The majority of jump-gates were constructed when hyperspace engines were too few, too expensive, and too dangerous. Still they needed protection from unwanted intrusion from surprise alien invasions, as proven by the attack of the Arris. The Guardians became the Earth’s solution to the problem.
They were placed on either side of the Earth’s jump portal and designed to fight a space battle with any hostile ships emerging or retreating through the jump-gate. The notion of their mutual support fitted well to this end. The Guardians combined armament was capable of reducing any fleet to particles while withstanding multiple assaults from different quarters.
It was a sound concept for its day, but changing times diminished their military importance and value. In this age of progressing technology and advanced warships, The Guardians were regulated to the boredom of monitoring system traffic and cargo inspection duties. Long gone was the belief that they were cornerstones of Earth's defenses. Because of this, their once highly trained crews settled into an atmosphere of apathy and morass. This gave the stations a fatal flaw, one that the Martians meant to exploit.
* * * * *
Captain Tonelli, the commanding officer of Guardian One, grumbled beneath his breath as he leisurely dressed himself in his tan uniform. A portly man of well over six feet in height, his large frame struggled to fit into his standard issue clothing, which seemed somewhat smaller in size.
In years past, Tonelli was a very capable and handsome officer, but a near-fatal leg wound suffered during combat became a roadblock to his military career. He was removed from frontline duty and placed out-to-pasture here as reward for his heroics. Gone was his ability to achieve any further promotions or recognition, which soured his taste for his military career as he watched his life slowly pass by as others moved on.
Over many years of commanding this outpost, his once strong muscles were replaced by fat while his jet-black hair turned to a grayish white. Ambition was lost to boredom, jealousy, and self-pity. Now old and disgruntled, he was too close to retirement to care about anything else.
Being roused out of bed during the middle of his sleep period reminded him of his desired departure from the military. However, the purported emergency that was urgently reported to him by the duty officer, although vague in detail, was still his responsibility to answer.
After tying his boots and strapping on his ion pistol, the captain exited his room and hobbled down several corridors to a shuttle car entrance. After Tonelli causally boarded a car, the shuttle vehicle started off through a plastic and transparent tube to the command center.
Unknown to Tonelli, however, events were rapidly developing. At the same time, a trash container ship maneuvered to dock with Guardian One. The aging hulk’s visit was a matter of routine that was scheduled weeks earlier by the maintenance chief. As the old ship anchored herself into position and began the exchange of empty garbage containers for the filled ones from the space station, it was later realized that the maintenance chief above all else was a Martian.
As Tonelli reached the command center, he was perplexed by the frantic activity. Every system was activated, and every position, including the redundant ones, manned. Throughout the center, the PA blared loudly over the crewmen’s voices. The audio faded in and out and was at times completely masked by static noise, but it was clear in what was happening; a pitch space battle was being fought somewhere in the solar system.
Tonelli then spotted a short ugly man standing by the communication console. This was Lieutenant Feldman, a recent transfer, who had a pug face, bug eyes, and a perpetual sneer. However, the man was most efficient in his duties and served currently as the shift’s duty officer.
Upon seeing Feldman, Tonelli rushed over and grabbed him by the arm. “What the hell is going on!” he demanded to know.
Feldman gazed back unmoved by his superior officer’s emotional outburst. “Sorry to disturb your sleep, Sir,” the man sounded sarcastic, “but it seems that the Martian fleet has gone berserk and is shooting up the solar system.”
“What?” Tonelli was appalled. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, Sir,” Feldman confirmed. “Apparently, they’re attacking one of our reserve fleets. That’s what’s coming over the PA now. They’ve probably destroyed all the communications satellites in Mars’ orbit and it looks like they’re trying to jam all outbound signals as well.”
Tonelli’s mouth dropped open. The shock of the news stunned his mind and jumbled his thoughts. Then panic gripped the officer as a sudden realization came over him. “If they’re trying to leave the system, then—they’re probably headed here!”
“More than likely,” calmly stated Feldman. “That’s why I’ve taken the liberty of bringing both stations up to Defense Condition 1. If we see so much as one of their garbage scowls, we’ll blast it into particles.” he boasted.
* * * * *
Gunnery Sergeant Stephan Gagarin, a tall, solemn, and daring man with steel blue eyes, climbed steadily up a refuse shaft that connected to one of the “empty” garbage containers they were transported in. He continually scanned the shaft with his night vision gear as he carefully and quietly advanced, for the lives of his marines depended on it.
As always, this Martian Marine “lifer” had volunteered to be the pointman for this operation. Totally hidden in his gray camouflage uniform, body armor, and black combat equipment, he was all business as he led two platoons of Martian Marines in their part of the initial assault on Guardian One.
Like every other marine, he carried a heavy load of assorted weapons on his web gear, backpack, and person. His personal arsenal consisted of a standard bayonet on the left side of his web belt, a K-bar knife that hung from his combat vest, and a throwing knife strapped to the rear of his right thigh. Several concussion and smoke grenades were tucked in half pockets around his combat vest as well. An ion pistol, which could discharge a burst of electrons to either stun or kill, was holstered on his right side. Plastic explosives in the form of shape charges, a medical kit, and a day’s worth of MRE’s were stored in his pack along with extra rifle ammunition and 50 feet of scaling rope.
