At 4 hours into Captain Wallace's assault, Major Tarik and the 28th MEF approached the asteroid from which the Son'a had been raiding New Canada. The asteroid was codenamed Thermopylae for its strategic position between Son'a space and the Federation colony.
Hopefully we don't have an Ephialtes in the ranks...Tarik thought as he glanced at the readouts indicating the distance to the target was closing.
"'And even more honor is due to them/when they foresee (as many do foresee)/that Ephialtes will turn up in the end, that the Medes will break through after all,'" Tarik quoted.
"You officers read too damn much," John Hartman replied. He didn't have to know early 20th-century Earth poetry to know that Tarik was concerned. He had stepped back into the cockpit of the Hawke armored personnel transport. Within the hold, from where he came, were twenty Marines alternately swearing, praying, and putting up displays of bravado. By Tarik's special request, Lieutenant Paul Deveraux was piloting this, the lead transport. Five more followed, similar displays taking place aboard each.
"Let your people do their work, Major. This isn't a squad or even a platoon action--you can't control everything. Let your noncoms take the load. When we get there, they'll do you proud!"
"I expect they will, Gunny, or you'll be waiting for them at the gates of the underworld to let them know exactly where they screwed the pooch!" Tarik smiled.
"Now you're getting the idea!"
"Ze shuttle escort report zhat ze shield generator iz offline!" Deveraux reported, his Cajun accent thickening as the target approached. A modified group of Runabouts engaged and destroyed the base's shield generators with cuncussion bombs, enabling the troops to land and subsequently tasking the squadron to cover the landing of the Marines.
"All right--Sparta Six to all elements! Report!" Tarik snapped over the comm.
["Sparta Six, this is Sparta Five. Clear for landing at LZ Normandy."]
["This is Sparta Four--all clear for landing at LZ Inchon!"]
["Sparta Three--all clear for landing at LZ Iwo Jima!"]
["Sparta Two--all clear for landing at LZ Da Nang!"]
["Sparta One--all clear for landing at LZ Kwajelin!"]
The landing zones were in a roughly circular pattern around the base. Sparta Six--Tarik's landing craft--was to land at LZ Dunkirk, closest to the creche complex. The idea was to draw in the Son'a perimeter guards, then allow the landing craft and their troops to attack the perimeter as it fell back to reinforce the main complex. Meanwhile, the Runabouts would fly cover, preventing any Son'a ships from taking off or entering the combat zone.
Dunkirk was the riskiest of the landing zones, which is why Tarik wanted to land there. He couldn't see risking less-experienced troops on what was likely to be the most suicidal part of this mission.
"Tree hundred meters to touchdown on Thermopylae...two-fifty...two hundred..." Deveraux read off from the altimeter. The ECM gear aboard the transports had served them well; the landing, following seconds after the Runabout attack, was completely unexpected. The Class M star that was Thermopylae's primary cast an eerie blood-red glow across the landscape, presaging what was to come.
Or so Tarik had thought. The transport rocked violently as a Son'a heavy weapon blasted one of its engines.
"We've lost ze portside engine! Loozeng altitude!" Deveraux shouted over at least a dozen different alarms.
"All hands brace for collision!" Tarik ordered.
The Hawke transport slammed down to the rocky surface of the asteroid, landing in a ravine where it rolled for what seemed like an eternity before finally hitting the bottom.
Tarik could see nothing but a pea-green haze before his eyes, then he blinked. He'd cut his forehead; blood had momentarily gotten into his eyes. "Sound off, people!"
"Corpsman down! We've got quite a few people busted up back here, sir!" Hartman yelled back.
Tarik clambered over the wreckage inside the transport. The corpsman was, indeed, down, and would not be getting back up. Her head had been crushed.
"Do we still have comm capability, Lieutenant?"
"Yes sir. Sparta One transport has discharged its troops and is heading to our position!"
Okay, let's get the wounded out of here. Then we continue on mission, Tarik thought.
The transport designated Sparta One arrived a few seconds later. "All right Marines, let's do this by the numbers! Anyone not hurt?"
Five Marines, not including himself and Hartman, were still mobile. Deveraux also was unhurt.
Nice start, Tarik. Out of twenty-one, you've got thirteen killed or wounded already! "Stretcher detail--on the double! The longer that transport's down, the more vulnerable it is!"
