The Mighty First, Episode 3

by Mark Bordner

  In the truck that carried A-Company, Bill Sabin had just woken from his shallow dozing, and lifted his visor to take a look around him. The view out of the open rear gate was only of what was behind, and the driver of the truck following them. The blockhead back there thought it was funny to flip him the bird, or pick his nose, anything to get Bill’s attention. Sabin chose to ignore the fool, instead pretending to be interested in his fellow troopers.

  The replacements had settled down and now appeared either bored or napping. The veterans were snacking on their evening rations and sharing cigarettes, exchanging small talk. Beside him, Bill noticed that the trooper had a big red and white medical cross stenciled on their breastplate, a Corpsman. She was a new face, newer than himself, probably had joined the company that morning while he was out on his work detail.

  Her visor was open, so he had a good view of her face. She was quite older than any of them, probably in her thirties, and definitely without that worn-down look that most of the Marine veterans had. Very pretty, he thought. The USSN, (U.S. Space Navy) stencil next to her name, Limm, explained that. The Navy medics had the highest mortality rate among infantry units, more than even the greenhorn lieutenants. They weren’t issued weapons, and the Storians took delight in using that big cross as target practice. Kill a unit’s medic, and you really cause problems.

  Bill extended a hand to shake, “I’m Sergeant Sabin.”

  The woman looked surprised that he had spoken to her. It took a moment before she accepted the gesture, “Sheeryl Limm.”

  Bill nodded at her red cross, “I admire your guts. I Hope they stay where they belong.”

  She grinned, but it was shallow, tinged with anxiety, “Yeah, me, too.”

  “Been in the service long?” He asked, feeling bad that he had been so crass.

  Sheeryl nodded, “Six years, back on Attaya. Fort Dixon. This is my first combat tour.”

  “Same here,” he admitted. “I was Surface Navy before. Got tired of sitting the war out, but now I’m wondering if that was such a good idea.”

  Her grin grew into a smile, “It was. What the Storians have done was uncalled for. We’re doing what we have to do, what’s right.”

  Bill shrugged, “I suppose. You got a family?”

  Her smile faltered, “I don’t know any more. My husband and kids were caught behind the lines where a Storian detachment landed in the Philippines, and I’ve heard stories about what the Storians are doing to civilians…”

  “I’m sorry,” Bill told her, feeling more awful than ever. “I didn’t mean to bring on bad memories.”

  He had forgotten that Lightning Units of the Storian shock troops landed satellite forces along some of the Pacific regions. The exact purpose of these installations was yet uncertain, but rumors were flying about them having something to do with communication arrays to guide in reinforcements, if and when they ever made it through the Kuiper Limit. The Surface Navy was having a hell of a time trying to root them out---- that task falling chiefly on the other National Districts, such as the Asiatic Alliance, but their troop strength could not match the battle-hardened Storian resolve. That, combined with the thick jungles, had the Pacific Front in worse turmoil than the States.

  Sheeryl smiled again, but it was strained, “It’s okay. How about you? Family?”

  “Just my parents,” he replied, “but, they were killed in the assault on Dayton. I’m hoping to meet Grozet face to face, so I can repay the gesture personally.”

  “That’s sad,” She stated with genuine sympathy.

  Bill looked back outside. It was dark by then, and all he could see was the glare of the truck’s headlights. Those would be turned off when they got closer to the front, but for now, night-discipline wasn’t necessary. He wondered if that goofy driver was still picking his nose or something equally stupid.

  “I wonder how freaking long it’ll take to get to the line,” He mumbled.

  An accented voice interjected, that of the albino, his company commander, “It could take us two days, with all the weaving back and forth across these county roads.”

  Master Sergeant Amell, that was her name, he remembered.

  “Unless the Storians meet us halfway,” Bill joked.

  Amell did not laugh, instead giving the both of them a look that he read as ‘you might be right’.

  A shiver ran down his spine.

