The Mighty First, Episode 3

by Mark Bordner

  Eight

  Operation Shadow

  The Palace

  Attaya Prime

  Prime Minister Ro was seated at the head of the long conference table, his chair slightly elevated above the others that flanked each side. His military cabinet was present, but the aides and press had been ushered out and the doors locked behind four armed guards.

  The mood in the room was of utter seriousness, reflected by the stern set of each face. Fur stood on end and ears twitched. All eyes rested on Ro, who was glowering at them with barely contained fury. The Prime Minister did not take lightly to having his decisions second-guessed.

  It was the Fleet Admiral who broke the tense silence, but he did so with carefully chosen words.

  “Sir, it is not because we do not wish to comply with your directives,” The silver-furred man stated respectfully, “It is just that our fleets are already stretched as far as they can go, and still remain combat effective. Holding the blockade at the Kuiper Asteroid Belt in the Sol System is taking over sixty percent of my combatants. Another task force is dedicated to transporting Global Marine replacements from the training depots here to the warfront on Earth, and that leaves us with only a minimal defense reserve here in orbit. I simply have no more resources to give for this new operation that you desire!”

  Ro understood the logic in the admiral’s words, but he did not have to accept it, “We are allied with Earth, and as such, will not fail them in their greatest time of need! It is ludicrous that this issue is even being debated!”

  The Major General of Ground Forces shifted uncomfortably in her seat, “We are sympathetic to the Terrans, Prime Minister, but the manpower and munitions production that we can offer is already maxed out with the North American Theatre. The Pacific Front threatens to drain yet more of our Infantry resources. An additional operation on the side would be foolhardy, and most certainly a suicide mission for those involved--- as there would be virtually no support available if something went wrong.”

  Ro bristled, his fur visibly flaring, “Then that fact will be made clear. Volunteers only. I’m not asking you, this is a direct declaration, for Creator’s sake! Those prisoners of war being held on Denmoor will be rescued, damn you!”

  Another grueling silence descended over the room, so complete that the mere act of breathing seemed loud. Ro’s glare did not falter.

  The defense minister cleared his throat, “May I ask what Earth President Reyes has offered to contribute to this proposal?”

  “Directive,” Ro corrected harshly, “And, of course you may ask. This isn’t a dictatorship. The plans for this operation are highly classified, so a select few even know about it. So far, Earth has gathered a volunteer force of Navy SEAL’s, US Army Rangers, and a small contingent of Marines from their First Mountain Division--- about

  thirty operatives in all. I want to match that number from our Elite Corps. A spec-ops team of sixty combatants, with covert naval transport to provide support. A single star-sub, and a light space carrier for air operations. Nothing more. Don’t tell me that this is too much to pull off the line.”

  The Joint Chiefs exchanged abashed glances. They knew that arguing any further would only be wasting time.

  The Fleet Admiral sighed, “Very well, Prime Minister, you will have the vessels you require. I must inform you, though, that we cannot spare any of the smaller fast-attack star-subs, which would be better suited for this type of mission. You’ll have to take a nuclear missile-class, and if it is detected, its very presence will spark incredible alarm for the Demoorian government. They have made it clear that they are holding a neutral stance in this war. When they find forty hardened two-hundred mega-ton nuclear warheads parked in orbit, their response can only be imagined.”

  Ro was not impressed, “I remind you that their neutrality has not helped them in avoiding conflict. The Storians have occupied their planet, and all but dissolved any real government they had. Once Earth has been liberated, and they will be, Denmoore is the next theatre of war operations in beating Grozet’s forces back into their own system.”

  “Then, having that amount of fire power already in place will ultimately be to our advantage,” The Admiral consented, though reluctantly.

  The Major General nodded, shame-faced, “You will have your volunteers from the Elite Corps as well.”

