The Mighty First, Episode 5, For The Brokenhearted: The Mighty First series, #5

Mark Bordner

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The Mighty First, Episode 5, For the Broken Hearted

Copyright © 2017 by Mark Bordner, all rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or other-wise without prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction.  Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental with the exception of fan guest roles provided with permission from the casting call winners.

The Mighty First series, though written in the context of an alien invasion, and subsequent war for liberation, contains no explicit gore, cursing, or sexual content. 

Published in the United States of America

ISBN-13: 978-1544253459

ISBN-10: 1544253451

1 Young Adult Fiction/Science Fiction/General

2 Fiction/War & Military

Contents

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Repercussions

For The Broken Hearted

Seeds of Doubt

For the Greater Good

Common Sounds of War

Beginning to an End

Retrograde

Equilibrium

Home

Of What May Come

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The Mighty First

One

Repercussions

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Super carrier USS New Tonip, CVN 57, Battle Group 1

Attayan 7th Space Fleet

They had come out of Anderson Drive a hair too early, that due to the Navigation Controlman’s slight plotting error.  The carrier emerged first, and immediately, the Attayan admiral realized their mistake. 

Instead of arriving along the orbital path of the furthest seventh moon of Denmoore——marking the area known as the ‘Straits’ because of the gravitational turbulence caused by the lunar proximity, the New Tonip instead came out a full click further out.

The idea was to appear behind the Storian blockade in order to hit them from the rear along planetside.  Unfortunately, that was not going to happen now.  The moment that the tracking computers adjusted to their new surroundings as they came out of Anderson, alerts began screeching from the monitors.

Unlike their Terran counterparts, the Attayan naval design had the CIC as an integral part of the bridge, which fortunately made response times much faster.

Hostile contacts dead ahead! The tracking officer shouted, Two Storian battleships, bearing zero-zero-two, range two thousand!  Weapons are coming to bear!

Admiral Tammy responded instantly, Forward batteries, open fire!  Launch the Alert Five!

The turbo-cannons mounted along the nose of the carrier came alive, sending streams of high-energy plasma out at the enemy ships.  On the flight deck, yellow shirts franticly signaled for the fast-movers to make an emergency take-off.  In quick succession, the catapults thrust jet fighters off of the launch track after which they began closing on the battleships-—riding just above the ordinance streams.

The Storians began to return fire.  The incoming blasts plowed into the portside hull, just left of the nose.  Luckily, they were not able to penetrate the carrier’s thick armor, but the concussions rocked those within near the impact area.

One of the Attayan fast-attack cruisers emerged from Anderson, and that ship’s captain hurried to maneuver his vessel in between the pair of Storians.  The second Storian battleship shifted its attention, directing its fire at the newcomer.  At such close quarters, the enemy damage inflicted was greater.  The Attayan vessel shuddered horribly under the barrage, but managed to fight back, circling the slower battleship.  Blazer fire flashed out at it, ripping the Storian’s outer cannon mounts free of the hull in great pools of flaming debris.

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By then, the jet fighters reached them, sending rockets streaking into the enemy battleship’s upper decks.  With the fast-attack cruiser and the three fast-movers engaging the one battleship, the second Storian was able to concentrate on the New Tonip.  It accelerated forward, continuing to pound them with 20-inch plasma shells.  As it neared, their effects became more terrible.

The carrier banked, this to protect its flight deck for as long as possible.  Its thick shielding was designed to withstand just that type of punishment.  From the flight deck, Senior Chief Ed Leon watched in horror with his shipmates at the barrage that was shaking the ship.  The Storian drew ever closer.

Eight bright flashes erupted from the battleship’s upper hull, and a group of miniature suns began streaking toward them.  Leon swallowed hard, muttering a curse.  Seeing what was coming just made it all the worse.

On the bridge, the helmsman called out, "Missiles inbound, closing fast!"