  Secure Presidential Bunker

  In the lowest levels of the underground city were the facilities that housed the offices and store rooms for the more basic departments that operated not only there, but out about the Free Zone as well. The FBI, for one, had claimed a generous portion of the maze for themselves, and this was where First Sergeant Corbin found himself after being transferred from the airfield.

  He was housed alone in a larger cell this time, almost like that of a small studio apartment. The walls were concrete, and the door of the heavy steel model, but that was where the semblance of a prison ended. The floor was carpeted, there was a soft chair with a side table, a desk with loose leaf paper and pens in the drawer, even a closed-circuit television mounted on the wall with an endless loop of recorded sit-coms. There was an apartment-style kitchenette, a bathroom, and a bed in the far corner.

  Mark stood in the center of the cell, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had dug ruts into them, and took it all in with wonder while the agent clacked the door shut behind him. This had to be the plushest prison cell in the world, he supposed, and was curious as to why he deserved it. Was this some psychological test? They were most certainly observing him from somewhere, likely through the TV.

  He had stopped trying to question as to why this was happening to him. Whatever the circumstances may be, they were far too above his head and tainted with black-ops intrigue to be within his reach of reasoning through them. Nothing to do but ride this situation out and see how it ended. What hurt the most was the look of betrayal in his wife’s eyes, and the hate in Ford’s. After all of the struggle to get back on his feet to return to them, this was an unfair and unforeseen blow that bruised his soul far worse than any battlefield wound could do.

  His stomach growled, he hadn’t eaten in hours. He had no idea what time it was, the whole day had been a blur, and now he was so deep underground that there was no telling if it were day or night. He moved to the kitchenette and opened the fridge. It was stocked with lunchmeats and condiments. Bread and paper plates were in the cupboard, along with boxes of sweet cakes. Supper consisted of a roast beef sandwich, the snacks, and soda. Not bad for an inmate, he thought to himself as he sat in the soft chair eating and watching re-runs of Andy Griffith, still popular after better than two hundred years.

  At one point, he happened to open the narrow drawer in the side table and was astounded to find a stash of cigars, matches, and an ash tray. This was all too good to be true. There was no doubt in his mind now that this entire thing was staged. He was being studied. This told him that they were not only curious about him, but perhaps a little afraid as well. Keeping him comfortable.

  Inwardly, Mark shrugged. Let them ponder. He had no choice in the matter, so might as well make the best of it. He had another sandwich.

  From a fortified room several halls away, President Reyes, Major General Parks, Fleet Admiral Green, Colonel Strasburg, Sergeant Major Ford, and FBI Director Thurman were sitting in a semi-circle at a round table, watching the monitor on the wall. An Attayan ambassador stood nearest the screen, arms folded, joining the observation. On the screen, Mark was leisurely puffing on a cigar and enjoying a hot cup of Joe, seeming to stare back at them while he watched the programming loop on his television.

  “So, this implant in his spine is purely of the medical type?” Reyes was asking dubiously.

  The Attayan nodded, “That, I am certain of. We have no weaponized versions of the Device. It is purely for regeneration of cerebral function.”

  “We understand that, Ambassador,” Admiral Green told him, “But, our hospital ship not
only suffered some sort of security breach, it was hijacked and afterward destroyed by a Storian star sub that appeared out of nowhere. How do you know that this Device didn’t have its programming changed by the infiltrator?”

  The furry man regarded him with an expression of impatience, “By making a simple link, Admiral. We can read the code to see what’s in it. The drama that you’ve subjected this young man to has been totally unnecessary.”

  Ford, more than any of them, wanted to believe that his friend had not been turned into some kind of Typhoid Mary, unaware that he was carrying something that could be triggered at any time to turn him into a killing machine. His first assumption was that Mark had turned traitor, or was dead and simply being manipulated like a puppet. He didn’t know what to think now, only for certain that there was a broken-hearted Hispanic girl housed in temporary quarters nearby that didn’t deserve any of this.