  Ro closed his leather-bound notebook with flourish, “Remember to keep this information as secure as possible. Hand-pick your candidates, and keep the naval commanders on a need-to-know basis. Orders will be direct-beamed to them only once they are underway. I want this put together within the next forty-eight hours. Do you have any questions?”

  Solemn shaking of heads replied.

  “Very well,” Ro answered, “Let us move quickly, as time is of the essence for Operation Shadow.”

  It did not take long for the Joint Chiefs to file out of the room, they wanted to be anywhere else but there. Once alone, Prime Minister Ro stood and went to the window that overlooked the palatial grounds. His eyes saw none of it, instead focused inwardly, trying to play out the series of events that would need to mesh seamlessly in order to make this operation work. Its chances for success were slim, indeed, but he felt compelled to at least try. The Storians were not known for taking prisoners. This was a first, and he could only imagine the horrors that the POW’s might be enduring.

  Ro bowed his head and prayed.

  Denmoore Prime

  The late afternoon sun hung low over the horizon, casting long shadows across the vast, densely wooded countryside. Thin clouds were painted hot reds mixed with orange against a sky that was gradually surrendering to the deeper purples of a night sky. Four of the seven moons of the lunar straits graced varying degrees of the higher latitudes, each nearly full. It would be a bright, starless night with four of them out. Nowhere to hide, let alone attempt an escape.

  Not that escape would even be possible.

  The prison camp was too well constructed, and expertly run for that.

  Robert Corbin slowly paced the exercise yard, hands in his pockets, eyeballing the outer perimeter as he strolled. He walked with a slight limp, thanks to a run-in with one of the guards. It had seemed for a while that the leg might be broken, but after a few days, the swelling had gone down from the lick to the knee, and movement had returned.

  His naval uniform had been stripped of its rank insignia, but he was still considered the ranking officer among the prisoners, and responsible for their actions. The captain of the USS Belleau Wood had endured a long, tedious transit with his fellow survivors of the battered space combatant. Almost two months of being herded from one Storian ship to another before arriving in the Denmoore System, then another trio of weeks that involved forced marches, and being crowded into a train car. Little food, nearly no water, and constant abuse had taken its toll. One of the younger sailors had fallen to their knees after reaching the gulag. An impatient guard butted the kid on the shoulders with his rifle, and Robert had stepped in instinctively. The guard swiftly planted a boot against Robert’s knee before shooting the kid in the head.

  Seeing the execution provided enough encouragement for the others to keep in line. Reaching the camp was only a meager relief from the travelling. The officers had been separated from the enlisted, and all were stripped of their rank emblems. Storian guards escorted everyone to their respective barracks, where they were deposited without another word.

  Left wondering what was next, or even what was expected of them, the crew of the Belleau Wood settled in for the night. Wooden shacks that were without windows, equipped only with rickety bunks with no mattresses. No dinner was offered that first night. Robert had lingered near the open door, gazing out into the night, watching the goings-on of the Storians. Regular patrols roamed the razor fences. Spotlights from the towers swept the yards. Not a hundred yards outside the main gate, Denmoorian cargo trains passed by, hauling goods for the Storians from one town to another.

  Remembering all of th
at, Robert paused at the western end of the yard, as near to the fence as he dared get, and sighed deeply. A patrol passed by, ignoring him. He thought of how the following days had been. Orientation was particularly brutal. The camp had been called to formation at daybreak for a headcount. Officers in front, NCO’s behind them, and all of the lower-ranking sailors in back. The base commandant strode out in full-dress uniform. A short, pompous ass with an emotional complex brought by too much authority. The Storian was Major Gaff, a person that all would soon come to hate passionately.

  Gaff took his place before the prisoners, and without a word, drew his sidearm, and shot the first person that happened to be standing in front of him. That had been Robert’s best friend, First Officer Ghent.