They could only watch as the Sea Whizz systems came alive on their own.  The defensive batteries tracked the weapons faster than any human could, releasing wicked streams of plasma at a thousand rounds per second.  The roar of the guns could be heard through the bulkheads.

The first seven missiles were chewed to bits, but the eighth made it through the river of fire, slamming into them amidships—-just below the forward elevator.  The warhead burst through the plating before detonating, its explosion ripping apart the aviation maintenance workshops and a section of the V-4 fueling supply lines.  Inner blast doors slammed closed, isolating the breach, which forced the remainder of the explosive energy to suck outward through the very hole that the missile had created.  A brief gout of flame erupted from it, followed by what atmosphere there was within the sealed space.  Sparkles of strata followed the ship.

Alarms howled, followed by the over-monitoring computer’s announcements.

Hull breach, forward starboard side!  Frames eleven through fourteen compromised!  Damage control parties respond from locker two!

There was a moment where everyone held their breath, wondering, hoping.

Fire, fire, fire! Fire detected in frames ten, and fifteen.  Fire crews respond from lockers one and nine!

That was what they had been dreading.  Subsequent fires had been set off by the heat generated with the impact, further compounded by spilled aviation fuel from the severed JP-8 lines.  The admiral and the executive officer consulted the ship’s schematic, which was flashing red in the areas concerned.

The forward aviation fuels pump room has an uncontrolled fire, Admiral Tammy stated, shut it down, and seal it off.  We’ll fall back on the aft pump room.

The XO moved to call out the order.

Outside, another Attayan fast-attack cruiser emerged from Anderson and joined the fight.  This one pummeled the closing Storian battleship, nearly ramming it as they made a high speed pass over the top of it.  This gave the New Tonip a moment of breathing room that it dearly needed.

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Launch the reserve fighters, Tammy ordered.

On the flight deck, Leon hurried his crew to signal the next wave of jets from their spots and launch.  Crouched on their knees, the yellow shirts saluted as each jet roared past and out through the atmospheric shield that wrapped around the deck.

With the Storian battleships now fully involved with defending themselves against their attackers, the rest of the battle group maneuvered toward the first moon.  Just beyond it, three more Storian vessels appeared—-these being missile cruisers, far more dangerous adversaries for a carrier at close range.

All air wings, clear the carriers! Admiral Tammy commanded.

The secondary carrier, nearly a hundred space/nautical miles to their left, launched every fighter craft they had on board.  On the New Tonip, the combat helo-shuttles were brought up from the hangar bays and sent out as well.  With the Blackhawks, Apachies, and Huey gunships joining the fray, space became crowded with combatants of all sizes—-all swarming around the Storian ships.

The darkness of space flashed and undulated with blazer fire, rockets, and explosions.  It was madness. 

The fight for control of Denmoore space was on.

Goliath Battle Group, United Earth 1st Space Fleet

USS Belleau Wood

Maron had just returned from supper, stepping onto the bridge to relieve the duty officer, when the calls began coming in from the Attayan strike force.

The New Tonip battle group is fully engaged in the Denmoore outer lunar lanes, the communications tech announced.

Maron took his place on the command dais, How long before we emerge from Anderson?

The helmsman looked up at him, Three more minutes, Sir.

Commander John Magill was already at the plotting table, We’ll come out just above Denmoore itself, too far to offer them any aid in less than an hour’s transit time at sub-light.

Maron joined him, wishing he’d brought some coffee from the mess hall, "Helping them isn’t our mission.  They’re supposed to be keeping the Storians busy anyway, so that we can get into launch position.  The Goliath will be providing us with cover as well."

Magill looked out onto the bridge deck with a pensive expression, and said in a low voice so that only the two of them could hear, "Do you think it’s wise to leave her as the OOD when we go into action?"

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Maron looked up from the plotting table, You mean Lieutenant Amell? Why not?  She’s got to cut her teeth sometime.

The commander did not seem convinced, "It’s just that she’s a Marine, Alan.  Things could get really hairy in the next few minutes."

