The Mighty First, Episode 4, Minerva Rising: The Mighty First series, #4

By Mark Bordner

The Storian occupation of Earth has been broken.

Even the global celebration of V-Day can bring no solace for young Minerva Corbin. Word has come down from High Command---take the war to Storia's doorstep. Earth's military forces prepare for a protracted forward deployment, a task that promises monumental challenges for the 1st Global Marine Division as they face liberating occupied worlds along the way.

Minerva's desperation and anger swell, making her a force to be reckoned. Pitched battles on a biblical scale cannot stop her on her determined trek to end the costliest war of mankind's history. A timid, small-town girl she is no more. Master Sergeant Corbin is a seasoned combat veteran with hell following in her wake. Emperor Grozet has no idea what kind of storm he has awakened.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Bordner
• Release date: Mar 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386351061

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Written by: Mark Bordner

The Mighty First series

(c) 2015 all rights reserved

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The Mighty First, Episode 4, Minerva Rising

Copyright © 2015 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:

ISBN-10:

1 Young Adult Fiction/Science Fiction/General

2 Fiction/War & Military

Dedications

- My wife and children, who continue to inspire me with every passing day.

- The communities of Winslow, Arizona and Santiago Papasquero, Durango, Mexico

- My eternal friends and shipmates of the USS Belleau Wood, LHA 3

- My sister Brenda, nieces Linda and Kristen, and all of the family in between

- All of you, the readers, friends, and family who have been so supportive along the way.

- The caring staff at The Peaks, who dedicated so much time and effort to help me learn to walk again.

Acknowledgements

- The United States Department of Defense

- My beta readers: Bill Sabin, Dede Burnes Smoley, Dale Norton, and Jeremy Judd

- All of my gracious fellow writers out there, who have been so wonderful in offering advice and taking part in this endeavor.

This Episode’s Guest Roles

- Paul Clifton: Lance Corporal Paul Cliff, B-Company, 1st Battalion

- Michael Bordner: Sgt Mike Borden, tank gunner, 108th Armored Division

- Savannah Bordner: Pvt. Savannah Borden, C-Company, 1st Battalion

- Sheeryl Lim: PO1 Sheeryl Lymm, medical corpsman, C-Company, 1st Battalion

- Brenda Gerber: PO1 Brenda Gerber, medical corpsman, B-Company, 1st Battalion

- Lisa MaClean: Lisa McClain, GNN reporter

- Jovannah Briones: Lance Cpl Jo Brion, C-Company, 1st Battalion

- Bill Sabin: Gunnery Sgt Bill Sabin, C-Company, 1st Battalion

- John Magill:

- Cameron Michaels: First Sergeant Cameron Michaels

Readers, you, too can land a guest role in the series! Just drop by the author page and submit your name. It is not a paid thing, it’s just for fun, but imagine having a character named after you that you can follow!  I can only fit so many per episode, so to be fair, it is first requested/first given.  Good luck! Now, grab your helmet, and let’s ride!

Contents

Of Fear and Boredom

Payback

Different Times, Different Places

The Worst in Us All

Prices Paid Dearly

Common Enemy

Liberation

The Battle for Winslow

Gathering Storm

Echoes of Despair

Fleet

The First and Second Seals

Lucifer’s Hammer

One

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Of Fear and Boredom

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HOOSIER NATIONAL RESERVE, INDIANA

NOVEMBER 7TH, D-DAY, PLUS 6 MONTHS

The weather had cleared just enough to make matters worse.

As daylight broke, so did the cloud cover, casting a beautiful sunrise over the snow-laden forest.  The higher peaks seemed to positively glow, cast all in white after the days-long snow storm. As the mountains dropped to the foothills and open dells, they became rich with pine and bare deciduous, equally painted by winter’s brush. It was a view that was awe-inspiring and touched the soul.