The eight of them, and the pilot of Sparta One, loaded the dead and the wounded aboard the transport quickly. "Get my people back to 901!" Tarik ordered the pilot, a Starfleet ensign just barely out of the Academy. Most of the experienced pilots had gone with the fleet attack; Tarik was lucky to have gotten Deveraux.
"But sir, that will leave no air cover for Kwajelin!" the pilot argued.
"Tell me something I don't know! Get the hell out of here now, ensign!" Tarik snapped.
The transport dusted off and turned around, speeding toward the station.
"Lieutenant, grab a rifle. We're filling the hole," Tarik ordered Deveraux.
Deveraux, a gleam in his eye, quickly snatched up a phaser rifle and a bandoleer of grenades.
"Squad, fall in! We've got about a half-kilometer to get to the base! Grab all the equipment you can carry and let's double-time it!"
The scratch squad, Tarik at point, trotted out.
Tarik had turned on his tactical helmet to full-input mode, so he could monitor the progress of all the other landing zone. LZ Inchon had been particularly nasty--that was the one closest to the shield generator; they had maintained 50% casualties but were proceeding toward the complex. One of the Runabots had been shot down; Tarik ordered troops detailed from LZ Normandy to locate the pilot. Despite the loss of one of the Runabouts, however, the landing force now had air superiority over the Son'a base.
One thing in our favor right now, Tarik thought. Do I pray the gods for another?
The difficult thing about travelling on foot on an asteroid is the closeness of the horizon. The horizon can seem to be just a few meters away before the ground drops off. Surprises can be rather sudden under such circumstances. There were bare seconds between the time Tarik saw the gun emplacement guarding the airlock the team had planned to use to enter the base.
"Fall back, dammit! Deveraux, how good are you with those grenades?"
"Watch zhis!" Deveraux said, activating the grenade. He tossed it with a gentle underhand. It sailed slowly toward the gun emplacement. The Son'a, not able to elevate their heavy weapon to eliminate the threat, abandonned their position as the grenade obliterated it. Two of the Son'a weren't quite fast enough.
"Beautiful!" Tarik exclaimed. Then, a moment later--"Here they come!!!"
Four Son'a rushed the oncoming squad, the gravity plates in their boots allowing them speed not normally possible in the asteroid's practically nonexistent gravity field.
One managed to get a shot off from his sidearm, hitting one of Tarik's Marines. Despite the armored environment suit the man wore, the disruptor shot slowly burned him to a crisp.
Tarik took special pleasure in making sure that particular Son'a suffered greatly. He lowered the intensity on his rifle, ensuring that Private Shujumi's death was properly avenged.
Hartman, having just dispatched two of the attackers in slightly less dramatic fashion, looked over at Tarik. "You're one crazy son of a bitch, you know that?"
"Thank you," Tarik replied in a deadpan manner.
The entrance to the base--what appeared to be a vehicle ingress/egress--lay before them. The door had been partially blown open by the grenade. Partially, but not quite wide enough for the Marines to enter. Fortunately, a pedestrian entrance wasn't far away.
Deveraux produced a tricorder and bypassed the airlock's security mechanism, allowing the party to enter. Thirty seconds later, they were on the other side.
"According to ze data we obtained, ze breeding creche is 200 meters in zhat direction," Deveraux said, pointing to the left.
Tarik consulted his helmet readout. Sparta Three had also penetrated the station.
"Sparta Three, this is Sparta Six, do you copy?"
["We copy! We're under heavy fire but we're in the base!"] the platoon leader reported, his remarks punctuated by phaser and disruptor fire.
"We're the relief--let's mount out!" Tarik ordered as they negotiated the corridors, heading to support the platoon.
They arrived to see a group of newly-generated Jem'Hadar clones attacking Sparta Three. The Marines of Sparta Three were holding their own but were unable to advance. Four dead Marines lay in the center of the large room--a warehouse--where the battle was taking place.
Sergeant Szymanski and the Marines of Sparta Three were ensconsed in the warehouse, taking up positions in and among various shipping containers. The containers provided something in the way of concealment but not much in the way of protection. One had exploded, taking two troopers with it.
The clones were well-armed and had been bred with all training built in. However, they were only a few hours old and lacked experience. They didn't expect to be outflanked. Two grenades and several phaser bursts later, Sparta Three had been relieved.
"Sir! Am I glad to see you!" Szymanski announcd. The rest of the platoon cheered.
"Never mind that," Tarik responded. "What are your casualties like?"
"Nine dead, four wounded. We lost our corpsman, sir," the sergeant reported.