Maron fixed him with a meaningful look, John, she’s a commissioned naval officer now, and I expect you to remember that.

Magill nodded reproachfully.

Coming out of Anderson, Captain, the helmsman announced.

Maron, as did everyone, braced themselves.

The tunnel-like effect abruptly shifted, and the large, blue sphere of Denmoore appeared before them, a vast expanse of shimmering beauty with one major landmass situated just above the equator.

A shrill tone sounded from the tracking station, drawing the crew’s attention.  The operator called out with alarm.

"Heavy contact astern, and above! Storian carrier at the planetary apogee!"

Maron studied the display, Does it appear that they’ve spotted us?

The operator paused, judging it by the readings on the screen, If they haven’t, they surely will when the other ships in our group begin emerging.  So far, though, there’s no shift in their heading, nor have they launched any aircraft.

Maron grabbed the com-receiver, and dialed a number.

The line buzzed only once before it was picked up on the other end, Missile room.

"This is the captain. Load and fire tubes one through five, right now!"

Aye, Sir.

After a pause of perhaps three seconds, the rumble of the forward shafts could be heard, and five bright streaks lanced out from the Belleau Wood’s nose.  They blazed a group of glowing trails as they arced out around the curve of the planet, racing toward their target.

Missiles are acquiring... Amell called out as she leaned over the tracking station, reading the data streaming in, acquiring...they’ve locked, and are homing.

The operator was busy as well, watching the readouts on her own screen, The carrier is maneuvering, making hard turns to port!

Phalanx fire could be seen lashing out from the Storian carrier, even at their distance, and the missiles began exploding as they were hit.  Two of them apparently made it through, though, as twin explosions blossomed from the enemy ship.

Two strikes amidships, Amell announced, looks like their hangar bay, port side.  The flight deck is undamaged.

A trail of orange fire and debris began forming a tail behind the carrier as it completed its turn, now straight on.

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Multiple contacts, the tracking operator said, they’re launching their alert fighters.  Eight fast-movers inbound, low on the horizon.

Space rippled before them, and the Goliath emerged from Anderson, making a steep climb.  Fighters of their own were already launching to intercept.  Maron breathed a sigh of relief before returning his attention to the task at hand.

Give me a sweep.

The close range screens were clear, No hostile contacts nearby, we have the court, Amell replied.

Very well.  Helm, park us in stationary low orbit over the western coastline.

Aye, Sir.

Maron leaned over to look up into Pri-Fly, so that he could make eye contact with the Air Boss, Launch our Alert Three for coverage; tell them to maintain a close patrol.

You got it, Sir!

The captain then keyed a closed frequency from his over-monitor, one that only he had access to.

Clear for Joshua Fourteen.

There was no reply over the Anderson wave, not a verbal one anyway.  Instead, another vessel seemed to crawl out from beneath a watery blanket of darkness ahead of them.  There were audible gasps from the bridge staff as they watched the viewer.

Allied star-sub, dead ahead! The tracking tech voiced, sounding astounded, eyes wide.

The sub was sleek and round, with a conning tower jutting from its forward nose line, looking every bit like its ocean-bound sisters, only mammoth in comparison.  It rolled and turned with slow, easy gracefulness as missile hatches began to open all along its top.

Maron gripped the dais rail, feeling helpless and awed.  A great feeling of sadness settled in his being.

We’re about to witness the unthinkable, he muttered.

The missiles began to launch.  When they did, a loud howl sounded from the operations console.  Amell moved to it, and straightened quickly, her fur fuzzing out again.

Radiological alarm! Sir, they’re launching nukes!

Maron nodded, I know, Lieutenant Amell.

She looked at him, not understanding, But, Sir! Denmoore is our ally!

Maron nodded again, I am aware of that, too.

They watched in muted horror as the plasma trails penetrated the atmosphere, seemed to fall forever, and disappeared.  After a few seconds, suns were born on the surface.

Maron reached for the com-receiver without looking away from the screen, and he keyed the 1MC.

