The Mighty First, Episode 2 Page 18
Manny felt anesthetized. His mind was glue, and his body heavy as lead. He was sitting with his legs sprawled out before him, leaning against the wall of the upstairs office where the remains of his company had taken refuge. His rifle lay across his legs, useless. He had expended all of his ammunition, six 500-round plasma clips, and all ten of his rifle grenades.
His armor had sustained more damage. There was a neat hole in the upper right side of his breastplate, singed around the edges. An AR-44 round had punched through, penetrating his lung. Luckily, plasma was hot, so he was certain that the wound had cauterized, but it still hurt like hell. It was hard to breath, and the nano-armor had administered the pain-killers, so he felt all the more foggy.
Ecu lay to his right, propped up under a broken window, minus part of one leg. Her armor was battered, too. She had her helmet off, and the golden fur of her face was stained brown with dried blood, her mane tattered and blood-soaked as well. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing evenly, in an exhausted sleep.
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The other five troopers with them were dead on the floor, having sacrificed themselves in defending one another. The only other survivor was an Airborne sergeant by the name of Jamal, a jovial black kid who had single-handedly killed seven Storian soldiers when they breached the barricaded door. Afterward, he had tended to the Marines’ wounds as best he could, then told jokes to pass the time while they waited to die.
They were certain that eventually more Storians would find them, but time passed--- hours, actually, and no one came. Then, as the night went on, the noise of the pitched battle outside waned until all was silent. They waited, resting, bleeding, and too worn out to move for the time being. Eventually, they dozed off and on, but the pain and the sensation of drowning kept Manny from falling too deeply into sleep.
He closed his visor and looked at the tactical, it was almost 0300. The gunny looked over at Jamal, who was examining a pair of wounds on his hip, where rifle rounds had punched into him. The flesh was swollen around the punctures, and seeping blood from the centers. The Storians that tried to storm the door
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lie in heaps in the outer hall and part-way inside the door, which had been blown nearly off of its hinges by their last remaining grenade.
“Think we should limp out of here now?” Manny asked, surprised at how hollow and strained his voice sounded. He could taste blood in his mouth.
Jamal nodded and offered a grin, “Think they’ll give us medals?”
Manny tried to laugh, but it hurt too much, “I’ll settle for some beer.”
Ecu had roused at the sound of their conversation and regarded them with eyes that were glazed with fatigue and pain-meds, “What are you two ding-dongs up to?”
The gunnery sergeant consulted his tactical, “Command has activated a homing beacon. It’s only two blocks east from here.”
They began the agonizing process of getting to their feet and hobbling down the stairs and around the bodies, heading back to friendly faces.
Xxxxx
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Amell had finally come around, dizzy and disoriented. She pulled her helmet off, rolled over, and vomited. The swimming sensation subsided a little and her head cleared enough to think--- and to realize that she sported an award-winning headache. She groaned and felt the back the back of her head, wincing at the sensitive swelling there. Her glove came away with blood on it.
Ashley was curled up in the corner, fast asleep, dark circles around her eyes. The young girl looked pitiful. Her helmet and weapon were cast aside, down by her feet. Amell became aware of the looming silence and sat up, reaching for the countertop, using it for balance as she stood.
The shop was a shambles, the streets outside empty. A huey hovered past, illuminating the darkness with its spotlight, scanning the terrain. The sergeant knelt and picked up her helmet, easing it on over her wound, thinking correctly that she probably had a concussion. The tactical told her where to find the beacon.
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Amell went to Ashley and gently woke her, smiling, “Come on, Little One, time to go.”
Ashley sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and absently gave Amell a hug, still half-asleep, “Love you, Mom,” she mumbled.
The Attayan choked back tears, straightening the child’s hair, wiping grime from her cheeks. “Time to go,” she repeated.
Ashley absently reached for her helmet and rifle, still not fully awake, and got to her feet. They stepped gingerly around the bodies of the civilians, and walked out of the ruined shop together.
Xxxxx
Sergeant Major Ford bolted awake, jumping to his feet only to lose his balance and fall down again. He opened his visor and looked around, not remembering where he was. Nausea washed over him and he dry-heaved. His balance wavered, and on hands and knees, he waited for the world to stop swimming.
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When his senses finally seemed to come back together, he opened his eyes and tried to look about again. It was a darkened alley that smelled of rotting refuse--- mostly bananas. He couldn’t find his weapon. He asked himself what the hell had happened.
There was a small, armored form lying against the opposite wall, and he remembered Timothy. Ford crawled over to him and gave a gentle shake. Nothing. He lifted the visor to see the boy’s face. He was just asleep, Ford told himself. He pulled off a glove and felt the kid’s cheeks; they were cold. Ford eased the kid’s helmet off with the greatest of care, bracing the back of his head with one big hand. It felt too giving, wanting to loll to either side. His neck had been broken.
