Decisively Engaged (Warp Marine Corps Book 1)

by Carella, C. J.

  “The fires are obscuring everything at the moment, but a news chopper captured visuals of the Reunion Tower as it collapsed. The heat inside the domes is intense enough to melt concrete and steel. It’s… Excuse me for a moment.”

  (Johnathan moves out of frame; the sound of retching can be heard even through the roar of the flames).

  “New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Washington DC, Baltimore, a dozen other cities, they have all fallen silent. Millions are dead. The rest of the world is, if anything, in worse shape.” (pause). “Okay, fuck the teleprompter. We all saw the UFO footage from the ISS. E.T. came back, the motherfucker. He came back and killed everyone. We’re fucked, you hear me? Fucked!”

  - Charlotte NBC Anchorman Keith Neelan, moments before his suicide.

  “Much is lost, but much remains. We will never forget this day, and we will never surrender to those who seek our destruction. We will rebuild and restore our strength. God Bless America.”

  - US President Albert P. Hewer, shortly after being sworn in.

  Year Zero AFC (After First Contact)

  “Good to see you, Mister President.”

  “No rank in the mess, Ty. Sit down.”

  Tyson Keller sat on a plush sofa facing the man who until a few days ago had been the country’s Secretary of Defense. More specifically, the about-to-be-fired Secretary of Defense. Albert P. Hewer had left the Army as a one-star general, had been the head of the CIA for six years and then been tapped for Def Sec by an administration trying to deal with the latest cluster-fuck in the Middle East. Hewer had started butting heads with everybody from the get-go, and inside sources in DC claimed he’d soon be announcing his regretful resignation in order to spend time with his family, a funny exit line for a childless widower.

  Then the aliens had come.

  Tyson looked around the study, in a manor-style house in an undisclosed location. The Secret Service and Marines had come to his house outside Charlotte, which was possibly the largest US city still in one piece, bundled him into a chopper, and flown him here, here being somewhere almost four hours’ flight away. If he had to guess, they were somewhere in Kansas. Wherever it was, it was nowhere near the Beltway. There was no Beltway anymore.

  “First of all, I’m sorry for your loss, Ty.”

  “Thank you.”

  When the balloon went up, Tyson had gotten a phone call from his oldest daughter Rebecca, who’d been a junior in Boston College. He’d listened to her as she burned to death.

  The grief was there, pressing against his chest, and it almost overwhelmed him when Hewer’s words stirred it up. Almost. He pushed all emotions down somewhere deep, somewhere they would not show until he was alone with Mathilda. There were tears still to be shed for Becca, but not here and now. This was business.

  “It’s just you and me,” the President of These Very Fucked Up United States went on. “No recording devices on the premises. You can speak freely, Colonel.”

  “I’m just an accountant now, Al. And I was about to quit my day job, after the last book hit it big on the Kindle.” Not anymore, of course. Even if half the reading public in the US hadn’t just gone up in smoke, Tyson figured science fiction was as dead as the dodo, now that real aliens had shown themselves and bombed the world back to the Stone Age.

  “Read a couple of your novels while I waited for you,” Hewer said. “Not too bad. Not my cup of tea; I’m into historical fiction, when I read fiction at all. But not too bad.”

  “Don’t forget to leave a review at Amazon. Wish more people did.”

  “Heh.”

  Hewer grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant grin, or a pleasant face for that matter. Albert would have never gotten elected to any major office. Not photogenic enough. His face could best be described as ‘Nixonian,’ the kind of mug cartoonists and comedians would have a field day with. He was President only because everyone else above him had gone up in smoke, along with untold numbers of Americans. Including one of Tyson’s children.

  “So what do you need, Al? Want me to reenlist?”

  “No. I’ve got plenty of trigger-pullers. I need someone willing to do what needs to be done.”

  “Which is?”

