FInal Objective

By J. R. Handley, Corey Truax, Cisca Small and Chris Winder

Let the explosions begin!

Humans have spread to the stars, taking their warlike nature with them. Are you curious about how that would play out? Then buy this collection and find out! It has a lot of action – from alien contact to space exploration. Heck, we threw in some apocalypse stories just to round out this extraordinary deal! Buy it and see what shenanigans space faring warriors can stir up!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bayonet Books
• Release date: Oct 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223193333

Book preview

Final Objective

FINAL OBJECTIVE

J. R. HANDLEY

All characters in this book are fictitious. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher.

©2023 J. R. Handley

CONTENTS

God Save the Queen

J. R. Handley

Am I Alone?

J. R. Handley & Corey Traux

The Kiev Incident

J. R. Handley

Innocence Lost

J. R. Handley

Civil Unrest

J. R. Handley & Corey Traux

Luck of the Draw

J. R. Handley & Corey Traux

Ishtar’s Rising

J. R. Handley

Love Finds A Way

J. R. Handley & Cisca Small

LZ New Birth

J. R. Handley

CASPer’s Widow: The Last Goodbye

J. R. Handley

Also by J. R. Handley

About J. R. Handley

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN

J. R. HANDLEY

An elite team is sent in to stop a renegade terrorist group. But what happens when you know the terrorist? Do you stay true to your cause or change sides?

Originally published in Backblast Area Clear

1

Major Gavin Baskerville’s ears were filled with the low hum of powerpacks. Three of the troopers with him were already charging their weapons, following his example. He saw them repeat the process, checking the functionality of the weapon again. False positives happened, and nobody wanted to find that you won that one-in-a-million lottery ticket in the middle of combat. That was the danger of non-lethal weapons, when they failed you’re defenseless. It’s why he ordered his men to carry their rifles too, despite being told that this was a snatch-and-grab mission.

When another two powerpacks came online, the hum began to reverberate within the small cabin. Gavin’s teeth rattled as he fought the urge to shake the feeling in his head loose. This was one of the more frustrating aspects of the non-lethals, the pitch that the electrical packs which caused your skin to crawl and your teeth to tingle. He hated it, wished they could go back tasers. Despite how much the troops hated them, Congress didn’t listen.

Looking around at his men, he saw no visible excitement among them. Each was focused on their assigned task. Those who had finished their assigned duties sat in abject silence, waiting for what was to come. Every mission was like this, fear and nerves of the unknown grating on the soldiers. Mentally preparing themselves to do their sacred duty. Even after over a decade of service, Gavin felt those same nerves, that fear of failing his men and his country.

He had an experienced team, they’d worked together for more than two years with the exception of the new sniper, Corporal Glenn Mallory. The lanky country boy had only joined them two weeks prior, having only completed three training sessions with them. Normally Gavin would prefer a few more live fire training evolutions before bringing a new guy on a real combat operation, but there wasn’t time. Instead, he had to place his faith in the Almighty and focus on the mission ahead. They’d passed the point of no return, it was too late for all of the should’ve and could’ve.

He was good. Really good. But Gavin had seen enough good men and women who couldn’t cut it in the Army’s 173 rd Special Operations Unit. Individualism was not prized among the SOU, it led to dead GIs and folded flags mailed home to Earth. They were informally known as the Gibborim, though nobody could agree where the name came from. The SOU was trained as a team; to perform as a team, to think as a team, and if necessary, to die as a team. There would be no surrender. No Gibborim warrior wanted to spend years of captivity and torture, when death was so easily obtained in battle.

The soldiers in Gavin’s unit had a professionally competent air about them. It was a unit comprised entirely of volunteers, unlike the rest of the Army. The draftees filled the ranks and were universally distrusted by war planners. General officers viewed them as cowardly miscreant’s incapable of anything more useful than becoming grist for the mill while the real warriors wore the wings of the U.S. Imperial Space Force.

