden onset of the war had been disconcerting, and he now found himself wishing that he had managed to achieve command of one of the combatants, but his role was no less important, to be certain. The wounded arrived often in droves--- those who needed surgery that the MASH units on the surface were not equipped to provide. The dead were catalogued by the Graves Unit on board. It was all as efficient as he could ensure.

  The arrival that he currently awaited was the most disconcerting that Brion was able to remember. The war was mysterious enough on its own without this type of black-ops nonsense, especially so on his own vessel. He was not pleased in the least. The Master-At-Arms standing beside him appeared no less enthused. The captain had the feeling that an armed escort might be a good idea, given the vague hostility that the brief transmission had carried.

  The flight-quarters chime sounded, and the huge blast door of the flight deck began sliding aside, the ship’s atmosphere held in by the energy field surrounding the hull. A yellow-shirt stepped away from the fringes and lit his sticks as the pair of wicked-

  looking combat shuttles cruised inside, their inert side guns tucked against their flanks.

  They maneuvered to the spots where the yellow-shirt was directing them, hovered a moment, then set gently down on the deck. No sooner had the wheels touched the non-skid deck when the troop doors slid open and twenty-four armored Marines stormed out, rifles at the ready, and formed an armed perimeter around the craft. Captain Brion went from annoyed to out-raged with record speed. The yellow-shirt, astonished, dropped his glow sticks and just stood there, unable to move.

  “What the hell is this all about?” Brion voiced to his escort.

  The Master-At-Arms was holding his hands out away from his sides, face absolutely white with fright. One of the troopers stepped over and relieved him of his sidearm. From one of the Blackhawks emerged a stout figure in full dress uniform, with the rank of an Admiral on his epilates. He strode purposefully in Brion’s direction, ignoring his salute.

  To the astonishment of all, it was a Storian.

  “I am assuming command of this vessel,” The flag officer announced. “You will inform all personnel via the 1MC that they are confined to quarters at once. I also want to speak with your chief surgeon, Commander Gilliam.”

  The captain considered demanding an explanation, but the sight of more than forty armed Storians in Marine armor, combat-ready on his flight deck, quelled any desire to save his ego. Brion moved to carry out his orders.

  The Storian Admiral, flanked by a pair of troopers, followed Captain Brion down the corridor into the medical ward, past the rows of wounded servicemen and surprised nurses, directly to the compartment that served as Gilliam’s office. Brion rapped his knuckles on the hatch.

  “Commander Gilliam, this is the C.O.”

  As Brion pulled the hatch open, the Storian shoved him aside, drawing a sidearm. He casually pointed the weapon at Gilliam’s face as she turned to see who had entered her office, and pulled the trigger.

  Brion could only gape in muted horror, “Oh, my God…”
<
br />   The Admiral shifted so that Brion had a clear view, and forced him inside to see. Commander Gilliam was sitting in her chair, facing the hatch, eyes open and mouth agape. There was a neat hole in the center of her forehead, and her brains were all over the bulkhead behind her.

  The flag officer turned to the Storian lieutenant behind him, “Lock down the hanger bay. No one lands on or leaves this ship. Have a squad man the defense batteries. Approaching craft get one warning shot across the bow, then they get splashed. Do it now!”

  While the soldier hurried to make that happen, the Admiral fixed his gaze on Captain Brion, “In the name of the Storian Empire, I now control this vessel.”

  PO2 Mahan jerked in his seat, surprised by the sudden appearance of armored Marines stomping into the CIC, sporting huge rifles. There were three of them, two with their faces obscured behind their helmet visors, the third a staff sergeant with his visor

  open, revealing the scaled face of a Storian. The sergeant’s weapon was slung over his shoulder and he pointed at Mahan and the other operators.

  “Step away from your consoles,” he ordered.

  “Now, just wait a damn minute!” The squirrelly watch officer protested, standing from the fold-up desk where he had been seated. “You can’t just---”

  The lieutenant was cut off by a pair of rifles swinging in his direction, trained on his face. The Storian sergeant stood his ground while the navy technicians did as they had been told, moving to the far corner of the compartment.

  “Which one of you knows how to operate the weapon systems?”

  There was hesitation while everyone involuntarily looked at Mahan. Though he was a navigation-tracking tech, the defensive batteries were tied to him as well in the compact CIC. Mahan tried a casual grin.

  “I guess that would be me.”

  The sergeant motioned for him to return to his station, “The Storian Empire now flies its flag on this vessel. If any other craft attempts to approach or depart, they are to get a single warning salvo. If they refuse to comply, you will destroy them. If you refuse this order, I will shoot you here and now. Do you understand?”

  Mahan’s grin dissolved and he nodded that he did. He could not hide the tremble in his hands as they entered the commands that brought the phalanx batteries from safe to live. Thoughts raced through his mind. He wondered if he would be able to find it within

  himself to fire on one of their own craft, but the presence of the guns behind him would likely be encouragement enough. His guts were churning. This whole situation felt utterly wrong. He risked a glance at his watch officer, but there was no reassurance coming from

  that quarter. The lieutenant was standing with the other techs in the corner, visibly petrified. Mahan wished there were some way to ask someone in authority what was happening. To beckon help from somewhere.

  An idea formed, but he was unsure if it would even work. The young tech watched the Marine imposters out of the corner of his vision. They were occupied with keeping an eye on the others and whispering among themselves. Mahan pretended to be busy with entering data into his console, trying to appear sufficiently busy. In reality, he was keying commands to the over-monitoring computer, accessing control to the running lights that flashed along the hull of the ship, near the Bridge tower. He hoped that he had the flashing sequence right.