"They're awfully good at finding the medics, I notice," Tarik replied. "Lieutenant, until one of the other units shows up, you're the closest we've got to a corpsman. Get to it!"
"Aye, sir," Deveraux replied. As science officer, he had some knowledge of combat medicine--maybe not enough, but more than anyone else in the area had at the moment.
"Sergeant, do you still have your demolitions expert?"
"Yes, sir. Juran--get your butt up here!"
"Corporal Juran Dex reporting as ordered, sir!" Juran saluted as he came forward. He doesn't even look old enough to enlist! Tarik thought. But with Bajorans it's usually better to ask no questions.
"At ease, Corporal. What do you have with you now?"
"Three large damage packs, thirty kilos of Composition Delta, and four directional mines, sir!"
"Bring all of it. You and I have a creche to destroy! Gunny, I'm transferring command of this expedition to you. If neither I nor Juran is back here in 30 minutes, sound a retreat and evacuate. Get my people home, but not before you stomp as many of these unholy bastards as you can on the way out!"
"You can count on it, sir!" Hartman said, looking at the freshly-killed clones.
Tarik and Juran moved through the corridors toward the Jem'Hadar creche. The resistance had started to die down; most of the Son'a troops were either dead or otherwise occupied at the moment. Tarik monitored communications through his helmet. All of the platoons had made it into the complex; the butcher's bill was now at thirty-eight dead, twenty wounded. They meant business, I'll give them that, Tarik remarked to himself.
The guards outside the creche were neutralized quickly by a couple of high-intensity phaser blasts. No time for artistry here, Tarik thought as he eased off the trigger. Using his phaser again, he managed to get the door open. And that was the end of the rifle--the charge was depleted.
"Corporal, do you have another charge cell for this rifle?"
"No, sir; I'm just about out myself."
"Then I guess we'll have to use these," Tarik replied as he picked up one of the guards' disruptor rifles. Juran did the same.
"Okay, Juran, it's your detail now. Get those explosives down as quickly as possible--some of those chambers look almost mature!"
The room was filled with two hundred and fifty vertical transparent chambers, each containing a Jem'Hadar warrior in a stage of development ranging from a near-microscopic embryo to a nearly fully grown warrior. Tanks nearby contained gametes--sperm and eggs from male and female Jem'Hadar long since bred into extinction. Tarik walked over to the computer controlling the process. The entire system was automated, from the proper combination of genetic factors to the care and development of the clone warriors to the education and final outfitting of the legion.
Juran, meanwhile, was setting up his charges--precisely spaced to take the maximum possible advantage of the blast. Not one of these chambers was to survive! Just 100 grams of the Composition Delta properly applied, would be enough to destroy a small armored vehicle.
So this is the face of evil, Tarik thought looking at the computer that masterminded the creation of the clone army. Somehow I thought it'd look more like me, he said as he took aim with his rifle and blasted the main screen. Alarms began going off as the computer sparked and exploded.
"All right--the charges are set, sir! I've got them on ten minute delay!"
"Let's get out of here, then!"
The two men began running down the corridor toward the warehouse area when Tarik saw a figure ahead of him take aim with a weapon.
"Major! Look out!" Juran said, shoving Tarik out of the way. As he did so, Juran took the disruptor burst directly to the chest. He screamed as his body was slowly consumed by the beam.
Tarik did not take long to gather himself, blasting the Son'a trooper with his rifle. The Son'a disintegrated instantly. Far better than you deserve, asshole! Tarik thought.
Tarik had served with Bajorans long enough and extensively enough to know the one thing above all others the family of Juran would insist upon. Reaching over the body, Tarik found Juran's earring. It was almost impossible to remove the earring without removing part of the ear.
As Tarik performed this grisly chore, he heard a female voice: "TARIK!" He turned to see a ghostly white apparition--and behind it, a Son'a taking aim with a weapon.
Tarik brought his rifle around and clubbed the Son'a's disruptor pistol out of his hand. The Son'a then drew a knife.
"Oh, so you want to play rough, eh?" Tarik said to his enemy. The Son'a rushed toward him with blinding speed. The two men struggled, both of Tarik's hands firmly around the Son'a's knife hand. These guys are strong! he thought as he struggled to keep the knife from his chest.
The two rolled around on the deck, until Tarik finally was able to force the Son'a onto his back. He could feel the point of the knife puncturing his environment suit, somehow slipping between two of the segmented armor plates. Tarik pulled up quickly and delivered an upward palm strike to the Son'a's chin. The Son'a's head snapped back, his neck breaking audibly.