Marine landing forces, begin boarding your aircraft!  Launch the MEU’s!

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Silence once again settled over the bridge, a much heavier one than Maron ever remembered.

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Denmoore Province

Dawn was just breaking.

The sky, still mostly dim, was painted in the east by the coming morning with soft pastels of orange and purple.  Only a few high, thin clouds traversed the expanse, their bottoms alight with the sun that still hung below the horizon.

Minerva stood alone on the flat rooftop of the old factory in which what remained of her company and the 110 rescued prisoners of war remained hidden.  The others were still asleep, tired out from the previous day’s battle.  The wounded were hanging on with dogged determination, enduring pain and the effects of blood loss coupled with a mostly sleepless night wondering if and when the nuclear barrage was going to fall.  Hours had crawled by, though, with uncertainty brought by renewed radio silence from the star-sub up in orbit.

Security had clamped down on the surrounding towns after the raid on the prison camp, making it actually safer to hide in plain sight in the larger city that was but an hour’s drive from the coastal metropolis of Denmoore Major.  Denmoore Province was home to half a million citizens, all living in abject terror of the increased number of Storian military that had been pouring in since the pull-out from Earth. 

The quiet of the city lay before her as Minerva watched the morning come.  There was little traffic yet, most of that on the distant freeway.  The side streets of the industrial complex around her were empty, save for a single garbage truck making its rounds from one dumpster to another.

The air was still pleasant, cooled from the night, not to begin growing sticky until later in the day.  She sighed, gazing out at the tranquility, finding it difficult to imagine that such fear held so many in its grip.  Far to her left, miles out, a single armored vehicle patrolled a main artery, oblivious to her presence.

Minerva wore a heavy heart.  In what was now her early womanhood, she had already experienced enough pain and fright to fill a lifetime; yet, it seemed that there was no end in sight of the war.  Her husband was heartbroken over the deaths of his father and Sergeant Major Ford, and had sunk into a deep depression, one that walled him off from everyone around him.  Even she was not able to reach beyond his emotional barrier.  His pain was her own.  The loss of Ecu still ached miserably within her as well.

A single tear welled, and coursed down her cheek.  She felt used up, and wondered how much more of herself would be sucked away, never to be seen again. 

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Why me, my Lord? She whispered to the sky.

The day broke abruptly, the glow of the sun pulsing over the horizon, bright, and pure.  Her eyes wandered back to it, dull, and burning with tears.  Oddly, the glow held for a moment, then faded subtly, though not completely.  It changed from its white-yellow down to an angry orange-red, and remained.

A soft roll of thunder came at her, echoing over the city, and fading behind.  The ground then trembled.  Minerva’s mouth dropped open when the unmistakable form of a mushroom cloud climbed up above the line of the horizon, roiling and majestic in its own terrifying form.

The streetlights around her, which had still been on in the early shadows of the morning, winked out along with every other light across the city.  Birds took to the air from every tree, flying in crazy circles.  From somewhere far off, the keening wail of an air raid siren began to howl.

Muttering a curse under her breath, Minerva was broken from her paralysis, and ran for the stairwell that would take her back down into the factory.  Hopping two at a time, she arrived to find everyone getting to their feet, looking about in wonder.

Captain Hannock, his rifle in hand, saw her bounding in, and looked at her questioningly.

It was a nuclear explosion! Minerva let out, breathing hard.

All eyes locked on her at the announcement in sudden silence.

Hannock’s eyes were wide, You’re sure?

Minerva nodded, No doubt, sir. In the direction of the coast.

The captain hurried to gather his gear, Platoon leaders!  Have your people find cover under anything that looks sturdy!  Stay inside!  Mark, Minerva, you’re with me!

With Colonel Strasburg in the lead, they ran back up the stairs, coming out on the rooftop so that they could observe what would be taking place.  They got down on their stomachs, up against the ridge of the roof so as not to be seen, and waited.