  “Then, what in creation’s name are we waiting for?” The sergeant major asked, “There’s a war on, you know.”

  Major General Parks appeared about to say something in return, but was interrupted by an aide that hurried into the room, an Air Force captain who wore an expression of concern. His statement was brief and direct, and carried an undertone that completely redirected everyone’s priorities.

  “The Storians have penetrated the line at the Western Front!”

  November 5TH

  Seymore, Indiana

  The convoy carrying the 1st and 2nd Marine Infantry Battalions had zigged and zagged from one county road to another for nearly two straight days and nights--- sometimes moving so slowly that troopers were able to hop down from a truck, run to the shoulder to relieve themselves, and get back on with scarcely any effort. So many sections of main highway had been bombed out that the order of the day was ‘slow-going’.

  To make matters worse, the first real winter storm of the season had swept in from the north-west, a real mother that promised misery. The afternoon had begun clear and cold, but a menacing wind had whipped up, dropping the temperature dramatically. What

  little color left on the trees was blown away as the leaves were carried off by the chill clipper. Puffs of clouds rushed past from west to east, seeming so low that one could reach up to touch them. The puffs began clumping together, changing from pretty white to a mass of disturbing grey, until the entire horizon was a wall of approaching gloom.

  The day became overcast and damp, the wind forcing those riding in the trucks to close the heavy armored tailgates in order to stay warm. The new troopers had forgotten that all they needed to do was close their visors, as their suits would regulate body temperature. The vets said nothing. Closing the drabness out suited them fine.

  For the drivers, though, the adventure was really just beginning. The first vestiges of snow began to flit past, white specks spirited by the wind, just a hint of what was to come. By dusk, it was damn near a blizzard, masking the route ahead in an undulating curtain devoid of color. For the lead truck, it was hell. The highway that they were currently on had already been blanketed in white, blending with that piling along the shoulders so that it was impossible to distinguish one lane from another--- let alone where the middle ended and the ditch began. They veered to what they guessed was the center and slowed even more, choosing caution over speed. The pines and naked deciduous trees wore coats of snow that grew heavier by the passing minute.

  As night closed in, the darkness made visibility even worse. At some points, the drivers weren’t even sure if they were still hugging the center line. The wet snow clung to the treads and piled under the wheel wells, making an irritating crunching sound. As traction became non-existent, the trucks began to slowly fishtail and slip from one side to another despite moving so slowly.

  At half-past seven, the com-net crackled to life, and Colonel Lafferty’s heavy accent sounded over all of the general frequency.

  “Well, Marines, it’s no secret that we’re in the midst of a real pisser out there. Orbital Command says this weather system will persist at least for the next four days; it’s a big one. It’s bad enough that the air wings have been grounded. We’re going in with no air support and no medevac. We’ll be on our lonesome for a spell, so watch your buddy’s butt out there. Take care of one another. Be cautious.”

  The vets exchanged knowing looks. The replacements took notice of these silent conversations, and felt unease. Idol talk tapered off, the mood becoming more somber. The driving crews had fallen back on foul language for the remainder of the trek, the

  shotgun navigators counting off mile after tedious mile on their digi-maps.

  By 10:00 PM, the lead vehicles had at last reached the last dog of Route 50 and trundled to a halt in the middle of the road not far from the city limits. The lights of Seymore had not been blacked out and twinkled in the near distance, fading in and out of sight in the snowstorm--- which by then was finally beginning to abate, even if only by a little. The driver of the front transport shouldered his door open, and stepped down into a drift that was over ankle deep.

  “We couldn’t have driven much further in this soup, anyway,” He muttered. It was a perfect sheet of white beyond, and getting deeper. With no plows to clear the way, the highway would be closed for some time. The only advantage was that they needn’t worry about enemy air power; the Storians would be just as grounded.

  “Dismount!” Lafferty ordered over the net.

