The Mighty First, Episode 2 Read online

  Andy watched all of this with a thrill of excitement. His own neighborhood was now a firebase! As the morning went on, and things settled down, the soldiers began to take notice of him and elbowed one another, grinning, many of them saluting or coming by to yank playfully on his cap. He felt very accepted by them, much more so than by his own parents and neighbors.

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  By lunchtime, he was hungry, but his mom had not fixed anything to eat. She just sat at the dining table, dabbing at her red eyes and gazing outside. When he asked her for a sandwich, she seemed not to hear him. Andy wandered back out and decided to look around. A big, canvas tent had been erected at the far end of the block, near the gate, and there were a lot of those black-uniformed officers walking about. Andy approached them and saluted sharply, grinning as he did so.

  He received a few surprised glances, but they always returned the gesture. A man standing guard at the tent entrance would not let him go in, though, instead shushing him away the way that his mother sometimes did. Andy resigned himself to being a close-in observer as soldiers went about establishing their encampment. It was still a privilege, as no one else was allowed to walk so freely among them as he could!

  At length, Sergeant Ara’s patrol eventually came by and took their usual break near the gate. Andy joined them and asked about this new development.

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  “The war is getting closer, Little Scout,” Ara told him frankly, lighting his smoke. “See the skyline of Columbus there, way off on the horizon?”

  Andy squinted. There was a lot of haze and pollution clouding the distance, but he was able to make out a few tall buildings poking up out of it, very far away. He nodded.

  “The enemy is over there,” Ara said.

  Andy did not differentiate the fact that ‘the enemy’ was actually his own kind. By now, he had so idolized the Storians in their fascinating ways, and the kindness that he had been shown by them that they were the good guys to him.

  “So, if they try to get too close, these cannons will blow them up?” The boy surmised.

  Ara nodded, “That’s right, Private. When these things fire, it will be very loud. Don’t let it scare you.”

  Andy was not afraid. In fact, the very idea of it was appealing, “Will they let me shoot one?”

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  Ara cackled laughter, as did his patrol, and he clapped the boy on his shoulder, “You are a true warrior, Little Scout! Born to the wrong race of Human, but you make up for it!”

  Andy glowed. His stomach growled audibly, and Ara looked at him with a fatherly expression, “You are hungry. Go home and eat.”

  The boy shook his head, “Mom’s not feeling well. Her eyes hurt, I think. They’re all red from crying.”

  Ara’s face had a knowing look. He reached into his backpack and took out a field ration, tearing it open and sharing it. As the two of them sat there near the gate, eating real soldier food, Andy felt that he was with his true family.

  Xxxxx

  That evening, Sergeant Ara met up with his platoon leader, Staff Sergeant Devor, who was reclining on his folding cot in the company area of their garrison. Devor, his feet propped up on his field pack, was thumbing through a pocket bible that was standard-issue among the various pieces of equipment given to each soldier.

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  It was considered wise to be well-versed on the scriptures, as Grozet and the upper-echelon officers often quizzed their people at random. Having the correct replies at hand was preferable to being carted off for re-education. Whether or not one actually believed any of it was irrevalant.

  Ara plopped down on an empty cot next to Devor’s and leaned his rifle against the sandbag wall. He removed his helmet and rubbed at his chaffed head, raw where the leather straps hugged the skin.

  Devor glanced at him, then offered his bottle of Zinfandel that he had been sipping from. The sweet wine was very pleasing to them. Ara accepted it and helped himself to a generous swallow.

  “Did you hear about the latest GNN broadcast?” The staff sergeant asked, still holding his book open to the page he had been reading.

  Ara grinned, shaking his head, “A direct threat on Grozet! These Marines are a surly bunch. Bolder than I ever would have expected.”

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  Devor gave a low, guttural laugh, “They have more fight in them than the Denmoorians ever did, I’ll give them that. We‘ve awakened a sleeping giant, is what we have done.”

  The patrol sergeant began undoing his boots, pulling them off with a sigh of relief, wiggling his toes through holes in his socks. Their equipment was beginning to wear, and there was little hope of resupply arriving anytime soon--- thanks to the Attayan naval blockade at the asteroid belt. Ara regarded his friend’s bible with a nod of the head.

  “Catching up on your studies?”

  Devor gave him a look, a spark of interest in his eyes, and pulled another bible from beneath his pillow, “Look at this.”

  Ara took it and thumbed through the pages, “What am I looking for, exactly?”

  “See anything different?”

  The sergeant shrugged, “Not really. It’s a bible.”

  Devor sat up, facing him, voice held low, “That’s my point. This,” he said, tapping the book with a clawed finger, “is a bible written here, on Earth! It is nearly identical to our own!”