The barrage of Storian artillery had tapered just before day-break, the first lull in four days since 1st Battalion had assumed the line from the battered Attayan units. They were spread thin across nearly three miles of mostly low ground, entirely out in the open, skulking in a series of deep trenches that all inter-connected like some sort of rabbit burrow. The young marines had used pine boughs to cover their outposts and machine gun nests, and the snowfall had done the rest, helping the defensive line to effectively blend with the terrain.

The majority of the ordinance that rained over them were plasma shells set to air-

burst, scattering hot shrapnel over a wider area. One design flaw of plasma shells was that detonating on the ground sent most of the explosive power into the earth, minimizing the kill-effect.  It was this limitation that was sparing the battalion from greater casualties, but it by no means lessened the strain that the constant blasting put on one’s nerves.  After so many hours of having your lungs and bones pounded by the shockwaves, a person could lapse into shell-shock and wander out in the open—-or just go stark raving nuts. The rain of debris would finish you off, punching right through body armor. A few of the shells that went off closer to the ground had torn limbs, and in one case, a head straight off a body.

This morning, though, began with a peace that was nearly frightening after getting accustomed to so much litany. The kids were poking their heads up from their shelters and risking a peek. Save for the shotgun-effect of shrapnel peppering the ground along the line, the rest of the open hillside ahead of them—-sloping gently upward for over a mile northward, was unmolested and smooth, glistening in the sun.

From one of the outposts, Gunnery Sergeant Manny Guverra was crouched behind a 60-watt machine gun, chewing on the stub of an unlit cigar. It was clear and cold, his breath puffing clouds from his nostrils. He had his visor open and was relishing the fresh air. He scanned the field and the row of tall, dark pines bordering the high side; trying to spot movement.

Captain Hannock warned us that the Storians send out patrols when the shelling stops, he said, keeping his voice low.  Squatting in the tight space of the nest next to him was PFC Dylan Briggs, a husky 16 -year-old volunteer. Dylan had his visor down, watching for heat signatures. The Storians did not have the luxury of the nano-armor, and their grey cotton-canvas uniforms and Kevlar body armor betrayed body heat. He imagined that the cold was effecting them worse.

Gunny, how long will we be out here? He asked.

His company commander did not reply. There was no way of knowing. Small noises from their area attracted his attention, and he turned to peer out of the other gun port dug into the dirt wall. Kids were getting up and moving about, some urinating into a make-shift latrine, which was nothing more than a shallow foxhole half-filled with snow. He wondered if it was wise to out in the open like that, but it wasn’t likely that there was any enemy nearby. The shells were being lobbed from miles away, north of the reserve in the town of Bloomington. The fierceness of the winter storm would have made it nearly impossible to move infantry into this wild patch of the state. Perhaps a lone sniper, but the nearest tree line was across the field they currently had under watch-—over a football field-length away.

Captain Hannock and the senior officers were holed up in the rear CP, a good ten-minute hike to the rear, which put the three company commanders in charge of the line. Manny had B-Company covering the center portion, an easy mile from west to east. To his left, Amell had Alpha covering the west flank, and Ecu headed C-Company on the right.

Manny suddenly needed to get the heck out of that hole and enjoy some sunshine of his own, Take over, Dylan, I gotta stretch my legs.

He crawled through the narrow tunnel up and out of the nest, punching a fist through snow that had capped the opening, and hauled himself out. It felt great to expand his limbs out further than his chest, taking in a great yawn and farting with enthusiasm, sounding hollow and muffled in the confines of his armor.

A few of the troopers who were old enough to shave sat on the edge of blast craters, their legs dangling over the edge, and took out their toiletry kits to dry-shave stubble from their jaws. Others squatted over small fires, warming canteen cups of coffee or hot chocolate and munching on ration packs. It would have resembled a boy-scout camp out had it not been for the constant danger of being killed.

A familiar figure had emerged from a foxhole entrance about thirty yards to the east. They stretched, and looked around. The person spotted Manny and began walking in his direction, kicking snow aside in wispy strides. It had gotten colder, and the stuff was more powdery. So long as it wasn’t too deep, walking through it wasn’t too awfully bad.

