Gul Madrel paced back and forth in the command center—furious and afraid. He couldn’t believe that his defense force of almost two dozen starships had been destroyed so handily. And now even the surface defenses that had been so lauded by the base’s designers weren’t holding back the attackers. All he could do was hold out against the troops being landed and hope that the reinforcements he had requested four days ago would show up soon.

“Madrel!” The gul winced at hearing his name yelled by that blasted Vorta. Dahltenn had spent the last three days second-guessing every move, every order, Madrel made. “Madrel, what are you doing to repel these invaders?”

Sighing, he turned to face the Vorta who had just entered the room. “I was just about to order a column of Jem’Hadar and Cardassians to go out and eliminate the small units that have been landed here, here, and here,” he said, pointing to a map of the area around the garrison.

“What about all your mobile artillery?” Dahltenn asked. “Why aren’t you using it to shoot down the ships landing these troops?”

“Because,” Madrel began in a tone that he would normally use only on a newly commissioned glinn, “as soon as we make their presence known, they will be targeted and destroyed. We need to save them for a time when they will do the most damage—such as when they have a lot of shuttles in the air landing their soldiers.”

The Vorta harrumphed and walked away to study a nearby console, appeased for a moment by the answer. Probably thinking of new questions to challenge me with, Madrel thought. Now that the interruption was past, the gul returned to his previous preoccupation—his fury and fear. Despite the confident front he showed to the Vorta overseer, Madrel was worried about the big troop ship in orbit. Intelligence estimates said there was at least a division of Marines aboard.

Of course, he had two regiments of Cardassians and two more of Jem’Hadar, more than 22,000 soldiers at his command, which should be more than enough to hold out against one division of Starfleet troops until help could arrive. But, the Federation held the high ground, gaining complete orbital and atmospheric superiority over his forces. That meant that any force larger than a few hundred soldiers he sent outside the protection of his base’s impenetrable shields would be targeted and destroyed before they even got within sight of the enemy. While the Jem’Hadar could stay shrouded, his men didn’t have that luxury.

Suddenly, he realized there was another way to stay invisible. “Telakat,” he called out to his aide, who hurried to his commander’s side. Madrel said, “Do we still have the construction drills used to carve out the foundation for the garrison?”

“Yes, sir,” the glinn said, puzzled. “They’re in storage in the lower caverns.”

“Excellent,” Madrel said, rubbing his gray hands together. Finally, something might be going their way. “Come here,” he ordered Telakat as he walked back to the map of the base. He pointed to several areas extending out from the base’s walls. “Have three crews begin drilling out from the lower caverns in these directions. They’ll work around the clock if necessary, but I want them to have tunnels wide enough for three men to walk abreast and six kilometers long, coming up from underground here. When the Federation confidently approaches our walls, I want them to have a nice surprise waiting for them at their rear.” He smiled at the thought, and realized he was no longer so afraid the base would fall before reinforcements could arrive. But his fury was unabated, and he vowed that the Federation and Klingons would reap the harvest of the full power of the Dominion for stoking that fear within him.

Landing zone alpha
H+2 hours

“Lieutenant, movement to the front,” said First Platoon’s Chief Flahaut to Tony Martinez. The jamming of sensors by the Dominion had hampered their ability to scan very far from their position, but their tricorders were able to pierce through it for very short distances, perhaps 50 meters. Flahaut had been on the line—which had been pushed out about 300 meters from the LZ—with the rest of the platoon, but had run back to Tony’s position a few meters away where he was organizing the defense of the landing zone with his company chief.

“What is it?” Martinez asked the Marine.

“I can’t tell sir, but it’s big—spread out about 100 meters across our front,” the chief replied. “At the rate it’s moving, we should see them in less than five minutes.”

Tony tapped his communicator. “Martinez to Bezsh and Kilolo. First Platoon has contact to the front. Do you see anything near you?” Both officers replied in the negative, Bezsh adding that the squad guarding their rear had also had no sensor contacts. “Okay, send out scouts to see if they’re going to try an envelopment. I expect to be under fire in less than five minutes. Be ready to move north on my command to support.” Both platoon leaders sent their acknowledgements.

Motioning to Nik, Tony moved back up to the line, next to Kaftaro. “Ensign, order your troops not to fire until I give the command. I don’t want to give away our position too soon. In fact, I expect them to make probing attacks before they make a full assault.” The order was passed down the line.

Gripping his weapon tightly, Tony watched the trees intently for the movement he knew was coming. It would be a tough battle without much hope for immediate backup.

Meanwhile, three men down the line, company clerk Mark Wickham also contemplated the coming battle. Wickham had only finished his Starfleet basic training six months ago and then his recon training three months later, and was on his first field assignment. Well, “field” was a bit of a misnomer. As company clerk, Wickham was little more than a glorified secretary and “go-fer.” He spent most days sitting at a desk, filling out requisitions, personnel reports, and all the other paperwork that came down from Starfleet Command, divisional headquarters, or battalion headquarters for Lt. Martinez. Sure, once in a while, he got to take part in field training, but that was just to maintain his currency. They always repeated the phrase, “Every Marine is a soldier.” But afterward, they would send him back to his desk.

So now the war with the Dominion had started and every Marine was getting ready to be on the front lines. When this operation had started, Mark half-expected to be left on the starship to keep filling out paperwork as the rest of the company did battle with the Cardassians and Jem’Hadar. He was surprised and excited when the lieutenant had ordered him to prepare to airdrop with the First Platoon.