The communications specialist, Corporal Willis Sweets Sweeney was among the most proficient member of the team. He understood that once an enemy identified him as the comm-o, he had seconds to live. Awakenings like that forced soldiers to grow up fast and encouraged them to push themselves harder. As the comm-o, Sweets had the ability to contact whichever mothership had brought the unit into the battle. He could direct orbital bombardments and request an untold amount of direct support, making him the biggest threat on the battlefield.

Glancing over at his commo specialist, Gavin tried judging Sweeny’s body language. He rarely smiled, hid his emotions well and had one hell of a poker face. There was a vibrant intensity to the ebony skin near his eyes that made Gavin wonder how worried the man was. The mission was going to be dangerous, but Gibborim rarely participated in missions that weren’t. Snatch and grabs deep behind enemy lines were never easy, but when America needed warriors to take down element’s hostile to its existence they called his boys and girls.

Sweets, you good? Gavin asked.

The man looked up directly at his commander and cracked a smile. Tilting his head down slightly, Sweets showed something between his teeth. Looking closer, he saw that it was a small, red dot. The translucent, piece of candy was called a lava drop by the troops. The face Gavin made caused Sweets laugh. Lava drops were one of the spiciest candies ever invented and the commo specialist loved them. That explains the face he was making, Gavin realized.

Most of the team had been practicing for this mission for over a month. If the intelligence was correct, there was no need to hurry so the decision was made to get it right the first time. The spooks over in the CIA believed that the leader of the Albion Spring, a small but deadly terrorist unit, was at the base they were approaching. If he could be captured – or better yet, killed – the head would be cut off of a terrifyingly dangerous snake. Secretly, Gavin hoped the leader, known as Fawkes, resisted.

Reaching into through the open faceplate into his helmet, Gavin fished around for a silver chain. Clasping the small medallion hanging from it, he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Despite his closed eyes, he was aware of what was going on around him. Corporal Glenn Driller Mallory continued to pretend he was inspecting his M-501 sniper rifle, while surreptitiously watching his new commander. He’d been trained to notice every minute detail, to ignore patterns and look for what was new. Small movements, misapplied camouflage or the stereotypical snapping twig could mean the difference between a successful mission or death.

Unlike snipers, Gavin and other SOU commanders were trained to look for details while pairing them within the bigger picture. Focusing too tightly on any one small detail could create tunnel-vision, leading to mission failure and the deaths of everyone involved. When Driller stopped picking at his rifle and didn’t start wiping it down again, Gavin noticed.

Turning to the man on his left, Driller whispered, What’s the commander doing?

Specialist Gordon Pyro Winslow looked up from his rifle, leaning forward to see where Driller was pointing. After a moment, he turned back to the sniper with a questioning expression. What does it look like he’s doing?

I don’t know, Driller said, annoyance tinging his accented voice, that’s why I’m asking.

Pyro opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted. The other door breacher on the team, Specialist Duke Nemo Nguyen, snorted. His intentions needed no further interpretation, he was calling bullshit. Nemo wasn’t the biggest or most intimidating man on the team, but he had a reputation for being willing to fight anyone. That damn Napoleon Complex will get him killed one day, Gavin thought to himself.

Eyeballing the other two for a moment to ensure their silence, Nemo leaned in and whispered his rebuke. You will show respect.

It wasn’t a question, Nemo’s forceful tone telling Gavin that the specialist was itching for a fight. He knew that every man handled pre-combat jitters differently but found it odd that Nemo chose to literally fight away his nerves. The two men returned to their tasks without another sound, though he suspected that they’d seek out some good-natured revenge after the mission.

Opening his hand and kissing the medallion, Gavin answered the unspoken question behind the earlier drama to his team. It’s a trinket from my mother, he explained. "It’s supposed to represent Saint George. My mother believed in saints, and George was the patron to protect law enforcement and warriors, such as ourselves.

I don’t know if any of that stuff is real, but what’ve we got to lose in trying? I’ve asked Saint George to protect us during our mission, like I do for every other mission. If my mother was right, we’ll make it out of this one alive. If not, we’ll never know the difference.