This trooper’s armor was marked with the bright red and white cross of a medical Corpsman, lugging a satchel of gear and a rifle. The woman, a 1st class Space Navy petty officer, sported a figure that even her armor couldn’t hide. She reminded Manny of his girlfriend, an Attayan gun ship pilot. There had been some whispered comments of an Earth-dweller dating an off-worlder, but no one dared mention it to his face.

The Corpsman, Sheeryl Limm, reached where he stood and pulled her helmet off, moaning with delight. It was refreshing to feel the crisp air against her neck and face, I was never intended to be a rabbit!

Manny chuckled, Living in dark holes and crawling through tunnels doesn’t suit you?

Piss off, she told him good naturedly, taking in the view, It’s hard to imagine there’s a war going on out here. It’s gorgeous!

The master sergeant nodded in agreement, finally lighting his stub with a Zippo, So, how are we standing with casualties?

Sheeryl thought a moment, Not bad, considering. Two fatalities, seven rendered ineffective with injuries, and one that lost his marbles. There’s an assortment of bruises and sprained ankles among the others, but nothing that will affect our current strength.

Sprained ankles? Manny asked, I’ve been curled up in that stinking hole for days; how’d they manage that?

She grinned, Risking runs to try and use the latrine holes. One poor kid slipped and fell right into it; he’s covered with frozen poop from head to toe. No one will share their nest with him, so he had to dig an open foxhole of his own.

Manny burst out laughing, nearly swallowing his cigar stub, which only made him bellow harder. It felt good to do so after enduring days of terror and boredom.

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Positioned on the far left flank, Alpha Company was situated in a slightly better vantage point than Bravo. The ground there sloped up, following a craggy ridge that kept them perhaps twenty feet above the open span between themselves and the far tree line where the Storians were suspected to be ghosting about. This being an advantage as far as fending off a ground assault, also presented its drawbacks. For one, the rocky ground

made it nearly impossible to dig any foxhole of decent worth, let alone the intricate connecting tunnels that the Attayans had left Bravo and Charlie companies with. Instead, Amell’s troop was forced to cower in a cluster of shallow caves that had been blown into the rock face and piled in front with stones to form a somewhat protected entrance.

For another, even that slight elevation placed them nearer to the airbursts. The shockwaves had pounded them good. One shell had gone off at ground-level and completely wiped out a squad that had been unfortunate enough to be hunkered in front of it. The concussion had reduced them to a spray, the gore so encompassing the cave they had been in that no one else would use it, even at the risk of being killed out in the open.

Amell, Lance Corporal Paul Cliff, and Sergeant Bill Sabin stepped out from their shelter to enjoy the morning at the same time Bravo was doing likewise. With her helmet off, Amell’s fur blended almost perfectly with the stark, white surroundings. Bill regarded this with some amusement, but chose not to voice it. He was still getting to know his company commander, and hadn’t quite figured out where her level of humor was set. Best to remain serious and exhibit an air of confidence.

He moved off to the side of a large boulder and popped his front plate to urinate, sighing with relief. The sound of his stream spattering on the rocks seemed loud in the silence of the morning, but that was preferable to the thunder of shells popping overhead. Not far from where he stood, Paul Cliff was squatting behind a small pine, moving his bowels.

Watch for snakes, Bill casually warned.

Paul yelped and jumped up, turning to look about, showing his pale nethers to all that could see. Bill belly-laughed, nearly dribbling on his own boots—-earning aggravated curses from his friend, who moved off to finish in another spot.

Bill put himself back together, realizing that in all of the movies he’d seen, or books he’d read, the characters never used the restroom. It was along the lines of shooters never re-loading, or firing a million rounds and no one gets hurt. He wished that this was just a movie, and the director would get off his butt and yell ‘CUT!’

