The Mighty First, Episode 1: Special Edition Read online

  “And, the Marines?” The president asked.

  Admiral Green was nodding discreetly, following where Parks was leading.

  “The Marine Corps should be moved off-planet in its entirety,” Parks told her flatly. “Shift that asset to Attaya, to be held in reserve. When the time is right, we’d bring them

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  in with Attayan support, and hit the Storians from the rear. By then, we would already have intel on where they would have occupied, and their troop strengths.”

  Green jumped in, “In the meantime, we have to assume that an invasion is eminent. If you initiate the War Powers Act, we could shift all of the global industry to war production, and begin stocking munitions. We also need to shift into high-gear for recruitment efforts. Reactivate the Civil Defense department. Time is of the essence, we have to bulk up our troop numbers.”

  General Parks wandered over toward the windows, gazing outside, thoughtful. He turned, facing the other two with a pensive expression.

  “There is another thing that we have to consider,” he told them. “Earth’s populace has outgrown the concepts of war by several generations. Our citizens don’t even understand what it entails anymore. A century of relative peace and prosperity in the sciences have created a society of lax, naïve comfort-seekers. How do we get them prepared for what may come, if they can’t wrap their minds around it?”

  Green chewed his bottom lip, taking that in. His counterpart was right. Sad as it may be, an era of peace that lasted too long could actually be a detriment to survival.

  “Parks is correct,” he said to the president. “A sudden leap into a war footing would send the planet into a panic. We need to appeal to the sense of humanity, and play on their patriotism. Flood the networks with Grozet’s atrocities, and make it clear that we face the same demise if we don’t stand up against it.”

  “And, how do we go about doing that?” Reyes wanted to know, standing to stretch tired muscles.

  The admiral set his cup down, and began pacing, “I have a few contacts over at the Global News Network. We could arrange for reporters to be embedded with select

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  combat units, and naval commands. Get the viewership fired up by having them get attached emotionally to the troops. Make them love us. Timed press releases that are careful not to reveal strategic planning, all the appropriate propaganda. By the time we’re done, the districts will be begging us to go to war.”

  Reyes went to her desk, and opened one of the drawers. Taking out a pack of SafeSmokes, she tapped one of the cigarettes from it, and flicked a lighter. The new brands that the agricultural divisions had developed were nano-bot integrated, like most everything else. Not only did they no longer cause cancer, the nanos actually worked to cleanse the lungs.

  She inhaled, and leaned against her desk, regarding the piles of dead trees stacked on her coffee table. Reports upon reports that all promised Pandora’s worst nightmares.

  “Do you fellows think that we can bulk up our troop numbers by increased recruiting alone?”

  General Parks pursed his lips, looking at Green for confirmation. The admiral nodded.

  “If we do it creatively enough, yes,” Green answered.

  “Creatively?”

  The admiral nodded again, “The fastest route to the numbers we need is through the high schools. Offer fully paid college funds, and glorify the services for the adventure of it all. Those teens will eat it up.”

  “To double that, we could also graduate high school seniors early upon signing up,” Parks added, “so that we could get them off to basic training right away. We need time to get them in shape, and capable of handling a weapon.”

  Reyes took another long drag, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, “How much time does Basic require?”

  “Marine Corps standard is nine weeks, followed by another sixteen of advanced infantry training, and another

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  three months of whatever specialty a recruit has signed up for. Tank, artillery, and the like,” Parks replied. “We don’t have that kind of luxury anymore, so I would order that new recruits be ushered only through the nine weeks of basic, and immediately assigned to the battalions. They’ll have to learn the rest on the fly. We should be able to establish troop numbers close to another five hundred thousand within the first three or four months.”

  The president tapped ashes into the tray, “You’re speaking of drawing from high schools across the globe, not just America.”

  “Absolutely,” Parks assured her, “the larger the recruitment base, the better.”

  Reyes sighed, and finished her smoke in a third, hard pull, then stabbed the butt out. The artificial nicotine helped to take some of the edge from her nerves.

  “I don’t like this, Lance, not one bit,” she told him gravely. “We shouldn’t have to prey on our unsuspecting youth in order to save our sorry asses. It isn’t their fault that their government has lost its edge by too many years without conflict.”

  Parks held his hands out by his sides in appeal, “I don’t either, Madam President, but we have to face some hard facts. If Grozet decides to hit us, he will have the upper hand on troop numbers alone. That’s not even to include their superior weapons technologies, and naval power.”

  Admiral Green ceased his pacing, and went to wringing his hands, “Not to mention the sad reality that we just don’t know the art of war anymore, and the Storians have a mastery of it. Do you realize that we’re going to be reduced to digging through historic archives just to study up on tactics?”

  President Reyes went back to the couch, and stared down at the files. When she spoke, it felt as if her voice were coming from somewhere far away, scarcely her own.

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  “Alright.”

  The command officers relaxed a little, knowing that she would support what needed to be done.

  Still not meeting their gaze, she went on.

  “I’ll take care of the logistics involved with recruiting our youth from the schools.”