All eyes were on him as he stuffed the medallion back into his combat armor. There were no questions. No comments. Just the sound of the powerpacks completing their discharge into the electric stunner rifles, and then silence.

Gibborim, a voice said, coming from the internal speakers on their helmets, "this is the USS Constitution’s mission control. How do you copy?"

Loud and clear, Sweets replied after receiving a nod from the other team members.

Roger that, the disembodied voice replied. "Mission is on schedule, prepare for immediate deployment. We’ve shifted your launch slightly. The USNS Tinman cargo vessel had engine problems, leaving late. Despite pushing hard they’re not gonna make it. We’ve had to change our launch window. The margins have… become a little slim, but we’ll send you in ourselves with the skipper’s skiff."

Waiting for his commander to respond, Sweets looked over. When Gavin nodded, he spoke into the comms with his usual clipped proficiency. Roger that, mission control. Change of plans acknowledged. Thanks for the warning, Gibborim out.

A chorus of groans as the soldiers locked their weapons into mounts built-in to the gravity seats. They sat near each man’s left leg, often leading to bruising as the soldier was slammed into the holder during the turbulence of orbital insertion. Gavin had even seen broken bones from the poorly placed weapons mount. Seconds after the last soldier had his weapon stored, the lights went out.

Alone with their thoughts, each solder on Gavin’s twelve-man team leaned back in their seats to contemplate their uncertain future. Mechanical clamps attached to hardpoints on each man’s armor, holding everything except his fingers and toes in place. With nothing else to do but endure the ride, soldiers tried to think of happier times and ignore the nagging fear and push aside any reminders of their own mortality. The more seasoned soldiers reviewed the mission briefings, but the one unifying truth was that they all tried not to think of the worst possible scenarios.

As soon as the clamps engaged, each man said their secure code-word command to power-down their armor. The objective was to become a hole in space. To become as invisible as possible, though Gavin knew that that was technically impossible. If the enemy were looking hard enough, in the right place and at the right time, his stealth shuttle would be visible to sensors. The goal was to make it past the outer satellites without being detected, avoiding enemy guns.

This is gonna hurt, Nemo moaned.

Yeah, probably, Sweets agreed.

I hope nobody had omelets this morning, said Specialist Travis Squint Kade.

I had them, Driller said, his voice a half-octave higher than usual. Why? Was there--

The specialist’s words were interrupted by a sudden, violent force hitting the left side of his body. Even with his combat armor, Driller squeaked in surprise, much to the amusement of his buddies. Several soldiers grunted or shouted a less-than-enthusiastic yee haw, though Gavin knew that those antics were just for show. Everyone felt the pain of stealthed launches, the sudden application of gee forces onto an inert human body couldn’t be ignored.

When it hit Gavin, his vision blacked out. He felt like he was swimming through the darkness for several seconds, pinpricks of light dotting the far horizon. As he got closer to the stars, the blood from the right side of his brain found its way back to the left. Things slowly resumed their normal equilibrium, and through it all he fought the urge to vomit into his helmet. He succeeded, though only by slim margins gained from years of training with the Gibborim.

There were no sensors in the passenger compartment of their stealth shuttle, just seats and weapon racks. Sensors took a lot of power to run, power that was detectable. Those power signatures lit up enemy sensors like the 4 th of July, ruining the chance of reaching their target undetected. Despite wishing for the information that the high-tech sensors could provide, Gavin knew that they had to come in stealthed; cold, silent, and invisible. He didn’t need the sensors, but he wanted them more than his alcoholic dad craved whiskey. As a member of the Gibborim, he operated in the dark underbelly of the American Empire, and the precious details from those sensors were a life-line to a world bathed in sunlight.

Knowing that they’d be assaulting in the dark, unable to get tactical or technical details once they launched their shuttle, Gavin and his team practiced their assault until his team knew where they were every second from the increased force from their launch. The sensations of movement told his team their speed and sometimes even the angle of their descent relative to the target. He worked hard to breath normally, thinking of his medallion, his mother, and the mission ahead.