  “We’ve got to rebuild this nation, Colonel. This is the biggest disaster in the history of this country, of this planet. We lost, by the latest estimate, a hundred and sixty million people in CONUS alone. We’re probably going to lose another million or two, maybe a lot more, by the time the winter’s over. We have no economy. We’ve got plenty of food, but we may not have the fuel to move it where it’s needed. The aliens hit the twenty largest population centers in the country. Charlotte’s metropolitan area is number twenty-one, by the way.”

  Tyson held up his thumb and forefinger, about half an inch apart. “Missed me by this much.”

  “Lucky you. Lucky us.”

  “What do you plan to do about this, Al?” What the hell can you do? He kept that last question to himself.

  “There were two bunches of aliens up there, Ty. One of them took out the ones that blasted us. If they hadn’t, we would have been obliterated. We got hit by the first of what would have been successive bomb waves. As it is, we got off lightly, here in the US. The initial spread happened over Asia; we got the tail end. China and India have effectively ceased to exist. Ditto Japan, Australia, Indonesia, both Koreas. Billions are dead. Europe’s got a few cities left, but their power grid’s collapsed; a lot of the survivors won’t make it to next year. The second wave would have finished off what’s left. The friendly aliens saved our bacon.”

  “And what happens now? Do they figure we owe them? Or that they own us now?”

  “Not exactly. They feel a measure of obligation towards us. Their ship has left, but a few technical advisors and their equipment stayed behind. Their technology is just this side of magic, and they’re sharing it with us. With the US.”

  “Not with the whole world?”

  “No. For whatever reasons, they like us the best from all the countries that survived. The Russians are still around – some Russians; a lot of their military facilities didn’t get hit, and their rocket forces are relatively intact. But the good ETs don’t care for the Ivans. One of the first things we got from the Puppies was an anti-ballistic missile system that makes the Russians about as dangerous as a kid with a peashooter.”

  “The Puppies?”

  “Wait till you meet one. Kinda look like a cross between a raccoon and a light-skinned Dachshund. Cute as hell.”

  “Mammals?” Tyson had always figured aliens would be absolutely different, not humans in funny costumes like in the TV shows he loathed.

  “Pretty much. They are a DNA- and carbon-based life form, according to my Science Advisor, who happens to be another sci-fi writer on the side. Apparently it turns out some theory about the origins of life was right: ‘antiperspirant’ or something like that.”

  “Panspermia, is that what you mean? Life originated somewhere else and came to Earth via comets and meteors?”

  “Bingo. That’s one of the reasons I need you, Tyson. You’ve thought about this kind of shit already. That puts you miles ahead of your average government pinhead.”

  Tyson’s head was spinning from the things he’d just learned. The hopeless malaise that had infected him ever since Becca had died began to give way, replaced by something else, something several Jihadists had become acquainted with shortly before their demise.

  “I never cared for alien stories,” he said. “Figured if they showed up they’d be so far ahead of us we’d end up like the Aztecs and Incas at best, or like ants under a boot at worst. Guess I was only half right.”

  “Now you don’t have to guess, and you’re mentally prepared for this stuff, more than most people. The other reason I want you, of course, is that you’re a hard case, an utterly cold-blooded son of a bitch. I need the Hun.”

  “I never cared for that handle. Huns were undisciplined barbarians.”

  Al had given Tyson that nickname, bac
k when they’d gone through OCS together, a long time ago.

  “You weren’t afraid of getting your hands dirty, Ty. Or bloody. That’s Hunnish enough.”

  Tyson shook his head. “Al, you really don’t want me in a position of power. The country’s suffered enough already.”

  “If we’re going to come out of this alive, we need to become something else altogether. We need to clean house and prepare, or we aren’t going to survive. The Puppies will help us, but sooner or later we’re going to have to stand on our own two feet. Sooner rather than later. We need to become a new Sparta.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “By any means necessary. Look, we lost a hundred and sixty million Americans, and ninety-nine percent were innocents who didn’t deserve what happened to them…”

  “More like ninety-five percent. At least eight million of them needed killing. In my humble opinion.”

