The Battle of Broken Moon

by Michael E. Gonzales

  Ahead, I could see whatever had flashed, and it was moving. It took me over half-an-hour to reach him, but there sat Walker. With both hands he was holding the suit behind his right knee. As I hobbled toward him, he pointed at his COMde and waved no. At first, I thought he meant his coms were down, then it dawned on me he didn't want to broadcast his plight over the net for fear he would be disqualified. The same reason I did not mention my ankle.

  I knelt down beside him and flattened out an area of dirt with my gloved hand and then with a fingertip I wrote a message. "Damaged suit?"

  He nodded in the affirmative. Obviously, he, too, had fallen and torn his suit behind his right knee.

  "Are you injured?" I wrote.

  He shook his head no and mouthed, "O two." He was low on air and could not remove his hands to effect repairs as too much air would escape his suit.

  I removed his emergency repair kit and prepared to fix his suit. "Roll over," I wrote in the dirt; he did and I went to work. Fifteen minutes later, I was done, and Walker was good to go.

  Walker sat up and wrote in the dirt, "Thanx." I nodded. Then he wrote, "U hurt?"

  "Ankle."

  "Broke?"

  "No."

  "Can U walk?"

  "Yes. Hurts!"

  "How's your air + power?"

  "15% remaining. U?"

  "12. There are over 6 Km to go," Walker wrote.

  "I know. Suggestion: together we have 27%."

  He looked at me a moment then nodded. He stood and aided me to my feet. From his equipment belt, he removed the power cable that allowed us to join our power cells. Then, I rearranged our O2 hoses to combine our air supplies. Walker then supported my left side by looping his right arm under my left and we continued on.

  We were now seriously behind schedule—so much so that base decided to check on us. "Alpha Charlie elements one eight, and one niner, this is Bravo six. Status, over."

  "Bravo six, I am Oscar Mike, over." Walker just reported he was "On the Move."

  "Roger, Alpha Charlie one eight."

  "Bravo six," I said, "this is one niner, I am also Oscar Mike."

  "Roger, one niner. Are you two within visual range of one another?"

  "Ah, that's affirmative Bravo six," I responded, glancing at Walker.

  "One eight, what's your condition? We are getting some unconventional reading from both your suits, over."

  "Bravo six, suits are operating commensurate to current conditions, over."

  There came a rather long pause then, "Roger. Charlie Mike, out." We had just been given authority to ‘Continue Mission.”

  Walker looked down at me and grinned.

  ○O○

  Together, we crossed the finish line with about eight minutes of air and power left between us.

  We were ushered into a temporary cubicle with air conditioning, water, hot food, and a couple of medics to check us over. Susan, the first to finish, was standing there as our helmets were removed.

  "You two were the last in," she said.

  "It wasn't a race," Walker said, looking up at her from where he sat.

  Standing behind Susan was a major who turned around when he heard those words. "You're wrong, Sergeant Walker. This was a race against death. I can't tell you that, had this happened on the Moon, neither of you would have lived. But I can tell you that team work such as you two displayed out there is imperative to survival. Good work."

  I looked at Walker and said, "Seems we make a good team."

  He checked to see who was within ear shot, then, almost under his breath, he grunted.

  ○O○

  Fortunately, there was nothing but classroom work on the training schedule for the next few weeks; nothing that my ankle would hinder me from participating in. My recovery and physical therapy proceeded faster than I had hoped. By the time the class was ready to move to Arizona and the driving school, I would be back at one hundred percent.

  In the week following the survival trek, Walker seemed to warm up to me a little more each day. He began to allow me to assist him with our studies, and even grunted at one of my jokes.

  Then one evening, there came a landmark event. Susan, Barney, Dolph and I had just sat down to dinner with our trays of food when Walker came up to the table. He looked down at Barney who was sitting next to me to my left. Barney looked up. There was a momentary pause before Barney stood and moved to the other side of the table. Then, Walker sat down.