Their trajectory would put the skiff between their ballistic vessel and their target, the large moon known as New Europa. From there, the skiff would launch the stealth shuttle for the final rendezvous with their target. With a precision only capable because of the cooperation of the skiff’s captain and the math of the planners, Gavin’s vessel would sail out the other vessel’s cargo hold. From the sensors, they’d look like a routine waste disposal as they shot out the other side. Disguising yourself as shit aint for the faint of heart, he smirked.

Unless someone was peering out of the starboard porthole and was paying attention, it was unlikely anyone would notice the angular black lozenge passing through. If they were wrong, if their timing was off by the slightest margins, the Gibborim was a total team kill. Holding his breath, Gavin waited for the fiery doom that would signal his doom. Two seconds after they should’ve been released by the skiff pilot, he sighed in relief.

Thrilled to be alive, he lifted his eyes to peer into the face across from him. With the soldier’s armor on standby power and the lights out, Gavin couldn’t see the soldier’s expression. This made it difficult for him to read his soldiers body language, but he was glad the soldier couldn’t see his expression either. Gavin was scared. Every mission filled him with foreboding, but something about this one seemed more desperate than their standard operational tempo. While he struggled not to imagine worst case scenarios, he noted a dim glow above his eyebrows.

Looking all the way up, he could see the built-in countdown timer. It drew operated on the armor’s back-up battery that could be re-charged from any ambient light source. The small timer, twenty-two green dots of light, indicated how much time was left until the assault craft made contact with the fourteen-mile-thick ice on New Europa’s surface. When they hit boots on ground, Gavin would manually reset the timer for their extraction. Stop it, he urged himself. It’s not IF we return for extraction, but WHEN. He could’ve muttered into his armor, when it was powered down the comms were off until he proactively keyed the mic. Still, verbalizing the fears gave them weight, he couldn’t let them have that kind of power over him.

His self-chastisement worked, Gavin managed to push his thoughts back to the task ahead. Permanent gates had been installed decades ago to facilitate access to the habitats below the surface. Officially, the colony had seceded, so Gibborim would not be accessing anything official. According to reports, the entire colony on New Europa was under control or influence of the Albion Spring. It was becoming a stronghold for anyone who opposed the occupation of the United States Imperial Forces in other galaxies. For decades, former Earth based political polities had been seeking independence from America. They sought to reconstitute their old sovereign governments, usurping the rightful government of the galaxy. According to intelligence reports, New Europa was where the rebellion of the dissidents would begin.

Checking his timer, Gavin saw that only four minutes remained on the timer. They were coming in faster than they’d planned for. That worried him, but he expected it was the result of their unplanned insertion craft. The Constitution’s skiff didn’t have the engine power for this operation, but he knew it’d been their only option. At their current speed and angle, Gavin calculated that their drill wouldn’t be able to penetrate the ice fast enough. If they came in too quickly, their vessel would smash into the surface. It was unlikely any of them would survive that crash and mission control would have to assault the moon themselves. It would foil any rescue attempts, making that a secondary priority.

Cockney, Driller asked over the ship’s voice-powered network, may I ask you a question?

The nickname had been awarded by Gavin’s team shortly after the 173rd had been formed. After seeing him pray to Saint George the first time, and because of his English heritage, the team chose a name they thought most fitting. Despite not liking the call sign, preferring to honor his loyalty to the Imperial United States, Gavin knew that military call signs and nicknames had to come from your teammates. Biting his tongue, he grudgingly accepted the moniker until it grew on him.

Go ahead, Gavin said, speaking loud enough to transmit his voice through the wires.

Your mother gave you that Saint-whatever thing? Driller asked.

She did, Driller, Gavin said, disinterested in the line of questioning.

Must be nice to know your mom. I lost my mother in the Detroit bombing, Driller said. Though he was speaking loudly, there was a hint of sadness in the man’s voice.

