The Mighty First, Episode 2 Page 13
The eastern portion of Akron had taken heavy damage in the previous day’s battle, and there were unfortunately untold
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numbers of civilians that were walking wounded in the battered streets. The medical corpsmen did their best to treat who they were able, but the convoy dared not stop. It was moving slowly enough as it was, having to maneuver around collapsed buildings and damaged vehicles.
Watching the pitiful faces of the harried and filthy refugees tore at Minerva’s heart, especially so when the smaller children filed past. They were so gaunt and bewildered. She wanted nothing more than to scoop them up in her arms, and assure them that all would be well. The people were smiling and cheering, waving to the troops, bringing them flowers, hugs, and kisses. While the infantry assured them as best they could, gunners perched atop the armored vehicles watched wearily for any enemy sappers hidden in the growing crowds.
At one junction, near the edge of a residential area, a Storian fast-mover managed to slip through the air defenses and strafe the convoy. The event was terrifying. Gatling rounds fired at a thousand per second. The sound of it alone was heart-stopping, especially when in the path of those blazing trails of
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plasma. Troopers and civilians alike dove for cover as the grinding roar pounded across several of their vehicles, piercing the armored plating and inflicting serious casualties. The ground appeared to erupt before the path of the barrage, throwing dirt and pulverized asphalt into the air. Where Marines failed to dodge quickly enough, that geyser was tinged with red. Screams of agony filled the general frequency, and the medical corpsmen scrambled to reach the fallen.
The jet succeeded in making only one pass, however, before the Attayan pilots were on it. There was a brief dog-fight over the city, in which the Storian craft quickly met its demise, and rained down in flaming debris. Medevacs were called in for the new batch of wounded, and the convoy reluctantly halted, finding itself stalled in the middle of what was once a fairly decent neighborhood. Mature trees lie at shattered angles across residential streets, and once regal homes sat burned out or vandalized. Quite a few of the lawns and driveways were littered with bodies. Not all of them had been victims of the battle. Swinging from the limb of one rather large elm was an elderly man
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and woman, still holding hands. They had hung themselves either out of desperation or fear. Without saying a word, Sergeant Major Ford broke from formation and climbed high enough to cut the rope, while another pair of his troopers held the bodies to keep them from falling to the ground. The couple was lain gently next to one another beneath the tree, their hands placed back together for their eternal embrace. Ford gazed down at them for a moment, then resumed his place in the column, expression strangely flat. No one dared speak to him.
It was nearing the noon hour, and the troops had been on the move since dawn. Hannock keyed the command freq and requested a meal break, to which Strasburg readily agreed. People sought out shade and sat for lunch.
While the kids ate, Ford and Hannock met up with the colonels for another briefing.
“The Hundred and First has already liberated Canton,” Strasburg was saying, hands on his hips while he surveyed the long line of men and vehicles idling in the street. “I-Seventy-Seven South was left untouched while Route Thirty West had its
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on-ramps demo’d, which is a sure sign of which direction the Storians went. We’ve got ‘em on the run, at least for now.”
“This delay will likely put our portion of the opposition well ahead of us,” Hannock stated.
“Plenty of time for them to set booby traps,” Ford told them. “It would be wise to not move too quickly once we get back on the Interstate.”
The colonel was studying his visor tactical, “We’ll follow I-Seventy-Six west until it splits, then continue south on I-Seventy-One. That’ll drop us down on the north approach of Columbus, our next major objective. That’s a good fifty-plus miles we need to cover and have only two days to do it.”
Colonel Lafferty had his helmet off, his furry ears twitching in the afternoon heat, which was heavy with humidity. Enormous thunderheads were building over the western horizon, towering and white, layered in pancake-like levels as they reached for the upper atmosphere.
“It will be storming by this evening,” He observed, his Irish-like accent stronger than most. “I would suggest stopping our
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advance at the western limit of this city and bivouac for the night in whatever buildings we can defend. We won’t have the luxury of air cover in that kind of weather.”
The others turned to see what he was looking at and understood his meaning. Strasburg nodded, “That’s best, I think,” he conceded. “We’ll give the Regiment a half-hour to rest, then get this train on the move again. The more time we have to establish our defenses, the better off we’ll be.”
Ford and Hannock excused themselves to return to their area and grab a quick bite. The captain eagerly dug in to his packaged meal, chewing and smacking loudly. For a little guy, he could eat. The field rations were designed to fit in a flat package that carried easily in a battle harness. While the portions did not seem large, the concentrated food was so rich in calories and flavor, that often an average person was satisfied with only half. Hannock gobbled the entire thing with zest in only a few minutes, seeming to truly enjoy it.
Ford watched this with some amusement, nibbling at his own a little at a time. He found the rations a bit too rich for his
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taste, preferring the dessert portions instead. Chocolate was another vice of his, second only to Attayan-rolled cigars.