  "Hey, Walker," I said, "let me introduce you to the guys. This is Susan from the Navy, this is Dolph with the German Air Force, and this is—"

  "Staff Sergeant Barney Goldman," Walker said, "yeah, we've met."

  "Well, ain't it a small Air Force?" I asked, catching Barney's eye.

  "Nice of you to join the rest of society," Susan commented.

  "I'm just sitting down for dinner is all," Walker replied slowly.

  "Bitte…I mean, please," Dolph said, "let us not make the Sergeant Walker to feel unwelcome his first joining with us."

  "Sergeant Walker," Susan said—it was still apparent that she'd not made her mind up about him—"why does a man like you want to go to the Moon?"

  "What do you mean, 'a man like me'?" he inquired, looking up from his plate.

  "Solitary, remote, removed, the antisocial type. JILL is a big base by lunar standards, but rather crowded by human standards."

  "I'm a soldier. I go where I'm ordered."

  "That won't wash, Sergeant. We're all volunteers. We were asked—not ordered."

  "Hey," I jumped in, "what's with the third degree? Let's just eat, okay?" For my money, dinner could not have ended soon enough.

  ○O○

  As the door to our room closed, I turned to Walker and said, "Listen I'm sorry about that."

  "Not your fault," he sat on the foot of his bunk.

  "No, but—"

  "It's my fault. Ever since…well, the little blonde was right; I am solitary, remote, removed, and the antisocial type. I feel like people look at me different, so I don't like being around 'em. I was told that, as a medical orderly on JILL, I would seldom have to deal with people, just a few homesick soldiers. And no war casualties. I was told I'd have no interface with the civvies at all, they have their own docs. Sounded like a perfect place to—"

  "Hide?" I asked.

  He shot me a stern glance, but his face quickly relaxed and he said, "Yeah."

  "Pete, lots of men have been captured, it—"

  "Hell, it ain't being captured, it's what—" He became very subdued and looked down at a spot on the floor, "It's what they did to me."

  Walker clasped his hands together and looked at his thumbs as he slowly told me about how he was captured. All the while, I could hear in his voice that he was fighting his emotions.

  "We were in a bombed out basement in Makassar where the company command post had been set up. The fighting was intense and hand grenade close. I was treating several wounded, all critical. Every troop who could, regardless of their wounds, was standing to post and fighting for all they were worth. These dog faces weren't going down without a fight, but they weren't going to hold that basement either, and the CO knew it. The captain squatted down next to me; he had to shout over the gunfire, 'We gotta go, Doc!' he hollered.

  "I asked him to help me with the wounded; I told him I wasn't going to leave them.

  "That captain just looked at me. 'Doc, we gotta go, now!' he shouted in my face.

  "I pleaded with him to help me get the wounded out, but that bastard just looked at me; I'll never forget that expression on his face. He ran over to the far wall and ordered everybody out.

  "As the other soldiers in that basement ran for it, the captain stood right there and looked me in the eye. When the last soldier left, he paused only half-a-second…then, he ran like a scalded-ass ape. He abandoned the wounded and me, and just left us there.

  "I was still treating my patients when the enemy jumped into the basement. One of them quickly butt stroked me on t
he helmet—which, though the helmet saved my life, the blow nevertheless rang my chimes but good. Lying there on the floor, I was disoriented and dazed. Several of them grabbed me and forced me onto my knees. As they tied my hands I was forced to watch as the wounded were bayoneted, one after another. I'll always blame that company commander."

  Walker went on to tell me of his brief captivity. He told me all manner of horrors. They beat the bottoms of his feet with split bamboo poles until the bones were exposed. They drove needles under his fingernails. They tied him up, put some kind of bugs in his ears that crawled deep inside; their bite was painful and caused intense itching.

  "They sliced pieces of meat off my thighs, cooked it, and ate it right in front of me. But, worst of all, they—" he glanced away, "they raped me. Repeatedly," he paused several seconds to compose himself.

