by Unknown
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In the Pacific, during the early days of the invasion, the Storians quickly established dominance over the coastal regions, setting down command and control operations in Manila. The gigantic communications array hung silent over the city, its glassy, blue surface oddly beautiful in the way that the sunlight cast colors through its prism. A perpetual rainbow blanketed the islands below during the day, and they enjoyed its otherworldly bluish glow at night.
Storian air power held the allied surface navies at bay, preventing any sort of organized counter-attack. The only real resistance came from guerrilla units familiar with the jungles. Their terrorist attacks kept Grozet’s ground forces in a constant state of aggravation.
Periodic Anderson-type-beam transmissions lanced out from the diamond, calling for reinforcements, but the Attayan space navies had already formed an effective blockade of the Kuiper asteroid belt, preventing resupply convoys from reaching Earth. The Storian commanders were realizing the folly of such a far deployment. A protracted occupation was going to prove extremely difficult, especially considering the substantial resilience of the Humans native to Earth. Their military strength was proving to be far greater than what intelligence had anticipated. In quiet circles, the field marshals and admirals were whispering among one another that just perhaps Grozet had bitten off more than he might be able to chew.
In the European Theater, the assault was waning on all fronts. Russian, Italian, British, and Scottish alliances had rallied a ground operation that was driving Storian armies into retreat. The general responsible for that region was already redeploying troops to the North American Theater, where greater success in holding captured territory was being seen.
The United States had been effectively cleaved in half, from
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west to east. The northern states were being held firmly. The Rocky Mountain Range provided a strong western flank, leaving only three fronts to hold against what was a much weaker defensive force. A century of Earth paying attention only to scientific research had led to a reduction in military assets and training, resulting in convoluted, and disorganized counter-offensives. The Americans were drawing support from their neighbors, Canada, and Mexico, but so far, the movements had succeeded only in holding what was essentially temporary lines.
Another push was being planned from the C&C center in Indianapolis, where Grozet himself was holed up. The delay was due only to the Kuiper blockade, which hopefully would not last much longer. The Attayans possessed a much stronger military, and their alliance with the Terrans might prove costly, but Grozet’s confidence was high.
He was unaware of the Global Marine Corps, stationed safely away on Attaya Prime, waiting eagerly for their orders to mobilize. For reasons known only to the Galactic Command Authority, the current plan was to wait.
Wait they must.
Indianapolis, Indiana
Storian Command and Control
The once bustling metropolis, filled with citizens, and fairly centered in his region of tightest control, was proving to be an excellent location for Grozet to oversee operations. Himself, and his senior staff enjoyed the protection of a population that the Allies
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dared not bomb.
His area of greatest influence spanned from the Rockies all the way east to the Ohio border, and as far south almost to Arkansas. He possessed complete air superiority within this geography, while his ground forces held the lines static for the most part. The wavering of control over the European and Asiatic territories was a thorn in his side, but even that would be remedied once his resupply convoys managed to break through the Attayan blockade at the Kuiper belt.
Once bolstered, Grozet had the highest confidence that he would be able to push further south, and claim total control over not only North America, but take back the Pacific, and northern Europe as well.
Then, he would be in a better position to begin eradicating this planet of the fair-skinned abominations that dared called themselves human. It would pave the way for repopulating the Creator’s universe with the pure blood of the one, true race. The flag of Storia would fly over all of creation.
Grozet himself was what many of his kind considered ruggedly handsome, with a suave manner, and powerful command of speech that touched the Storian soul. His words had incited the current thirst for dominance, the driving national pride that made his declaration of dictatorship possible.
His heavily scaled skin cast a sheen that females found irresistible. He prided himself on his self-taught education, and rapid rise through both political, and military ranks. Now, as he flexed the military might of his growing empire, Grozet savored a new sensation coursing through his veins: the thrill of ultimate power. He currently stood on the pedestal of Storian civilization, and would soon control entire galaxies. His name would be written in the annals of history.
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Presently, Grozet stood on the terrace of his apartment near the center of mid-town, overlooking the streets some fifteen stories below. The chill wind of winter refusing to surrender to spring whistled through the forest of concrete and steel, numbing his flesh. He welcomed the unfamiliar bite of the cold, something that was present only near the poles of his steamy home world.
His grey dress uniform was spotless, perfectly formed to his body, and adorned with the insignia of countless victories. His eyes watched the foot and motor traffic below. A smirk creased his placid face. These Terrans were so easy to dominate. Overwhelm them with fear, stun them with brutality, and then reward them with small conveniences and random acts of mercy. After only a short time, they began to depend on him. The populace thirsted for some sense of normalcy.
For submitting, he permitted them to go about their mundane lives within the city, working, shopping; doing whatever their ignorant wants dictated---so long as they bowed to him. Random searches, martial law, he owned them. At his whims, entire groups of them were rounded up for work projects, and labored to death. His secret police took some away in the wee hours of the night for any infraction, real or imagined.
His troops were stationed at every corner, watching. Listening. Permits were required to pass from one neighborhood to another. Armored vehicles roamed in constant vigilance, enforcing order and curfew.