His eyes took in the moonscape-like surroundings where shrapnel had spattered the ground, and knew all too well that none of this was pretend, nor would it end so easily. The reality of it sunk in, as it always seemed to do when he began to feel a moment of hope or inner peace. It was difficult, adjusting on that fine line that separated childhood from adulthood. At 19, he was at the tail-end of being a teen-ager, and having enlisted in the armed services, was thrust abruptly into the vestiges of adulthood. Yet, he did not quite fit in there, either. Those who were older and more seasoned regarded him with unease despite the fact he was a sergeant, and the younger kids had it worse, because in every essence, they were still children.  At 12 and 14, they simply had no business carrying a weapon and being flown onto a battlefield, but here they were. War had a way of changing the norm of everything, the great equalizer among men. 

As Bill was contemplating whether or not to have breakfast yet, he became aware of a soft, yet distinct sound disturbing the quiet morning. It was the noise that either a throw-back Huey, or a Huey-shuttle produced-—a signature whup-whup of chopped air. It was distant, barely audible, but slowly drawing nearer. Others were noticing it as well, donning their helmets, checking the tactical for any friendly aviation markers.

There were none.

"Take cover!" Amell’s voice sounded over the net.

The distortion of the echoes produced by the mountains and gullies masked the true proximity of the enemy air power. A Storian gun ship appeared from over the far tree line, rising up over the hill that had masked it approach, and raced toward the line at treetop-level with frightening speed. People were still scrambling for places to hide when it banked sideways so that its side guns could fire. Plasma bolts raked across the ridge, accompanied by the splitting roar of the Gatling’s electric spinning. Spent plasma casings rained down beneath the Huey-shuttle as it hovered there, the gunner sweeping back and forth. The ground churned under the laser-like stream, throwing chunks of rock as it spewed after the fleeing, screaming marines.

Troopers began returning fire from their rifles, the rounds sparking and bouncing off of the armored hull. Bill had something better in mind. He had found a cleft between two large boulders and his armor had blended perfectly with the pocket, rendering him invisible. With a strange calm that he didn’t understand, the sergeant reached into one of his pouches on the battle harness he wore and grasped the business-end of an anti-tank round. He locked the firing pin-tail of the ATR into the bottom chamber of his rifle and took aim, almost casually.

A gentle squeeze of the secondary trigger released the wicked-looking shell, which rocketed outward with a sharp whoosh, leaving a trail of exhaust. It’s short, speedy flight took it directly through the cockpit windshield. It detonated within, blowing fire and debris out from not only the control cabin, but jetting from the side doors as well, blowing the side gunners out into the air and falling to the snow-covered ground.  Rifle fire followed them and threw clouds of steam where the plasma bolts slapped into the snow. The fallen gunners twisted under the barrage and were quickly rendered dead.

The gunship reared and banked left, crashing almost butt-first and flopping hard onto its side, flames and black smoke billowing from its interior. An over-zealous marine rose from where he had been hiding and cheered. Amell was instantly on the net, telling him to get his silly butt back down, but the warning came too late. Ordinance inside the shuttle cooked off, the explosions immense and successive, nearly a dozen in all. That enthusiastic trooper was center-punched by a chunk of plas-steel being catapulted from the blast. His body was thrown almost twenty feet, trailing his innards as he went.

Once the stuff had finished popping itself off, Amell was on her feet and bellowing threats to the rest of her company, that any showboating would get her boot firmly inserted into one’s tight-fitting space. She pointed at a pair of marines that had been shouting encouragements to the now very dead kid and ordered them to carry his body back to the rear CP, berating them every step of the way.

Bill thought it best to get the remainder of the platoon under his direction re-situated into fire teams in the event of further attack while Amell went on with her tirade.  He was glad that he did, because they had no sooner done so when a peculiar rushing sound sailed far overhead. The kids looked skyward with dread.

Are those in-coming or out-going? Someone asked over the net.

Those are rounds-out, Paul Cliff replied. They’re ours.

After a short pause, they heard sharp thumps come from the north and roll dully through the valley, echoing, followed by towers of smoke rising into the horizon. This went on for nearly five full minutes, until the entire northern sector was a wall of black and grey. There was no wind, so the smoke rose lazily straight up, gathering at cloud level and spreading out like a dirty pancake.

Lafferty must have called in a strike for payback, Amell surmised, stepping next to where Manny was crouched, watching the show.

