First Strike

Sheridan walked off the shuttle and handed the petty officer processing the new arrivals on board the transport ship his tablet. After scanning the orders and the retina of his right eye to confirm his identification, the PO saluted Sheridan and told him that he was to stow his gear in the officers’ quarters.

  A short while later, Sheridan opened the door to his room and was surprised to see that he was the only occupant. After the general’s speech, he had expected to find at least a dozen other officers shipping out with him. Sheridan dropped his rucksack and duffle bag onto the floor next to the nearest bunk bed and let out a deep sigh. This was not how he saw his military career starting. Someone somewhere must have screwed up. He vowed to himself to ask for a change of duty assignments the minute he reached his regiment.

  His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten a thing since last night’s supper. Sheridan stepped out into the hallway of the aged transport vessel Churchill and looked up at a map on the wall. He quickly found directions to the mess hall. As he walked along, he was surprised that the ship seemed almost empty. Only two crewmen passed him on the way to the mess hall.

  Sheridan stepped inside the mess hall and saw a platoon of young-looking Marines sitting at a long table eating their supper meal. They were having a loud and animated discussion about something that had happened in training to one of the Marines. It was lost on Sheridan.

  A young private spotted Sheridan and instantly jumped to his feet. “Attention, officer on deck,” called out the Marine. As one, the Marines shot to attention.

  “At ease, as you were, Marines,” said Sheridan, a bit uncomfortably. He had never actually served side by side with any enlisted Marines before. All of his interaction to date had been with his instructors at the academy or the battle school, and that was always in a formal setting.

  “There’ll be none of that from now on in the mess hall,” said a voice from behind Sheridan. A second later, a staff sergeant entered the room. “From now on, save that crap for the parade square.” The man’s accent was English; Sheridan guessed the man came from the north of the country.

  Sheridan saw the man looked to be about thirty and as tough as nails. His brown hair was cut close to the scalp. He was as tall as Sheridan, but with broad shoulders and a strong muscular build. His dark brown eyes seemed to examine Sheridan for a brief moment. Walking past Sheridan, the sergeant nodded in greeting, grabbed a tray and then helped himself to some food before taking a seat at a table away from the young Marines.

  Sheridan didn’t know what to say or do. Training was one thing, being out on his own without anyone to guide him was another. He decided to act as if none of this bothered him, served himself some food and then walked over to the table where the staff sergeant was sitting. “Mind if I join you, Sergeant?”

  “Not at all, sir, take a seat.”

  Sheridan sat down and put out his right hand in greeting. “Good day, Staff Sergeant, my name is Second Lieutenant Michael Sheridan.”

  “Staff Sergeant Alan Cole,” replied the sergeant, firmly shaking Sheridan’s hand.

  “Are you assigned to the Nineteenth Division as well, Sergeant?” asked Sheridan as he poured some hot sauce all over his meal.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sheridan looked around the room. “For a ship this size, there aren’t many of us deploying.”

  “With war declared, it looks like Fleet Headquarters has decided to send whatever they can find out to the line units without delay,” explained Cole. “Until mobilization fully kicks in, we’re going to have to do with what we’ve got. I was told that we’ll be joining the First Battalion, Third Regiment, before moving to our staging area, wherever that may be. As for the ship, they’re busy packing it with rations, ammo, and whatever spare parts are needed by the division. Don’t be surprised if they fill your room to the roof with crap as well. From what I can tell, for this trip out, the ship is double-hatted as both a troop transport and a supply ship.”

  “Sergeant, do you know these Marines?” asked Sheridan looking over his shoulder at the young soldiers.

  Cole shook his head. “I picked them up from Camp Lejeune yesterday. I was supposed to be escorting two hundred new Marines to the regiment, but this is all they could spare. The rest have been assigned to other units spread throughout the fleet.”

  “Have you ever served with the Nineteenth Division?” queried Sheridan, taking a bite of his food.

  “No, I was with the First Division for eight years until I rotated home to teach at the NCO academy.”

  “You were with the First! How was it?” asked Sheridan.

  “Sir, to be honest, I hated it. They’re just a bunch of parade square soldiers. Damn they look good, but just don’t ask them to fight. They’re all show and no action.”

  Sheridan couldn’t believe his ears. All of his instructors at the academy had drilled it into his head that to serve in the First Division was an honor. “Sergeant, no disrespect, but I find that hard to believe.”

  Cole grinned. “Sir, I’ve got ten years in the Marines, and I can tell you that the First Div ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. I bet you were told in the academy that it’s the best of the best. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, if you want to learn politics, then the First Div is where you should go. If you want to learn what it means to be a Marine, then service in another division, especially one stationed along the Disputed Zone.”

  Sheridan pursed his lips and then said, “Sergeant, how do you explain that for the last one hundred years, the Marine Corps commandant had at one time commanded the First?”

  Cole grinned. “Sir, we haven’t had to fight a major war in a hundred years, that’s why. Like-minded people promote like-minded people. It’s an old boys’ club, and that goes for the officers as well as the NCOs. Trust me, a couple of years from now, you’ll be thanking God that you didn’t end up there.”

  Sheridan had a hard time believing Cole. He began to wonder if the sergeant had been removed from duty with the First Division for some transgression.

  A woman’s voice came over the ship’s intercom. “Attention, all hands, this is the captain speaking; the ship will be departing in thirty minutes. Please ensure that all of your gear is properly stowed before we head out past the asteroid belt and then make the jump to Illum Prime.”

