by Mark Bordner
President Reyes and Fleet Admiral Green hurried into the area, having been paged by the duty officer, who appeared harried with a phone receiver over each ear. He seemed relived at their arrival.
“Madam President,” he said, bringing the mouth piece away from his lips, “Galactic Command Authority has issued an Alert One status!”
Reyes motioned for an Air Force master sergeant nearby to take over on the phones so that she could speak with her duty officer, “Tell me what you know so far.”
The man dropped into the nearest seat and wiped sweat from his brow, “Two Blackhawks landed on the Terra Daley, our orbital hospital ship, about thirty minutes ago. There was a brief transmission about the ship being quarantined under your order, as a matter of national security. Communications were cut off, and the ship has broken orbit and maneuvered away from the fleet.”
Reyes burned with anger, “I gave no such order!”
The officer nodded his understanding, “The Goliath commander realized something was wrong when they noticed the Daley’s running lights flashing SOS in Morse code.”
“What action has the CO of the Goliath taken?” Admiral Green asked.
“He’s moved to Condition One and launched his alert fighters,” The duty officer replied. “That was four minutes ago. The GCA just announced the Alert One, stating that a vessel has been hijacked, and that appropriate measures are to be taken.”
Reyes rubbed at her temples and growled, “We don’t need this! Do we know yet if this is a Storian infiltration, or are we dealing with a mutiny?”
Green moved over to a celestial monitor to see the current positions of the fleet, “Do we have any idea who these people are that seized control of the Daley?”
The officer shook his head, “Not yet.”
“It could be a mutiny,” Reyes suggested. “We don’t have enough facts yet.”
The Admiral sighed, thinking, then, “Relay this order to the Goliath. Permission granted to initiate hostile action. Target engines only. Inform when Daley has been disabled.”
“Yes, Sir.” The man replied, typing the orders out.
Reyes was giving Green a curious look. Green understood why and explained himself, “We don’t want whoever it is to jump into Anderson Drive with that ship. If they make it back to Storia, their intelligence group will be able to decipher all of what she has in her data banks.”
The President’s eyes widened, “Doug, we both know that can’t be allowed to happen!”
Green nodded solemnly, “I know. We’ll do everything we can to prevent it.”
Reyes looked down at the duty officer, who had finished relaying the orders, “What’s the crew manifest for the Terra Daley?”
He searched briefly through the computer, calling that information up, “Three hundred sixty officers and men, a medical staff of forty-four, and currently a hundred and nine patients.”
She folded her arms across her stomach, picturing all of those souls, helpless against what was taking place around them. Over five hundred lives lay in her hands at that moment, and it felt horrible. Her lips did not want to form the words that she knew she must say.
“Doug, if we can’t get control of this…”
The admiral nodded grimly. He felt the same weight of those souls that she did.
USS Terra Daley
Captain Brion and the mysterious flag officer had by that point arrived to the Bridge, where the watch crew was already under armed guard. Brion felt himself in a state of disbelief, unable to fathom how or why a traitor would be lurking about his ship. Of what interest could a medical ship be to an enemy spy? He imagined that something more along the line of a carrier or a cruiser would hold a greater value to an infiltrator. There was also the question as to exactly who this admiral was.
On the topic of thought regarding a carrier, Brion noticed straight away that the Goliath had maneuvered from port to dead ahead, maintaining the same distance. The missile cruiser Damascus was still portside, but now faced them as well. Understandable, considering the circumstances, he would have done the same.
The comm was buzzing from the command dias. Brion wanted to answer it, but first looked at the Admiral, wondering if it would be permitted. The flag officer saw the glance.
“Answer it on speaker,” he told the captain.
Brion stepped over and pressed the button, “Captain, here.”
“Sir, this is Petty Officer Mahan, CIC. We have five contacts in-bound, closing fast.”
“I.D.?”
Mahan answered, “Alert fighters, weapons-hot!”
The Admiral spoke out, “Splash them, no warning salvo!”
The armed guard down in CIC must have convinced Leon to carry out the order, because the Phalanx batteries opened up. Streams of high-caliber plasma lanced out from the cannon mounts, guided by the defensive tracking computer.
They did not miss.
USS Goliath
In the CIC, Senior Chief Leon watched the monitors with heartache as the first two fighters were torn apart by the Phalanx streams. The remaining three made hard evasive turns and split up. The batteries tracked one of them, firing after it while the other two arced up and over the Daley. One began firing its gatlings at the engineering plant while the other launched rockets. The ordnance exploded against the heavy shielding without penetrating it, instead shearing exterior fittings and sending them careening off into space. The Phalanx found its target and destroyed it, turning to track another fighter.
While that one dodged and weaved the plasma, the wingman came around for another run at the engines, this time directly from aft. Its rocket detonated inside the bowl of the Anderson cupola and shattered the rim. The fourth fighter met its demise at the same moment.
The remaining pilot disengaged and veered away. The Phalanx batteries, sensing no further immediate threat, powered down.
“That didn’t prove a damned thing,” Leon complained aloud.
