The landing zone—which had been a peaceful meadow only hours earlier—had been transformed into a hive of activity with shuttlecraft landing and taking off, delivering soldiers and equipment. Martinez knew the same scene was being repeated at the two other landing zones as well. This was a critical time, when the landing was at its most vulnerable. With many transport inhibitors still active, the landing operation had to use shuttles and those little ships were vulnerable to anti-orbital artillery and enemy fighters. And until the division had landed enough troops to hold the landing zones, a concerted counter-attack could defeat the whole assault.

As Tony weaved his way through the organized chaos, directed by zone control officers so that he didn’t accidentally step underneath a landing shuttle, he knew that his place was at the front of the regiment, watching for any counterattacks, or tracking down those remaining inhibitors. But the regiment’s commander had summoned him for new orders and he had quickly moved to comply.

Now that substantial pieces of the regiment’s first company had landed, Tony had been able to bring his own company together as one unit again and they sat in front of the regiment’s proposed line of advance, chomping at the bit, waiting to move forward.

“Martinez, over here.” Tony saw Captain Justin Lamont, the regiment’s commander, waving at him from his command flitter. The hover vehicle was a specially equipped combat craft carrying extra communications equipment, computers, sensors, and displays that allowed Lamont to coordinate the activities of his regiment, even if it were spread over a whole continent. Martinez jogged over to the open door and presented himself.

“Lieutenant,” the tall, craggy-faced veteran began, “I don’t have to reiterate what we need from you—recon our front, clear out or mark obstacles, and so on—but I do have a special need. First, I want you to work with the intelligence platoon and find those damned transport inhibitors. We need to start beam downs as soon as possible, because the Dominion is not going to let us just fly in troops willy-nilly all day long.” Martinez just nodded at the command, knowing further response wasn’t needed from him.

“Second, once we’re ready to begin our advance, I want you to move immediately ahead to that native village. Find the closest thing they have to a political leader and then get him to move those people out of there. I don’t want to have to shift my line of advance or allow the enemy to use those people against us.”

“Sir, just to be clear, how does the Prime Directive apply here?” Martinez knew what the answer would be—the actions of the Dominion had already polluted the normal course of development for these people and landing a full division of Starfleet Marines was likely to compound the problem. But Starfleet could still ask for its on-location officers to minimize the damage; an order which, in Tony’s opinion, would put both the natives and the Federation personnel in unnecessary danger.

“I understand your question, Lieutenant,” Lamont answered. He began speaking formally, as if for the record in case any hearing into the matter was held after the war, assuming they all survived. “Mr. Martinez, you are to take all appropriate actions to safeguard the lives of the natives of Callessus III, the lives of Starfleet personnel, and the objectives of this operation, in that order. You are not to use force upon the native population unless attacked first.” Several other officers had just run up to the busy regimental commander, waiting for his attention, so he finished, “Keep me informed of your progress. Now go find intel and get rid of those inhibitors for me.” The captain turned away, dismissing Tony abruptly.

Martinez found the intel platoon a dozen meters away, getting themselves in order after having just been landed by a shuttlecraft. Tony approached the lieutenant who seemed to be in command.

“I’m Tony Martinez from Recon. Captain Lamont sent me to work with you on getting rid of those transport inhibitors,” he said to begin. The harried woman looked up quickly at him and then returned to the padd in her hand.

“I wish I could help you, Lieutenant Martinez, but I have a quarter of my platoon on the planet and only a fraction of my equipment. We’re still trying to get ourselves in order, never mind looking for transport inhibitors.”

Tony was incredulous. Here they were in a battle zone fighting for their lives—he had just come from another death-defying firefight—with the destruction of those inhibitors being high on the list of things that could better the odds and this woman was worried about getting everything in order. He wanted to yell and shake her, but he decided on the diplomatic, but firm approach, although what he said next came out of his mouth very undiplomatic growl.

“Look, Lieutenant …” He waited for her to supply her name which she did, “… Kosik, I will help you with anything you need to begin scanning for those beam blockers, but the life of this regiment depends on getting rid of those things soon. I—no, we can’t wait for you to get organized.” Kosik just stared for a moment at this intense Marine who carried on him days’ worth of dirt and body odor and other people’s blood. He knew he must look like quite a sight to her. But her training and common sense took control and she saw Tony’s point immediately.

“You’re right, Martinez. I’m sorry.” She called to one of her subordinates, “Chief, let’s get the sensors unpacked right now. We need to find those transport inhibitors immediately.” Tony thanked her and told her he would rejoin his company and wait for her to call him with the locations of the inhibitors. A sudden explosion high in the sky above interrupted him. “What was that?” someone yelled. Tony had a sinking feeling and knew what it was. “That’s a shuttlecraft. The Dominion’s decided to roll out their artillery.” And he knew that he had to bring those inhibitors down as soon as possible, and perhaps even faster than that.

