The Infinity Brigade 2: Stone Hard Read online

  The Infinity Brigade #2

  Stone Hard

  Copyright 2017 by Andrew Beery

  Kindle Edition, v1

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank my wife Lori and my two daughters, CJ and Jackie, for putting up with me while I wrote this next book in the Catherine Kimbridge universe. Any similarities between people in this book and my immediate family and friends is purely intentional. Of course, I wouldn’t be much of a pastor if I didn’t acknowledge God – to Him be all the glory!

  NOTE from the author

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  Contents

  Chapter 1: The No-Win Scenario…

  Chapter 2: Don’t Mess with the Mess…

  Chapter 3: Etiquette …

  Chapter 4: Earth for Earthers…

  Chapter 5: Hard Choices…

  Chapter 6: Donalites…

  Chapter 7: GCP Puller…

  Chapter 8: Pickled Parts and a Ship named Kara…

  Chapter 9: Ceres…

  Chapter 10: Big Barney …

  Chapter 11: Door to the Donalites…

  Chapter 12: Capture …

  Chapter 13: Olanda Prime …

  Chapter 14: The Plan…

  Chapter 15: On the Road to Utopia Planitia…

  Chapter 16: GCP Heidman…

  Chapter 17: Mister Tinks…

  Chapter 18: Bait…

  Chapter 19: Talus IV…

  Chapter 20: No Plan Survives Contact With The Enemy…

  Chapter 21: Ollies …

  Chapter 22: Out of the Pan… into the fire…

  Epilog: Demotion…

  Epilog… Six months later on a world called Modos

  The Infinity Brigade #2,

  Stone Hard

  ~~~

  Author’s Note: The events described in this book closely parallel those told in the Catherine Kimbridge Chronicles. However, they follow a different character and the reader need not have read the Catherine Kimbridge series in order to enjoy this series. That said, if you want to know more about the events that are occurring, the reader is encouraged to check out the Catherine Kimbridge Chronicles as well.

  Chapter 1: The No-Win Scenario…

  A General in the United States Army by the name of William Thornson once said “There are only two kinds of people that understand Marines: Marines and the enemy. Everyone else has a second-hand opinion.”

  I’ve come to believe the General was wrong. I say that, because no enemy in his right mind would remain the enemy of a Marine… if… he truly understood the Marines. Of course, the universe is filled with crazy people and in my occupation I got to meet more than my fair share of them.

  One such group was a terrorist organization called the Donalites. Their name apparently derived from the Irish Donal meaning world ruler. A product of a twenty-first century racist movement, they promoted the belief that all of Earth’s problems had their roots in interactions with alien cultures. Their agenda was a very simple one. Earth for Earthers. I would discover that they would say anything, do anything, and hurt anybody… basically go to any length… to force their will on the rest of humanity. Unfortunately, as I learned with a race called the Ollies, it turns out bigotry is not a solely human failing.

  My name is Commander Anthony Grant Stone and this is a piece of my story.

  My life since Marine Boot Camp, at New Parris Island on the Moon, and my stint at an abbreviated Officer’s Training School has been… in a word… interesting.

  I’ve met numerous other races. I’ve fought to preserve their right to exist and enjoy the same basic freedoms as any intelligent being. I’ve even dated a young lady or two… or three.

  I thought I had my life squared away. I liked being a Marine and I was good at it… or so I believed. Two years after I graduated OTS I was promoted to Lieutenant. With greater rank comes greater responsibility. I was given command of a small contingent of Marines on a planet located seven hundred and ninety six light years from Earth.

  Olanda Prime was a pleasant little world… it was filled with an oversized carnivorous muskrat-ferret like race called the Ollies. They were friendly and curious and generally good company.

  As I said, Olanda Prime was a pleasant little world… except for the civil war it was about to fight. On this little planet, in the middle of nowhere, I would finally learn what a no-win scenario was all about and it would change my life forever.

  To fully appreciate this chapter in my life, I’ve got to take you back a few years. I had just graduated with highest honors from Marine Boot Camp at New Parris Island.

  ~~~

  JJ Hammond was a close personal friend. That simple fact probably saved his life. Had he been a stranger, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have ended his miserable existence on the spot.

  We had finally graduated from Marine Boot Camp and were enjoying the traditional ten day leave to rest and recuperate. Many of our platoon had headed back to Earth and their families. My family was the Corps so I had decided to spend my leave on the moon… specifically at Tycho City.

  I was in the rather pleasant company of a young lady… I’m using the term lightly because ‘lady’ was not a term people typically used to describe a combat trained and lethal Marine… named Judy ‘Jay’ Jansen. I had promised her a date and a steak during a training exercise on Mars and she was holding me to that promise. Things had gone well and we ended up spending most of our leave together… some of it even outside of the small hotel room we had rented. Did I mention the date had gone well?