Ford checked for a pulse anyway. He was just a kid. A poor orphaned boy who had volunteered when grown men would not.
“Timmy,” Ford whispered into his ear. “Wake up.”
The little boy was long-dead, his face peaceful.
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Sergeant Major Ford picked him up and held him in his arms, rocking back and forth on his knees, humming softly, as if putting the boy to sleep. The tears that fell came as silently as the quiet of the night around them.
Xxxxx
Inside the remains of the Dunkin’ Donuts, the shop area was littered with over-turned furniture and the collapsed ceiling. One wall had been blown into the neighboring store. There were dead marines strewn everywhere. From the street, squads from 3rd Battalion were roaming from store to store, shining flashlights into their dim interiors.
“Good Lord,” The trooper exclaimed, seeing the twisted bodies. “We have a few to record, here,” He told his mates. The five of them made their way in around the debris, logging the names and ranks into an electronic clipboard. The boys from the Graves unit would come to retrieve them later.
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Something shifted underneath one of the piles of rubble, and they turned to look. An armored arm reached up from the pile.
“We got a live one!” One of them called out, keying the net and requesting a medical Corpsman.
They pulled at the stuff and tossed it aside, revealing the trooper lying beneath it, still clutching a rifle.
“What’s the name, so I can record it?” Someone asked.
The Marine wiped away some drywall dust from the breastplate, “Corbin. Master Sergeant Corbin, First Battalion,” He read out, looking at the unit markings and insignia. Mark began digging himself out from the pile of ceiling panels and sheetrock, allowing his brothers to help him up. Another noise caught their attention, and they spun around. Ford was walking in from out back, carrying Timothy’s body in his arms, his stern face set in stone.
Xxxxx
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Corporal Jovannah Brion and the three surviving members of her fire team limped out from the blown-out remains of a small grocery. The trio was battered, filthy,
and bloodied--- moving in slow, painful steps. They leaned on one another for support. She ached with guilt. During the course of the running fight, her downed cadre had gotten left behind. There was no telling where they might be. She had no idea where they themselves were right then, only blindly following the recall beacon that her tactical was displaying on the visor.
There were others emerging from the shadows and shattered storefronts, looking like zombies in their hunched shuffling. The kids had taken a terrible beating. Some sat listlessly, staring at nothing. Others babbled incoherently. One marine carried his own severed arm, his rifle gone.
She took some solace in knowing that she and her surviving troopers were still able to fight if need be, but inwardly, Jovannah was grateful that the need to fight was over.
Xxxxx
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Back by the line of tanks, Minerva was pacing to and fro, wringing her hands in desperation. The sky was beginning to glow with the coming dawn, and there was still no response from anyone that was closest to her. The net was busy with voice traffic, but her own platoon and company frequencies were strangely quiet. Few people were answering out there. Her friends were not replying at all. Worst, she could not raise her husband. The suspense was eating at her. Medevac shuttles came and went in an endless parade, flying out the wounded. Gunships circled overhead relentlessly, providing cover.
Captain Hannock had insisted that she remain there to babysit the media crew, but she suspected that his true intentions had been different. He did not want to risk having her to go out there and find her husband lying dead, is what it was. Not knowing was worse for her, though.
The GNN reporter, Lisa McClain, remained sympathetically at her side. The two of them paced and fretted around the line of tanks that formed the dividing line between the rear area and the ruins of downtown.
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Neither woman spoke much, but they shared the same apprehension. Minerva was grateful for her presence, nonetheless. The day seemed to be surreal, moving around them with an agonizing slowness. Marines filtered in throughout the morning either solo or in small groups, looking utterly demoralized. No one seemed to know anything beyond the individual terrors that each person had endured.
As it was, it would be many days before she or anyone else would be able to sort it all out.
Xxxxx
August 20th
GNN Prime-Time newscast as seen throughout the Allied star systems
Lisa McClain stood on the high school football field in New Bedford, Pennsylvania, holding her microphone and looking into the camera.
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She was still the pretty woman that she had always been, but her face and eyes were harried. This was the look of someone who had made it through hell and back, but only barely.
“This is Lisa McClain, reporting from the Pennsylvania military garrison, converted from the local high school. The U.S. Armed Forces has turned this gymnasium, among many others in the region, into a trauma and surgical facility in order to accommodate the massive influx of casualties after the most recent engagement against Storian ground forces.
“A little over a week ago, I accompanied the Eighty-Third Marine Regiment into the city of Columbus, Ohio, and witnessed what was to be the bloodiest battle to date in this war. Storian Specialized Units ambushed the Allied advance and stopped it in its tracks within the eastern limits of the city. Amid sustained fighting, our beloved Mighty First Marine Battalion was essentially decimated. Of three main combat companies, there were only thirteen survivors in all. This entire operation appears to have been a deliberate trap intended specifically for the Mighty First. It seems that Dictator Grozet has a particular hatred of
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these children, which makes one wonder, what kind of deranged mind are the Allies really up against?”
