The Mighty First, Episode 3

by Mark Bordner

  “Sir, did you copy my last?” Leon was asking. “We have been authorized by the Galactic Command Authority to use nuclear weapons against the Terra Daley.”

  The Captain reached up to press the speaker button, his hand moving slowly, as if it weighed a ton, “I hear you, Senior Chief.”

  People began to exchange glances. It was one thing to disable an Allied vessel in order to restore control of it, quite another to just erase it from existence. There were hundreds of crewmen aboard that ship, who had nothing to do with the hostile take-over. Crewmen who were of Earth and Attaya, brothers and sisters in service.

  The Captain cleared his throat and spoke, his voice strained, “Weapons Control, spin up Silo One. Arm the warhead.”

  The Weapons Control Officer, or WEPS, repeated the order to the operator, who

  entered the appropriate commands to the over-monitor. Indicators lit as mechanisms responded. The missile battery near the port-aft section of the Goliath slowly began to extend, one of the thirty silo covers swinging open as it did so. When the element was fully extended, the computer icon changed from yellow to green. The monitor flashed war head armed.

  “Ready, Captain.” The WEPS officer announced.

  The C.O. hesitated. The next words from his mouth would seal the fates of hundreds of his fellow service members. They were words that he was not certain that he would be able to say. All eyes shifted once again onto him.

  As his lips parted, about to give the order, a shrill tone sounded from the tracking station, jolting the quiet quarters and shifting everyone’s attention. The technician jumped in her seat, turning to look at her monitor. Her eyes bulged.

  “Contact! Bearing dead aft, six-zero-zero, true, closing fast!” She yelled as data scrolled down the left side of her screen. “Oh, my God! It’s a Storian fast-attack star-sub, weapons coming to bear!”

  “Jesus!” The C.O. exclaimed. “Aft-point batteries, fire at will! Launch all fighters!”

  As the alarm began to bray again, the ship vibrated with the force of every turbo-cannon swinging aft and firing at once. Space lit in a sudden storm of hot, blue plasma behind the super-carrier. The barrage came too late to thwart the surprise attack. The star-sub loosed a pair of torpedoes before making a hard right flank, dodging the worst of the plasma stream.

  Alert tones screamed for attention. The tracking tech called out the data as fast as

  it appeared on her screen, “Torpedoes in-bound! Range, four-oh-four-seven and closing!”

  The batteries were doing their best to wash that portion of space with a curtain of bolts, but the advanced dynamics of the Storian weapons made it no simple task. The torpedoes swerved and dodged, all the while their guidance systems labored to lock onto the most vital sections of their target.

  “Homing….” The tech reported, “Homing….”

  The over-monitor sounded tones that were reminiscent of the sea-faring sonar, indicating the range as it closed ever faster.

  Phalanx batteries activated as they sensed the approaching danger, and immediately locked onto the nearest torpedo, unleashing a hell-storm on it. The bolts hit home and tore it apart. The second arced down, swung wildly to port, and then accelerated in.

  “Bogey Two has locked!” She announced, bracing herself against her console.

  “Brace for shock!” The over-monitor announced ship-wide.

  The Phalanx streams swept sideways, still trying to track the remaining torpedo, but it was already inside the safe-distance zone. Fighter craft were in the process of launching when the weapon punched through the durable hull, plunging into the flight deck amidships before detonating. The fireball bloomed outward, slamming into men and equipment with the force of a 2000 pound bomb. Those closest to the core of the explosion were vaporized. As it expanded, it ignited flesh and burnable material. Outside the super-hot flash, the concussion killed those in its path, pulverizing muscle and bone. Twisting metal. Throwing everything out ahead of it.

  The force of the blast followed the tunnel-like path of the lower hangar bay, out through the forward maw, blowing out of it like a volcano, knocking out the energy field. With the hull and maw breached, the instant vacuum extinguished the flames, but sucked everything and everyone from the bay out into space, spewing debris from the Goliath as if it had just been gutted. Shuttle craft skewed sideways and tumbled toward the breach amidst a hurricane of strata.