  This was our last evening of leave and we had decided to splurge. We were at a particularly intimate restaurant called the Cat-in-the-Hat about to enjoy a romantic dinner for two… and then perhaps a final round of dessert back at the hotel. Things were going great and I was looking forward to a wonderful evening… then JJ showed up.

  Now I have no problem with JJ being in the same restaurant. It was a big enough place. My issue was where he chose to sit. I spotted him first as he entered the eatery. He was in the company of several other people including several very fetching young ladies. I tried not to make eye-contact but he saw me anyway and headed straight over to our table.

  “JJ,” I said in what I hoped was a dry and uninviting tone.

  If he picked up on my hint he gave no indication. He sported a wide grin. “Bloody hell… if it isn’t my best bud and his gal! How ya’ doing AG, Ensign Sir?”

  I returned his fist pump and smile. I was still hoping to salvage the situation. What can I say?… I was young and foolish. I should have known better.

  “I’m doing just fine JJ. Just enjoying a final ‘private’ dinner with a beautiful young lady.”

  JJ whistled. “If the young lady doesn’t mind my saying so… she cleans up damn nice.”

  Jay nodded
her head slightly by way of acknowledgement. I had to admit, JJ was right. Jay looked stunning. She wore a metallic blue-silver dress that hugged her tight in all the right places… and she had a generous supply of ‘right places’.

  She was one of those women who was petite and curvy at the same time. Her body was that of a toned and fit Marine and yet had retained those special soft places a man tends to enjoy. Add to that she was one of the smartest people in the current list of recruits and you had the complete package. Only Gretchen Highmark could give her a run for her money in the intelligence or looks department… and as it turned out they were fast becoming the best of friends.

  “So,” JJ said as he pulled out a chair, “Do you guys mind if we join you?”

  “Please don’t,” I said at the same time Jay said “Please do.”

  “We?” I asked reluctantly.

  JJ pointed in the general direction of one of the women he had come in with.

  Jay smiled again and said, “We’d be delighted to have you join us. I’ll call the waiter to let him set two more places.”

  JJ waved his guest over to our table. It was only when a big bruiser named Jim Hansen stepped around the ladies in question that Jay and I realized that the two joining us were not a couple. From that point forward the night took a decidedly awkward turn.

  Four Marines on the last night of leave in an establishment that serves alcohol was not a recipe for a calm evening. All I know is I awoke the next day with a tattoo that I don’t remember getting and a hangover I wish I didn’t remember.

  That wild evening would be the last time I would see some of my new friends for months and in one case years. The hard work of becoming the best Marine I could become began again.

  ***

  I don’t know what Officer Training School or OTS was like in the past or what it was like for other Marines. The road I took was admittedly an unusual one. Very few Marine Officer Candidates received brevet appointments to the rank of ensign while still in Book Camp. I was one of those lucky few. I’m told that it was because of unusual aptitude but I rather suspect it is simply an expression of the universe’s perverse sense of humor.

  As I was joining, mid-stream, a class of officer candidates that were many months into their training, the class would most certainly know more than I did. In addition, most if not all of the OTS Officer Candidates had been marines for a number of years. All of them held the actual or honorary rank of E7 Gunnery Sergeant. This meant I was by far the youngest and least experienced. To keep up I would have to work smart and I would have to work hard. In my admittedly limited experience in this life, I found that people tended to either work hard or work smart but rarely both.

  OTS for me was a nine month course at New Parris Island followed by six weeks of additional on-the-job-training ‘Practical’. In many respects OTS was the same as Boot Camp. There was the physical training, the academic training and the leadership training. For me, the biggest difference was the academics. I loved them. If I could figure out a way to spend all my days in school and still get to play with the big expensive machines that go boom… I would do it in an instant.

  Professor Demetri Marcus was the reason for this. The professor taught military history with a specific emphasis on strategy in the face of overwhelming odds. He was a short man who flaunted his civilian status by wearing white sneakers, dark pants and a bright red Hawaiian shirt. He sported an immense white beard that made him look like Santa Clause on vacation. His first lecture dealt with a dragon. Who doesn’t like to hear about dragons? I knew I was in for an interesting time.

  “How many of you have heard of the ‘Dragon of Albania?’” Doctor Marcus asked us. Did I mention that Doctor Demetri Marcus was a short balding Russian with a thick accent? He had a perpetual twinkle in his eye that made you wonder what he was thinking.

  I didn’t see a lot of hands going up. I had heard of the person to whom the professor was referring… the man had been a general who had fought the Ottoman Empire. I debated raising my hand but held off. I was reluctant to share what I knew just yet. Now understand, this was not some sense of false modesty on my part nor was this some desire to remain under the radar, as it were, but rather a desire to see where others were in the class. This was my first day of OTS and I had joined a group of officer candidates that had been working and studying together for many months. In addition, while they held the rank of Sergeant, I still held my brevet rank of Ensign. This alone made me stand out.