Terra Daley
The captain stood, dumbfounded before the tracking relay, looking at the hulking form of the Goliath out there. He noticed that her running lights were winking on and off in a peculiar fashion, but that did not dominate the fore of his mind. More so, it was the
realization that they were not going to get through this alive.
His thoughts wandered to the daughter that he may never see again, and it broke his heart.
In the CIC, Marion was secretly relieved to see the Goliath begin to flash Morse back at them. He keyed his over-monitor to decipher it for him. It was not the message that he was hoping for.
- - - We are sorry - - -
USS Goliath
Senior Chief Leon watched the over-monitor chatter to life, and felt a lump in his throat as he relayed the communiqué to the Bridge, “Sir, we have Flash Traffic from the GCA. It reads as follows. ‘Use of nuclear ordnance has been authorized. Splash the Terra Daley.’ ”
Irvington, Ohio
Forward Operating Base for the 83rd Marine Combat Regiment
Sergeant Bill Sabin had settled easily into the 1st Battalion, assigned to Alpha Company under Master Sergeant Ecu, a shapely female Attayan. He had never seen one of them in person before going to Marine basic training on the planet Attaya, and now found himself surrounded by the cat-like humanoids. It had been a novelty at first, but after a few days, his mind had accepted them as just part of the scenery. They were easy to get along with; the only irritating habits that he had noticed were their chatter-some laughter, and fascination with licorice.
Getting along with the Marines as a whole had been an easier transition than what
he had expected, having come from the Surface Navy. Bill had expected to receive some goading over that, but had so far heard nothing mentioned. Once you went through boOt camp and earned the Globe and Anchor, you were in the Brotherhood, simple as that. Where you came from was of no one’s concern.
Bill made friends easily, and found that Manny was much like himself. Dark humor, loved food, and had
little tolerance for bull. The two did not hang out much, though. Not so much for the difference in rank, but the master sergeant was all gaga over some Attayan gun ship pilot. That was fine, he supposed. Love was where you found it, though he imagining himself kissing some tall, furry-faced woman that purred made Bill shiver. To each his own.
So, after the daily busy-work, Bill struck out around town on his own, seeing the sights, and trying to quell the boredom. He had expected to drop from orbit and hit the front line straight away, but quite the opposite had happened. The entire Division was parked here at the FOB, and apparently had no intention of going anywhere any time soon. He had asked about it once, but had only scored a scornful glare from the other sergeant. Bill was also a good listener. He gathered from bits and pieces of other’s conversations that the battalions in this regiment had been quite literally through hell since D-Day, suffering heavy losses along the way. This vacation of sorts had been hard-earned.
Bill kept his mouth shut after that. The best way to be accepted as a new guy was to not make waves, and not to do or say anything stupid.
On this particular afternoon, he found himself with more time than usual on his hands. The work detail had been simple, and was completed before noon. After lunch, he had wandered out again, wishing that he had a pair of civvies to wear, but coming straight from boot, had only what had been issued. His battle gear and weapons were stowed in the company area, and he wore a clean set of fatigues when out on the town. Another irritating reminder to the vets that he was a new guy.
He walked all the way beyond the fringes of town, following the sounds of heavy weapons fire. It was periodic bursts. The Other troopers around town were ignoring it, which told him that it was target practice. There were occasional deeper blasts that sounded like cannons, followed by rolls of thunder as the rounds went off. Intrigued, Bill followed the noise until he found the source.
Lined up on the shoulder of a dirt road at the edge of town were six of the heavy-model tanks, making short work of a couple junkers way out in a field. He stood and watched as side gunners worked their 60-Watt gatlings, churning out streams of hot, blue plasma, raking back and forth across the targets. Here and there, a main-gun would fire. The flash from the turret guns was like a burst of lightning, bright enough to make him squint, followed immediately by an electric-sizzle and slap of thunder. The rounds bolted straight out without the arc of traditional ordnance, and erupted with an impressive amount of energy, throwing the jalopies into the air and tossing them further out each time. Every hit left less and less of the old car bodies.
Bill stood there for some time, hands in his trouser pockets against the chilled, autumn air, and watched with fascination. At some length, the side gunner of the nearest tank noticed him and motioned for him to come over.
“You like our toys?” The guy asked, grinning. His eyebrows bobbing up and down with comic motion. They were so blonde that it was distracting.
Bill grinned back, nodding, “Hell, yeah!”
The gunner extended a gloved hand, “I’m Mike Borden.”
“Bill Sabin.”
After shaking hands, the gunner pulled himself up out of the breach box and swung his legs around to hop down, “You wanna try it out?”
Bill’s grin widened, “Really?”
“Sure,” The corporal said. “Climb in. “
He didn’t need to be told twice. Bill clambered up where the toe holds and rungs were set into the thick plas-steel hull and slid into the box. The seat was cushioned, the sides just high enough to protect his lower body. In front of him was a steering wheel like that of an aircraft, with triggers for each hand.
“The foot pedal on your left raises or lowers the gun,” Mike explained. “The wheel turns you from front to rear left of the turret. The guy on the other side covers the right.”
“Can I shoot it?” Bill wanted to know, playing with the controls to get a feel for them.
“Sure,” Mike replied. “Just line up the sight down range, and let-fly.”