  "Before dawn on the third day," he continued, "I got loose. I escaped. I managed to kill several of those bastards, but they all died much too quickly. If I'd have had more time—" His voice trailed off.

  We sat alone in our billet, Walker and I, silent for a very long time.

  At last, I spoke. "Why don't you tell the others—"

  "Hell, no! You think I want everybody—" He looked away again and took a deep breath. "I ain't told nobody that whole story, just you. Not that it was any of your business, but after you saved my butt back there, I figured you should know why I'm—"

  I figured that was his excuse to himself. So be it.

  "Okay, Walker, but let me tell you a little secret, every uniformed individual out there is a veteran of Oceania. It's part of why we're here. They have all been through the shit. The guys at my table would all like to be your friend. You don't have to explain a damn thing to them, you just have to be friendly back at 'em."

  "I don't have friends." He spat the words out, still looking at the floor.

  "Wrong! You have one."

  ○O○

  I was sitting in the day room reading an e-magazine and drinking a coffee a couple of days later, we were all enjoying some rare down time. Susan and Dolph were playing quantum chess in the corner and a few other people were watching the TV globe. The news was on—it was always on. I looked up as Walker entered the room. He nodded in my direction, and I nodded back. I was about to finish an article on the resurgence of the sperm whale when I heard the talking head reporting war news.

  "The question tonight is whether or not the war is being spread outside the confines of Oceania. The Pentagon has revealed that last week a mysterious space shuttle requested emergency landing authorization to set down on the world's largest aircraft carrier the Huán hǎi lóngténg, or Sea Dragon, while the great Chinese Goliath was cruising in the South Pacific just north of Easter Island.

  "It is reported that an armed group of masked soldiers stormed out of the shuttle and killed several Chinese sailors before returning to their craft and escaping beyond the bounds of Earth.

  "The South East Pacific Defense League says they have no idea who might be responsible for the raid. Earlier today, Mr. Noor bin Suleiman, a spokesperson for the SEPDL commented, 'This outrageous attack on the Chinese vessel is unprecedented and condemned by the SEPDL. The manner of the attack is well beyond the capabilities of the freedom fighters in Oceania, thus are we investigating the possibility that this act of war was perpetrated by other belligerents with access to this kind of technology.'"

  "He means us," Walker had been standing behind me absentmindedly stirring a cup of coffee.

  "Of course he does," I said.

  "Smells like the grinning green guys to me."

  "Yeah, the Sword and Stars."

  "I wonder what they stole," Walker took a sip of his coffee.

  "You can bet they didn't land on that carrier just to kill a handful of Chinese sailors."

  A guy sitting in front of me turned around in his seat and said, "They might have if they and the SEPDL want to start some shit between us and the Chinese."

  A female Marine sitting to this guy's right turned and said, "I thought the South East Pacific Defense League's mission was to prevent the spread of the war and work toward a peaceful settlement?"

  Walker looked down at her. "You're new to the military, ain't ya?"

  ○O○

  The flight to Luke Air Force Base outside Flagstaff, Arizona was uneventful. From Luke, we were shuttled south to a small camp in the desert outside Cottonwood. It was here, back in the 1960s and '70s, that early lunar training took place and a small lunar landscape replica was constructed. Today, that same area was vastly larger and more true to the lunar surface than those early astronauts could have imagined. Here, we would learn all the intricacies of driving the Moon buggy and the LPC, the Lunar Personnel Carrier.

  Here, too, there were replicas of JILL's domes where we'd learn to enter and depart the garages, to work on the domes, and about airlocks both normal and emergency. There was a lot more to learn, but we were all looking forward to driving the odd-looking lunar transports.

  Of course, we started in the classroom with a course in the practice and safe operation of the vehicles. Again, emphasis was put on the fact that the vehicles would perform differently on the Moon than here in Earth's gravity—a lot of emphasis.