  “Maybe. But the point is, most of the people who would be against the changes I’m going to institute are gone. We’re going to have to rearm, implement the new technologies we just got, and gird our ever-loving loins for war. One of the first things I’m doing is reinstituting the draft. Universal and mandatory. Everyone serves. Everyone spends a couple years in uniform, getting the stupid knocked out of them. Men and women. Ladies got the vote, so they get to put on combat boots and march while some drill instructor yells at them.”

  “Good luck getting that passed.”

  “There is no Congress. There is no Supreme Court. The only effective source of law and order in the country is the military, plus a handful of state governments. And yeah, that means getting around the Posse Comitatus, but my new Attorney General’s on the job. You might know him; he did some sci-fi writing himself. Luis Corazao.”

  “The Mountain? The NRA activist?”

  “And gun dealer. And lawyer. And writer. Talented guy. Took some doing, but he’s on board. Pro tem, since we don’t have enough congresscritters to do confirmation hearings, or fill a short bus for that matter. And that’s fine. It’s pen-and-phone time, and I’ve got the pen and the phone. And the trigger-pullers to make it stick.”

  “That Portagee bastard’s got my vote. You probably should start reading some SF yourself. Start with Starship Troopers.”

  “Oh, I read that one a while back. Lots of good ideas there.”

  “You’re going to take an axe to the Constitution, aren’t you?”

  “The Constitution was dead before fucking E.T. came a-knocking. Between ‘penumbras and emanations’ and ‘living Constitution’ and all that other bullshit, it was on its way out. The old America was dying, and now it’s dead. Before I go, I’m going to leave behind a new America. One that can survive in the universe we happen to inhabit, not the fantasy land libtards and proglodytes kept dreaming of, all while they cheerfully dismantled our civilization, with no guarantees whatever replaced it would be one iota better.”

  “Don’t have to convince me, Al. I’m the one who said eight million needed killing. Which is why you don’t want me in charge of anything major. Most of my solutions come in 9mm Parabellum.”

  “I’m hoping most fuckheads will appreciate the gravity of the situation. The rest… We’ll see.”

  “We’ll see,” Tyson agreed. I’ve got a little list. Most of the names are crossed off already, but not all. “Tell me more about the aliens.”

  “Turns out the galaxy’s a nasty neighborhood, Ty. Wait till you get briefed on all the things the Puppies are telling us. It’s Might Makes Right all the way down.”

  “So there’s no Prime Directive? No congenial peace-loving aliens?”

  “Heh. I hated Star Trek when I was a kid. No. It’s nineteenth-century-style international politics. To the winner go the spoils. Primitive species are forced into trade agreements at gunpoint, or exterminated without a second thought. The lucky ones get sort of adopted by the nicer aliens, like the Puppies. In this case, we’re getting a great deal of help, because the Puppies accidentally led the Snakes – the motherfuckers who wiped out half the planet – here, and they feel they owe us.”

  Is that so? Then, yeah, hound-dogs. You owe us.

  “So there’s no rules at all?” he said out loud. “That’s rough. What’s stopping the Snakes from dropping a dinosaur-killer asteroid to finish us off?”

  “There are some rules. Can’t inflict major damage to a planet’s biosphere, apparently. That’s why they didn’t use nukes or big rocks; their city-busters are designed to exterminate the tool-users while leaving most everything intact. Things like bioweapons aren’t allowed, or ‘grey goo,’ whatever that is.”

  “You don’t want to know. Who enforces the law?”

  “The Puppies were a little vague about it. Elders of the Universe or the fucking Q Continuum, something like that. Whoever it is, they mostly leave the Starfarers – the guys with starships – alone, as long as they stick to some very loose rules.”

  “Good enough.” Tyson thought about it for a second, but the answer was never really in doubt. “All right, Al. You’ve got me, for whatever it’s worth. I think I know what we need to do.”

  “I thought as much. We can’t afford second-guessers or self-haters to get in the way.”

  “It’s not going to be pretty. The cure might be almost as bad as the disease.”

  Hewer’s expression hardened. “As long as we survive and we carve a place for us among the stars, I don’t care. Three hundred years from now, college professors can denounce me as an evil tyrant. And that’s fine, because that means our species will be around three hundred years from now.”