  Tailgates plopped open, and troopers began jumping down into the snow, complaining and griping as good soldiers do. They were segregated into platoons and divided to each shoulder, this to have some spacing in the event of a mortar attack. Master Sergeant Amell made a headcount of A-Company, which was in the lead, and looked back down the line. The convoy stretched out into the storm so far that she could not see its end--- it was a line of headlights and idling heavy vehicles that seemed to go forever.

  Manny was getting Bravo divided behind her, and Ecu had taken Charlie. The snow was falling heavily enough that C-Company was nothing more than shadows moving in the murk. Anyone beyond was invisible.

  From back that way, a pair of figures were approaching, rifles slung over their shoulder plates. It was Lafferty and Captain Hannock, trudging through the carpet of sparkling winter rain.

  “May as well finish this hike, Master Sergeant,” Hannock directed at her.

  Amell nodded and made a hand signal. Her pair of platoons began the march into Seymore, weapons shouldered and field packs heavy with gear. With visors open, they could breathe the crisp, damp air, which was refreshing. It helped to wake them up after so many hours cramped in those trucks. Stiff muscles limbered up, and they became more alert to their surroundings. The headlights from the parked convoy shone ahead of the columns as they stomped forward, glistening on the surface of the snow pack. The wind had calmed somewhat, and the flakes were beginning to fall in larger, wetter clumps. It was a marvel for the kids from the southern and western climates, who had never been in the stuff before.

  As they neared the outer edges of town, which was nothing more than a string of dilapidated buildings in the assortment of an auto repair shop, a gas station with yellow tape wrapped around its empty pumps and its outside lights flickering--- and a liquor store with boarded-up windows, the Marines began to take notice of dim flashes of light to their north-west.

  “Lightning in a snow storm?”

  This came from Ashley Starr. The young girl had just turned 15, and recently made corporal. She was the range-checker for her 3-man mortar team, and tasked with lugging the firing tube on her harness. Another carried the tri-pod assembly, and the third

  had the plasma shells. They were assigned to C-Company under Ecu.

  The master sergeant surveyed the sky, and regarded the silent flashes with dismay. She spoke over the company freq so that all of her people could hear, “That’s artillery in the distance. It’s just too far yet for us to hear it.”

  “Ours or theirs?” Private Savannah Borden asked.

 
; “Theirs,” Ecu stated flatly.

  There was little small talk as they continued on, watching the flashes bounce about over the hills, strangely subdued by the falling snow. Some of them were brighter than others, almost always blue or yellow-white, but some had a reddish tinge to them. It was strange to not hear any sound coming from it, save for the rare, distant rumble that was barely on the fringe of hearing.

  The Marines walked into the Seymore town square at half-past eleven, and congregated in the silent park. The buildings were mostly dark, Other than a few apartment windows on the floors above the shops. There were a number of parked cars, all piled high with fresh snow, which was deep enough on the road to cover their hubcaps.

  From a two-story brick stand-alone facing the square came a pair of men in heavy parkas, hunched against the cold wind that was still gusting periodically despite the fact that it was dying off. The snow was still falling, but nearly vertical by then. As the men neared, Captain Hannock could see that they were policemen by the insignia on their jackets. This would be the chief that he had spoken to earlier.

  The police chief was an older African-American, his stubble and eyebrows stark white against his skin. His eyes were blue and sharp, taking in the details around him with a single flick, missing nothing. The man smiled and shook hands with Hannock, who was noticeably shorter than him.

  “You must be Chief Friesen,” Hannock said.

  The policeman nodded, “And, I assume you’re Captain Hannock.”

  “In the flesh,” Hannock replied. “Along with about five hundred friends.”

  Friesen chuckled good-naturedly, looking at the droves of Marines filling his town square, others yet still mustering along the fringes, “What’d you guys do, hike all the way in?”

  Hannock shrugged, “The trucks were getting bogged down about a mile out. Anyway, I didn’t want to alarm your citizens with all the ruckus of the convoy rolling through.”