  The expected threats came afterward. Do not attempt escape. Show proper respect to the staff. Add nausea. There were four headcounts per day. No sick-call. Two meager meals that seldom included any form of meat. Daily busy work. Surprisingly, never interrogations for intelligence. As time went by, it became apparent that the Storians were clearly unfamiliar with handling prisoners. This was a new concept for them, and being done for reasons that had yet to make themselves be known.

  Robert coughed, and did not care for the wet sound that his lungs were making. It was still summer, and the lack of proper nutrition was already causing everyone health issues. They were gaunt, and feeble. When winter set in, things would likely become much worse.

  The captain forced himself to bring his mind back to the present. Too often, it wandered lately. Chastising himself, Robert willed his thoughts to center on the situation at hand. Though the Storians were far from inept at maintaining security for the prison, they were openly questioning what the purpose was of even having POW’s. It was a concept as alien to them as war itself was to the population of Earth. There had to be a way to exploit that.

  Escape was out of the question. None of them were physically strong enough to get far, even if they did manage to get out somehow. Over a hundred ragged sailors in varying degrees of weakness posed no threat at all. What, then? What to do?

  The answer was obvious, and just as unlikely to be feasible. Help would need to come from the outside. He needed to get word to the allies that the camp existed in the hopes that a rescue would be organized. That, of course, posed its own obstacles. Mainly in the fact that he had no idea just where in Denmoore the camp was located.

  One thing at a time, he thought to himself.

  He could figure out where they were easily enough if he kept his eyes and ears open. The Storians openly talked about stuff within earshot of the prisoners, sometimes in their native tongue, many other times in English Standard. That was how he had discovered that the Denmoorians were in-cahoots with the Storian Empire. Traitors. That tidbit of information came from one of the staff officers laughing and cajoling with one of the freight engineers that had stopped to deliver goods and munitions. Robert wanted badly to somehow get word of that to the Allied command as well.

  Robert’s gaze shifted slowly from the horizon to the perimeters of the camp, casually so as not to draw any attention. In the growing darkness of the evening, lights were winking on from the various buildings, and the security globes spaced along the fence. There were the four gun towers at each corner. The brick and stone barracks of the staff, and the two administration buildings. The prisoner shacks were clustered near the center of the yard. It was quite obvious which structure housed the Anderson transmitter. It was a smallish, two-story stone shack that set off to the side of the command offices, laden with the tell-tale antenna and dishes. Surprisingly, there were no guards stationed at the entrance. There had to be a reason for that, though. It wasn’t as if he’d be able to stroll right in, and use the phone.

  Ideas began to form in the captain’s mind. He would find a way.

  *****

  S.S Comet, Attayan Heavy Missile Star-Sub

  Anderson Transit to the Denmoore System

  Attayan Commander Dede Burns smoothed the fur around her ears after donning her uniform tunic, determined to appear fresh and alert despite feeling as if she’d been drug through a meat grinder.

  Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she decided that having lacked sleep in the past twenty hours gave few visual cues. It was important to her to look her best at all times. Being the C.O of one of the fleet’s most powerful vessels demanded every ounce of what a good officer could muster. The fact that she had her thumb on enough firepower to essentially ruin a planet was not lost on her. That kind of responsibility came with a high price.

  Her stateroom was not adorned with photos of loved ones, or a nice house waiting back home. There was neither in her life. Twenty years of dedicated service denied her the chances for that. Her home was the ship that she commanded, her family its crew. Perhaps on occasion there was an inkling of regret, but at times like these, she was instead filled with purpose.

  Since the outbreak of the war, her orders had kept the Comet patrolling the Kuiper Limit, taking out Storian vessels as they attempted to break through the blockade. That amounted to mere busy-work for her class of sub, which was designed for far more severe purposes. This new mission promised a bit of spice, which made the lack of sleep worth it.

  Abrupt, coded orders had pulled her from the Kuiper line, and back to Attaya, where all but the most essential personnel had been taken from the ship. With little more than a skeleton crew, Burns found herself face-to-face with Attaya’s command admiral. Four shady characters were escorted on-board without explanation. The admiral handed her a sealed envelope, told her to ask no questions, and to get the hell out of port.