To the west, there was an ugly, reddish, wounded glow that backlit the thick mushroom cloud as it dominated the horizon.  The haze from the resulting firestorm around it was thickening, casting a spreading blanket of low-lying death.

As they watched, another nuclear flash rose from further north-west, this one too far away for the shockwave of it to reach them.  As the glow gradually receded with a slowness that seemed alien for light to do, to linger so long, the finger of the mushroom cloud reached upward.

I really hope those are clean warheads, Hannock said, or the radiation’s going to cook us alive.  All of that is going to come this way with the prevailing winds.

Mark rose up on his elbows to get a look at the streets below.  Traffic had stalled all along the freeway, but the city streets remained empty of vehicles.  Citizens and Storian soldiers alike were coming out, though, all gawking westward.

Well, the first sergeant spoke, it appears that the fleet has arrived, anyway.

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Minerva was not so sure, Why would we nuke Denmoore?  It doesn’t make sense to punish an ally that’s occupied against its will.

Captain Hannock took out his old-school binoculars that the resistance had provided among their equipment, and scanned out as far as he could.  Mark was watching the sky, and Minerva knew why.  It wouldn’t be much longer before the shuttles began dropping into the atmosphere.

She felt as if a presence was behind her, and turned to look, surprised to see what appeared to be an angel standing there on the roof.  Minerva then began to question her own sanity. 

The angel, clothed in pure, white garments topped with golden armor, was gazing out over the horizon, his face set in a serious expression.

The first angel sounded his trumpet, and there came hail and fire, thrown down over the land.  A third of the trees, and a third of the grass burned.

His voice, silky and strong, sounded within her own head.  No one else heard him speak, nor even appeared to know that he was there.

Minerva shifted her gaze back to follow his own, and saw the firestorm that was consuming the distant coastline.  A curtain of black smoke spanned for as far as she was able to see from south to north, backlit with the dull, throbbing orange flames.  The mushroom clouds towered above it all, leaning into the upper winds, beginning to flatten out as they dispersed.  It was dreadful to look upon.

When she looked back, he was gone, but the feeling of his presence remained with her, doggedly reassuring despite her doubts.

Someone’s coming, Mark announced.

Below, they could see a dark-haired woman running franticly toward the front entrance of the warehouse in which they sheltered.  Hannock recognized her right away.

That’s Deb Espinoza, the local resistance leader.

Minerva got up, I’ll go down, and see what she has to tell us.

Back down the stairwell as fast as she could, and across the factory floor at a full run of her own.  The other marines watched from beneath heavy equipment, and storage racks where they huddled.

Minerva opened the door to let the woman in.  Deb stumbled through, and folded over, panting hard to catch her breath.  Sweat dripped from her face, and her arms shook.

The master sergeant took out her canteen, and offered her a drink.  Deb gulped it down, spilling much of it on her blouse, gasping in between swallows.  It took a few moments for her to calm enough to speak.

The Allied fleet is attacking, Deb told her.

Minerva nodded, "We figured as much, but don’t understand why they’re attacking you."

Deb waved it off, That’s not the point right now. We have to mark this building before the bombers get here.  Admiral McKee told us that they’re going to carpet bomb the city.

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Minerva’s eyes bulged, Oh, my God! How do we do that?

Deb produced an egg-shaped device from her trouser pocket, and handed it over, Take this up to the roof, and twist the two halves. Do it now!

Minerva did not need to be told twice.  With the device in hand, she bounded back up yet again, her thighs and calves beginning to feel the ache.  Charging out through the access shack, she ignored the surprised glances from her husband and the captain.  Twisting the device activated the Anderson marker within, and it began emitting its pulse that would be picked up by friendly aircraft, as well as the ships in orbit.  She gingerly placed it near the center of the roof, and took her spot again beside Mark.  Their eyes met, and she reached out to touch his cheek.  He offered her a weak smile, and it tore at her.  She could see the pain that lingered, that he would not release.