  We underwent maintenance training, again, and practiced conducting the vehicle’s before, during, and post operations inspections and maintenance, again. Then we advanced to the simulators; we spent hours and hours in the simulators.

  And paramount over all other training was the emphasis on safety.

  At long last, the day we'd all looked forward to arrived. However, we had, by this time, been dissuaded from any notion of off road or dune buggy-type driving. Again, it was safety, safety, and more safety, pounded into our poor little heads.

  The track we had to negotiate first would expose us to several different types of lunar terrain, rocks and boulders, hills, dust, and deep dust, rills, craters, valleys, and canyons. There would be inclines; little ones, steep ones, and whoa momma. We would drive this course until we were proficient in driving it. After which, we were told, it would get interesting.

  We were standing at the driving course all dressed in our Ess-CEPS, but with our visors open, awaiting our turns at the wheel. I was confident I'd do well because of my performance in the simulator.

  "Worried?" Susan asked.

  "Naw, piece a cake," I said smiling.

  "Piece a cake? I hope you didn't just jinx yourself."

  Perhaps I had. My first trip out was less than spectacular. I got stuck in the rocks, bottomed out on the top of the first hill, got so badly stuck in the dust I was told to skip the deep dust altogether. I almost flipped the vehicle while descending into the crater, almost broke an axle in the first valley, and then slid backward down the baby incline; it was embarrassing, to say the very least.

  The others assigned to the same vehicle as me, what we in the military call a 'stick', did all right. Walker was good, Dolph was good, Barney was okay, but it was Susan who shook us up. She drove the course like a pro.

  Most all the other candidates at the driving school did fine. I was the example found under the heading, "Don't let this happen to you!"

  Lucky me, and a few others, got sent back to the simulators.

  To add to my discomfort, all this driving had to be performed while wearing an Ess-CEPS—even in the simulator. This meant climbing in and out of the damn thing all the time.

  That afternoon, after my failure on the course and having to climb out of the dammed Ess-CEPS again caused my frustration indicator to peg out, and I threw a boot across the cubicle and cursed a blue streak. Unfortunately, Susan was close by and witnessed my childish display.

  "Hey, there, my fellow Selenite," she said, "what's the matter?"

  "Oh, hey, sorry about that."

  "Matt, I'm in the Navy, remember?"

  I sat down on the bench and jerked my other boot off. "It's just that I'm better than what I did out there today. I don't understand it."


  She sat looking at me a moment then smiled and said, "You've been in the military all your adult life, haven't you?"

  "Now, what makes you say that?"

  "'Cause I knows 'em when I sees 'em. Tell me I'm wrong."

  "No, you're not wrong. How did you know?"

  "Tell me about yourself?" she asked in response.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Just start talking."

  "Well, I was born at a very early age."

  "Very funny. Groucho Marx, right?"

  I smiled at her. "Alright, then," I said, becoming quite serious. "I lost both my parents when I was a kid and was sent to stay with my uncle. His wife didn't care for me, so I was shipped off to a military school. I found I liked it. I liked the well-ordered life. I enjoyed everything; the orienteering, rock climbing, marching, and marksmanship. It was a life of adventure. So right out of college, I joined up.

  "Did it scare you when the war started?"

  "I'd never given the possibility of war a second thought. At first, I was worried, but then it became just another adventure. And I found I was good at that, too."

  "So going to the Moon, is that just another adventure for you?"

  "Well, hell yeah! Besides, before this I had asked to be assigned to a unit returning to Oceania—"

  "You must be crazy!" she interrupted.

  "I just wanted to be away from all those uncles back in the world."

  "Uncles?"

  "All those civilians who don't know and don't care—"

  "Like your uncle?"

  "So, what's your story?" I asked.

  "I joined the Navy looking for a husband."

  "Right."

  "Well, hey, look at me," she stood, put her arms out and turned around several times. "I'm told I'm pretty, and I have this killer bod, I figured I could snag at least an admiral."