Those Terrans that possessed valuable skills, such as doctors, engineers, and the like were granted some freedoms and privileges that the general populace lacked, coaxing them to cooperate in serving the Storian cause. At any rate, those who refused were summarily executed in public. Oh, during the onset of his occupation, there had been widespread fear and resentment, but in time resignation had set in. There was little trouble in controlling
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them, now, other than the underground resistance. That distasteful fact seemed to reside on every nation and world that he had ever invaded, the stubborn few that refused to bend. The guerrilla warfare that always harassed him from the fringes.
A sharp knock from the front door drew his attention, and he went back inside, closing the patio door against the frigid wind. His skin tingled with the warmth of the apartment, the crackle from the fireplace snapping. The sensation was rare back home, where it was perpetually warm and humid. He rather liked it, finding the tingle invigorating.
“Enter!” He barked, taking a seat behind the large executive desk that he had positioned facing the center of the room, with the backdrop of the city behind him through the floor to ceiling windows.
His personal guard opened the door, admitting the officer that Grozet had summoned for this meeting. This was Over-Marshall Garrow, the one and only commander that he trusted to run his field operations. The Over-Marshall approached the desk, and saluted smartly.
Grozet signaled for his guard to leave them, and returned the salute, “Make yourself comfortable, Garrow.”
Garrow unbuttoned his uniform jacket, and hung it over the back of the chair opposite the desk, moving to the fireplace to warm his hands.
“I curse this
arctic hellhole,” he growled irritably. “Only the furthest fallen from the Creator would call such a place home.”
Grozet chuckled, stepping to a make-shift bar well stocked with Terran wine. There was nothing like it on Storia, and it was most pleasing. He poured a goblet full for himself, and his lead officer.
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“I understand the lines have finally stabilized.”
Garrow nodded, “Withdrawing from Europe to concentrate our efforts here was a wise decision, my lord. We were too thinly spread. It will be far easier to hold this territory until reinforcements arrive.”
Grozet offered the goblet, sipping his own, savoring the tartness, “The damned Attayans still hold the naval blockade at the Kuiper Limit. Admiral Arham is playing hell attempting to break back through again.”
Garrow looked smug, “Well, I can say with confidence that pushing further south should be achievable, my lord. Especially along the Missouri portion of that front. Perhaps even before reinforcements arrive.”
The emperor regarded him from over the rim of his goblet, sitting back at his desk, “And, why is that, Over-Marshall?”
Garrow gulped down his drink, licking his lips. He disciplined himself on how much indulgence he would allow with that stuff. There were too many officers becoming addicted to the drink. It could adversely affect performance if one was not careful.
“The Terran army seems content to merely hold the southern lines,” he reported. “They have yet to attempt a push to regain ground, which tells me that they do not have the capability to do so. If we launch a focused offensive, they likely will not be able to hold us back.”
Grozet smiled, but it was stern, and he pointed at Garrow with the hand holding his wine, swirling it, “My dear Garrow. Do not permit these Terrans to lull you into a false sense of security. The fact that these Americans have not attempted a counter-offensive does not mean that they are inept.”
He finished his wine, and regarded a large tactical map
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pinned to the wall above the fireplace, “I suspect that they are, in fact, biding their time. They’re up to something, Over Marshall.”
Grozet set the goblet down, and steepled his fingers, eyes narrowing to slits.
“Yes, they are up to something….”
Fort Dixon, Attaya
In the year and a half that had passed, there had been some changes in Minerva’s life.
First Sergeant Ford had recommended her for promotion, and pushed it through. She was now a buck sergeant, with a platoon of her own under her wing. The previous leader of 2nd Platoon had received a rocker, and as a new staff sergeant, offered transfer to Drill Instructor school. She was proud of her chevrons, and took the responsibility that came with them rather seriously.
Minerva went to great pains to learn the nuances of what each part of her platoon needed to be proficient at. How teams and squads operated, the proper methods of dispersing them in what situations, and finding out each individual’s strengths and weaknesses.
Other NCO’s followed her example, and took it upon themselves to practice maneuvers in their free time. They all knew that at some point, they would be going into action. They were also painfully aware that not one of them possessed any experience under fire, and had only vague ideas of what to expect. That knowledge cast a shadow of self-doubt on many of the marines, but none voiced it. Instead, the nervousness was masked under the usual false
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bravado, but at night, when the lights were dimmed, there was more than one teary eye. The kids missed home, and those from Earth had not seen or heard from their families since the onset of the war.
Another change in Minerva’s life, a delightful one, was the progression of her relationship with Sergeant Corbin. Both being the same rank, there was no longer the need to be hiding all of the time. During off hours, they could hold hands, hug, or kiss to their heart’s content. They had grown much closer, getting to know one another better, and leaning on each other for emotional support. With the exception of the war, she was very happy with where she was in her life at the moment.
It was just after working hours that eventful Friday that would be forever burned in her memory. Such a mixture of joy, anticipation, and fear all rolled into one. The squads were filtering in from their work assignments, some sweatier and dirtier than others, depending on where they had been.
