The Mighty First, Episode 3

by Mark Bordner

  Chief Friesen regarded the light show to the north-west, “They’re already alarmed, Captain. The Storians are getting closer. The Mayor is considering calling for an evacuation.”

  Colonel Lafferty shook his head no, “Too late for that, Chief. It would have to be on foot, and in this weather, it’d be suicide. Better to hunker down and let us do our thing.”

  Friesen fixed the Attayan with a look that carried authority, “And, just what is ‘your thing’, exactly?”

  Lafferty motioned at the artillery show, “To put a stop to that. Just so you’re aware, there’ll likely be a tank division coming through in the next few days. Warn your town folk. We’ll also need you to help us with setting up and aid station to handle mass casualties, and a supply depot,” He added as an after-thought. “We’ll not have any support until this weather clears.”

  The chief appeared dubious, “Best we can do is let you use the local clinic. It’s just a country doc and six beds, but we’ll do what we can for you. Nearest big hospital is north of here, in Columbus. From what I hear, though, the Storians are damned close to that area. Right here is as about as close to the new line as you can get and still have a little breathing room.”

  “Then this will have to do,” Lafferty stated, watching the flashes grow a little brighter. It was hard to tell if they were nearer or it was just the storm letting up.

  “There’s an all-night Denny’s just on the other side of Center Street, here,” Friesen told them. “You guys can get some hot chow while it’s still possible.”

  Lafferty agreed, “Captain, muster company commanders there for a late supper and a briefing. Have the platoons situate themselves around the square, and set watches so that people can rest and eat their rations. This might be our last warm meal for a while.”

  Within an hour, the restaurant was packed with officers and senior NCO’s.

  The wait staff rushed to and fro in an effort to keep coffee and appetizers flowing while the short order cook in the back hustled to keep up with the sudden flow of tickets.

  The officers had pushed several tables together in the middle of the room, and had maps laid out on them---the center of attention for the group of armored commanders trying to get some idea of what lie ahead for their units.

  The men and women clustered around the maps gazed down at them while nursing mugs of coffee and puffing away at their preferred tobacco. An Attayan Major was pointing to several points, explaining as to what units were pinned by enemy artillery, and where the new lines currently resided.

  Manny shouldered his way in to see, and noticed straight away not the map, but the major himself. The Attayan, as did everyone else in the room, had his helmet off. His fur was not just in disarray, but appeared singed. An ugly cut ran across his face from neck to brow, and his eyes were red and bagged from fatigue. His armor was covered in dried mud and what could have been patches of blood.

  His hands trembled ceaselessly.

  With a voice that was hoarse and cracked, the major laid out what he knew for the leaders of the troops that were about to relieve his own.

  “We have established a new line here, for now,” He said, indicating a spot in the nearby Hoosier National Forest Reserve. “It is, however, barely being held. The Storians have been bombarding us with artillery non-stop for three days. Patrols report a massive number of Storian light infantry and tank units approaching from the west. The only break we’ve had is this weather, at least their air power hasn’t been able to strafe us for the past few hours.”

  “What kind of numbers are you talking about?” One of the lieutenants asked.

  The major shrugged, “At least division strength, with more on the way. They’re throwing everything at this breach that they have. I’ve taken heavy casualties during this holding action, and we’re running low on everything. With no air support, you’re in for a real beating out there.”

  Hannock studied the marks on the map, “Have you been able to determine where they’re CP is located?”

  The Attayan pointed with a shaking finger, “Best we’ve been able to figure is Bloomington. That’s where the majority of this artillery is originating from. They send patrols out in armored half-tracks and light-recon tanks to harass our lines once in a while, but for the most part, we’ve only been able to dig in, and ride out the plasma storms.”

  Manny spoke up, running his own finger along the map, “There are highways that run around both sides of this mountain to converge on Bloomington from the east and the west, why haven’t you attempted flanking maneuvers?”

  The major shook his head, “We were shuttled in to try and plug this break in the line. We have units spread all around the breach from here back to the Illinois border, all light infantry. We have no armored support to draw from. Those divisions are all tied up in the Cincinnati theatre. We’re simply spread too thin to attempt any assaults like that. It’s taking all we’ve got to hold the Storians here. If they manage to link up with Grozet’s First Army, we’re done for.”

  Manny suddenly lost his appetite. He realized that he and his compatriots were about to just stroll straight into this mess, what sounded very much like hell on Earth. He bitterly wished that Ford, Minerva, and Mark were there instead of half a continent away. It would have at least been bearable to consider with them nearby, but right then, he felt utterly alone, and afraid for the first time since D-Day.

  Captain Hannock and Colonel Lafferty motioned for their NCO’s to gather in a different corner, their faces grim. Lafferty reclined against a table, arms folded, and looked over his cadre with seriousness.

  “I don’t care for the idea of simply walking into an artillery barrage, and hoping for the best,” He stated heatedly, “Nor, do I plan to. This is a situation where we need to rely more on our heads than our brute strength. Here is what I plan to do. First Battalion, Captain Hannock, I want you to take your three companies into the Hoosier, and relieve the Attayans from the line. Dig in, establish your perimeters. Then, send out small patrols to harass the Storian positions. Keep those bastards busy and guessing which

  direction the next punch will come from.