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  Ara shrugged again, handing it back, “I know of this. It has been spoken of many times among the men. I am no theologian, though. I am a soldier. It is not my place to ponder the reasons why, or the implications for, our holy book being found in other star systems.”

  Devor shook his head, “You don’t have to be a theologian to realize the profound meaning of these things being written in other regions of the galaxy. We are all children of the Creator, Ara! Speaking the same languages, worshipping the same God, with timetables and events all corresponding with one another! Did you know that Jerusalem is actually a city on this planet? It is located on an eastern continent from where we are now!”

  Ara leaned back against the sandbags and let out a breath, folding his hands on his chest, “Grozet has declared these other races of human impure. They must be cleansed out to preserve our holy heritage.”

  Devor again tapped his book, “Show me where in here that Christ decrees such a thing! Since the tower of Babel, we have been a scattered breed, but we are all brethren in His eyes!”

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  Ara gave him a serious look, “I would caution you against such rhetoric, and it could be considered blasphemous against Grozet.”

  “Are we not warned against idol worship? “ Devor asked him. “To have no other gods before Him? Yet, you fear Grozet more than you do the Creator.”

  Ara looked away, shaken. He had never dared question authority, let alone that of their supreme leader. It was unthinkable.

  “Let me ask you this, then,” Devor pressed. “Why fear or hate these Terrans? They are as human as we are, despite their physical appearance.”

  The sergeant remembered the little boy that he had taken a fondness of. The kid was so eager to please, so starved for attention. “I cannot say that I hate these humans,” he admitted. “I know very little of them to cast such a judgment. In fact, I would admit to admiring their resolve. They fight ferociously, more than any other army we have ever faced.”

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  Devor nodded, grinning, “Yet, you are so ready to take part in their extermination, for no other reason than it was ordered of you.”

  Ara’s anger was triggered, and he sat up, face to face with the staff sergeant, “This is our culture, damn you! We are warriors, and we conquer! This is our way! Whether I harbor any hate or not against these people is not relevant. Our leaders have dec
lared them the enemy, and as such, they must be destroyed! It is as simple as that!”

  Others in the barracks glanced over at the outburst, but just as quickly ignored it. An argument between two sergeants was none of their business.

  Devor’s gaze was sad, “You speak as a loyal Roman soldier, my friend, but remember that in Rome’s height of glory did it fall from corruption within. We have fallen from grace as well, my dear Ara, and I fear the judgment will be against us.”

  Ara lay back down, turning the other way. Thoughts spun in his head--- of the fashion that he had never entertained. So simple it was, to follow blindly and tell himself that it was alright,

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  because his actions were ordered of him. He had always felt free of blame for that, but now that Devor had forced him to question it, a tremendous wave of guilt was sloshing back and forth in his innards.

  After a long time, he rolled back over to face the staff sergeant, who was still sitting there, waiting. The bible remained open in his hands.

  “Even if we disagree with this genocide, what can we do?”

  Devor’s smile was peaceful, contented, “That is a path that we must each follow on our own. Pray. Ask for guidance.”

  “It’s just that Grozet has always inspired me as being such a powerful and just man,” Ara argued. He reached out and took the wine bottle for another drink, sitting to gulp it down. After a lengthy silence, he nodded at the book in his friend’s hands.

  “Which part are you reading?”

  Devor held it out and pointed. A shiver thrilled up Ara’s spine.

  -- ‘Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light’ – 2 Corinthians 11:14

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  New Bedford, Pennsylvania

  October 1st

  The town had swelled in population to never-seen-before proportions. The media had been joined by representatives from the Hollywood movie producers to scout the area. Tourists were pouring in by the droves to see the massive build-up of military forces there. Then, there were the armed services members arriving by the day. Between international associations, the Attayans, and the recruit detachments being shuttled in from Attayan training centers, the state was witnessing the largest military deployment in Earth’s history. The masses of troops and equipment spilled over into the countryside following the highway. It began to grow into such a surplus that the commanders became concerned that Grozet would attempt to take advantage of it all---being in such proximity to his airfields, that he might try to bomb it.

  Huge convoys of troops and their support equipment were sent out on different west-bound highways with orders to converge

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  on the Columbus Line, the intention being to disperse enough manpower up and down State Route 23 to effectively saturate the new eastern front.

  Meanwhile, the First Battalion was refitted with an abundance of trained, seasoned adult infantrymen. To maintain the popular public pride of the youth reputed to be the real heroes of the liberation effort, the teen-age recruit graduates were integrated among the adults, pairing them one-for-one. This doubled traditional formation numbers. A 40-man platoon was now 80. An 80-man company became one of 160. This created twice the number of mortar teams, 60-watt machine gunners, and of course, twice over the number of infantry.

  There was also a delightful increase in the armored support units available, virtually bringing a full tank division to play for each battalion. While air support remained limited, these increases in resources boosted troop morale over the top.

