Sheridan looked out at the faces of the apprehensive soldiers sitting in the mess hall. He turned on a large wall-mounted screen and brought up a picture of their next destination. “Marines, I won’t lie to you. We’re being ordered to Derra-5 so we can buy time for the fleet to mobilize. Don’t be under any illusion; the chances of any of us coming out of this alive are almost non-existent.”
A young soldier put up his hand. “Sir, so this is kinda like the Alamo?”
Sheridan grinned. “Yeah, you might say that.”
“But everyone died there,” glumly added Garcia, a slender Hispanic woman with short jet-black hair.
“We won’t be alone. Units and equipment from all over this sector are being rushed to Derra-5. By the time we arrive, there could be substantial reinforcements there. However, if history has taught us anything, plan for the worst and pray that you’re wrong.”
“Sir, what unit is based there?” asked a blonde-haired Marine with a thick Nordic accent.
“Derra-5 is home to the Third Regiment, Eighteenth Division. However, with men and material coming from all over, I couldn’t even hazard a guess who we’ll end up serving under.”
“A Marine unit is a Marine unit,” added Cole philosophically. “One is as good as another. Just remember your training and you’ll be okay.”
“Thanks, Sergeant,” said Sheridan. “Are there any more questions?”
The room was silent.
With a loud clap of his hands, Cole broke the silence. “Okay, Marines, we still have an inspection in thirty minutes. Get to it.”
Sheridan and Cole left the room.
Garcia walked over to a tall, muscle-bound, blonde-haired Marine. “So, Agnar, still happy you decided to join the Marines?”
With a broad grin, he said, “Yeah, we all got to die sometime.”
“Frigging Vikings,” muttered Garcia as she walked over to her combat gear and started to get it ready for inspection.
Halfway through the inspection Lefol’s voice came over the ship’s intercom asking Sheridan and Cole to meet her in the medical bay. When they arrived, Lefol was standing beside a bed. Sitting with his feet hanging down over the side of the bed was Tartov, the man Sheridan had found in the California. He was busy chugging down a tall plastic cup of water. He was short and pudgy with thick glasses perched on his bulbous nose.
Lefol said, “Gents, I’d like you two to meet Petty Officer Third Class Peter Tartov.”
Tartov stopped drinking and looked over at the two Marines. “I hear that I owe you my life.”
“It was Second Lieutenant Sheridan who found you,” clarified Cole.
“Thanks, sir,” said Tartov, nodding at Sheridan.
“Just doing my job,” replied Sheridan.
“Well, sir, I’m glad you guys came by when you did. If you hadn’t my air would have run out ages ago, and I’d be as dead as everyone on my ship.”
Lefol said, “It was quite fortuitous that you were in a survival suit when your vessel was hit. What were you doing prior to the attack?”
“I’d been working on the computer relays near the jump engine, ma’am. Captain Marcus’ SOP was for anyone working near the engines to wear a survival suit in case there were an accident and radiation leaked from the engine. I’m not a big fan of enclosed spaces. I probably panicked, hyperventilated, and passed out. The men working with me must have found me and taken me to sick bay just before the California was hit . . .” Tartov’s voice trailed off. “I can’t believe they’re all gone.”
“Be thankful you’re still alive,” stressed Lefol.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, visiting hours are over,” announced the ship’s doctor gruffly. “PO Tartov needs his rest.”
Lefol, Sheridan, and Cole left the room and stepped out into the hallway.
“Do you believe him?” Lefol asked the two soldiers.
Cole shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve met people who are deathly afraid of enclosed spaces, so he could be telling the truth,” answered Sheridan.
“I don’t know,” said Lefol. “The doc said he was heavily drugged up. Why would he need sedation if he’d already passed out?”
Cole’s eyes narrowed as he looked back at the closed med bay door. “I take it you don’t trust him, Captain.”
“At this moment, I’m not sure I trust you two.”
With less than an hour to go until the Churchill arrived in orbit above Derra-5, Lefol was growing concerned that there had been no communications from the planet. If there were other vessels from the fleet ferrying men and equipment there, the comms channels would be filled with traffic.
So far, nothing.
She didn’t like it one bit. It was too much like the situation with the California. Lefol was beginning to suspect that the Kurgans were jamming the frequencies when her communications officer announced that she had Derra-5 on a secure channel.
“On speaker,” said Lefol.
“Go ahead, ma’am,” said the communications officer.
“Derra-5 Operations, this is Captain Lefol of the Churchill, how do you read me?”
“We read you loud and clear, Churchill,” replied a man’s voice over the ship’s speaker.
“We are inbound with men and materials. What is the tactical situation there?”
“It’s all quiet for the moment. Kurgan fighters have probed the outer defenses twice in the past day and a half. All were engaged and destroyed by our fighters flying combat patrol over the fleet.”
Lefol’s eyes lit up. “Derra-5, did you say fleet?”
“Roger that, most of the Fourth Fleet is in our sector.”
“That’s good news,” replied Lefol.
“Sure is, Churchill. Please come out of your jump above the capital. Exact coordinates are being relayed to your ship’s navigational computer. Shuttlecraft are on standby to ferry your Marines and material down to the surface.”
“Derra-5, we will arrive at your location,” Lefol looked over at the screen to check the fight time, “in fifty-three minutes.” Lefol asked her comms officer to end the call but continue to monitor the channel for further instructions.
Looking over at her first officer, Lefol pensively shook her head.
He moved over beside her. In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “What are you thinking, Captain?”
“This doesn’t feel right. The orders I received from Fleet Headquarters never mentioned the Fourth Fleet moving to assist Derra-5.”
“Perhaps the orders changed after we received them? We’re still playing catch up with our deep space communications. This wouldn’t be the first time that we were the last to know about something going on.”
Lefol nodded. “Yeah, things are usually quite confused when you’re in contact with the enemy.”
“Shall I have the ship go to Yellow Alert just to be on the safe side?”
“Yes, and tell Mister Sheridan that I want Marines placed outside of the engine room, armory, and the bridge until we arrive at Derra-5. I don’t want any surprises.” Looking back at the tactical display, Lefol began to wonder if she had waited too long to order added security placed at the vital areas of the ship. Time would tell, she thought to herself. The only problem was that there wasn’t much time left before they arrived.
7
First Strike Page 6