  The entire ship heaved and shuddered from the force of the blast. Lights flickered and a cacophony of new alarms sounded. Damage Control parties scrambled to respond. At that moment, anyone who did not have an assigned station became a firefighter or a medical assistant. Secondary explosions started fires around the perimeter of the impact area. Blast doors sealed to prevent further de-compression.

  “How many fighters made it out?” The C.O. asked, steadying himself against the dias rail.

  The Air Boss was struck dumb, gazing out of the tower observation window at the hollowed-out flight deck below.

  “BOSS!” The Captain shouted, demanding his attention, “How many fighters do we have out there?”

  The Boss jerked back to reality and looked at one of his screens, “Three, Sir.”

  “They are already maneuvering to engage the sub, Captain,” The tracking tech reported. “As is our missile escort.”

  “Very well,” the C.O. acknowledged. “We’ll be able to manage our situation, then. Boss, do we have any craft not being maintenanced down in Hanger One?”

  The Air Boss checked a clipboard, “Four Huey gunships.”

  “Get them armed and launched, then,” The captain told him. “Helm, indicate turns to starboard, thirty degrees hard. All ahead, full!”

  While the helmsman repeated the order and carried it out, the Captain was already issuing the next command, “WEPS, prepare the forward batteries, stand----”

  Another massive explosion slammed into the Goliath from the port side, knocking people to the deck as the ship groaned and listed from the force of the blast. Sparks flew from junction boxes and screens rolled. The gravity system fluttered for a moment, then restored itself. Yet another set of alarms buzzed.

  The star sub was fast and extremely nimble, throwing salvos of ordnance at the Goliath even while the fighters swarmed around it like angry bees, inflicting horrible damage. The missile cruiser was coming about, but the bulk of the Goliath between them prevented it from being able to take a shot.

  The star-sub made a hard turn, swinging around and loosing another torpedo into the Goliath’s stern line. The explosion tore through the Aft Main Machinery Room and out through one of the Anderson Drive cupolas.

  On the Bridge, the air was acrid with smoke and ears rang from the endless drone of buzzers. The helm and weapons stations were frantic trying to keep up with defensive responses. The ship had taken terrible damage, and was maneuvering sluggishly.

  The tracking tech looked at her monitor with a look of disbelief, “Captain!”

  The C.O. was picking himself up off the deck, a gash on his cheek bleeding freely onto his tunic, which had torn across the front, “Sound-off,” He told her.

  “Sir, second heavy contact, bearing port, three-three-zero,” She hesitated, licking her lips, unsure of what to say next.

  “I.D.?” He asked.

  She turned to look at him.

  “Sir, it’s the USS Belleau Wood!”

  The C.O. had zoned out himself for a moment. The noises around him seemed to fade into the background. The Belleau Wood! That was impossible. That vessel had been decimated in the attack on Star Harbor, all hands lost. What was he facing now, a ghost ship?

  He got to his feet and stumbled over to the tech’s station, leaning against her chair for support as the ship continued to shake under the onslaught of the Storian star-sub. The monitor displayed exactly what the young woman had said. The LHA-3, bearing down on them fast, flying the colors of the US Space Navy. Fighters began swarming from her flight deck as the Belleau Wood came along-side, usi
ng her own bulk to shield the Goliath from further attack. The fighters joined the Goliath’s own in showering the sub with rockets and blazer fire.

  The sub made a final turn, launching one more torpedo before succumbing to explosive depressurization. Its hull flew apart in a brief flash of flame, throwing streamers toward the Earth’s atmosphere. Luckily for everyone, the Anderson drive housing remained intact, and tumbled away without exploding. If it had done so in such close quarters, every one of the ships would have been fried by the super-condensed plasma release.

  A bell clanged on the bridge.

  “Radiological alarm!” The WEPS officer bellowed.

  The nuclear warhead fired by the sub in its dying throes streaked forward, missing the Goliath by mere feet under its belly, and continued outward, hitting home dead-center of the Terra Daley.

