Federation Fan Fiction

A Planet Too Far

Chapter Twelve

©2001 Domenico Bettinelli, Jr. All Rights Reserved

1 kilometer from landing zone alpha
H+3.5 hours

Tony lay in the mud, peering into the display being projected on his helmet’s visor. His tricorder showed him that there was no enemy nearby, but then he didn’t have a way to detect shrouded Jem’Hadar yet. The regiment’s intelligence platoon had directed his recon company to eight possible locations of transport inhibitors surrounding the landing zone, and Martinez had split his command into its three component platoons to track them down. Traveling with First Platoon, he had carefully approached the first location.

The area looked unremarkable, just like every other section of the forest they’d been in. The trees grew closely together and the underbrush was clogged with fallen logs, broken stumps, and tangled ferns. Beneath it all was a thick layer of dense mud and moss that seemed to suck at everything it touched. To add to the unpleasantness, some kind of parasitic flying insect, not unlike a particularly obnoxious variation on the mosquito, constantly buzzed around the soldiers, looking for some exposure to bare skin.

The sunlight dappled through the overhanging branches throwing a patchwork of shadows on everything below, doing an effective job of providing natural camouflage for the Marines. Martinez was looking intently at the area to the front when Nik nudged him and pointed. There were the two men that had been sent forward to scout out the location. Crawling up to their platoon leader and company commander, they reported in.

Jaime Heredia spoke first. “I think we’ve found it, sir. It’s disguised as a tree, but I haven’t ever seen a tree with a power signature,” he said with a grin through his helmet’s face shield.

The other Marine then piped in, “One problem, though. I saw evidence that somebody’s protecting the beam blocker. We didn’t dare get too close, but some of the foliage surrounding it was distorted and depressed as if something were laying on it.”

“Jem’Hadar,” Ens. Asir Kaftaro intoned. Tony kept his mouth closed, letting the young officer lead his platoon and make the decision. “Chief, tell Bravo Squad to circle around to the left, Charlie Squad to go around to the right, and Delta all the way to the rear. Alpha will go in from the front, engaging first. Echo will remain here to act as support. Once Akpha has the enemy occupied, the other three squads will attack in an envelopment. And tell Kibish that I want him to fire a tetryon pulse launcher at the inhibitor as soon as he has a shot.”

“And after it’s destroyed?” Platoon chief Flauhaut asked.

“We disengage from the enemy and rendezvous at …”—he checked his map display— “… point 3245 Golf. Our mission is to destroy the inhibitors, not to get bogged down in a fight.” The young man looked to his superior officer, seeking approval for his plan.

“That’s right, Asir. We need to get rid of all the beam blockers as soon as possible.”

The soldiers dispersed, Flahaut going off to inform the squad leaders of the plan, and minutes later all was ready.

Tony decided to follow Alpha Squad, lending the three rifles of the command section to their attack. They moved forward in the mud, over and under tree trunks, moving in two lines, the two fire teams of four next to each other while the platoon leader and the chief, along with Tony, Nik, and Wickham, supported them from behind.

The inhibitor lay low in a gully ahead and as they approached the rim, they came under fire. The squad stopped, finding any available cover. As the squad poured phaser beams down upon the target, Tony took a quick count and determined that they were facing less than ten Jem’Hadar. With 50 Marines attacking their position, the fight should be over quickly. Right on time, the other two squads joined in and the gully became a grinder as phaser blasts chewed up everything in there. From Bravo Squad’s position, a large weapon fired and a pulse of energy leaped out and hit the large “tree” standing in the center of the gully. It exploded with a satisfying whump and a burst of sparks and shrapnel and then one fewer transport inhibitor stood in the way of the division’s landing.

Asir was about to order the disengagement when Charlie Squad abruptly began taking fire from their rear. Tony heard the confused calls over the company frequency. “All Squads, Charlie is taking fire! Move to support!” he yelled even as he began running across the gully, past the burning beam blocker, and up the other side. As he reached the top, he met Charlie Squad coming over the side as fast they could. Marines tumbled over the lip of the hill, some dragging the bloody bodies of their squadmates.

Martinez glanced over the edge, firing blind at anything that might be there. Raising his head up as little as possible, he saw a group of Cardassians advancing on them, jumping from covered position to covered position. Nik had dropped to the ground next to him. “Charlie took three casualties, one dead; the other two need evac,” Nik said.

“Dammit,” Tony cursed. “Why didn’t we see them coming?”