Bill was thoroughly enjoying himself. Up and over just so, adjust, and squeeze. The 60-watt spun and roared with a satisfying sensation of power. The muzzle flash encompassed his field of vision so long as he fired, but when he stopped to look, could
see that his rounds had drilled all across the old car body, the holes still glowing and smoking. The hill behind the targets was chewed up as well.
The turret gunner fired the main gun, startling the hell out him. This close up was earth-shaking. Mike started laughing, “I forgot to give you the helmet, sorry buddy.”
Bill let it go. This was too fun to get mad over. He fired off several more bursts, whooping with delight. He began to regret not signing up with the 108th Armored Division; this was like playing a game! After a little while, the breach ejected the plasma casing, its 50,000 rounds having been expended.
Bill’s ears were ringing, but his head was filled with a pleasant buzz that was not unlike that from drinking. With an ear-to-ear grin, he got out and hopped down, dusting off his trousers. He cursed wildly, but it was an outburst of pure satisfaction rather than
anger. The two shook hands again as Bill thanked him, then the sergeant started walking back into town, his appetite stirred by the adrenaline. Nothing sounded better than something greasy and salty. He found a small mom-and-pop type of burger joint and wandered in, savoring the aromas of meat and cheese.
The place was nearly empty, most of the potential clients across the street at the McDonalds. That suited him fine, he disliked crowds, anyway. The time that he had served in the Surface Navy had ruined him on tolerating close-in conditions. Bill chose a corner booth and rested his feet, which were beginning to ache from all of the walking in his heavy combat boots. The waitress came over sporting a smile and took his order for a drink while he perused the menu. He asked for a beer, and she gave him a suspicious look, pondering his age. He was, in fact, under 21, but didn’t look it.
“Come on,” He said. “I’m old enough to fight for my country, least you can do is let me have a cold one.”
The woman smiled, “I suppose, Honey,” She relented, “But that line won’t work with some of the younger fellows I’ve seen wearing the uniform. They look like they should still be in school!”
Bill nodded, “They are in school.” He told her. “The school of war. They’re out there dying for you, and don’t forget it!”
Her expression hardened and the woman walked away, stuffing the ticket book into her apron pocket. He hadn’t intended to offend her, but it was tiresome how people continued to judge the troops by the appearance of their ages. The way he saw it, if someone was ballsy enough to enlist to fight the Storians, then age, race, or gender went out the window. They deserved respect.
His eyes wandered around the small restaurant, taking in its quaint décor. It was old-Americana, the furniture and knick-knacks all reminiscent of two centuries past. A working juke box dominated one corner, an old, wooden radio sat on a shelf next to a candlestick phone in the other. The walls were adorned with black and white photos of clapboard houses and people that never smiled. There were artist-renderings of classic automobiles.
It all took him back to his early years. As a young squirt, he used to spend summers on his grandfather’s farm. The simplicity of that man’s life had always impressed Bill as something rare and golden. His grampa’s house was a simple log cabin with wood plank floors and hand-made furniture. A cast iron wood stove stood sentry in one corner, dry and hot in the cold days of late autumn when his parents visited after Halloween to celebrate the old man’s birthday. The smell of wood smoke always permeated the house, mixing with his grandfather’s sweet pipe tobacco.
The kitchen was as old-world as any in a magazine. The butcher block counter, the pot racks laden with iron skillets, the cast iron wood burning range straight out of another era. His grampa was a simple man, and had always led a simple life. Some of Bill’s fondest memories were born on that farm.
; He pondered them when the food came, and allowed his thoughts to linger there while he ate. Bill supposed that if he survived the war, he might buy himself a piece of land somewhere and emulate a similar life of his own in such a manner. Grow some corn, kick a few chickens around.
With the lunch done and his beer half finished, Bill let his gaze wander outside. There was some sort of fracas going on across the street at the Mickey-Dees. A hummer-jeep and a duece-and-a-half troop truck had pulled into the lot. A squad of MP’s were hassling the enlisted personnel over there, ushering them protesting onto the truck. After a few moments, one of the Military Policemen crossed the street and entered the diner where Bill was seated. The trooper scanned the near-empty seating area and fixed his gaze on Bill.
“Finish up your meal, Sergeant,” He said with authority. “All personnel are to report to their units. Leaves are cancelled.”
Bill sipped his beer, “What’s the poop?”
The MP took off his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow despite the chill in the air outside, “The Storians have broken through the Attayan Line along the Illinois Front. The Regiment is mobilizing.”
The bottle came away from Bill’s lips as a nervous thrill shot through his guts, “Sounds bad.”
The MP nodded, his eyes full of worry, “It is bad. Real bad.”
Bill sighed and stood, tossing a few extra dollars on the table with his ticket.
So much for the issue with boredom.
Seven
Return to the Line
USS Goliath
Low Earth Orbit
The tension in the air of the Bridge was so thick that one could have sliced off a chunk with a knife, and snacked on it. Every tech at every operating station had their eyes locked onto the C.O., who was standing at the command dias, every bit as dumbfounded as they were. The silence was broken by the voice of Senior Chief Leon, who was relaying flash Traffic from the CIC.