  The detonation was very close to the other ships of the task force, blasting against the Belleau Wood, throwing her against the side of the Goliath. The two juggernauts crashed and banged into one another’s hulls, reeling from the energy wave. Most of the smaller fighters happened to be in the shadow of the missile cruiser, and were spared the worst.

  As things gradually calmed, the Helmsman of the Goliath carefully maneuvered away from the Belleau Wood, until they were facing one another. The C.O. ordered the Bridge alarms silenced so that he could try to think, gawking out of the forward bay at a ship that should not be there. A phantom of the past that had just saved their skins.

  “Do we have comm?” He asked.

  “Aye, Sir,” That tech called out. “Communications are intact.”

  “Hail them, then,” He said, stanching the flow of blood from his cheek with a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket.

  “USS Belleau Wood, this is USS Goliath, do you read, over?” The comm-tech spoke into his headset.

  Without hesitation, a voice responded. It was a voice with a heavy, Irish-like accent.

  “This is Captain Cutler, Attayan Seventh Fleet,” The voice said. “Delivering what we believe belongs to you. The ‘Wood has been re-fitted and is ready for return to service.”

  Cheers erupted on the Bridge of the Goliath. It was an outburst that the C.O. felt compelled to join. For a few seconds, they were able to forget that the Daley had been destroyed, or that their own ship had suffered extreme damage. For that moment, they were glad to be alive, and elated to see the return of one of the Space Navy’s primary combatants.

  For the C.O., confusion swirled in his head. What had really taken place on the Terra Daley? And, why the sudden appearance of the Storian star-sub? Even while it had first focused its attack on his ship, it was clear that the end intentions had truly been to destroy the Daley. He knew that these were likely answers that he would never have, and the implications of them all frightened him beyond words.

  Irvington, Ohio

  Forward Operations Base

  By the time the troop truck Bill Sabin was riding on arrived at the Wal-Mart parking lot, there was already a storm of activity swirling there. He hopped down with the others, and approached an area where a bunch of privates were setting up folding tables, piling stores of munitions and supplies on them---a long row like a buffet line. A lieutenant was pacing the quickly growing stacks of gear with a clipboard, making notations.

  The entire 1st Battalion was gathering in a crowd nearby. The younger, newer replacement troops chattering excitedly among one another while the older kids who had seen action in one capacity or another remained relatively quiet, expressions of dread sitting heavily on their faces.

  Bill hurried into the store to where his company area had been set up and began hurriedly snapping his armor on, strapping the battle harness into place, checking his pouches. It did not take long to get ready. Others were doing the same around him, mostly in silence. Lastly, they took their weapons and helmets in hand, and went outside to join their respective squads.

  The company commanders began ushering their people into some semblance of order, lining up fire teams and squads, organizing platoons. This was scarcely done when Captain Hannock appeared and bellowed for the companies to come to attention. Conversation came to an instant halt as everyone snapped-to, eyes forward. The short fellow, looking terribly weighed down by his armor and gear, stood front and center, waiting.

  Attayan Colonel Lafferty soon emerged from the store, also clad in field gear, and returned Hannock’s sharp salute.

  “At ease, Ladies and Gentlemen,” The Colonel told them, his tongue wrapping around that distinct accent.

  He looked solemn, “Word gets around fast, so you are likely already aware that the Storians have broken through the Illinois Line. They have penetrated at two fronts, and are advancing with alarming speed in this direction. If they are allowed to link up

  with the Storian Second Army on this side of the line, we will be in some serious trouble. The Seventy-Seventh Regiment is tied down in the battle for Cincinnati, it is therefore up to us to plug these holes in the line, and restore control over the Western Front.”

  Despite standing at attention, many of the new arrivals muttered excitedly, and elbowed one another, drawing sharp comments from the sergeants to shut their pie-holes.

