The Mighty First, Episode 1: Special Edition

by Unknown

  They stepped through together into a narrow corridor wide

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  enough for only two abreast, that was apparently some sort of decontamination shower.

  “Please raise your arms, and stand still,” an automated voice sounded.

  A soft, blue light appeared from all sides for a moment, then disappeared.

  “No biological, or radiological contamination detected. Please proceed.”

  Yet another door clacked open, this one revealing a medical theater staffed with doctors and nurses. They had apparently been alerted to the arrival of the marines from outside, as the medical staff fairly swarmed at them as they stepped through the seal.

  There was open surprise and relief in the faces of the doctors when they saw who it was.

  “Madam President!”

  Reyes managed a weak grin, “In the flesh, if not barely.”

  “Is anyone injured?” Another doctor inquired.

  A shaking of heads no. The marines were clearly shaken, but intact.

  An Air Force major stood stiffly near another door, and stepped forward, “Madam President, I’m to bring you to the Pit.” He said, referring to the command center that very much resembled a NASA control room. It had been deemed ‘The Pit’ because of its location in the bottommost region of the bunker.

  Reyes nodded, but first turned to face the marines that had brought her there, “Thank you. I mean that.”

  The squad came to attention and saluted her, a gesture that she returned proudly.

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  She followed the major through a series of stark corridors that were bright under fluorescent lighting. The floor was polished concrete. They passed room upon room that was stocked from floor to ceiling with supplies. Somewhere below, she knew, was a veritable warehouse of goods. These that she saw were only those that would be in immediate need to the medical ward. There was enough packaged food, and potable water to supply the bunker for up to five years without ever sticking a head topside.

  They came to a service elevator with only two buttons---up and down. It was classified as to how many floors there really were between the surface, and the main level below. Reyes knew it to be eighteen, plenty deep enough to withstand a direct nuclear strike.

  The major said nothing the whole way down, merely standing stiffly, staring stone-faced at the elevator wall. She had no way of knowing that his family was in upper New York, and he was sick with worry about them.

  The car stopped gently, the doors parting to reveal a short, steel-walled hallway with a single, mirrored door at the end. That door whispered aside at their approach, revealing a tiny fore-room with a single desk. An Air Force sergeant sat there, with one hand openly resting on a pistol that was attached to a Velco holder on its side. Any unauthorized person entering that room during a lockdown would be shot without warning.

  The sergeant recognized President Reyes, and removed her hand from the weapon. She buzzed open the lock to the adjoining door, admitting them to the Pit. Within that last room lie the vast rows of stations, and huge monitors that looked every bit like NASA. Technicians were busy at each one with varying tasks, all related to the attack now underway. The visuals on the big screens, both digital and actual, were as enthralling as they were horrific.

  The major led her to a secured office over-looking it all from an elevated balcony. To Reyes’ relief, Command Admiral Green,

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  and Major General Parks were already there, waiting. The office was dominated by a large, oak conference table, with maps and intelligence reports tacked to every spare inch of exposed wall.

  Admiral Green was hunched over a wet bar in one corner, nursing a drink. His face hung heavy, eyes bloodshot, completely out of his normal character of discipline. Parks stood before the observation window, arms crossed, watching the displays out in the control room.

  Reyes went for the nearest chair, and plopped down in it, holding her head in her hands. The adrenaline that was still flowing in her system made her tremble, and she wavered in and out of nausea. It was subsiding, but far too slowly for her tastes. Even though sweat was beading on her brow, she felt alternately cold and hot, thanks to the blasting of cold and snow that the helo had swept over her outside.

  Parks went to the fridge, and brought her a bottle of water, along with a hand towel. She accepted them both gratefully, dabbing at her face, wishing it were possible to shut everything out. The general took a seat to her left, and absently fished through a folder, glancing at the latest data feeds. To his left sat a youngish guy, perhaps in his early thirties, looking distinctly uncomfortable. The other nine chairs sat empty, stark reminders that there were still members of her cabinet that were either still trying to reach the bunker, or were already dead.

  A few minutes went by before Reyes felt capable of facing the situation. She downed half of the water bottle, and fixed Admiral Green with her ‘let’s get down to business’ look.

  “Talk to me, Doug. What the hell just happened?”

  The admiral remained leaning on his elbows, not looking up at her when he spoke, “The Storians out-maneuvered us at every turn. Two of our fleets were decimated, and what remains of them

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  are scattered all over the system.”

  “What are our current losses?”

  Green drained his glass, wincing at the burn of the alcohol, “The only viable space navy we have left is forward deployed in Attayan space right now. Grozet currently has total orbital dominance.” He paused, swallowing hard. Tears welled, and fell from his eyes.

  “Star Harbor, and the lunar array were both destroyed,” he added, his voice thick with emotion.

  The president blinked, and held up a hand, as if to ward away his words, “Wait a minute, Doug, back up. Star Harbor has been destroyed? As in completely?”

  Green only nodded, and cupped both hands over his face, weeping. His shoulders shook with the sobs. Reyes was just as shocked at the total loss as anyone else, but was rather taken aback by the intensity of the admiral’s emotions. She looked at General Parks, who looked as if he were about to vomit.