  Only once they were fully underway was she able to open the action orders to read them. To her pleasant surprise, it was real spec-ops stuff. Deliver the four-man Special Forces team to Denmoore Prime undetected, and stand-by to receive POW’s. The little detail of remaining on-station at launch distance caught her eye in particular. If things went wrong, it would likely mean going nuclear, which was a profound move. There were so many possibilities, so many ifs, that it just wasn’t worth it to speculate.

  With one final look to ensure that her appearance was nothing less than immaculate, Commander Burns considered herself ready to leave the stateroom. Out in the narrow passage, she strode purposefully through red lighting intended to simulate nighttime. It was nearly midnight Zulu time. It was not just the late hour that made the ship seem so deserted, though. A full third of the crew had been taken off while in-port, resulting in the two shifts that remained having to assume twelve-hour watches. There really were a lot less bodies on board.

  A pair of shipboard marines stood on either side of the CIC, coming to attention as she passed by. They looked as tired as she felt. Everyone was feeling the lag. Beyond the CIC was a secure compartment where the Spec Ops team resided. Those men hadn’t so much as said boo to anyone, including her. Little need for it anyway. surmised. She had her job to do, and they had their own.

  Up a ladder well, and she was in the conn tower, where the first watch was in the process of being relieved by the second one. The tight space was filled with people as each station relinquished control to the fresh person. Burns weaved through the tide of enlisted men, returning hellos as she went. There was none of the pomp and circumstance of what even the space navy referred to as ‘surface combatants.’ No salutes, or calls to attention when the CO entered a compartment. For one, there was simply too little room for all of that. For the other, submariners tended to run things their own way, both under the ocean, and in the cold void of the stars.

  The XO was leaning over the electronic plotting table when Burns finally made it to the command dias. Her second-in-command was a chocolate-furred man her own age, a lieutenant commander that possessed a dry humor that most initially took as blazing sarcasm. She happened to find that quality refreshing in the tedious confines of a protracted deployment, where boredom was one’s worst enemy broken only by practice drills, or combat.

  “You look
like shit, Dede,” her XO stated matter-of-factly as he casually sipped his coffee.

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  He offered her his cup, which she gratefully accepted.

  “We’ll be ready to drop out of Anderson in about an hour,” her first officer mentioned. “I can stay on, if you want. Catch a few more winks.”

  Burns casually waved him off, wincing at the over-brewed java’s bite, “Go get some chow. I’m fine.”

  Commander Madden fixed her with a stare that was concern laced with one of his sour quips, but he chose to lay the humor down for the moment, “I mean it, Dede. You look exhausted.”

  “And, I mean it, Joe. I’ve got the watch, now will you please go harass a non-comm, or something?”

  Madden gave her a half-cocked grin and a salute, “Aye, Senora Universe.”

  She waved him off again, “I’m keeping this poor excuse for coffee, so beat it. Get your own.”

  After he had gone, Burns pretended to busy herself with reviewing the watch log, but a feeling of unsettled worry nibbled at her. Truth was, she hadn’t been able to sleep well at all. Behind the thrill of a covert mission lurked what she considered an unwarranted dread. If her nerves were showing that easily, then she had been fooling herself in the mirror. Would the crew pick up on her jitters?

  Casting a glance about the bridge, it did not seem the case. Everyone was busy with their own work. She could have been a part of the bulkheads for all the attention they were giving her by then. The new shift was settling in for their stretch, yawning, sipping at drinks. The OOD had already lit his pipe, and was puffing Cavendish into the air, giving the oxygen scrubbers extra duty. All was well, as far as appearances were concerned.

  That was to be expected, she told herself. She and Madden had been serving together for going on four years at that point, and knew one another as well as they knew themselves. He was bound to see things that others were not.