Right on the half-hour, Strasburg ordered the column back into motion. With the normal grumbling that accompanies any marching army, they roused from their break and finished their trek through the residential area, veering west on a major artery that skirted the ruined sections of West 76. There was no enemy activity at all in their journey through what was by then an industrial area. They passed huge warehouses and pipe works, a steel mill, all kinds of places to offer shelter to both friend and foe. Railroad spurs had rows of rolling stock sitting idle. Crows cawed at one another, and flitted from one power pole to another, following the troops. The quiet was just as nerve-racking as being under fire, constantly expecting trouble to break out.
By 4:00 pm, the clouds to the west were flattened into anvils with blackened bases, back-dropped by a solid expanse of positively sickening greenish rain bands. Lighting flashed from cloud to ground in thick, pulsing bolts. While it was still too far away to hear the thunder, the change in the breeze was perceptible.
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The air began moving toward it as the storm pulled it in, and the humid quality of the afternoon seemed to grow heavier despite the slight breeze.
Strasburg decided it was time to make camp while they could. The tanks and armored vehicles were parked in warehouses on both sides of the road, while the troops spread out among a group of office buildings near the loading docks. Guards were posted at appropriate stations, where every approach could be scrutinized, and watch schedules set. Within less than an hour’s time, the regiment had effectively disappeared from sight.
Each company was housed in a different building, and this time Mark and Minerva were unable to see one another. They connected briefly on a private net to exchange sweet nuances, then settled in for the evening with their attention among their own company members.
Mark and Ford found their way to the rooftop of the office wing in which A-Company was housed, and stood smoking while watching the storm front move in. The clouds were spilling
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overhead now, looming and massive. The air had become compl
etely still again, the heat of the day hanging heavy and thick around them. Breathing was nearly an effort, and it smelled strongly of the roof’s tar mixed with the ruddy aroma of approaching rain. The last of the late-afternoon sunlight coming from behind was blotted out by the spreading curtain of grey, and the sky became completely alien. Thunder rumbled low and menacingly, nearly constant against the backdrop of red and white flashes within the clouds.
The first vestiges of wind began to puff, this time from the direction of the storm, instantly cooling the temperature by ten degrees. The air seemed to become charged and began to smell of ozone. Above them, a squall line rolled over like a wave over the beach. Behind it, the greenish wall neared, unstoppable.
A searing surge of lightning flashed less than a mile away, illuminating the sky with an unworldly glow, and thunder peeled. Laughing giddily like school kids, Mark and Ford dashed for the access door and stood just inside, watching the rain begin to fall in huge droplets. It started slowly at first, but quickly became a
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deluge. The temperature continued to drop and the wind picked up, forcing them to close the door and return downstairs.
People were watching through the windows down there, commenting on the increasingly frequent slashes of lightning and pounding thunder. The rain began to mix with hail, which beat loudly against the building and coated the parking lot white as the icy stones bounced about.
“The Storians were likely caught out in that,” Ford mentioned.
Mark nodded, puffing his cigar while making himself comfortable in a desk chair of one of the side offices, “And they don’t have armor like we do. They’re getting drenched.”
Ford took a seat behind the other desk and rummaged through his ration pack until he found a coffee tablet. He took out his canteen and set the programmer to heat the water, after which he poured some into the canteen cup. Opening the package, he dropped the tablet in, stirred it with a finger, and enjoyed a cup of hot, black coffee.
The inside of the building was getting dark between the
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storm and the coming of night. Mark got up to close the blinds of the small office in which they sat, then took out his field flashlight and flicked it on, setting it on the desktop.
“Do you think we’ll see much more action any time soon?” He asked.
Ford leaned back in his chair, his helmet and rifle lying on the desk before him, and sipped at his coffee in between puffs from his cigar, “ Probably not until we reach Columbus. Definitely not tonight. It’ll be a good chance for us all to get some sound sleep.”
Mark stretched and yawned, “I hear that, Partner. I’m beat after that march today.”
There was a soft rap at the door frame, and they looked over to see one of the GNN reporters standing there, a sheepish expression on his face. Word had gotten around their little circle of journalists about the scrap between Ecu and the cameraman the day before, and they were acting a bit more wary.
“Can I come in?” The guy asked, his camera down and turned off.
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Ford motioned for him to enter and offered an empty seat in the corner. The man complied, flashing a smile at Mark, which was not returned. The master sergeant regarded him with a scornful look, hands clasped behind his head as he rested. He made a point of deliberately shifting his rifle from its place against the wall to the top of the desk, within easy reach.
Lightning wavered outside and thunder crashed. The walls and floor vibrated with it, accompanied by the driving rain and hail.
“I’m Mac,” The reporter said. “I was embedded with your company this morning, to replace one of my colleagues that was killed while filming the action yesterday.”
Mark said nothing. Ford rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, “Well, I guess I should say welcome aboard,” he offered, but it was noncommittal.