  Parks cleared his throat, “Um, actually, military recruitment is…”

  Reyes looked at him sharply, “It’s the part that sickens me the most! Sending our kids to fill gaps that will amount to nothing less than cannon fodder! That will therefor be my burden to carry.”

  Both men nodded feebly.

  “We will accept no one under the age of seventeen,” she insisted.

  Another set of nods.

  “Lance, go ahead and begin moving your Corps. immediately. Announce it as a training exercise to the media. I’ll get in touch with Prime Minister Ro, and arrange all of the clearances we’ll need. I’m assuming that you’ll situate everything at Fort Dixon?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. It’s the largest reservation we have on Attaya.”

  Reyes rubbed at her temples, trying to stave off a headache, “Doug, bring me up to speed on our space naval capabilities.”

  Admiral Green crossed his arms, and ticked a thumb against one elbow, “While we technically have three fleets, only two of them are truly operational. The First and Third have two battle groups each, consisting of a super-carrier, a pair of destroyers, missile cruisers, and the support tenders. A fast-attack star-sub, and a missile class star-sub offer security for the groups. We have twenty 100 megaton nuclear warheads in the arsenal.”

  Reyes held his gaze, “And, the Second Fleet? Has

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  poor funding effected it?”

  “In part,” Green admitted. “Mostly, it’s because it’s being utilized mainly for transportation. We use it for taxiing back and forth between Earth and Attaya.”

  “Well, that could work out for us, then,” Reyes said. “Second could be held in reserve in Attayan space, for the Marines. First and Third remain here for defense.”

  “Exactly,” Green agreed.

  The three of them regarded one another for a moment. Outside, lightning flashed, and thunder rolled soon after. It seemed appropriate for the mood in the room, a
nd for what was apparently coming at them with dreadful finality.

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  Two

  Harvesting of Youth

  Winslow, Arizona

  September 18, Earth Standard Calendar

  Far removed from the politics and cold settling over the eastern seaboard, northern Arizona was still sweltering under summer-like conditions. Interstate 40 cut east to west across the upper portion of the state, through a high plateau that was ringed by mountains. During the springtime, winds howled incessantly for weeks at a time, followed by months of hot, dry days that summer brought with it---punctuated by fierce thunderstorms, and driving rain. Autumn delivered crisp, frosty mornings, but not until late October. Winter often came with dustings of snow.

  Winslow, tucked snugly in the center of this corridor, was a small town where time seemed to have stopped long ago. Established in the early 1900’s, it was well over two centuries old, and little had changed in all of that time. Twelve miles from end to end, it had once been a cog in the Route 66 chain that spanned across the country. The buildings downtown, though renovated several times over the decades, remained of the original design. The street was brick, sidewalks lined with trees and flower beds.

  The majority of the businesses were of the mom-and-pop nature. Cafes, the one-screen theater, shops, and hotels. What looked out of place were the modern automobiles, sleek, and colorful in design. Nothing like the antiquated models that were parked along 2nd Street, near the famous ‘corner.’ A bronze statue stood on that intersection, a

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  monument to the Eagles band from two hundred years past. Their song played all day from speakers nearby, in tribute to their fondness for taking it easy on that corner.

  The residential areas bordered the north and south side of the Burlington/Northern railway tracks that cut through; the homes also renovated while preserving the old-style designs. Each unique, and well maintained. Green lawns and tall trees despite being tucked into the center of the high desert, thanks to a generous water table, and the nearby branch of the Colorado River. Clear Creek provided a playground for summertime.

  Winslow, being a small town, did not mean that it was without its resources. It had a small regional airport that was normally a way station for private aircraft, the local medevac chopper, and firefighting crews. Many pilots made it a point to land there just to have lunch at the E&O Mexican eatery. Fresh, hand-made food made it a popular stop for the locals.

  As of late, the residents had taken notice of a significant increase in military traffic there. It was not unusual to see the old-school rotor-driven helicopters coming and going from the Army base up in Flagstaff, but it was out of the norm to have the sheer volume of aircraft.

  Choppers were not the only type of military craft dropping in. To everyone’s astonishment, the Space Navy had begun landing their shuttle-type helos and planes on the strip. Shuttle-helos were of nearly identical design in appearance, sans the rotors. They were sleek, with Anderson Drive power plants and artificial gravity generators that allowed for space flight. Basically, any sort of traditional aircraft specially fitted with those elements and reinforced hulls constituted a shuttle design.

  Huey-shuttles, Blackhawk Shuttles, mammoth C-130 shuttles, they were all making abnormal appearances at the Winslow airport. Unbeknownst to the populace, the same

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  sort of activity was taking place at most every regional airport across the country. It was a tactical decision. The commanders had decided that staging resources at small strips like these would better preserve men and equipment in the event of an invasion, where major bases and airports would be prime targets.

  The U.S. Army had rolled into town the week prior, a convoy miles long with trucks full of crates, and soldiers clad in field gear and Kevlar armor. They were not openly carrying weapons, but their appearance conveyed an air of aggression that the residents were unaccustomed to.