  “The admiral’s wife and daughter were on Star Harbor,” Parks explained. “Visiting her parents.”

  Sympathy and remorse flooded her. Reyes cupped a hand over her mouth while Parks nodded slowly.

  “Doug, I’m so sorry,” She offered.

  The admiral turned away from them, facing the wall, leaning on it with one arm. He then threw his empty glass across the room, sending it to shatter into pieces against the wall. The silence that followed was heavy, and awkward.

  “My dear God,” Reyes breathed. “Dear God.”

  General parks took over the briefing for his friend, speaking

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  softly, “The Galactic Command Authority transmitted launch orders moments before the orbital attack began. Our defense batteries managed to get missiles into the air, as did Europe, and the Asiatic Alliance, but we don’t know what kind of damage we inflicted. The Storians detonated high-altitude EMP weapons, knocking out our Anderson comms and tracking capabilities, leaving us relying on UHF relays. After that came the low-level nuclear strikes.

  “High-yield warheads took out NORAD, and all of our silos in the northern states. We also lost the east and west coast naval stations, as well as some key cities for their national notoriety. Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Seattle, Chicago, New York, and the D.C. proper. We lost total communications at that point, so I can’t even guess as to how the rest of the world is doing.”

  Parks unfolded his hands, and played with his wedding band, “That’s where we sit at the moment. If Grozet follows his usual attack patterns, we can next expect fighter bombers to begin taking out our infrastructure, softening us up for his ground offensive.”

  The president gingerly folded and unfolded her face cloth on the table before her, temple throbbing with the on-set of a headache. She glanced over at the admiral, who had moved back to the wet bar, having regained so
me composure. He was working hard to get himself drunk on bourbon, and no one could rightly blame him.

  Reyes turned her attention on the sheepish man in the business suit, “And, who are you?”

  The fellow gulped, and tried to smile, “Tom McDanlee, Madam President. Vice Chief of Intelligence for the NSA.”

  “Well, Mister McDanlee, I think at this point, we can safely assume that your boss isn’t going to make it,” she told him. “That makes you my chief of intelligence. What do you have for me?”

  McDanlee took a breath, consulting his reports, “Um, so far,

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  the nuclear detonations are reading clean, meaning no radiation. The Storians prefer to utilize these Uranium-free warheads when preparing for ground action, that to avoid harming their own troops.”

  Reyes was nodding, “We’ve established that. I need new intel.”

  “It’s not good, I’m afraid,” McDanlee told her. “Our national counter-offensive capabilities have been completely neutralized. The space navy, as the admiral stated, is in no position for a meaningful retaliation, and the surface navy was deployed days ago to avoid the anticipated port strikes. That means our air power is isolated at sea.

  “Our nuclear arsenal is all the hard-type, meaning radioactive armaments. The remaining active warheads we possess are on our missile subs, but we don’t dare even consider using them. It would be planetary suicide.”

  Parks was nodding his agreement, “And, the U.S. Army was ordered to lay low during the initial strikes, to preserve their numbers for later use. We’ll have to wait and see how things develop before mobilizing them.”

  The president felt sick to her stomach, “Plus, our Global Marine Division is still on Attaya, waiting for action orders.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Reyes looked at the admiral again, “Doug, can you pour me one of those?”

  Green gave her a casual salute, and fumbled under the counter for another glass.

  “So, how long are we looking at before the Attayans and our marine division can receive those action orders?”

  Parks and Green looked at one another, both appearing

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  unhappy with the answer.

  “Six months, to a year,” the general replied. “Maybe longer.”

  Reyes gaped, “Why the hell so long? The Storians will be dug in by then!”

  The general smiled, but it was miserable, “We know. Yes, Grozet’s troops will have had time to fortify their ground defenses, but they will also begin to run low on men and munitions by then. The allied Army divisions will be harassing his troops, forcing them to expend resources during that time. The Attayan space navy will also have established another blockade at the Kuiper Limit, preventing Storian resupply convoys from getting through. The enemy will be at its most vulnerable, having to defend occupied territory.”

  Green brought the president her drink, carrying a fresh one for himself. She threw her head back, and took it down in one, long swallow that impressed all three of the men in the room with her. Grimacing afterward, she burped softly, and sat the glass down.

  “This is just grim,” she moaned.

  No one could dispute that.

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  Ten

  Shadows of Defeat

  Fort Dixon Marine Base, United Earth Military Reservation, Attaya Prime

  Two Weeks Later

  Little accurate news was making it back to Attaya, thanks to the loss of the lunar array. The GNN signals had to be routed through one relay after another, and oftentimes were so garbled by the time Attaya received them that only bits and pieces could be gleaned from a news report. As a result, the best source of information was ironically falling back on snail mail that was being delivered via cargo ships.

  By this time, Minerva had settled in to the daily routines of life in the battalions, which was surprisingly mundane. The general consensus among the rank and file had been an assumption that they would be sent promptly into action the moment word was out that the Storians had invaded Earth. To the confusion, and dismay of most, no such order had yet to come down. There was, in fact, no apparent intention at all to mobilize any time soon.