  “ I’ll have Second Battalion split into two units, one will take Route Thirty-Seven north up the west approach of the mountain, and the other will hike Route One Thirty-Five north until branching west on Highway Forty-Six---veering across the north side of the mountain. This will converge the two assault teams on Bloomington. First Battalion will then push across the state park, and hit from the middle. Let’s show these amateurs how it’s done.”

  “Hoo-ah!” The staff responded.

  “Get some chow in while you can,” Lafferty urged them. “We move in one hour. These poor fellows can’t hold on much longer.”

  Outside, the falling snow had thinned to the point that the low ceiling of clouds could be seen glowing pink against the reflection of the town streetlights. The flashes of the artillery seemed brighter, and bounced across a great distance. It very much resembled a thunderstorm, only this kind was much more lethal.

  Walking back to the square, the staff came upon a number of residents that had come out to offer cups of hot chocolate and snacks to the kids hunkered out there. The troopers who had been assigned watch were stationed at various points, rifles un-shouldered, watching the empty streets for activity. Lafferty checked his wrist chronometer, scanned the disco-effect of the north-west sky, and sighed.

  “Time to start humping it, Marines,” He spoke into the helmet pick-up on the general freq, then keyed over to the command channel. “Second Battalion, muster on me for action orders. First, you already know what to do. Good luck, Captain Hannock.”

  Hannock nodded and motioned for his people to form up, “By companies. Alpha takes point, Bravo in the middle. Charlie gets to watch our butts. We’ve got work to do.”

  There was some grumbling as Styrofoam cups were drained and tossed aside, but this was the norm. A complaining troop is a happy troop. It became a bit more serious for t
he replacements when their squad leaders began un-shouldering their weapons, checking clips, and cocking the first rounds into chambers. The younger kids did likewise, eyes a bit wider, adrenaline beginning to pump. It was becoming real.

  “Safeties off,” Sergeants announced. “We’re going in hot. Keep alert.”

  With Hannock in the lead, 1st Battalion began hiking north, following the snowbound Highway 135. They had nearly 20 miles to walk before reaching the turn-off that would take them into the Hoosier national forest, which in turn would take them into battle.

  The going was slow and arduous, trudging through the soft, nearly knee-deep pack. The silence of the night was far from complete with the nearing rumbles, but quiet enough yet to hear labored breathing and the occasional muttered curse. To the right, the woods were mostly bare trees covered in the wet snow, thickets that seemed to go forever. To the left, the trees were predominantly pine, and they climbed sometimes sheer cliffs of the mountain range skirting the park. The reserve was a wild land with a varied terrain that had in the past been a haven for seasonal hunting and camping. Now, it promised only misery. This fact did not hamper the beauty of what was visible, though.

  Private Savannah Borden thought about her father as she walked, keeping her weapon snug against her chest plate as she stomped through the snow. She wondered how far back his tank column was, wishing that he was near. It would have been so reassuring to hear the rumble of the heavy engines behind them, to have that firepower backing the battalion up. She whispered a prayer for his safety and trudged on, trying to keep a sharp eye out for enemy activity.

  Savannah inwardly questioned whether or not she would be able to actually take a life, to shoot at an enemy and kill them. A shudder rolled over that doubt, and she quashed the question in her head. She was a Marine, and it wasn’t her fault that the Storians had decided to invade the Earth. This was her home, and she would be damned to allow an alien race to just come down and take over. The heat of growing anger warmed her, and helped to strengthen her resolve.

  “For you, Daddy,” Savannah breathed, tightening her grip on her rifle.

  It was nearly 03:00 before they reached the 10-mile marker on their visor displays. The thunder from the falling ordnance became more pronounced, rising in pitch and sharpness, echoing eerily through the valleys and dells. The flashes were also much brighter, casting strange and disorienting shadows. Several times, it appeared as if there was movement among the trees which raised false alarms. Muscles burning, the kids pushed on. It took another two hours to reach the 15-mile marker. Fatigue was slowing them further. The snow had fallen deeper there, making progress a full-bore challenge. The concussion of plasma shells had caused a few small avalanches earlier, and the strata lay across the highway like a huge, frozen wave. This blockage was interlaced with a lot of rock and torn tree trunks, actually making climbing over and beyond it a bit easier.

  After passing that obstacle, they met their first glimpse of the retreating Attayans. The furry troopers were staggering in small groups, some holding one another up as they walked. Their armor was battered and broken. Those not wearing helmets sported facial and head wounds that seeped blood through dirty bandages. Their eyes were hollow, seeing nothing in this world, just staring blankly ahead of them as they took one instinctive step after another.

  Some of the young, new replacements actually paused, gawking at what they saw. The vets gently urged them forward, telling them to stay in formation. There were also

  quite a few bodies lying along the side of the highway, where those that had exhausted the last of their strength had simply lain down to die.

  Mercifully, the snow pack lessened for the remaining five miles, back down to only ankle-deep, much easier to tread. The flow of Attayans increased from a few stragglers to dozens at a time. They were abandoning their positions without waiting for the reinforcements to reach them. This was testament to how bad it must be out there, as the Attayans had the reputation of being fearless and utterly indestructible.

