by Trevor Wyatt
I chuckle as I get to the end of the tunnel. It changes every time to keep re-takers from having foreknowledge and thereby being opportune. Yet, the basic structure is the same. Terrorists take a hold of weapon cache, including a proton bomb that can level the super structure that is the Armada Command.
Ill-prepared ensign goes in with twentieth century weapons against the latest advanced blaster. Ensign is outnumbered and outgunned. Ensign doesn’t know the tunnel system and receives limited assistance from support staff. Ensign is supposed to defeat all the terrorists and stop the bomb from going off. Only a few people have passed the test in their first try.
“Enjoy the show, boys,” I say into the wrist communicator right before I head dive into the cavernous room. My first shot is at the one with the detonator. The bullet drills right through his forehead, leaving him in the hands of death with a smile on his face. I leap sideways into the air, just as automatic weaponry rent the air. Twisting in midair, I send off a spray of bullets to a knot of two terrorists who are trying to reload. They fall dead where they are.
I land near a stack of crates, taking cover as bullets scorch the air in a fraction of a second. There are five tangos left and they’re mostly at the other end of the room.
I break into a run from my position, shooting widely. I don’t hit anyone, but that’s not my plan. The suppressive fire provides me enough time to round the room and get to the other end.
They’re all surprised when they see me spotting them behind their cover. Their reactions are slow—I shoot the nearest in the head, grab his falling body, and then use it as a human shield. I shoot the second one before he gets off a shot. I kick his falling body to the third, derailing his aim and sending him to the ground. My bullet finds his head before it touches down.
In all this, I’m still moving, albeit slower now. The fourth tango gets seven bullets out before I get in range. I shove the body forward. The dead body slams into the fourth shooter, sending his aim wide.
The fifth shooter looks at the fourth man falling. That’s the last thing he sees before I shoot him in the head.
I kick the gun away from the fourth terrorist and slam my gun into his head. He’s knocked out cold.
“Overwatch, come in,” I say.
“Yeah, we know, we see everything,” comes the reply. “You defused the bomb. You’ve taken out all the terrorists. You’ve left one alive for interrogation. Blah, blah, blah…Tell me, Amanda, did I leave anything out?”
I laugh. “Well, I haven’t gotten around to defusing the bomb yet, but I guess, yeah. Mission accomplished. End simulation.”
The whole dreadful, death prone world around me fades in a flash of holographic flare. Even the pin suit and the 9mm Berretta on me vanishes.
The whole setting is replaced by the shiny metallic walls of the holographic room. The holographic room is a massive empty room with a mobile floor system, so I can walk miles in the thick jungles of Africa without taking more than three steps from my initial actual position in the holographic room.
I’m dressed in a white jumpsuit, which signifies that I’m an officer in training at the Terran Armada Academy. Well, soon to be an ensign. I’m graduating in three months.
A clap echoes across the cavernous holo room and grabs my attention. I look to see who it is.
A man in a black suit and dark shades stands in the circular entry way. Behind him, I can see an escort of security operatives standing at attention. Behind them in the hallway, I can see Mike, my Overwatch for this session.
Not knowing what to say, I muttered, “Hi…”
The man smiles and walks towards me. His escort makes their way to enter, but he turns and waves them off.
He sees the look I give them and says, “Well, they can be really protective. You know, Armada new rules on Captains having security details on and off their ships and all.”
“So you’re a Captain, sir?” I ask.
The man is tall and has a bulky build. He exudes self-confidence and power—the kind who can make anything happen in the Terran Union.
“My name is Vice Admiral Shane Pierce,” he says, his hands stretch forth for a handshake, “Terran Armada Intelligence Services Operations Command.”
My eyes widen and my legs become weak instantly. I take his hand with both hands and even add a curt bow to it. Then I retreat and begin to feel really stupid.
“Amanda Grayson, sir,” I say.
He smiles. “I know a very good operative with that same last name. Any relationship?”
“Not that I know of, sir,” I reply.
Vice Admiral Pierce looks around the holographic room for a while. Then he begins to walk around. I notice that he traces a loose circle around me, speaking as he goes.
“You’re top of your class,” he says. “Best scores in navigations. Best scores in tactical command. Best scores in strategic command. Best scores in field missions. Overall best scores in the Academy since a very long time. Someone with your scores can get any posting of their choice in any ship within the Armada. Why Intelligence and why the front lines?”
I swallow hard. I haven’t known there will be an interview. I know I wrote a lot of the usual dedication, honesty, service crap everyone writes when asked the purpose for choosing a particular posting. But right now, I’m so bedazzled to be in the presence of someone from Operations Command, my dream posting, to even think straight.
The truth is, I only chose this command because I wanted to be in front of the action, not in some metal hull flying around in space and shooting lasers. I like to get personal. Do dangerous things. Take risks. I like to dance on the tightrope between life and death. Many people call me insane. I call myself fun.
The man stops right in front of me and holds my gaze.
I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Honestly, sir?”
He arches his eyebrow, remaining silent.