  A make-shift tent city had sprung up in an open field not far from the airport, and was encircled with a chain link fence, manned with guards that did carry assault rifles. Downtown, the courthouse became the new Civil Defense center. Flyers began to circulate, instructing citizens on how to stock for a two-week emergency supply, on how to duck-and-cover in the event of a nuclear attack, and instructed to begin using black-out curtains at night. The normally placid environment took on a tense, and uncomfortable atmosphere.

  Winslow, and its neighboring towns were communities where doors were left unlocked. There was a sense of trust, and openness where people looked out for one another. It was a good place to raise a family, far enough away from the Phoenix-Tucson Metroplex to be beyond the crime, but near enough to be a few-hour’s drive for a visit to the ‘Big City.’ This new fold upset the balance. The old-timers gathered outside Casey’s Hardware, lounging on rocking chairs, and casting wary glances at the Army soldiers as their foot patrols passed by.

  People began to whisper, and rumors circulated. There were terrible things being broadcast on TV lately, and now this. Rumors of war. Newscasts filled with the gore that a distant madman was rendering on his own people, those who he had deemed traitors to his cause, whatever that

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  cause may be. Now, the Army had come to town.

  There were more American and United Earth flags flying from porches. More rhetoric and bravado from the working men in the bars after a hard day’s work. Prices at the stores were going up, and people were hoarding goods. Mothers ushered their youngsters in at the first hint of evening.

  It was a tide of mixed emotion.

  It could not have been more so than at the local high school. Winslow High, home of the Bulldogs, found itself at the center of a new controversy. Like the working class in many small communities across the globe, there were many families whose children had no real hope of affording an advanced education after high school. The best paying careers lay in the field of science at present. Breakthroughs in technology that allowed greater-than-light speed, thanks to the Anderson Corporation, had created an entire industry all its own.

  Despite the demands for engineers and technicians, the learning required involved up to eight years of intense college education, an education that was immensely expensive, and out of reach for all but the upper tier of the rich. Only so many grants could be issued in a given year. This meant that many of the even the most ambitious students had only standard to menial labor awaiting them after high school. It was a discouraging outlook for the kids, and a sad fact of life for their parents, who wanted a better future for them.

  Thus, the debate at Winslow High.

  Military recruiters had been permitted to set up shop in the gymnasium.

  Four non-descript desks, nearly side-by-side, each manned by a sharply dressed representative from each of the major branches of the armed forces. This was an

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  arrangement that had been made with every high school in every country around the world. The presidential order meant that principals really had no say in the matter.

  The recruiters courted the senior class with seductive promises of a paid education, off-world travel, adventure, and the options of going career for a generous pension while gently shooing away anyone under the age of seventeen. The president had made it clear that there would be hell to pay for wooing anyone younger than the cut-off age.

  As anticipated, the teens were intrigued. Before school, and in-between classes, there were always small crowds around the recruiters, asking questions, wanting to know more. Like curious pups, they always came back, asking more questions, more enticed each time. The crowds gradually grew larger each day. In only four days, there were more kids gathered there than the recruiters could reasonably handle, and by Friday morning, the first signatures were given.

  The grapevine spread the news like lightning. So-and-so had enlisted. He was graduated from high school on the spot, sworn in, and allowed to call his parents to say farewell. Other kids followed, spurred on by their buddies
, encouraged to do the patriotic thing. By lunchtime, the entire varsity football team had signed contracts, and were being grouped together in ever increasing numbers in a private lounge at the local airport.

  Parents were leaving work early to get one last hug, or to try fruitlessly to talk their kids out of their decisions. Mostly, though, the parents merely consoled one another, believing that the military had given their kids a shot a better future.

  No one considered the risks involved. No one truly understood the horrors or the violence that war entailed. Standing against tyranny was simply the proper thing to do.

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  The patriotic thing. It was something to brag about. Yellow ribbons to be tied to front porches. It didn’t hurt that bank accounts were being fattened with enlistment bonuses.

  One member of the senior class had not been so easily drawn in.

  Seventeen year old Minerva Carreno had been pondering her options for the future since the school year had begun. She was a straight-A student, popular among her classmates, and active in sports. Blessed with a natural beauty that turned the head of nearly every adolescent boy in the twelfth grade, she also had no shortage of choices for dates. That kind of easy popularity might, and likely did make a lot girls prissy, but Minerva tried hard to remain a grounded person. She made it a point to smile, and offer kindness to everyone that she encountered. To avoid gossip. To make the right decisions.

  Her parents were among the working poor. They owned a modest house in one of the older neighborhoods nearest the highway. Her father worked for the city utility, laboring to keep the parks and the landscaping along the main roads looking good. He often helped friends and neighbors with projects around their homes on his free time. Her mother kept up the house, worked a garden that took up most of the backyard, and put a meal on the table three times a day. They may not have had much, but what they did own was hard-earned, and with that, Minerva learned to appreciate what she had in life. She also learned modesty.