  This meant that every morning after chow, they would muster by companies for head-count and general inspection, followed by the reading of any news, and the plan of the day. Work assignments were handed out, and sick call opened. After about eight hours of laboring at any given point of the base with an hour lunch half way through, the troops were off duty until the next day unless assigned guard duty. Weekends were time off as well, though

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  no one was allowed off the base because of the alert.

  Pent-up frustration, and worry over families back home was taking its toll. Too much drink was leading to scuffles, and more bitching than usual. The NCO’s were getting fed up with it all, the junior officers were kept in the dark as much as anyone else, and the brass that did know anything wasn’t talking. It was a powder keg ready to blow.

  On this particular day, Minerva had been put in charge of the cleaning crew responsible for polishing up the barracks. She and Ecu were busy washing the insides of the windows while another set of kids wrestled the floor buffer. A few others were in the shower room, scrubbing toilets that were already spotless. Old swing music played from someone’s boom box, filling the squad bay with upbeat tunes that did little to alleviate the glum mood.

  Minerva glanced over toward the sergeant’s quarters on the far end of the bay, where her boyfriend busied himself with updating the company bulletin board. He happened to look her way, and gave a wink.

  “You’ve been wiping that same spot on the window for five minutes,” Ecu teased.

  Blushing, Minerva feigned innocence, spraying another pane to wipe down. She sighed.

  “It’s Thanksgiving day back home,” she said. “I wonder how my mom and dad are doing.”

  Ecu nodded sympathetically, “You say your folks live in the American mid-west, right? Arizona? Word is that the occupation forces are mostly hitting the northern states.”

  “Yeah, but it’s all rumor so far. No one really knows. Just like with Paris.”

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  Ecu made a face, “Nuked. Who would have thought?”

  “At least the Asiatic Alliance is kicking butt,” Minerva stated with conviction.

  Outside, the low, grey skies split with a peel of thunder, and opened up. Rain did not simply fall, it poured in sheets, straight down.

  “The monsoons have finally arrived,” Ecu observed.

  “That’s not all that’s arrived,” Minerva told her, looking toward the front hall entrance.

  In strode First Sergeant Ford, followed by none other than the battalion commander, Major Gold.

  “Ten-hut! Officers on-deck!” Minerva shouted, bringing everyone in the bay to attention.

  “As you were,” Ford ordered in his basso voice.

  The two strode smartly toward the office, taking no notice that they were stepping on a freshly polished deck. Ford went to the radio, and flipped the sound off before turning his attention to Sergeant Corbin, who had come back to attention to salute the major.

  Ford and Gold stood close to the sergeant, talking low so as not to be overheard. The major was doing most of the talking, and he unfolded a paper, handing it to Corbin. From where Minerva and Ecu stood, they could make out nothing that was said, but did have a direct view of the sergeant.

  “I wonder what they’re telling Mark,” Minerva whispered to Ecu.

  She watched as her boyfriend read the paper. His face went blank, and his shoulders slumped. The expression of shock was replaced by pure, wrenching anguish. He crumpled the paper in a

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  fist, and turned partly away from the major. Ford placed a consoling hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh, girl,” Ecu said softly. “This doesn’t look good at all.”

  Minerva felt her stomach knot. She wanted so badly to go over there, to take him in her a
rms. There would be no doing any such thing, though. Not only would it be inappropriate to interrupt, but unwise to be flaunting their relationship any more than they already were--- him being a sergeant and herself a corporal.

  Major Gold said something further, and Corbin shook his head no. The officer nodded, and took him gently by one bicep, leading him toward the door that would take them to the quarterdeck. First Sergeant Ford remained behind, staring out the window, hands in his pockets. His face was stone, as it most always was.

  “I have to know, Ecu,” Minerva whispered, daring to walk over to him.

  Ford knew she had stepped up beside him, but did nothing to acknowledge her presence. His jaws were clenching and unclenching. Eyes locked onto the downpour that turned the trees into wavering shadows.

  “Top,” she started to ask, using his slang title, but did not know how to proceed.

  Ford swallowed hard, still not looking at her, but at least was kind enough to answer the unasked question that hung between them. He knew about their budding romance, and chose to overlook it, so long as things remained professional.

  “I just had to tell Sergeant Corbin that his father and brother were killed in action,” he told her dully. “Killed defending Star Harbor. Their ship went down with all hands.”

  Minerva felt her legs go rubbery. She looked back at Ecu,

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  who had heard. The Attayan stood stiffly, hands over her mouth, fur all frizzed out with emotion.

  Ford did look down at her then, his eyes harboring a deep pain. He was a good company first sergeant, one that cared for his marines. Their pain was his own.

  “Your boyfriend is the last of his family line,” he told her. Knowing that she was hurting, too. “As the last living male to carry the family name, he was offered release from active duty.”

  Minerva held her composure, but the tears were welling up nonetheless. The thought of Mark leaving her so soon tore her up.

  “He’s going home, then?”

  Ford shook his head slowly, “No, Corporal. He refused discharge. The major is taking him to sign the waivers.”