His primary weapon, a plasma rifle, was slung across his back. It was a scaled-down version of a fighter’s cannons, which bore a striking resemblance to a M16 Rifle of the Vietnam War. However, it was by far more lethal. The two gases needed for the plasma bullets was each fed from small adjacent canisters built into each magazine, and ignited by the magazine’s electrodes by its encased battery to make the rifle operate. The weapon was capable of discharging 70 plasma bullets, each traveling at 2800 feet per second, before needing another magazine for reloading.
However, even with all of this equipment, the climb was not as hard as expected, since the maintenance chief had somehow neutralized all artificial gravity within the shafts. Gagarin’s total load was near weightless instead of the 150 pounds it would have been on the Earth. This greatly aided the marines and kept them on schedule. But the marine sergeant didn’t particular like climbing a shaft that was used for transporting human waste as well as other byproducts. His gloves became soiled and gooey with the excrement and discarded toilet paper as he reached the top of the conduit, and he imagined what he smelled like.
At a collection point a little ways on, normal gravity resume and Gagarin waited in the darkness for both platoons to reassemble. It wasn’t long before the last marines appeared. These were Captain Benson and his team of specialized technicians. They were to be protected at all costs, for the burden of running the jump gate and station systems fell upon their shoulders. Without them, the collapse of the Martian bid for freedom was assured.
To the sergeant, the objectives were clear: his platoon’s taking of the security room while the other would hit the command center. But the experienced space soldier felt uneasy about the new lieutenant who was to “help” direct the attack on the security room. He was a stick of an officer, fresh out of the academy
. Big on theory and little on ability, the fledgling officer was hungry for medals. Gagarin hoped that the “college boy’s” ambition wouldn’t get a lot of them killed.
Indeed, Gagarin went to great lengths to guarantee that did not happen. He directly petitioned Colonel Lon, the Commandant of the Martian Marine Corps, and made a case for the lieutenant to be kept to the rear. The colonel, however, was set against it. The man was “green” and needed the experience. Yet, Lon conceded that he would order the young officer to participate, but not to lead. To Gagarin, the concession was acceptable from the colonel whose judgment and words he trusted.
With a few hand gestures, Gagarin divided the small force into two groups. The marines brought their weapons up, held at the ready with stone-cold eyes fixed down the scopes of each rifle. In single file, they began moving to their respective jump off points.
* * * * *
In front of the trash-flow monitors of Guardian One, sat a big burly man chewing on a cigar. Maintenance Chief Albert Webley rubbed his shaved head as he monitored the progress of each group of Martian Marines as they departed the trash containers. In all, there were about four hundred marines making the climb through eight shafts. The marines’ assault was scheduled to begin in five minutes.
Webley counted himself lucky so far. The secret modifications he had made over the last two years were only activated as the container ship docked. This left little to chance. The question now posed was of security discovering that the pressure and gravity of the shafts were neutralized before the marines attacked. Webley continued to chew on his cigar, squeezing out its bitter juices as he nervously waited and watched.
* * * * *
Reaching the final waypoint, Sergeant Gagarin spotted a small beacon that was placed on the roof of the shaft by Webley. He immediately typed “AG-145” into his wrist’s Personal Data Computer. With a sudden burst of flame around the beacon, a brilliant circle was burned. The shaft’s metal groaned as it was easily cut loose by the pyrotechnics. The piece of shaft then severed and dropped quickly to the floor with a large clang.
The marines rushed forward to the opening and aided one another upwards. As the last of them disappeared into the hole, the final phase in the storming of Guardian One began.
* * * * *
Captain Tonelli grew very fidgety and fearful as the sounds of battle abruptly vanished from the communications network. Without another word, he deserted Feldman, defaulting command to the junior officer. An attack was almost certainly imminent on both stations, and Tonelli’s only thought was to race for the safety of the security room. Even though he passed many armed guards along the way, he felt that being barricaded in the station’s most protected area was the wisest choice to keep his life.
His legs spurted in great strides, as his boot “clopped” heavily on the grated steel floor plates. However, as he neared the entrance to the security room, Tonelli’s steps slowed. He saw the corridor broaden into a wide lobby with a large rounded desk. Two mounted track-guns then came into view. The Gattling Gun lasers slowly rotated in sweeping, but menacing arcs.
A security sergeant, accompanied by a dozen heavily armed guards in black uniforms, stood in front of the security’s room hatch. At the moment, however, they were busily engaged in inspecting some unknown cargo in huge plastic containers that was being transported on motorized carts into the secured chamber.
Tonelli’s mouth became an anxious smile, as sanctuary grew to no more than a few yards away. It was perfect timing. The guards were finished with their inspection and the thick hatch began to sluggishly part open to allow the cargo carts access into the compartment. The hatch’s powerful motor vibrated the steel deck with a rumbling that was very loud. Its awesome quake gave the officer renewed hope while calming his fears. Yes, he thought, the security room made the perfect haven from the impending storm.