  USS Goliath, super-carrier and flag ship for the 3RD Space Naval Task Force

  The Combat Information Center for the Goliath was a small city compared to that on the Terra Daley. There were a team of watch officers and senior chiefs supervising the techs at a number of stations vital to not only the defense of the ship, but offensive and

  flight operations as well.

  There was a bit of wonder buzzing about the facility at the abrupt communications silence from the hospital ship parked to their starboard keel. The Daley had maneuvered off from the group for several hundred clicks for no apparent reason,

  and was refusing to reply to calls from the Bridge.

  Senior Chief Edward Leon had just assumed watch of his section when all of this took place. It was darned peculiar, and had the attention of everyone on duty. Leon was leaning over the shoulder of a young tech whose console had a trio of monitors that were tied into the hull cameras, giving a view of the forward portion of the carrier. The Earth served as a beautiful backdrop, but sight-seeing was not on his list of present tasks.

  “Turn Camera 4 to starboard,” He told the tech. “Let’s get a look at the Daley.”

  A control was touched and that view began to shift, the horizon of home gradually moving away toward the emptiness of space. The aft portion of their escort ship, a missile cruiser, partially blocked the image of the Terra Daley--- which appeared to be the size of a quarter. The sun glinted off of its grey hull, making it stand out as a bright spot against a field of darkness.

  “See if you can close-in some,” Leon said, squinting at the image.

  The tech enhanced it a few times until the vessel was large enough to make out the shape of its structure.

  “Any more, and we’ll lose clarity,” The young woman stated.

  The senior chief stared at it and played various scenarios through his imagination, trying to figure out what was going on over there. He picked up a spare headset and

  plugged into the comm-net to listen. The Bridge was still hailing her, trying to eck out a response and receiving nothing. At one point, the C.O. cut in and fruitlessly demanded someone answer. Then the line admiral.

  “Odd,” The tech mumbled.

  Leon glanced at her, “No kidding.”

  “I mean that,” She touched the monitor with a finger. “Look at her running lights.”

  Leon did so. Normally, a ship’s hull number, name, and foredeck were bathed in spotlights, with the red running lights flashing in constant two-second pulses. These were flashing in a sequence, some rapid, others slower, but the pattern looked the same, repeating itself.

  Realization dawned.

  “That’s Morse code!” The senior chief voiced.

  She frowned, “What’s it say?”

  He took a pen from his shirt pocket and made marks on his palm, dots for the short flashes, dashes on the longer ones, “Have the over-monitor analyze this.”

  The tech typed it in and received an immediate decryption. She gasped. He grabbed the nearest handset and dialed the Bridge.

  “Con, this is CIC,” He spoke loudly and clearly so that there would be no misunderstanding. “The Terra Daley is flashing an SOS!”

  The Commanding Officer picked up from his end, sounding stern, “Is this the senior chief?”

  “Yes, Sir, Leon here. Her running lights are flashing a distress code in Morse!”

  “Thank you, Senior Chief, well done,” The Captain told him before breaking the line. The C.O.’s voice then sounded ship-wide over the 1MC.

  “This is the Commanding Officer. We are uncertain as to exactly what has happened aboard the hospital ship Terra Daley, but a little while ago, she broke from formation and cut off all communications. Her running lights are now flashing an SOS signal, so I can only imagine what might be taking place over there. I am now ordering the Goliath to a full state of readiness. That is all.”

  Immediately following the announcement, the alarm began to bray.

  “General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands, man your battle stations! This is not a drill!”

  Senior Chief Leon returned his attention to the monitor, cupping a hand over one ear against the gonging of the alarm, “Can you tap into our running lights like that?”

  The tech nodded, “Sure.”

  “Okay, let‘s find out what the heck is going on…”

  Flight Quarters was called right after GQ, and the flight deck erupted into a hive of activity. Deck personnel scrambled to their posts and went through various preparations to the aircraft. The Air Boss directed primary attention to a group of fast-movers, wanting their ordnance loaded first, anticipating the next call fro
m the C.O., which came as he had expected.

  “Launch the Alert Five!”

  The Air Boss, up in Primary Flight Control at the top of the control tower, relayed the order to the flight crew waiting in their fighters. The five fast-attack shuttles were of wicked design, similar to an F-18, but more compact and able to operate both in

  space or atmosphere. These five were always ready to launch within moments in the event of an emergency. This situation was clearly a qualifier.

  The yellow-shirts directed them one at a time to the launch line, made a series of hand signals, and ducked as they roared from the deck. As soon as they had all gone, the squadron of Blackhawks began to cycle their engines while platoons of ship-board Marines jogged out from the island and boarded, rifles in hand. They would act as a response force if need be.

  “Good God!” One of the fuel crewmen exclaimed from the pumping station near the edge of the flight deck. “What the hell is going on?”

  His crew leader slapped the back of his helmet, “Didn’t anyone tell ya there’s a war going on?” He quipped.

  “Not against one of our own ships!” The kid answered.

  Secure Presidential Bunker

  Earth

  It was a scene of barely controlled chaos in the control room that had been dubbed NASA, because of its vast banks of monitors and command stations. The techs were all occupied with conversations of their own via their headsets, relaying and taking in information from countless points across the globe. The room’s ambience was one of a dull roar. Aides rushed about delivering communiqués and taking orders.