Minerva and Ecu had both spent the day at the motor pool, cataloguing engine parts and solid rubber tires of varying sizes, getting them ready to be shipped. That was one of the subtle clues that deployment was not far around the corner. Load upon load of supplies were being trucked daily to Dixon Airfield, where they were then flown up to the fleet positioned in orbit. Not only vehicle parts, but food, medical supplies, and most of all, munitions. Galaxy C-130 shuttles had begun making round trips nearly around the clock all week long.
Both girls were smudged with rubber, and ready to peel off their fatigues for a hot shower. Minerva was anxious to get cleaned up, and into some civvies, because being Friday, she and Mark would be able to go out for a nice dinner, maybe catch a movie at the USO, and then rent a room at the base motel. She imagined her parents would have a conniption if they knew she was sharing a room with a guy, but nothing untoward had happened, nor would she
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allow it to. Nothing beyond smooching. She was determined to retain her dignity that way, and luckily, Mark had never pressed the matter, respecting her wishes. He even went as far as to sleep on the couch, allowing her to have the bed to herself. Those small acts of restraint made her love him even more.
The girls were heading for the showers among a smattering of others when Mark suddenly appeared, emerging from the lounge with an odd expression on his face. Four others flanked him, and all were wearing their full dress uniforms.
“Stop right there!” Mark said sharply, catching the attention of everyone in the bay. Motion pretty much ground to a halt as heads turned to see what was going on.
Wearing only undergarments, and carrying towels, Minerva and Ecu paused, looking at the spectacle with wonder.
The four guys behind Mark suddenly broke out into song, belting out a romantic tune that was running popular at the moment, and actually keeping the rhythm close to specs. All the while, Mark made gestures with his arms, holding a completely serious face as he did so.
Blushing, Minerva had to restrain her giggles, but was delighted beyond words at the act. Her boyfriend was proving himself to be spontaneous, and managed to keep surprising her with odd little gestures. Ecu clapped her hands, laughing. Others in the squad bay began chiming in with the song, making Minerva so embarrassed that she wanted to crawl under a bunk and hide.
The song ended, and that was when Mark dropped to a knee, and produced the ring.
Total, shocked silence fell over the barracks.
Minerva, at that moment, could see or hear nothing beyond what Mark held out to her. Her own heart pounded in her ears.
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“Mark, oh my God…” she breathed.
“Will you marry me?” He asked her. The smile was gone, replaced by a look that was so open, so vulnerable. He was bearing his heart for her, in front of everyone.
Her hands shaking, Minerva reached down and took his into her own, pulling him to his feet. His eyes, so deep and green, shone behind the hopeful smile. She touched his cheek, and lost herself in them. Flattered, thrilled, shocked. Her emotions were running the gambit, but above all, she knew the answer.
Drawing him in, Minerva kissed him softly, and with all the passion she could muster. Whoops and catcalls sounded around them.
When the kiss broke, she smiled, loving those eyes.
“Yes.”
The cheers resounded, echoing all the way down the quarterdeck hall.
“Don’t tell me I’ve missed the party!”
The noise fell away under First Sergeant Ford’s exclamation. Heads turned the other way, watching him as he strode in, boots
loud on the deck. It was not his appearance that caught everyone’s attention, as he lived right there with them in the barracks, in his NCO’s quarters. Nor was it the look on his face, or the cigar stub jutting from one corner of his mouth, because they were accustomed to his stern continence.
It was the fact that he was wearing his armor, carrying the combat harness over one shoulder, while lugging his rifle with the free hand. His helmet visor was up to accommodate his stogie, cold, grey eyes flitting over his company.
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The sea of marines parted for him as he walked toward the center of the crowd, where Minerva was still holding Mark’s hands in her own. Ford stopped before them, mildly curious.
“They’re engaged, Top!” Ecu squealed excitedly.
Ford saw the engagement ring on Minerva’s finger when she held up her hand to show him, and gave a curt nod.
“Congratulations,” he said, sounding like he actually meant it. The first sergeant then turned slightly, addressing everyone in the room.
“Gear up, Alpha Company! Mobilization orders just came down!”
There was a second where no one moved, so surprised that those words were finally being spoken, that it was difficult to believe.
“Last one on the beach buys the beer, assholes! I said gear up!”
That spurned them into action, rushing to begin getting suited-up, showered or not. Ford returned his attention to the sergeants.
“I’m happy for you both,” he told them. “This isn’t going to be a problem, is it? I can’t have you two preoccupied when we deploy.”
Both shook their heads no.
“First on the beach, Top.” Mark said, reciting the company slogan.
“Oooh-Rah.” Ford replied, moving on toward his quarters.
Mark planted another kiss on Minerva’s mouth before leaving to get his own gear.
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Minerva’s small room was next to Ford’s, and she glanced in the open door as she passed. Ford was seated on the edge of his rack, carefully filling a sandwich bag with coffee grounds. He looked up at her, and grinned.