“Because I don’t fancy staying behind a ship at a workstation and watching the action happen right in front of my eyes,” I say. “I’d rather be on the ground or in space with my EVA suit taking the shots. I’d rather see the lights go out of the blasted Sonali eyes than see a ship explode from afar.”
With the unreadable expression on Vice Admiral Pierce’s look, I hold myself back. I may have said too much and blown my chance at the Armada Intelligence. It’s said that Operations only come to those they want. And the caliber of the person who comes to you determines just how bad the Armada Intelligence wants you.
It’s also said that they can come at any time. Rumors even spread that some people get called right in their first year. Whatever the case, your response during the impromptu meeting determines your fate forevermore. Meaning, if you screw it up the first time, you’re never getting into the Armada Intelligence Operations Command ever again, regardless of how many times you reapply.
The Vice Admiral is still standing before me.
“The last person I brought into the Operations Command said something similar,” he says. Then he gives me a puzzled look. “It’s the same person with which you share your surname.”
I feel a bit relieved. If the person got in with the response I gave, then I’m in good company.
“Can you tell me her name, sir?” I attempt.
He only flashes a half smile, but doesn’t respond.
“Who’s your role model?” he asks. “Who inspired your decision to join the Operations Command?”
“No One,” I reply immediately. “I don’t know who he is, but I’ve read some of his case files in my studies and I said to myself, this is someone like me. This is someone I want to be like. Then I’ve read that he works with the TAIOC, and there and then I knew how I wanted my military career to play out.”
The man laughs. “I see. Welcome to Division 51 of the Terran Armada Intelligence Operations Command, Commander Amanda Grayson. Gather your things. We leave within the hour.”
He turns and begins to walk.
I trail behind. “Sir, I don
’t graduate until another three months. And, sir, my rank should be ensign when I graduate.”
“As of this moment, you’ve graduated from the Academy and your rank shall be Commander—provisionally, of course, until you’ve proven yourself,” he says. He stops at the entryway and turns to face me.
I stop short, before walking right into his face.
“That is, of course, if you accept,” he says.
I heave a sigh and hold my shoulder high. “I will be honored, sir,” I say.
“Good,” he replies. “One hour. Pad 1.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing on Launch Pad 1. I packed lightly, giving away most of my stuff. I’m only carrying a duffel bag with enough clothes for a week. I also have all my credentials, including my official ceremonial wears and Academy jumpsuit. However, I suspect that I’m going to be getting new credentials and new ceremonial wears now that I’m with the Armada Intelligence.
It takes me the better part of ten minutes to locate Pad 1, majorly because most people don’t think the launch pad exists. The few who know have given differing locations around the campus, which has almost driven me nuts. I had to contact the campus-wide AI who surprisingly directed me to the pad.
Launch Pad 1 is located in one of the gardens that form a border between the campus and the outside world. It’s well concealed with lush greenery and with a hidden doorway leading downwards. I don’t know where that leads to, and I’m not really sure I want to find out.
I take the normal route to Launch Pad 1. I find a shuttle berthed on the pad guarded by Marines.
This draws an unintended frown from me. “Marines?”
They all look up at me and snap off a salute in tandem. I flinch at the force and unison of their actions.
I look over my shoulders to see if there’s a high ranking officer behind. There’s no one. I look at them quizzically.
“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” I ask.
The leader of the squad approaches me. “Staff Sergeant Ronny Michael, ma’am,” he says. “We were instructed to get you settled in.”
“By whom?” I ask. I haven’t told anyone I’ll be in early. Vice Admiral Pierce has given me one hour. I still have twenty minutes to spare.
“The Vice Admiral,” he replies. “He told us you’d be coming in a little earlier than him.”
I nod. “Thanks, Staff Sergeant Michael. Why are Marines guarding this shuttle?”
“Because they’re members of Division 51, Commander,” says a voice behind me.
I see Vice Admiral Pierce walking out of the doorway that leads downward, his detachment of security operatives behind him.
He has a silver button-shaped tag in his hand, which he hands to me. “It’s official,” he says. “All your information has been scrubbed from the system and transferred to the Operations Command and classified above top secret.”
I take the silver button, surprised at its weight and texture. “Why? Intelligence officers’ records are not classified that high.”
“That’s because you’re not just an Intelligence Operative, Amanda,” he says. “You’re now part of a highly classified, highly effective elite commando team of operatives known as Division 51.”
I remember him saying something like that earlier. “I’ve never heard of that unit before.”
He winks at me. “That’s the idea. Come on. I’ll explain more to you in the ship.”
Ship?
The shuttle takes us into space. The ship we land on is much larger than all the ships I know that exists in the Terran Armada. It’s also stylishly designed in the form of a saucer and twin barrel-shaped engines that hand out behind like fins. The design reminds me of one of the space movies made during the early twenty first century.
“Why so large?” I ask as the shuttle comes to stop in the cavernous shuttle bay, which I realize is one of the more than fourteen shuttle decks on the ship. I cannot comprehend the scale of this vessel.