Mac shifted in his chair, uncomfortable under the scrutiny, “Look, I know that some of my colleagues have been less than receptive to what you guys are going through, and I would like to apologize on their behalf.”
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The sergeants exchanged a look that was difficult to read. Ford sipped at his coffee and listened. Mark tapped his own ashes on the floor.
“I want you to know that we’re not all bad,” Mac ventured forth. “I, for one, have great respect for you guys. I’m out here to film the truth, not to sensationalize your deaths. The Allied system loves you. You’re heroes, all of you.”
Ford looked over at Mark, “What do you think?”
The master sergeant pursed his lips, considering what had been said, then, “Alright. Do your thing. Understand this--- you step over the line once, I’ll put a plasma round through the back of your head. You’ll never see it coming.”
Mac nodded, holding his hands up in a gesture of supplication, “Absolutely. You’ll have no trouble from me, I swear.”
Mark sighed and got up, swinging his rifle over one shoulder by its strap, “I need to take a dump.”
After he walked out and down the hall, using the glow from other troopers’ lanterns that had been spaced along the way to see,
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Ford regarded Mac with curiosity, “What possesses you to be out here like this? You’re just as likely to get killed as we are. Some of you from my own troopers.”
Mac patted his camera, “To show the truth, like I said. Grozet brought all of this sorrow on so many people, all because of his twisted religious views. I want the Free Zone to remember what’s going on behind the lines, to know what these kids are doing for them. Not to mention what awaits the other worlds in the Trade Alliance if Grozet is successful in defeating the Earth resistance”
Ford considered that, then finished his coffee, “It sounds like you’re one of the good ones, if you’re not spinning me bull. Okay, like Master Sergeant Corbin told you, do your thing. Keep it real. If you do screw up, I’ll look the other way while he blows the back of your head off.”
Xxxxx
In the warehouse offices where C-Company had settled, the troopers happened to find an old-model television stashed among a pile of boxes stored in one of the secretarial cubicles.
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They pulled it out and inspected it, astounded that something so old would still be intact. One of them suggested plugging it in so that they could watch the vids.
“That’s just a dumb idea,” Ashley voiced.
The bigger kids looked at her, frowning.
“What makes you so smart?” A private wanted to know sarcastically.
Standing nearby, Amell was listening to this exchange, holding a hand casually over her mouth to hide the grin.
Ashley shined her flashlight in the private’s face, “Hello! No electricity!”
The kids realized their over-sight and burst into laughter, mostly because it had taken one of the youngest among them to figure it out. Amell and Minerva decided to leave them to make rounds, making sure the watch-standers were staying on their toes. The storm outside was a wild one, and there were several areas of the building where water was cascading through holes in the ceiling.
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In the course of their walk, Minerva had an idea, “Let’s see
if this joint has a basement or a boiler room.”
After a few minutes, they did locate a stairwell leading down under the building, where more old junk was stashed. In a corner, near a row of electric hot water heaters, was where Minerva spotted what she had been looking for.
“Well, I’ll be hung sideways!” Amell exclaimed.
“Tell the kids to lug that T.V. down here,” The master sergeant told her.
There in the corner stood a diesel-plasma generator, still with a half-tank of fuel.
Xxxxx
>
Ironically, it turned out that little Timothy, the fourteen-year-old, was the only one among the company who could figure out how to get the whole thing working. Minerva did not want any lights coming on upstairs or outside, and had the idea that they would need to go from room to room, flipping off switches.
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Timothy shook his head at that and respectfully pointed out that all they needed to do was open the breaker boxes and flip the proper breakers off.
He isolated all but the basement power to the outlets, and gave her the thumbs-up. Minerva stood over the generator, trying to figure out how to start the darned thing. Her pappy had one in their basement back home, but it was a pull-start type. This one had no yank-handle that she could see. The private wandered over and gave it a brief inspection, then pressed a priming button near its base. A panel at the top lit with indicators, and she realized that this was a newer model with a plasma starter. The tiny screen in the center of the panel scrolled out charging…, then, ready. Another indicator lit, press here to start.
With that, the generator hummed to life, chugging softly. A bulb in the basement ceiling began to glow and the TV came on, its screen filled with static. The kids cheered and whooped, clapping Timothy on the back for his ingenuity.
Amell played with the channels and settings until a fuzzy, but watchable picture came through. It was GNN, playing the
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daily drama. They watched themselves battle through the outskirts of Akron while the desk anchor described everything in detail, with dramatic shots of the aerial fight, and the medevac shuttles landing for the wounded. There was a bit about the field cameraman who was shot down while filming the carnage, and a mention of the local police and their heroics.
A close-up of Ecu comforting the dying Marine who had been hit in the neck silenced the kids, who turned to look at her. The sergeant, one hand on her cheek, said nothing as she left the basement, suddenly needing to be alone.