Tarik saw a large puddle of blood on the deck beneath him. Not purplish Son'a blood. Green Romulan blood.
Oh, shit! he thought as he collapsed.
Tarik woke up aboard one of the Hawke transports. "You're lucky Vulcan synthetic blood works on you!" Deveraux told him. "Had Hartman not decided to go back for you you'd have gone up wit ze rest of ze base!"
"Did...did we win this one?" Tarik asked.
"Oh, yes! We won this one bigtime!" Hartman said, smiling. "When the breeding creche went up, it took about half the base with it! Lieutenant Deveraux says the asteroid itself nearly split apart as a result!" Behind him Tarik could hear cheering; up in the cockpit, he recognized the voice of Ensign Mel Carter, one of the new Runabouts pilots assigned to the station. He had met him before the strike as to what his group would be doing.
"The final count?"
"Don't worry about that right now, sir. You're still pretty torn up, and we've got a piece to get to 901," Hartman replied. "Xerxes and the Immortals aren't getting through this time!"
"Beg pardon?"
"Oh, come on! I may be just another dumb grunt but I've read my Herodotus! I just don't go advertising it like all you Academy types do!"
Tarik laughed, grimacing as the pain shot through his chest. "Get some rest now--you'll need it for ze party later!" Deveraux laughed as he administered a hypospray of neomorphine.
"If you see Kassia, Lieutenant, tell her our date is still on," Tarik said as he drifted off. Deveraux grinning and shaking his head was the last thing he saw.
Mr. and Mrs. Juran Dari
Juran Family Estate
Dajur Province
BAJORWe deeply regret to inform you that your son, Juran Dex, was killed in the line of duty while serving the Federation and Bajor. You may be honored to know that Corporal Juran distingushed himself well in his final action, that his actions were directly responsible for ending a threat to a Federation colony and that he was killed in the act of saving the life of his commanding officer.
To this end, Corporal Juran Dex has been nominated posthumously for the Federation Medal of Valor and for promotion to Sergeant. While this is of course no consolation or compensation to you in the loss of your son, it is hoped that you will appreciate my personal regard, and that of the Federation, for the character with which you imbued your son. He was, to the end, a credit to his family, his race, and his homeworld.
You have my deepest condolences. May the Prophets guide you in your time of mourning.
Respectfully,
Major Tarik Commander,
28th Marine Expeditionary Force
Starfleet Marine Corps
One down, forty to go, Tarik thought. He hated writing these letters, but he always made it a point to write them himself, rather than let some desk jockey in San Francisco who really didn't know what it was about do the job for him. It was bad enough that yet another desk jockey, along with a counselor, would deliver the letter for him.
The after-action report listed forty-one of one hundred twenty Marines killed in the Battle of Thermopylae; another thirty-two wounded. It had been a heavy price, but not nearly as heavy as Tarik had predicted. Considering we were fighting a numerically superior force, outnumbered seven to one, I'd say we're damn lucky!
Because of the nature of many of the deaths, most of the bodies could not be recovered. This galled Tarik--Marines never left their own behind, not since Agamemnon's triremes hit the beach before Troy.
After the last of the letters had been transmitted, and the personal effects accounted for and prepared for shipment, Tarik decided these brave beings had to be remembered. There were no patriotic photo ops for this battle, no heroic press releases. Just grunts doing their jobs, and doing them magnificently. The result was a huge crater on a tiny asteroid in the middle of an area of space nearly impossible to navigate. And a colony that would never ever again be harassed by the former inhabitants of that asteroid.
Upon applying some thought, Tarik thought of something appropriate. A replicator order later, and he had an engraved marble plaque:
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O STRANGER PASSING BY, GO AND TELL THE SPARTANS THAT HERE, FAITHFUL TO THEIR BIDDING WE LIE
IN MEMORY AND TRIBUTE TO THE 28TH STARFLEET MARINE EXPEDITIONARY FORCE
17 April 2384 - Stardate 61295
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Below that were the names of the forty-one Marines who didn't come back.
Tarik had no idea what he'd do with the thing. Maybe New Canada would want it; somehow Tarik doubted that. Civilians were notorious for becoming ungrateful once the shooting stopped. Perhaps Starfleet Command might want it? Or maybe this was just a dumb idea. He returned the plaque to the pattern buffer, its program still in storage, awaiting a proper place and time.