Two muscular, fierce-looking jarhead officers are waiting for us at the shuttle’s back. I come out first and they snap off a salute that makes me retreat and bump into the Vice Admiral. I’m about to fall and the man holds me.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say, my cheeks burning. He only smiles and motions for me to continue out.
I step aside for the Vice Admiral to exit the shuttle. Once he’s out, the two officers snap off another salute.
“At ease, gentlemen,” Vice Admiral Pierce says.
The rest begins to exit from the shuttle.
He glances at me. “Are you alright?”
I nod. “I’m just not used to people saluting me, sir.”
“Well, get used to it,” he replies. “Because as of today you’re the Operations Commander for Division 51. Meet me in my ready room within an hour and I’ll brief you some more.”
The men part for the Vice Admiral to walk out of the shuttle bay, and then they follow him, speaking in an urgent tone as they go.
I’m still standing there when the security detachment follows after the Vice Admiral. The Marines begin to go when I recover from the Vice Admiral’s revelation.
I grab Staff Sergeant Michael by the arm and pull him back.
“Did I hear him correctly?” I ask.
The soldier blinks, confused.
“Operations Commander?” I say. “What does that even mean?”
His face dawns with understanding. “Well, ma’am, it means you’ll basically be commanding all the Marines in this Division.”
“Oh…” I say, relaxing a little bit. I don’t want to be stuck behind a desk planning the operations of a fighting unit. I want to fight. Leading a detachment of Marines sounds just great, because I know that where there are Marines, there’s bound to be trouble.
“Just how many are you in this Division?” I ask.
He smiles. “Ma’am, we are this Division. Come on, I’ll show you to your quarters. You’ll want to rest before your meeting with the boss. He’ll explain everything to you.”
I expect my quarters to be larger than normal because of the size of the vessel. I have to admit, I’m a bit disappointed. It’s just as small as what you’ll find in any of the Terran Union vessels. I find three suitcases of clothes waiting for me. Everything I need is there.
On my small bed is a black jumpsuit with my name and designation stitched across it. Above this designation is a small hook, where I suppose the button the Vice Admiral has given me goes to.
I take a quick bath and lie in my bed for a while. With twenty minutes to spare, I change into the black jumpsuit, which surprisingly tightens automatically to fit my shape. I usually don’t like tight-fitting clothes because it reveals just how large my bust is and makes me too self-conscious.
I take one more look at myself, then leave my room to go look for the Vice Admiral. The ship is so large that it takes me five minutes and switching between elevators to find the one that takes me to the CNC.
I note that we‘re in interstellar space, firing to a destination I don’t know.
In the CNC, I’m directed to an adjacent door that leads to the ready room; there are two security operatives by the door. The door slides up as I approach.
The ready room is fairly big, mostly longitudinally. It’s more like an office, but without the sofa. Vice Admiral Pierce is sitting on his chair, reading through his tablet. “Sit, Commander,” he says.
I walk the bulk of the length of the office and sit in the chair across the man.
After a couple of minutes, he puts his tablet down, folds his arms on the table, and leans forward. “You’ve probably been able to piece together what this Division is about.”
I nod. “Covert, Black Ops arm of the Armada Intelligence with elite Marines with special advances, say, like super weapons or suit.” I take one look at my jumpsuit. “I wonder what this can do.”
He chuckles. “I’m afraid it does nothing more than trim itself to fit the wearer’s size.”
“Oh, so I’m wrong?”
>
“You’re right on all counts, Commander,” he replies. “Division 51 is only known by a few people, including the President, the Commander of the Terran Armada, and the leaders of the Terran Armada Intelligence Operations Command.”
“That’s a very tiny list,” I say.
“We are a very tiny Division,” he replies.
“How many?”
“This ship carries a detachment of super Marines,” he replies.
“How super?” I ask.
“Nanites enhanced,” he replies.
“That technology doesn’t exist,” I reply.
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” he says with a wink. “We’re basically the guys you send in when there’s no hope. We’re the ones you send in when the odds are impossibly stacked up against you. We’re the ones who get the job done by all and every means necessary. With me so far?”
I nod vigorously. This is my kind of shit.
“So, we have permanent bases on Earth and New Washington,” he says. “We have three teams. A team, B team, and C team. A team is mobile upon this vessel, which is the third base. Team B is in New Washington, near the forefront of the war effort, while Team C is back on Earth.
“Each team consists of a three-hundred-men assault group, all super Marines, all highly trained and efficient killers. And an advance team of ten specialists led by a Commander…”
“That’s me,” I say, feeling the excitement pulse through my veins.
He nods. “The advance team goes in first to gather intel or neutralize specific targets or to open the door for the main assault team to move in.”
He pauses and looks at his quipping tablet.
“I’m going to have to cut this short, Commander,” he says as he stands.
I stand, too, saluting him. “I understand, sir. I can come back when you need me.”
He looks up at me as though I’ve spoken out of turn. “You misunderstand me, Amanda. I have to cut this short because you have to get going to the command center. You’re going on a mission.”