Without any warning, however, a violent white flash of light accompanied by a deafening “boom” and a burst of roasting heat over-powered the Earth officer’s senses. Tonelli found himself thrown backwards as the floor in front of him disintegrated. His body became uncontrollable and jerked from invisible projectiles impaling him as he flew to the ground. The small missiles penetrated him with searing pain and sharp stabs that stole the very breath out of his lungs.
The pang of hurt racked his body as he landed hard on the deck, but the agony was slowly traded for a cold numbness that radiated inwards from his arms and legs. He also felt a warm, sticky wetness all over as well as a difficulty in breathing. The man finally realized—he was dying.
His torso was pierced and shredded by shards of shattered deck plates that also broke many of his bones. This made any movement tormenting. But as life left him, he became an unwilling witness to his command’s destruction.
The corridor and lobby were now engulfed in an expanding cloud of bluish-gray that smelled of noxious fumes. As the wall of smoke and the stench of chemicals continued to foul the air, silhouettes in gray camouflage uniforms sprang up from the cratered hole and charged in the direction of the smoke-hidden security desk. Although his vision could not penetrate the haze, the sounds of a brief and intense firefight were unmistakable. But the sounds ceased within a minute, giving way to a small explosion that quickly followed. It was then that Tonelli lost all consciousness—and died.
* * * * *
It was a stroke of good luck based on the marine sergeant’s years of bloody experiences. Even over the threatening demands of the lieutenant, Sergeant Gagarin yielded only to his own patience and acquired combat skills. He was rewarded when the huge hatch to the security room was retracted. This made the chamber vulnerable to a quick and deadly assault. If the hatch was not opened, the alternative was to place all of their shape charges against a portion of the wall and pray to God that the resulting explosion didn’t cause a hull rupture.
But as it was fated, it only took a minute to blow the floor plates, kill the outer guards, and destroy the track-guns. The latter was accomplished with several shotguns firing flechettes—large titanium darts—that demolished the weapons mechanisms and rendered them useless. Using a rocket launcher on the track-guns as called for by the lieutenant, Gagarin rightfully reckoned was absolute idiocy.
The resulting explosion would have not only bombarded the enclosed area in a lethal spray of shrapnel, but a scorching back-blast as well. It would have caused unnecessary casualties among his marines, which Gagarin would not stand for. It also would have amounted to a failed attempt to take the security room, leaving the operation in jeopardy.
Instead, only one shape charge was detonated, jamming the huge hatch open. Three squads of the Martian Marines then rushed in, leaving a single squad to hold the entrance.
The corridor took many short angle turns in a seemingly endless maze, but finally it opened into a long, broad hallway that ended in two-story lobby with a balcony. The hatch to the objective sat in the center of the lobby. It seemed innocent enough, but Gagarin halted the advance and took his time to scan the area.
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Lieutenant Sean Boid questioned in a loud and obnoxious tone.
Sergeant Gagarin’s gaze, however, did not break from the objective. “Because it’s way too easy, Sir. It’s a trap,” he informed the officer in a quiet and professional tone.
The officer took a moment to glance down the hall. “I don’t see anything.”
“You’re not meant to, Sir,” Gagarin became annoyed with Boid’s recklessness. “Does the lieutenant think that they would put up a large sign to advertise it?”
“Don’t sass me, Sergeant,” Boid found the excuse he was looking for. “It’s clear to me that you’ve lost your nerve. You’re not fit to lead! I’m taking over command, right now!”
But Gagarin was a harden soldier who had faced down incompetent officers before. “Over my dead body, Sir. These marines are not going to die for your stupidity, and neither am I.”<
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Boid’s face became red with both embarrassment and anger. “I have your stripes!” the officer threatened.
“We’ve both got to live through this for that to happen, Sir,” Gagarin turned his head to confront the officer face-to-face. “If you’re so damn sure it’s not a trap, why don’t your take a shape charge down there—by yourself—and prove it! Or has the lieutenant lost his nerve?” the marine sergeant insulting added.
Boid looked at the other marines and knew his authority to lead was in question. By their body language, they silently communicated that they would not follow him. Boid’s head then jerked back to Gagarin. The officer sneered with total contempt at the adversarial non-com.
Lieutenant Boid quickly reached over and grabbed a shape charge from another marine. The officer paused for a moment to give Gagarin one last hateful stare, and then dashed at a gallop down the long hall.
With his weapon in one hand and the explosive in the other, Boid valiantly charged the hatchway. His long strides thundered and echoed off the steel walls as he neared the other end of the corridor. So intent was he with placing the explosive that he never realized that he was experiencing “tunnel vision” from the rush of adrenaline. Boid never saw the upper wall panels that dropped, revealing heavily armed guards manning their steel bunker.
In unison, the Earthmen’s weapons fired, raking the marine officer with plasma bullets. Boid was literally cut into a dozen burnt pieces by the tremendous volley. What was left of his body fell to the floor, twitching and smoking in the aftermath of his death.