Lisa licked her lips, trying to remain in control of her emotions, “Perhaps among the most painful losses, we have listed here a fourteen year old boy, a Private Timothy Starr, who as an orphan volunteered….” Her voice broke, and she struggled. “He is survived by his sixteen year old sister, Ashley, who….” She sobbed, her body jerking with the intensity of her emotion, and waved the camera away.
The picture returned to the newsroom, where the desk anchor was watching grim-faced. He cleared his throat and took a moment to collect himself.
“Our field reporter is understandably upset,” The oldish man stated. “In all, the First Battalion suffered three hundred killed in action, and eighty-seven wounded. Regiment totals are as follows, seven hundred-seventeen dead, two hundred-eleven wounded. The One Hundred First Airborne Division reported losses in the forty percentile range.
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“The strangest part of it all, was that after seven hours of fighting, the Storians vanished, leaving Columbus for the Allies to reclaim. This is where the new eastern front resides, in a north -south line just west of the city. In so far, we appear to be winning this war against Grozet, but our costs were extremely high on this phase of the campaign.
This is Walter Cohen, GNN News.”
Xxxxx
In homes across the Free Zone of the United States, in Europe and the other districts of the globe, and those of the planet Attaya, there was a shared quiet. People stared blankly at their TV screens or their Anderson radio receivers, then at one another. It was a solemn moment, one of retrospect and sadness. Later, government facilities would fly their flags at half-staff in tribute to the fallen. The children of the Mighty First, those brave Marines that had sacrificed so much, were no longer there for the sun to shine upon.
Hope began to wane.
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Seven
Gathering of Forces
Indianapolis, Indiana
Storian Command and Control
Grozet stood tall and proud before the crowd gathered in the streets, a figurehead on the stage flanked by his senior officers and the flags of the Storian Empire. His staff was clad in full-dress regalia, the scores of soldiers standing in the ranks brandishing parade weapons and clean field gear. There were thousands of civilians looking on as the ceremony was carried out.
Grozet held out his arm toward the sky, his voice booming in the microphone, carried by giant speakers that resounded for blocks.
“Today, we stand victorious under the light of our Creator’s sun!” He announced.
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“The Storian Empire is a blessed one, favored by the One who has breathed life into the superior race! It shall be written in the annals of history, of how I have initiated the cleansing of our universe, and have been granted the divine power to thwart those who dare to stand in my way!”
Cheering erupted. The media cameras that had been permitted to attend were flanked by soldiers, and deliberately did not pan far enough to show the rifles being trained on the crowd of citizens, encouraging them to clap and whistle and force a smile.
“The Allied advance into our territory has been stopped in its tracks,” Grozet continued. “It will soon be crushed under the might of Storian resolve! This evil force that America and Attaya tried to throw against me, this Mighty First, an army of children, exists no longer! Long live the Storian Empire! Long live the holiness that is I!”
Again, cheers echoed through the city, followed by chants of Grozet’s name. Afterward, the public executions of accused dissidents and criminals took place for all to witness. Among the rows of thin, hollow-eyed men were the elderly who were too old
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to work, and young children who had been caught stealing food.
The cameras were not permitted to film that portion of the festival.
Xxxxx
SECURE PRESIDENTIAL BUNKER
President Reyes was sitting at her de
sk in the replica of the Oval Office that served to show a government that was still in power when public announcements were made. That evening, the cameras were off, the room quiet, dimly lit by the single desk lamp that cast a muted glow over her workspace. She held her head in her hands, leaning on the desktop as she read and re-read the report that had been delivered to her in regard to the latest development in the campaign.
Her heart ached, as did her very soul. This endeavor had taken a horrible turn, and showed no sign of getting better. They had thrown everything in their arsenal at the Storians, and were fooled into believing that success was on the horizon.
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That desperation and foolhardy confidence had cost the lives of countless dedicated youth, believing that they could drive back an army of such superior skill with surprise and determination alone.
“Now what?” She voiced to the empty room. A shiver scurried up her spine. She suddenly felt very cold.
An entire infantry battalion had been erased in a single battle, the result of a deviously planned Storian trap that had been walked right in to. Waiting in the wings was yet another group of teen-age recruit graduates from Attaya, these younger still as the pool of candidates dwindled. More children to sacrifice. She wondered how long this kind of blind faith could carry them; how long the Global Congress would take to initiate the damned draft board. The wheels were turning so slowly!
Reyes was beyond tears. She had cried herself out long before, and was left with only an empty shell incapable of any more emotion. She closed the folder and lifted her head, her gaze drifting to the movie poster tacked to the wall near her desk. The faces of those teens stared back at her, seeming to accuse and