The slightly chubby fellow—that’s what happens when you spend all day behind a desk and not in training, he always said—had eagerly packed his gear and stayed by the chief’s side during the whole operation. During the first skirmish with the enemy, Wickham had been kept busy running messages up and down the line to the various squad leaders, and so he hadn’t been able to face the Jem’Hadar in battle. Now, though, he was right on the line, waiting for the enemy to show his face, so that he could finally see some action and defend the Federation from these invaders.

To his left, Chief Nikodouris suddenly crouched lower and looked along the top of his phaser rifle at something to the front. Wickham couldn’t see what the chief was seeing, so he kept scanning the area. Oh, right, he thought, it must be the trees moving over there. That doesn’t look right. Mark also lowered his head to the top of his rifle and sighted along the barrel at the area, waiting breathlessly for the order to fire.

The movement in the trees became more irregular, more constant. There was no mistaking the jumping branches and falling leaves for the wind, and it was moving closer. Very close, in fact. Way too close for Mark’s comfort. When will he give the order to fire? he asked himself. Just as Wickham was starting to think that Martinez had forgotten or didn’t see the enemy now only meters away, the communicator in his helmet blared, “Open fire,” causing him to jump and only belatedly realize what he was supposed to do.

Phaser bolts flew out from the right and left of his position toward the enemy in the front. The Jem’Hadar, realizing they had lost the element of surprise, began unshrouding en masse and firing their disruptors back at the Marines. Wickham joined in, at first carefully picking out each target, squeezing off a round, checking damage, and then firing again, if necessary. But he soon realized that the Jem’Hadar were coming faster than he could deliberately aim at, and besides there were so many that all he had to do was fire in their general direction and he would probably hit one.

Wickham began firing faster and faster, moving the barrel of his rifle back and forth slightly across the top of the old tree stump behind which he was taking cover. Then suddenly it was all quiet. The Jem’Hadar had pulled back and shrouded again. A few minutes later, from about 20 meters to his right, he heard a squad open fire with their weapons blazing, and then falling silent. The pattern was repeated several times all along the defensive line, the Jem’Hadar probing the Marines’ defenses, looking for weaknesses to exploit in their attack. Soon enough they would come in strength, no longer testing, but determined to slaughter the Starfleeters and overrun the landing zone.

Wickham looked at the chronometer in his helmet display. It had been ten minutes since the last attack. What are they waiting for, he wondered. After another three minutes that felt like three hours, Wickham was definitely itching for action. He suddenly noticed his fingers tapping nervously on the barrel of his rifle. With a conscious effort, he stilled them, but then he felt an immediate need to urinate. God, I wish…. He never got to finish the thought as disruptor blasts lit up the trees around them.

The Jem’Hadar were back and attacking with ferocity. At first, Wickham just kept his head down to avoid getting hit, but then he thought about the need for every phaser in the company to be firing back to defend their objective. Lifting his head just above the tree trunk, Wickham began firing at the advancing enemy. Now he could see that Jem’Hadar and Cardassians were mixed together in the attacking group. At least, the Jem’Hadar were unshrouded this time, probably to keep their Cardie allies from shooting them accidentally.

Wickham nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He whirled and saw Lt. Martinez kneeling next to him. “Mark, this tree is getting chewed apart. Let’s find better cover.” The thought of trying to hide behind a quickly disintegrating piece of wood overrode his fear of moving through the fire zone, and he crouch-walked behind the lieutenant who had already started moving. They stopped a few meters away behind a boulder.

To his right, Wickham saw a Marine collapse after being shot in the head. He didn’t know whether his comrade’s helmet might have saved his life, but the nearest soldier had already called for a medic and Wickham returned his attention to the fight. Up and down the line phaser blasts ranged back and forth, and Mark added his rifle to the fray. Next to him, Martinez issued orders as he fired on the approaching enemy.

Wickham noticed a trio of Cardassians edging forward in front of him, providing covering fire for each other. Carefully he aimed his rifle at the location where he expected the leading soldier to appear. As the grey-skinned soldier appeared from behind a tree, Mark fired his phaser, hosing down the whole area with multiple shots just to be sure he hit the enemy. In return, the other two Cardassians began firing precisely aimed shots at Wickham, forcing him to hide behind the boulder providing him with shelter.

Wickham shook with fear and adrenaline. Watching people get shot all around him, death crouched beside him like an old, unwanted friend. Phasers blasted all around, chaos reigning for the moment, the whole battle threatening to careen out of control. Chief Nikodouris had just arrived beside Wickham and seeing the wild look in the clerk’s eyes, leaned over to calm him down. “When war comes, every soldier wants to get in it to fulfill his purpose, but once it starts, every sane man wants like hell to get away,” Nik yelled above the din as he fired into the forest.

Mark took odd comfort in the strange words. He laughed, perhaps a little hysterical, and said in reply, “You’re a philosopher-warrior, chief!” Nik threw a brief wary look at Wickham to make sure the man wasn’t losing control. “Don’t worry, Mark,” he said. “You’ll do fine.”

Minutes later, the fighting seemed to reach a climax with worst taking place out toward the ends of the defensive line and then tapered off. Once everything was quiet again, Wickham breathed deep shaky breaths, trying to rid himself of the effects of the adrenaline. “What happened?” he asked Nik. “Where did they go?”

“Second and Third Platoons enveloped them,” the chief replied. “They have pulled back.” Wickham sighed deeply, wanting to close his eyes and rest for a moment now that the battle had passed. But Martinez tapped him on the helmet, and said, “No time to rest now. The first shuttles are coming in, we have to get ready to move out, and the enemy is still out there.” Mark just sighed again, this time with resignation, and levered himself to his feet to follow the lieutenant back toward the landing zone.