“I don’t know,” the older man replied. “Maybe they were coming for a normal reinforcement and just stumbled on us. I don’t think they could have hidden from our scouts up here.” That was the one thing about war that Tony hated; despite all the best planning, sheer chance or fate could sometimes screw up things royally.

“Let’s give Charlie time to get their guys out to the rendezvous and then we’ll pull out. As soon as we do, I want you to call headquarters and have a transport meet us to bring the injured back for evac.” Nik acknowledged the order. The four remaining squads kept pumping fire into the advancing enemy. Finally, when Tony determined that Charlie Squad had been given enough time, he ordered the retreat.

A half-dozen Marines lobbed grenades over the edge and then the whole group pulled back, running for cover on the other side while Echo Squad provided suppression fire from the far edge. Tony splashed through a deep puddle of mud and water, stepped on the body of a Jem’Hadar, and scrambled up the now-torn up side of the gully. Breathlessly, he reached the far side and turned to see that all of his soldiers had made it with him. A pair of Marines struggled with the burden of one of their comrades. Tony wasn’t sure whether the man or woman was dead or alive.

The Cardassians had reached the far edge of the gully by now and had started firing on the retreating Marines. Simultaneously, a half-dozen Marines lifted tetryon pulse launchers to their shoulders and fired into the enemy position. In the resulting chaos, the recon platoon slipped away.

Tony moved quickly through the forest—running was too dangerous—heading for the rendezvous, the platoon all around him, squads mixed together incoherently from the chaotic firefight. The platoon chief would sort that out that later, he thought.

Fatigued dripped from Tony’s limbs. He had been on the go almost constantly since the landing had begun … only three hours ago? It seemed like a lot longer. But there was no time to rest now. With one transport inhibitor down, there were several more to go before the mission was done. Wearily, Tony hefted his phaser rifle and set off to get in front of his men and lead them into the coming battles.


A Jem'Hadar fighter on patrol. Image courtesy of Andrew Hodges.

Assault Command Center (ACC)
USS Nobility, Majesty Class troop transport
H+4 hours

“That’s the last of the transport inhibitors,” announced Captain Ariszdag, the chief of staff for the 8th Division. The Tellarite stood next to the master situation display table. Just seconds before, the last graphic indicating a suspected beam blocker went dark. “Recon just destroyed it. We can begin beam downs.”

Admiral Sri Ganudi leaned his short, stocky frame against the table, his powerful arms supporting him. He waited a moment, considering the momentous change in the battle, looking at the status reports streaming in on one side of the display. Finally he said, “Order the transport to begin. Tell the regiments to begin advancing as soon as they have their lead units in place.”

Across the table stood a tall, middle-aged blonde woman with a long-braided ponytail down her back. Rear Admiral Nicole Johansen, the second in command of the division, spoke up, “What’s the status of the support elements?”

Rear Admiral Diana Sanchez took that question. As commander of the divisional support group, it was her responsibility to oversee all aspects of logistics, including the transport of the division from ships to surface. “Once beam transport picks up a steady pace, we’ll start sending the artillery down in the shuttles. Engineers will start with beam transport and the rest will follow on shuttles. The logistical tail and the air wing will be the last down. I expect the transport of all elements to be done in the next five hours.”

“After that we’ll fortify the beachhead and move my flag to the surface, at LZ alpha,” Ganudi said. The admiral preferred to lead his division from as close to the front as prudent. Sitting in this antiseptic command center, all of his Marines were nothing more than graphics on a screen. But on the surface, he’d be able to hear the sound of weapons fire and see his troops moving about. That visceral connection was vital to his sense of the flow of battle and would help him as he made decisions that affected the lives of thousands of Starfleet troops.

“Where’s our forward line of advance?” Ganudi asked. Looking at the situation map, he saw the 172nd, 52nd, and 438th Regiments organizing in their landing zones, making the first forays forward, like the spokes of a bicycle wheel heading toward the hub, the Dominion garrison. It was vital that the regiments move out in force as rapidly as possible to avoid getting trapped there by the coming Dominion counterattack. And that counterattack was guaranteed to be coming.

Ariszdag answered the admiral. “The 172nd has two companies of a battalion about 1 kilometer north of their landing zone, the 52nd has moved out one company, and the 438th has two companies forward.”

“That’s not enough,” Ganudi growled. “Speed up the landings. Give priority to line companies. I want them down in the next hour.” He could feel it in his bones; the Dominion was coming.