  “Third Battalion,” Colonel Lafferty continued, “will assist the Attayan Elite Forces in engaging the break to the northern portion. First and Second Battalions will hit the southern hole, backed by the Hundred and First Army Airborne and Air Cav. Expect to encounter heavy resistance and tank divisions. This will be a bad one, Ladies and Gents, prepare yourselves. Perhaps our worst engagement yet. This is what we do. Ooo-Rah!”

  There was a resounding response to his battle cry.

  The companies were then led down the line of tables to hoard as much ammo, grenades, and food packs as they could stuff into their field pouches. Live clips were slammed home, cocked, and primed. Each company was then led to either a line of waiting troop trucks, or marched over to the air field to board Chinook-model shuttles and Blackhawks. Scores of Army model old-school Huey gun ships were warming up, their rotors chopping the air with their distinct whupping sound.

  The air transports were for the 3rd battalion, who had more ground to cover in reaching the northern break in the line. Bill found A-Company among those that would be enduring an hours-long gut-pounding ride in the armored duece-and-a-halfs. In piling into the confines of the truck, he found himself surrounded by mostly younger kids, some eager to go, others quaking in their boots, barely holding back tears. The corporals and sergeants were doing their best to ease their tensions, pep-talk them, get them geared up for what was to come.

  Bill leaned back against the metal side, his rifle barrel-down between his knees, and closed the visor of his helmet. It was the closest thing to privacy that one could achieve. He keyed up grid maps and the tactical data that Orbital Command was beaming over the net, studying the terrain and the enemy troop movements that awaited them. He agreed with what Lafferty had told them.

  It looked bad.

  The 108th Armored Division was also rushing to get on the move. The lines of tanks had already embarked out on the highway, followed by their support vehicles hauling ordnance and fuel cells. It would be slower going for them, with a top speed of forty miles an hour. The troops would be in place long before the armor would be able to arrive to back them up. The convoy was nearly a mile long, and had to keep to one side of the highway so that the dueces could pass them, engines howling, their own line of vehicles twice that in length.

  From his side gun box, Corporal Mike Borden watched the squadrons of shuttles and choppers taking to the air, heading north-west. There were huge flocks of them, filling the sky. Civilians were gathering everywhere to watch the spectacle, waving,

  taking pictures. The GNN news crews were riding alongside in the hummer-jeeps that the Corps had provided for them, filming the whole thing.

  Borden settled himself into his seat, getting as comfortable as he was able for the long ride, one hand resting on the t
rigger handle of his 60-watt. He watched the scenery go by. The countryside was now in the last throes of autumn, the best of the colors fading, many of the trees already mostly bare. The sky was clear, save for a few puffs of cotton ball-clouds with dirty grey bottoms. The afternoon air was chilly and damp, the brown grasses in the fields wet with dew and sagging. The further from the city they rolled, the more depressed he began to feel.

  Back into the grind.

  Another worry that lay on his mind was the fact that his fourteen year old daughter, Savannah, had just graduated Marine basic training, and was now in a line unit.

  His guts coiled with tension at the thought of her carrying a rifle and riding into a combat zone. He wanted to start getting teary-eyed, but willed himself not to. Yes, she was, and always would be his little girl, but she was also one of the strongest-willed people he had ever known. He was convinced that she would be fine.

  It did not change the outlook that he held about the entire campaign in general, though.

  War sucked.

  Utilizing poorly maintained county roads, the infantry convoy had crossed into Indiana just before dusk, and descended upon the small burg of Liberty without slowing. As the sky began to blaze a brilliant pink mixed with orange in the west, the Hummer-jeeps with their huge Bushmaster machine guns dropped from the two-lane highway, and cruised into town, stopping on either side of the first major intersection to halt what little traffic there was. Bewildered residents watched from their cars or from sidewalks as the Armored Personnel Carriers followed, zipping past without so much as a sideways glance, one after another. Then came the troop trucks, nearly a hundred in all, with more gun-mounted hummers bringing up the rear. The tanks, by then, were more than an hour behind, and would be producing the same display of surprise, along with some anger, as their treads tended to chew through asphalt something fierce.