A noise distracted them, and all four turned to look south.  A dark dot was quickly approaching, the roar of its engines growing louder as it neared.  It was a fast-mover, streaking in low as it left a bright plasma stream in its wake.  In seconds it was passing overhead, its afterburners pounding them, torturing their ears and shaking the ground.  It continued over the city, climbed upward over the far side, and hit its break-away thrusters.  The jet was then but a dot with a hot, bright trail as it climbed back up toward space.

That was a reconnaissance pass, Hannock stated, likely to both pin-point our location, and set targets for the bombing run.

Deb made it to the roof access by then, still breathing hard, but more in control of herself.  Her hair was a fright from all of the running she’d done to get to them in time.  She joined them in their spot along the ridge line, and gratefully straddled down.

Deb, I’m so sorry that we’re doing this to you, Minerva offered. 

The resistance leader shook her head no, We had it coming.

The four marines looked at her incredulously.

You don’t understand, Deb went on, my government cooperated with the Storians since the beginning.  The occupation was just a cover.

Again, looks of astonishment.

Deb pulled her hair back into a tail, and tied it out of the way, Your government found out from MI-5 intelligence agents, and kept it a secret.  Only a select few even know about it.  This strike is just the beginning of a long series of retaliatory operations that are still coming.

My God, Hannock whispered, I never would have imagined!

Deb did not seem so surprised, It’s not that hard to see, if you think about it.  Do you really think Denmoore could have fallen to the Storian invasion in only one day?  Not much of a fight, if you ask me.

The captain considered it, still finding it hard to fathom, It’s just that, Earth hasn’t been involved in a war, or political intrigue in almost two hundred years.  We’ve lost touch with the nuances of that sort of thing.  We were naïve.

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Deb peered over the edge, watching Storian soldiers walking toward the distant freeway ramps, We know. We’ve followed your progress since D-Day.  You guys made so many mistakes along the way, it’s a wonder you’ve made it this far.

Minerva bristled at that, We did the best we could, with no one to teach us!

Deb reached out, and touched her arm, Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it.  It’s just that, well, for example, why did you guys always launch your attacks in broad daylight?  The cover of night is always the better tactic.

"You’re bringing this up now?" The master sergeant asked, frowning.

Captain Hannock gave them an exasperated look, Ladies, do you mind? We have a war to deal with here.

Mark laughed, the first time he’d cracked a legitimate smile in days.  The gesture was not lost on his wife, who felt a measure of relief that he was still in there somewhere.

Here they come, Deb pointed.

There were three of them.

They were the C-130 type shuttles, huge, and graceful.  The multi-purpose craft flew up high, in a perfect line side by side, spaced not far apart from one another.  Approaching from the south as well, they began a slow descent, seeming to move so lazily that it was a wonder they were even able to remain in the air.  The thrum of their massive engines became audible as they grew closer.

Their flight path would take them directly over the center of the city, less than ten miles west of the factory in which the marines were hidden.  The rear hatches cycled open, in tandem with bay doors from the bottom of the planes.

Silvery, shiny spheres began raining from the open hatches, falling toward the ground from a height of perhaps two thousand feet.  It resembled a shower of mercury, spread in a wide path over the unsuspecting layout below.  Citizens and Storian soldiers paused to gaze upward at their impending doom.

The spheres began detonating at varying heights, from ground level to a hundred feet.  It was amazing that such tiny objects could hold that kind of explosive power.  The plasma-based ordinance created a maelstrom of destruction.  The thunder was constant, and the ground shuddered. 

The view of the city disappeared in an undulating sheet of fire and bursts that tore into structures like knives through butter.  Dirt heaved hundreds of feet into the air in great, streaming blasts. Rooftops vanished as buildings were cleaved in two, their upper floors tottering over into the clouds of dust and smoke below.

This went on for the entire width of the city proper before ending.  The C-130’s banked, climbing, their doors closing as they departed.  A new sea of fire was left in their wake.  The air raid sirens had been silenced in the bombardment, leaving only the sounds of the flames, which was a dull roar.  The intensity of the fire’s appetite pulled air toward it, creating a hot breeze that fed the monster.