  This was not to say that these vast influxes of allies was not without its difficulties. There was a huge gap in the language barriers between international personnel. Command had to

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  scramble to find translators for each regional force, and despite their efforts, there was still quite a bit of miscommunication. The men and women of the lower ranks eventually ironed much of that confusion out for themselves, though, by simply using modified forms of sign language.

  There was also some jealousy among the other national troops, who did not have the benefits of the nano-armor that the Marine Corps did. The Attayan government had moved into mass-production of the suits to try to meet the demand, but it would take months to get them made and shipped to Earth for issue. To quell the protests, the volunteers were equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry, as many of them had arrived sporting conventional ballistic firearms.

  Command had its hands full trying to keep their new population occupied, as boredom could lead the troops into mischief. Their days were filled with practice maneuvers, physical training, drill, and the off-hours with scores of new films donated by the movie industry. Sheets had been sewn together to form a giant movie screen that could be hung from the goal posts

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  in the high school football field, which could accommodate hundreds of people at a time. Movie night became a revered schedule, with people cheering and tossing popcorn at one another.

  The wounded members of 1st Battalion had finally been released back to duty, and were glad to be back among their own; now tasked with becoming acquainted with their hordes of new members. They meshed well despite all of the differences, as everyone was enthusiastic about their shared cause. Sergeant Major Ford’s little speech into the GNN cameras had fired them up, and was the talk of the Allied System. Colonel Strasburg had laughed so hard and long that the man had passed out, getting himself two days in the infirmary because he had gashed his temple on the corner of a table when he pitched over.

  The general consensus was in agreement that Grozet was about to get his head soaked.

  Xxxxx

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  Nine

  Dissension

  Indianapolis, Indiana

  Storian Command and Control

  Little did anyone in the Allied arena realize that at that moment, Grozet was, quite literally, soaking his head.

  The man was naked in the hot tub of the resort’s leisure area, submerged beneath the hot, churning Jacuzzi water, relishing the sensation of silent isolation. He remained there for some time, allowing the turbulent jets to massage the tensions from his body. While this happened, he meditated, cleansing his mind. The lack of air seemed to heighten his perception, making his thoughts crisp.

  When he finally brought his head up above the water, exhaling and drawing in fresh oxygen to his large lungs, Grozet felt calmed and open to inspiration. He had been livid earlier,

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  enraged beyond previous plains by the revelation that his trap had not entirely erased the damned Mighty First. This fury had been multiplied ten-fold by the arrogant threat issued by that over-muscled freak of nature on the television.

  Grozet had immediately ordered the arrest of the field marshal responsible for that operation. That kind of ineptitude had to be dealt with promptly and decisively, this to keep it clear among the other sub-commanders that failure to carry out their orders would simply not be tolerated.

  Now, he contemplated his future options. His ground forces had done well over-all, luring the Allied armies nearer to his main concentration of firepower that was available to him on this side of the western line dividing him from the bulk of his Second Army. The losses that had been inflicted upon him would be acceptable in the long run, once he pounced and put a decisive end to this new offensive coming from the east.

  The Dayton stronghold was ready to engage, waiting for these cursed ‘Marines’ to draw close enough. He was forced to admit that there was an incredible enemy troop strength building at

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  the Columbus line, but numbers did not necessarily equate to an assured victory. He was confident in success.

  Grozet sighed and closed his eyes, savoring the wo
nderfully humid night. The air was thick and warm, with a slight breeze rustling the decorative vegetation that grew around the fringes of the pool area. It served to comfort him.

  Movement near the pool gate aroused his attention and he opened one eye, lazily taking in the surroundings. It was one of his guards, balancing a stack of towels in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, trying futilely to reach the latch.

  “Just set the bottle down and open it,” Grozet growled.

  The guard sheepishly did so, careful to retrieve the bottle before the gate swung shut against the spring. He approached with a shuffling step and placed the things on a nearby table, then just stood there, looking unsure of himself. Grozet regarded him with wonder. The man was obviously shaken, and seemed to be struggling with something in his mind.

  “What do you want, a tip?” Grozet demanded sarcastically.

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  The guard started to say something, then decided against it, turning to leave. The man took a few steps and paused, reaching into his uniform shirt. He turned back around, raising a pistol, intent on putting a round through Grozet’s skull.

  Grozet was already there, though, miraculously before him, his eyes blazing into him accompanied by a sneer. The guard then realized that there was a combat knife buried in his chest, having not even felt it as the blade slid smoothly between his ribs. His breath left him, and a funny buzzing filled his head as the world clouded over. He did not feel his body sliding downward, or the kick that Grozet gave him as the knife was pulled free. Death came quickly and painlessly.