The rushing sound changed, now a shrill whistle that grew in intensity. Everyone’s guts clenched.  No one needed yell in-coming! They had endured enough to recognize that unmistakable difference in sound. Troopers all across the line dove for cover.

The barrage had returned, the plasma shells blasting down this time from no more than fifty feet over their heads; 120-mm kisses of death. Snow, earth, and rock erupted under the concussions. Even with the dampening protection of their nano-armor, ears and noses bled from the rupturing effect of the pressure differentials. They screamed. It was all that they could do.

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Secure Presidential Bunker

Incarceration Block

At long last, someone had taken the time to actually sit down and explain things.

First Sergeant Mark Corbin was seated at the small table in his kitchenette, a cup of coffee and an ashtray in front of him, nursing the business end of the cigar that this fellow had brought to him. Sitting in the chair opposite was an Attayan ambassador by the name of Sunto, a grey-furred, older man with an honest face and honest eyes. He was the first person that didn’t seem to be saddled with the bag of bull that the other feds and prosecutors had been lugging about, trying to offer an endless stream of false and conflicting statements intended to make him trip up and spill the beans-—despite the fact that there were no beans to spill.

Sunto had filled in the blanks. The story of Minerva’s father nearly being killed by the crazy gunman, that gunman having had a spinal device identical to the one in Mark’s own back, and the more recent mysterious incident that had occurred up in orbit. Real spy stuff, made-for-TV intrigue. GNN was eating it up-—what little they had been allowed to know. For the first time, the Global News Network did not have free-reign, this to Mark’s relief. He had no desire to be labeled as a traitor.

So, The ambassador was summing it up, "This was why you were held with such suspicion. We have to be certain that the infiltrators did not have an opportunity to program some kind of doomsday code into your Device."

Mark tapped his ashes, shaking his head, All of this crap, and no one once even bothered to tell me a part of it. I would have understood. Hell, I want to know now just as much as you do! When can we scan this damned thing?

Sunto smiled as well, a genuine gesture that betrayed some relief. He had anticipated an outburst of anger, Within the hour. The necessary equipment is being brought down from orbit. We had to dispatch another hospital ship from Attaya, to replace the Terra Daley.

Mark’s coffee cup was empty, and he rose to take it to the percolator, I hope that someone is giving all of this information to my wife. She’d as soon see me dead again, judging by the last look she gave me.

The Attayan nodded, finishing the last of his own java and fishing a few black licorice jelly beans from a shirt pocket, Your division commander, Colonel Strasburg, has debriefed her. You’ll be given the opportunity to see one another after this procedure.

What about Sergeant Major Ford? Mark asked, pulling a half-eaten cheesecake out of the fridge and returning to the table with it and his coffee. He grabbed a fork from the nearest drawer and dug in, eating straight from the cake dish. Sunto was not put out by this, already aware of the huge caloric demand that the Device placed on the human body. The young man would need to consume exaggerated amounts for the better part of his life, or at least until the Device had determined that cerebral healing was complete and detached itself on its own. It could take months, years, or never. Every brain was unique.

"Ford wants very badly to believe that you are an innocent bystander in all of this,

but has reservations. I am sure once the scan is complete, and nothing out of the norm surfaces, this will be but a bad memory for all of you."

Mark grinned around a mouthful of the dessert, purposely trying to gross the man out, but Sunto, nonplussed, reached out and took a handful of cake from one edge and shoved it into his own mouth, then grinned back.

USS BELLEAU WOOD-LHA3, USSN

LOW EARTH ORBIT

In the event of war, resources at once become scarce and priceless.

This is evident in the furthest reaches of society, where conservation and recycling of even the simplest of things become the norm. Housewives learn to substitute cooking items, jars become drinking glasses; plastics, rubber, and gasoline or its advanced equivalents tend to be hard to find. With store shelves a shadow of what they once held, victory gardens sprout across the globe. Patriotism spreads not only from one country to another, but to other Allied worlds as well.  The displeasure of the Storian agenda is growing.