It was not over.

A pair of fast-movers arced down, releasing a wash of rockets from their wings. 

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Four bright trails lanced out, and the freeway heaved up with a concussion that was sharp, and physical.  It clapped outward with such force that it swirled the sheets of smoke around it.  The concrete structure collapsed, throwing out rivers of dust to mingle with the black clouds around it.

We can’t stay here, Hannock stated, watching the inferno before them grow by the passing second.

Deb stood, no longer afraid of being spotted by the Storians.  If any were still alive down there, they wouldn’t be able to see her through the veil of smoke anyway.

We could move eastward, out of the city, She suggested, and bring the beacon with us, so that your people don’t strafe us by mistake.

Hannock got to his feet, Sounds solid to me.  Let’s get on the move before we get cooked.

It took less than fifteen minutes to get everyone organized and out of the factory.  In traditional formation, the marines walked on either shoulder of the main road, divided and spaced apart by platoons.  The POW’s followed a short distance behind in the same fashion.  Those that couldn’t walk rode in the hummers and APC’s that chugged slowly in the rear, keeping to the center of the road. They followed the main artery east that led out of the city. 

Along that drag, there were mostly homes and the occasional convenience store or gas station, all interspersed with generous stands of trees.  Residents stood in their yards, looking at the conflagration consuming downtown, and casting weary glances at the marines as their column trudged past.

Up in the point position, Captain Hannock remained watchful for Storian patrols that might happen along, but the electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear detonations seemed to have disabled every vehicle in the region. 

There were a few commercial trucks, and a mail carrier stalled in the inbound lanes, their drivers lingering nearby, uncertain as to what they should do. The captured Storian vehicles that the marines were using worked only by the grace of having newer Anderson Plant engines that were not affected by the EMP.

Minerva walked beside Hannock, alternately watching up ahead, and checking the troops behind.  She was the first to notice the heavy shuttles off in the near distance to the east, circling down to land on the rural highway about five miles out.  She tapped Hannock’s arm, pointing at them.

They watched as ramps lowered, and battle tanks trundled out.  There were five of them, accompanied by a goodly amount of infantry mustering across the road.

Mark trotted to catch up to his wife, looking concerned, Are those ours, or Storian?

Hannock took out his binoculars, and paused long enough to get a good look, Those are ours.  Is that beacon still working?

Minerva checked it just to be sure.  It was pinging strongly, Still good, Sir.

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Up ahead, the marines there were already forming a roadblock, with three tanks facing the direction of town and the remaining two the other way.  It was disconcerting to have three tank barrels and six sets of Gatling side guns aimed at them as Alpha and Bravo companies approached.

Hannock turned around, giving the order for everyone to strap their weapons over their shoulders.  The last thing he needed was a misfire to trigger a bloodbath. 

As they drew closer to the roadblock, the marines manning it took defensive positions, rifles trained on them.  A lieutenant stepped out, his hand held up, and shouted through his helmet speaker.

Halt, and identify yourself!

Hannock signaled a stop, and took a tentative step nearer, Captain Charlie Hannock, First Battalion.  U.E. Marines.

The junior officer looked doubtful, eyeing the lack of identifying unit markers on Hannock’s armor, and the large number of infantry behind him.

The lieutenant’s expression softened a little at seeing Colonel Strasburg, who was known throughout the Corps. I just need to inform Admiral McKee.

Fair enough, Hannock agreed, keeping his arms out from his sides.

There was a bit of a tense wait while the lieutenant connected to the command net to relay the information.  The morning was growing uncomfortably warm by then, the humid air sweet with the smells of vegetation.  The sky was hazy with drifting smoke from the burning city behind them while cicadas buzzed loudly from the trees.  From experience, Hannock knew that the insects’ activity preluded bad weather.  It would be storming by that afternoon.

Finally, the lieutenant opened his visor, and motioned for Hannock and Strasburg to approach.  The junior officer’s demeanor