Dominion garrison
H+6 hours

It wasn’t hopeless.

Madrel had to keep telling himself it wasn’t hopeless. The garrison would hold out and reinforcements would come and the Starfleet forces would be smashed between the hammer and the anvil.

No matter that a score of starships had been beaten off or destroyed, that his fighters had been swept from the sky, that his anti-orbital artillery had been hunted down and blasted with precious few shuttle shot down in return, that his forces hadn’t been able been able to repulse the Marine landings. He would prevail, simply because he had to.

Because the alternative was death. His own death.

As the gul examined the situation map displayed on the wall of the command center, Cardassian aides rushed from place to place, intent on their duties, courageous despite the strain visible on their faces. That was the face of duty and courage. This was what a warrior looked like.

On the other hand, the Jem’Hadar stood in their places around the room, as impassive as statues. No intensity, no fear, no passion, no bravery. Like machines waiting to be ordered into action. Mere killing machines—designed and bred by the Founders to carry out a task which happened to be destruction and mayhem. They were efficient—Madrel would give them that much—but they were not warriors and never would be.

“Madrel, your incompetence never ceases to astound me.” The Cardassian tensed as Dahltenn entered the room. He had contemplated naming his throbbing headache after the Vorta because it always seemed to come back whenever the blasted toady entered the room. “Here the Founders have given you all the resources of the Dominion and you cannot seem to hold this outpost against the Federation. You are pathetic,” the Vorta said, almost spitting out the last sentence. “I’m starting to think that what we need most is a new commander.”

“Look,” Madrel began with a roar. He suddenly realized his precarious situation and tried to calm down some and be civil to the Vorta. Despite his aggravating personality, Dahltenn did command the Jem’Hadar in the garrison and could technically remove Madrel from command. In a more normal tone of voice, but still grinding out each word between gritted teeth, he said, “We have requested reinforcement from Central Command. This garrison is well-protected and well-stocked and we can hold out against a concerted assault for some time.”

Sensing the Vorta was about to protest an overly defensive outlook, Madrel preemptively interrupted. “And I am implementing a plan to surprise the Starfleet ground forces when they come in range of the garrison.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about your tunnels,” Dahltenn said dismissively. “But what about these native villages? Is there some way we could use them against the Federation? Perhaps if we used them as shields. Move up the Fourth Column into this village south of here and when the enemy forces moving from the south approach the location, we can fire on them with impunity from that position. They wouldn’t dare strike back if they knew innocents would be hurt.”

As annoyed as he was by the Vorta, Madrel could see the sensibility of the plan. They had, in fact, sited the garrison in this location for that very reason. With several native population centers nearby, he had known that Starfleet would not risk injury to them in an all-out assault on the garrison. To ensure the success of the plan, he’d had to order troops into the villages to make sure the people stayed put and didn’t try to escape to a region away from the garrison.

“That is a sensible plan. I will order it to be done,” Madrel said. “And I will order Phase Two to be implemented as well.” The Vorta smiled. “Yes, of course. We should do that while there is time.” Phase Two would bring groups of the natives into the garrison itself, in special cells in the walls where Federation sensors could pick them up. Any direct attack on the walls of the garrison would kill the innocents first. They literally would become living shields.

“But first,” the Vorta said. “I want you to order a counterattack. Have the Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Columns attack the landing zones.”

“That will not work. They are too entrenched now and we won’t be able to drive them off the surface,” Madrel protested.

“I don’t want to drive them off,” Dahltenn replied in a pedantic tone. “I want to inflict casualties. I want to slow them down. I want the Federation to have to fight centimeter by bloody centimeter for every single meter of land so that by the time they arrive at the walls of the garrison, our reinforcements will have arrived and what remains of their forces will be crushed into dust.”

That was twice in the past few minutes the Vorta had surprised Madrel with his tactical sense. Perhaps he wasn’t so useless after all. But as he ordered the Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Columns into battle, Madrel couldn’t help but notice that the three units ordered into the meat grinder were all-Cardassian units. They would suffer horrible casualties in that strung-out battle, while the Jem’Hadar troops remained well-rested and protected in the garrison. It galled him to think that it was once again Cardassians who would bear the brunt of the damage while the Dominion’s vaunted killing machines stayed comfortably behind.

And with that thought the “Dahltenn” headache returned full-force to torture Madrel once again.

Chapter Eleven
Chapter Thirteen
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