  Tyson nodded.

  “Let’s go to work.”

  One

  Year 163 AFC, D Minus Ten

  One step at a time.

  USWMC First Lieutenant Peter Fromm’s left leg wasn’t working right, but he limped along, ignoring the stabbing pain that flared up with every shuffling stride. The artificial muscles in his combat suit weren’t working anymore, and the combined weight of his body armor and the unconscious form of Captain Chastain was becoming unbearable. Fromm’s desperate dash for cover with a body draped over his shoulders had quickly turned into a limping walk. Even hunched over, he knew he was too high off the ground, making a perfect target, but he also knew that if he went down he would just lie there.

  One step at a time.

  Nothing else mattered. He had to reach the entrenchments ahead of him, had to save the captain’s life. The CO of Charlie Company was a casualty only because Fromm had knocked him unconscious less than an hour ago. He’d had good reasons, but he couldn’t leave the man to die, even if the first thing he did upon waking up would be to order Fromm’s arrest.

  Friendly fire ahead of him, flashes like fireflies in the night. Hostile fire behind him, the whine of ionizing charges followed by loud explosions whenever charged particle bursts or laser beams hit something solid. His force fields were down, and the only thing between him and the storm of deadly energies raining all around was his body armor, which might stop a hit, but most likely would not.

  Just a few more steps.

  A stray laser pulse from a Lamprey grav tank clipped him from behind.

  There was one more thing standing between him and certain death: the limp form of Captain Chastain slung on his back. The unconscious officer he’d been carrying to safety burned under the megawatt glare of the Lamprey weapon. Sublimated armor, flesh and bone erupted in an explosion that smashed Fromm to the ground.

  His mouth was full of blood. He couldn’t breathe.

  I’m dying, was his last thought before the universe vanished.

  * * *

  Captain Peter Fromm, United Stars Warp Marine Corps, woke up with a start, memories of blood and breath still vivid in his mind.

  He was safe. Astarte-Three was hundreds of parsecs away. The ‘police action’ that had decimated his company and led to the death of its commander was over, and peace reigned in the galaxy. He was safe.


  “We’re putting you in a quiet spot out in the galactic boondocks until we figure out what to do with you.”

  Colonel Macwhirter’s words echoed in Fromm’s mind as he watched the spectacle below the descending shuttle.

  Uncontrolled fires ringed Kirosha’s capital city. Some quiet spot.

  Unrest and warfare were common features in primmie planets even before making contact with a Starfaring civilization, and things usually got even more lively afterwards. The technological and sociological shocks of First Contact always brought about unintended consequences.

  Earth’s own First Contact had been particularly harsh. Over sixty percent of the planet’s population had died within hours of discovering humanity was not alone in the universe. The survivors had adapted, even thrived in the aftermath, but it’d been a rough few decades. Fromm’s great-grandfather had shared lots of stories with him before passing on, shortly after his hundred and seventy-sixth birthday. Super-Gramp’s depictions of First Contact had made a much greater impression than any history lesson: the blooming fire-domes that marked the deaths of most cities on the planet; the struggle to survive amidst privation and unrest; nights spent shivering in the dark. Given that, Fromm wasn’t terribly sympathetic to the current socio-economic woes of Jasper-Five’s natives.

  A closer look revealed the fires were outside the capital city proper. Fromm’s imp – the implanted cybernetic systems linked directly to his nervous system – laid a map schematic over the visual feed from the shuttle as it orbited the only spaceship-rated landing facility on the planet, waiting for clearance. The spaceport wasn’t exactly bustling with traffic, but its facilities could handle only one landing at a time. A Wyrm Cargo Globe had arrived shortly before the human freighter that had brought Fromm to his new posting, which meant a wait of half an hour if not longer until the alien vessel was unloaded and the landing pad cleared. Fromm could imagine the grumbling in the shuttle’s cockpit about spent fuel and wasted man-hours. Civvie freighter crews owned shares in their ships: all expenses literally came out of their pockets.