  In the end, what I wanted didn’t really matter. The good doctor turned to me and put me on the spot.

  “Perhaps our newest classmate can enlighten us? Yes?”

  I cleared my throat. “Sir, I took an elective in college on Military History. The ‘Dragon of Albania’ was a nickname for a European general named George Kastrioti Skanderbeg.”

  “An accurate, if somewhat sparse, answer. Would you care to enlighten us further?”

  ‘No,’ I thought to myself but continued out loud none-the-less, “He was the youngest son of an Albanian lord. In the early 1400s he was taken as a hostage by a sultan of the Ottoman Empire by the name of Murad. He was forcibly converted to Islam and trained as a soldier. He demonstrated exceptional ability and was eventually promoted to the rank of general. His conversion to Islam was feigned, however, and he eventually turned on his captors. He led a massively outnumbered army and yet for several decades he managed to come out ahead in every engagement he and his men faced.”

  “The second.”

  “Sir?” I asked confused.

  That twinkle in the professor’s eye intensified. “He was taken hostage by Murad the Second.”

  I thought about it a moment and then nodded my head. “I stand corrected Sir. You are right. It was Murad the Second. The man also took George’s older brothers all of whom died under Murad the Second’s tender ministrations.”

  Professor Demetri Marcus nodded. “And do you know why the Dragon was successful?”

  “He knew when to fight,” I speculated.

  “True,” the professor answered, “but remember, he was ultimately defending his homeland of Albania. He didn’t have the luxury of closing the hatches and setting a hyperfield jump-point for someplace safe while he licked his wounds. Home was home. Sometimes we go to the war – yes? … Sometimes the war – she comes to us. The smart military commander is prepared for both eventualities. The Dragon, he was a very smart man.”

  I heard the professor’s words. I thought I understood them. It would be several years before I fully appreciated them.

  ***

  One of the biggest differences between Boot Camp and OTS were the sleeping arrangements. Rather than being billeted in an open dorm with 30 of your best buds… Officer Candidates shared a room with one other Marine. This presented a special challenge for me as I was joining a well-established class. Most of my classmates were already paired up. In point of fact, there was only one Marine who was currently living in quarters by himself. His name was Franklin Hamilton O’Ryan McGinnis. To this day, I have never heard anyone - not even his mother, call him that. His friends and enemy’s alike called him Duffy.

  Duffy was a big muscular man. Marines tended to be like that… I’m not sure why. He was one of those guys who never learned the meaning of the word quit. He was smart without being brilliant. He was fast without being the fastest. What he did better than anybody was stick with it. He never backed down. He never gave up. This held true for every aspect of his life… from the Marine obstacle course to drinking beer in a bar.

  In fact, it was this last that I later learned was the source of his nickname. Apparently he liked his beer and he had a particular fondness for peaches. For those of you that are unaware, peaches and beer make a powerful, explosive and unpleasant combination… ergo the nickname Duffy. This might, also, explain why he was in quarters by himself. It made for an interesting nine months.

  Chapter 2: Don’t Mess with the Mess…

  Mid-way through my second week
we were paired up and given a planning exercise. Duffy and I were one such pair. We had twenty-four hours to devise an operation to take the mess hall from alien intruders that had captured it. If we succeeded… we got to eat. If we failed we either had to negotiate for terms or starve to death.

  Duffy and I sat in our quarters sipping beers and plotted our options using the electronic smart surface on the only table in the small room. I had a floorplan of the mess hall and surrounding area displayed. I used my hands to rotate the image. Part of me knew this was a waste of time. If there was a solution to this conundrum, it wasn’t going to be found in such an obvious approach… unless of course that was the objective of the exercise… force us to consider the obvious. I shook my head. I suspected it was the beer talking.

  The mess hall had only two access points. The front doors and an entrance through the kitchens. We knew from the intelligence reports that Doctor Marcus had provided that we could expect some two hundred alien defenders. This meant we were facing 100 to 1 odds. I pointed this out to Duffy.

  “It will be like shooting fish in a barrel,” he laughed.

  I had never heard this particular turn of phrase before so I was not exactly sure how it applied. I did sagely point out that in this specific case the fish could shoot back.

  “What we really need to do is find out what we don’t know. When facing this level of opposition, knowledge is potentially a force amplifier,” I added.

  Duffy took another deep draw on his beer. This was his fourth. The nice thing about the medical nanites that flowed through our veins… it was nearly impossible to get drunk for more than a minute or two at a time.

  “What do you suggest?” Duffy asked as he finished the bottle.

  That was the problem. I didn’t have a suggestion other than to say we needed to know more in the hopes that the information we gathered would suggest an approach for securing success in the face of daunting odds. The one area where Duffy and I were of a like mind was when it came to defeat. That was something for the enemy to experience… not us… not ever.