For-profit salvage crews had forgone an enormous portion of their normal income, coupling to hundreds of battle-torn hulks and towing them back to the nearest safe harbor-—that being the Attayan system. One ship in particular, the Belleau Wood,

had presented a special challenge to the privateers in its size alone. It turned out that a group of the normally solitary entrepreneurs had banded together and cooperated in returning this warship to its masters. Doing so through Anderson Drive was no simple matter.

The Attayan dry docks had received this gift with some gratitude, more so when the salvage crews refused to accept payment. The sight of the dead sailors entombed within pulled at their heartstrings, it had seemed.  Other combatants were soon following, and the Attayan government worked out a reimbursement arrangement that was agreeable to all parties. So, those ships that were retrievable began to come in. The engineering department in the orbital docks tripled in size. Proper burials were given to the lost, repairs commenced, and refitting began.

The LHA had been the first to return to service, this in a most dramatic fashion, straight into combat over Earth. Once the Terran government assumed command of her once again, the outcry from active duty sailors had been deafening. Everyone wanted to serve on that ship, the one now hailed as the solo defender of Star Harbor and again at home staving off a star-sub attack.

The lucky winners of the lottery couldn’t transfer aboard soon enough. Gone was the usual muttered complaints of tight quarters and daily routines. It was akin to being a hero to be on that ship, and the pride fairly lit the corridors.

This fact was not lost on Captain Greg Shoeman, the commanding officer. He felt that inner glow himself, though he would be hard-pressed to openly admit that to anyone.  He tended to keep his personal feelings to himself. This made him come across to those

who did not know him as being aloof, but for the X.O., it did not conceal anything. For Commander Alan Maron, who had been Shoeman’s friend for years prior to now serving beside him, he spotted the tell-tale glint in the older man’s eye and in the way he took zeal in even minute tasks. Maron found it amusing, but never brought it to the C.O.’s attention.

Captain Shoeman was presently looming over the shoulder of a young 3rd class petty officer who was manning the Bridge data center. The two of them were scrutinizing the image of an aerial view several miles above where the 1st Marine Battalion was currently positioned. The whole area was a mass of smoke and flashes of ordinance exploding close to the ground. The Storians were raining fire on those poor jarheads with a vengeance.

Local air support is still grounded by the tail-end of that storm, the petty officer mentioned. The nearest available air field is almost an hour east of them.

Shoeman shifted his gaze to another screen, a type of Doppler radar that projected the cloud layers with a greater enhancement, showing even wind streams and speeds. Another storm was right on the heels of the previous one, about to bear down on Indiana in particular.

Executive Officer Maron knew what his captain was thinking. Did they have time to drop a fighter from orbit before that system hit? Despite the traditional bantering between the Navy and the Marine Corps, all of them aboard the ‘Wood felt an intense responsibility for those boys and girls fighting on the ground. Heck, there was many a sailor on board who had a sibling or a child of their own down there. This war was

practically a family affair anymore, and throw in the sudden mix of Attayans-—after nearly 100 years of tentative, but friendly relations, then you had extended family.

Shall I sound Flight Quarters? Maron asked, anticipating the captain’s response. Surprisingly, Shoeman shook his head no. It was a tough decision, but their count of combat-effective aircraft was dwindling. The Storians had bounced back in their tenacity as of late, costing the Allies high losses in the air wings. New fighters could be manufactured only so fast, and only on Attaya at that, which meant getting them shipped to the Terran theatre without enemy star-subs finding the transports.  The action that was increasing along the Pacific Front was also chewing into the air wings on the surface carriers.  Attrition was eating them away a little at a time.

The ‘Wood was down to eleven fast-movers, the Goliath at thirty. Risking them against a quick-moving winter storm would be fool-hardy. There had to be something that they could offer in the way of support, though!

Where are the elements of the One-Oh-Eighth Armored Division right now? Shoeman asked.

The tech swung right to a different console and punched in commands. Another satellite view came into focus. The column of tanks was clearly bogged down on Highway 50, near North Vernon, nearly 30 miles east. Snow from the first storm