A lot of people lost a lot of loved ones in Detroit, Gavin said, layering as much compassion as he could into his voice. After a few seconds, he added, Was there something else?

Yeah, Driller added, a hint of hesitation in his voice. You don’t talk about your mother much. Did you lose her? You don’t get along?

Despite the difference in ranks, the line of questioning wasn’t abnormal for teams who spent so much time together. Many jokingly said that their teammates knew them better than most married couples. The questions weren’t out of line, but they still annoyed him.

I haven’t seen my mother in more than ten years, Gavin replied woodenly. It’s a sore subject, and I’d prefer not to talk about it.

2

The timer only had two minutes remaining illuminated on the countdown timer. Knowing he has some time, Gavin didn’t bother bracing himself for impact. In theory that’s what the clamps holding his armor in place were for. It didn’t stop rookie soldiers from bracing themselves at the last minute. When the timer hit one minute, he relaxed. If the landing went belly up, being loose would soften the blow. All Gavin could do now was surrender to the laws of physics and hope for the best.

Still watching the timer, he was ready for the landing so the sudden shrill whine of the micro-fusion power plant coming online didn’t startle him. According to mission parameters, the batteries aboard the assault craft would ignite the pointed tungsten nose of the vessel to several thousand degrees Celsius. The cryo-drill, was often called a planet breacher because it would create brand-new accesses to the planets it assaulted. It was Gibborim’s key into the vast oceans of New Europa and colony beneath the ice.

He wasn’t a scientist, but every member of the SOU was given the Reader’s Digest version of the machine. Their cryo-drill was configured for ice worlds and would create a huge plume of icy steam which was expected to send a jet of icy fog out into space. He wasn’t worried about detection, if the fog escaped the moon’s gravity it’d still take more than an hour before the first satellite would detect it. He knew that by then they’d be in the base, and have Fawkes in their custody. Dead or alive, preferably dead, they’d have their target.

The impact was harder than Gavin had expected, but it was far less violent than he’d feared when he’d felt the angle of their descent shift off kilter. When their stealthed landing craft made contact, his soldiers powered up their armor and began the re-boot sequence. It only took a few seconds, though it felt like an eternity to him. He knew that if they landed to close to enemy sensors, they’d spot the electromagnetic leak from their armor.

Another concern was that the enemy had already detected their stealthed landing craft and its brightly-glowing nose cone. Like all of his pre-combat fears, Gavin pushed that thought from his mind and focused on the task at hand. He could cry later, now he had hostages to rescue and terrorists to exterminate. Today, Gavin vowed to play judge, jury and executioner to the people trying to render the galaxy unstable. Without America, there would be nobody to stand against the storm of communist expansion. He couldn’t let that stand, no matter the costs.

While the soldiers of his team were finalizing their re-boot sequence, the vessel’s artificial intelligence came online. A hollow metallic voice announced that it had successfully rebooted the ship’s computer. After the announcement played over the Gibborim’s comms, a message appeared on each of their HUDs.

After rendering the official report to the team, their AI isolated Gavin for his last-minute mission brief. It must’ve said something funny to the rest of the team, because several soldiers chuckled to express their appreciation. With their armor powered, the comm channel came online too and he heard their laughter over his helmet speakers. Gavin knew that the Gibborim’s always tried to mollify the feelings of their fickle AI, swearing that they’d give it a factory reset when out of hearing. Nobody made any effort to request a new one, too superstitious to risk jinxing their unblemished record.

Very funny, Gavin muttered. I’ll have to make sure to pay someone back for the thoughtful addition to our AI.

You can’t, it’ll mess with our mojo, said Driller, worried that Gavin was serious.

Using a tongue switch to change screens on his HUD displayed, Gavin cycled through several options. When he found the one he was looking for he shared it with his team. Every soldier had their screens overridden by his, showing them the power levels within their vessel. Their AI was consuming energy at the usual rate, leaving plenty of juice for the cryo-drill. Studying it together, the Gibborim looked for any abnormalities which would affect