A Viper of the 23rd Interceptor Squadron escorting an Akyazi Class patrol ship
along the Romulan Neutral Zone before the war. Image courtesy of Andrew Hodges.

Above landing zone alpha
H+3 hours

The third wave of shuttle landings was proceeding on schedule, and Becca Cuddihy was beginning to hope against logic that the Dominion wouldn’t attack the vulnerable shuttles at all. The Cardassian fighters had been all shot down or chased away and the orbital artillery hadn’t shown itself. Perhaps the recon teams or the orbital bombardment had destroyed them already.

“So far so good,” Rich Founaux said from the back seat. “Mother hen hasn’t lost a single chick.”

“Don’t jinx it now, Rich. We still have a lot of escorting to do and until the division can start beaming people down we’ve go to stay vigilant.”

Rich waved a hand at her and returned to his scanning. “Oh, you’re such a pessimist, Becca, you should …. Uh, oh,” he said, interrupting himself. His console had just lit up an alert that sent a chill through him. “Tiger Four to all flights, we show phaser lock from ground-based weapons. Take immediate evasive action.” As the shuttles and fighters began to break in all directions, a blast of energy from the surface impacted one of the shuttles, causing it to explode into flaming pieces falling through the sky.

One part of Becca’s mind added up the death toll—a Type 12 drop shuttle carried 3 crew and 20 passengers—but another part distanced itself from the emotional impact and began to calculate a way to save the rest of the flock under her protection. Rich had already begun to triangulate the position from which the artillery had been fired. Before they had a chance to react another phaser blast lanced up from the surface from another location, and then suddenly the sky was full of anti-orbital weapons fire.

Juking left and right, up and down, Becca heard her squadron commander begin to coordinate a counter-strike against the ground fire. “All Tiger Flights, begin a run on that artillery. Jaguar Flight, stay with the shuttles and keep an eye out for enemy fighters.” Becca hadn’t thought of that; maybe the artillery fire was a prelude to a coordinated ground/air strike on the landing force.

“Rich, give me a target,” she called out.

“Got it; coming through to your console.”

The target appeared on her flight control panel, and Becca sideslipped the Viper and angled down through the clouds in a steep dive. Glancing quickly at her displays, she saw Tiger Five, her wingman Lt. j.g. Rodolfo Terragno, was stuck on her wing. They quickly slipped out of the clouds and Becca saw the hilly terrain laid out before her and the location of her target projected on the canopy in front of her by the computer. Evidently, the Cardassian or Jem’Hadar operating the artillery now realized she was coming for him because the phaser lock was shifting to her.

Becca leveled out just a few meters above the treetops, trying to present the most difficult target possible for her enemy. She was so low, in fact, that every few seconds she heard a sizzle and felt a bump as a few taller treetops struck the edge of her shields as she flew overhead. She popped up and down as she followed the hilly terrain and slipped left and right to avoid the closer shots.

“Target in range,” Rich said.

“You take the shot. I’m too busy flying here,” she said through gritted teeth. It took all of her concentration just to keep the fighter out of the trees and away from the weapons fire. Rich tapped the phaser controls on his console and the golden beams shot out from the roll bar mounted above and behind the cockpit. Beam after beam flew out, hitting the forest in front of them, lighting up a distant but closing hillside, but still the enemy fired back. Abruptly, an explosion rocked the hill and a fireball engulfed the trees there. Becca pulled up as they passed over the destroyed artillery.

“Find me another target,” she said tersely. Again, another target appeared on her displays and she turned for it. Looking quickly around, she saw other explosions light up the nearby hills as the rest of her squadron attacked the ground weapons.

Minutes later, Becca and her wingmate were circling the hills, fires blazing in various spots below them. After the recent intense activity, the sudden cessation of fighting startled her. “Anything, Rich?” she asked.

“That’s it, I think. I’m not scanning any more artillery sites. Either we got them all or the rest of them decided discretion was the better part of valor.”

Becca breathed deep. Two things pilots of lightly armed and poorly shielded shuttles feared the most were enemy fighters and anti-air artillery, and so it was the Viper pilots’ job, in their shielded, armed fighters, to protect their vulnerable brethren. Although at least one shuttle had been lost, the quick action by her squadron had saved many more lives.

“Tiger Flights, rejoin the formation for return to orbit,” she heard the squadron commander call over the tactical frequency. The shuttles had finished debarking their cargos of people, equipment, and supplies and were now clawing their way back into orbit. And the fighters were being called back again, still recovering from their battle with the artillery, to protect those shuttles. Then, when those shuttles were fully loaded, they would do it again. And again. For hours, they would fly until the whole division had been safely deposited on the planet.

After that, the Vipers would be re-tasked and the mission would change from escort to close air support. Becca got tired just thinking about it. But then it could be worse. She could be slogging around in the mud.