  The Corpsmen for C-Company, Sheeryl Limm, and Brenda Gerber, broke from formation to try and offer aid to those Attayans who had given up on the wayside, but many of them had already passed away. Those that still breathed were too far gone to save. As they triaged from one to the other, their hearts grew heavier. Another

  Corpsman finally came to Limm and, placing a hand on her shoulder plate, convinced her to return to the column. There was nothing that could be done for those poor souls.

  Fighting tears, Sheeryl and Brenda reluctantly followed their fellow medic back to the company. Some inner instinct told Limm to break regulations and pick up an abandoned rifle. This was looking more frightening by the minute. The other Corpsman saw her do this and, after a slight hesitation, did the same. The other Marines in the company witnessed this with some mild horror. If the medics were arming themselves, then this had to be one hell of a situation that they were about to walk into.

  It was still full dark at 06:00, when they took the off-ramp, and followed a gravel road due west that took them into the mouth of the reserve. There were a few hummer-jeeps parked along the way, with nervous-looking crews watching the influx of fresh

  Marines while their own battered and beaten comrades made their way out. A large, wooden sign announced their arrival to the Hoosier National Forest, and the sounds of combat, by then, were all encompassing. The sky was a ceiling of bright, flashing light, and the blasts of exploding plasma rounds relentlessly roared and sent unnerving vibrations through the ground.

  Hannock signaled for a halt when they reached the parking lot, which was full of idling Hummers and supply vehicles. Spent troopers lingered about the fringes, oblivious to the arrival of the twin columns of Marines, standing there taking it all in.

  “Take a few minute’s rest,” The captain announced, allowing the tired kids to sit down in formation while he walked over to a ranger cabin that was presently serving as the rear command post (RCP). A sentry stationed there nodded in greeting and opened

  the door for him.

  Within, the tiny space was occupied by two desks and six harried-looking officers of rank varying from lieutenant up to a major. The junior officers were busy handling communications consoles, relaying information both on and off the battlefield. The major, standing behind the desk with hands on his hips, was puffing on a huge cigar that harkened memories for Hannock of Sergeant Major Ford. He wished dearly that the man was there with him right then.

  The major, a broad-shouldered Attayan, regarded Hannock with a frown, “Are you First Battalion?”

  The walls rattled with the vibration from the artillery, but it seemed not to register with the officer anymore. Hannock nodded, saluting since they were indoors, out of sight from potential snipers. The major snapped off a return, and motioned toward a USGS map on the wall.

  “You boys have your work cut out for you. This reserve is nearly thirty miles across, all of it rolling and mountainous terrain. The Storians have been raining plasma down across our line for days, now, trying to break us. Once in a while it stops--- that’s when you want to watch your ass! They send out patrols to probe our positions, looking for weak spots.”

  Hannock stepped over to the map, looking it over, “If their batteries are set in Bloomington, why are they trying to push further in this direction? Indianapolis is due north of there, they could just waltz right in and shake hands with Emperor Grozet.”

  The Attayan rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, “The Canadians, and the European Alliance--- God bless those British, and French-speaking sons of bitches! They managed to establish a solid front all across there, cutting the Storians off from the Indianapolis approach. If the Storian Second Army expects to link up with the First, they need to break through us here. The Mexican National Marines and your U.S. Army have moved up from the southern front, but their progress is slow, and the lines are fluid right now.”

  The captain took a last, long look at the map, then salu
ted again and excused himself.

  It was time to take the line.

  Secure Presidential Bunker

  Minerva, alone in her suite, sat despondently on the foot of the bed. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying. She held her legs tucked up against her bosom, staring at the wall. Nothing seemed real. A merciful numbness had enveloped her, and her mind floated aimlessly, touching on certain memories here and there. Her wedding, the honeymoon, her husband’s green eyes.

  She had lost him twice. First, to death. Then…this. She wondered if he had really been turned into some kind of infiltration machine. A human controlled by a programmed device. One that looked and felt and acted like the young man that she loved

  so dearly. Part of her wanted to deny it, reasoning that the confusion in his eyes had negated any possibility of being a traitor.

  Her own hurt and confusion began to morph into anger.

  Emperor Grozet. That evil, self-centered waste of human DNA, had brought all of this on. Her anger turned also onto the Marine Corps itself, for allowing itself to be diluted in the century’s peacetime indulgence in the pursuit of comforts. Having to re-learn the art of war. Congress’ foot-dragging slowness in instituting a draft, forcing youth to enlist for the cause. All of it was building within her to a boiling rage.

  Gritting her teeth, Minerva rose from the bed and crossed the room to its closet, where her uniforms hung. She grasped the dress-blouse and glared hatefully at the chevrons, the emblems, the service ribbons. It all amounted to the same tornado of agony that swirled inside of her. All had contributed to her losing Mark.

  A wail of sorrow escaped her throat and she flung the uniform against the wall. Minerva sunk to her knees and wept, fists pressed against the side of her head.

  Never since leaving home for that first time that seemed so long ago had she felt so utterly alone.