  Sheridan dug into his shirt pocket and pulled out his hand-sized tablet.

  “Sir, what are you doing?” asked Cole.

  “I’m looking up Illum Prime and trying to figure how long it will take us to arrive.”

  “Sir, put that thing away,” said Cole bluntly. “Never let the men see you looking something up. It makes them think you don’t know what is going on and it makes NCOs like me nervous.”

  “But I have a question, that’s why I have my tablet out.”

  Cole shook his head. “Sir, let me give you a few words of advice. If you don’t know something, tell your platoon sergeant, he’ll understand. Never let the men see that you don’t know. They look to you for leadership and guidance. They trust you with their lives. So act like you know it all. Be confident without being cocky and your troops will follow you anywhere.”

  Sheridan discreetly slipped his tablet away.

  “To answer your question, sir, in this old rust bucket it’ll take us four days to reach Illum Prime. These Marines may have completed their training, but they’re still wet behind the ears. I have scheduled weapons training in the cargo bay for 0800 hours tomorrow morning. You’re welcome to attend. In fact, I strongly suggest that you do. Some of these men may be in your platoon in a few days’ time. Watching them go through their drills will give an insight into their skills and capabilities.”

  “Thanks, I’ll take you up on your offer, Sergeant.”

  Next morning, Sheridan, dressed in his multi-cam fatigues, joined Cole as he put the new Marines through several hours of weapons handling drills. The soldiers were busy stripping and assembling their weapons, racing aga
inst the clock and each other. The standard weapon issued to all Marine infantrymen was the lightweight M5A2 Assault Rifle. Capable of firing 4.22mm caseless ammunition at a rate of six hundred rounds per minute, the rifle was also equipped with a grenade launcher built into the forestock. A laser and IR sight helped ensure accuracy in combat. Due to its high rate of fire, each Marine’s standard combat load was ten one-hundred round magazines and six grenades, usually a mix of high explosive and fragmentation.

  Sheridan looked around and noticed that the cargo bay was nearly full of supplies and equipment. “They didn’t leave much room in here,” said Sheridan to Cole.

  “It’ll have to do. Beggars can’t be choosers,” replied Cole. “Sir, did they issue you an M5 before you boarded?”

  Sheridan shook his head. “No, I only have my pistol with me.”

  “Not to worry, you’ll get one soon enough.”

  For the rest of the day Cole put the Marines through their paces. Teaching them to shoot instinctively, he drilled them for hours building muscle memory, so they could swiftly react and engage a target without having to aim. He kept stressing that technology had made weapons lighter and more lethal over the years with the ability to reach out and kill someone at over eight hundred meters. However, most engagements took place at fifty meters or less. The person who got off the first shot was, usually, the one left standing when the dust settled.

  Sheridan stood back, quietly observing the soldiers. They were a mix of people from all over the planet. Slavic accents mixed with North American, English, German, and Chinese. Of the thirty Marines, four were women. They looked as equally tough and capable as their male counterparts did. The one constant was their age. He doubted that there was anyone over nineteen years old. If they were green and inexperienced, they didn’t show it. If anything, he thought they were acting a bit too overconfident.

  Over the next three days, Sheridan attended all of the training sessions put on by Staff Sergeant Cole. He gradually got a better understanding of the man and his experiences. While he was reticent to talk about his personal life, Cole told him that he had been a Marine fresh out of boot camp when rebels on Setius-5 tried to take power in a violent coup. For ten months, Cole and his fellow Marines were engaged in a deadly counterinsurgency campaign to defeat the rebel forces. When it was over, one thousand Marines and ten times as many civilians had lost their lives.

  After a late supper, Sheridan turned in for the night. He was growing anxious to get off the ship and get on with his job. His bitterness at not being posted to the First Div had somewhat faded. Still, in the back of his mind, he was hesitant to believe everything that Cole told him about his time with the division. Before turning off his bedside light, Sheridan opened up his tablet and reviewed the latest fleet intelligence report on the Kurgan Empire.

  The Kurgans are a race of highly intelligent and aggressive reptiles. Their technology is on par with Earth’s. Their society and culture are as old as the human race. They are highly religious and believe that spreading the word of their Lord is the purpose for which they were created. Fanatical, Kurgans have never allowed themselves to be captured, preferring death to the dishonor of being a prisoner. The only prisoners ever taken were those incapacitated in combat and unable to commit suicide.

  Their society is ruled by a hereditary ruler on their home world. Like the ancient Roman Empire, after they defeat an enemy, they bring them into the Empire and give them citizenship. Although Kurgans make up more than ninety percent of the Empire’s population, they are also reputed to have large insect-like creatures as members of their far-flung territory.

  Sheridan studied a picture of their adversary. It was a 3D image of a Kurgan warrior. He stood two and a half meters tall with reddish-brown leathery skin. He had a short snout and golden yellow eyes. His body was covered with armor from the bottom of his feet all the way up to his neck.

  Although no one had seen a Kurgan in nearly a century, fleet assessed that their military and social structure had not changed much, and if anything, they had become more fervent in their religious beliefs.

  Fatigue soon took hold of Sheridan. He turned off his light and closed down the briefing. An image of Tarina smiling filled the screen. He smiled back. Vowing to never listen to his mother ever again, Sheridan hoped that he and Tarina would someday cross paths and that he could make up for his past behavior. He knew the chances of them seeing one another in the vast reaches of space were slim. However, slim was better than nothing, he told himself before turning off his computer and closing his eyes for what he expected to be his last good night’s sleep in a long time.

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