Cold Warriors

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  Aspen Mountain Press

  www.aspenmountainpress.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Clare Dargin

  First published in 2007, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Cold

  Warriors

  Clare Dargin

  Aspen Mountain Press

  Cold Warriors

  Copyright © 2007 Clare Dargin

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author's imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

  Aspen Mountain Press

  PO Box 473543

  Aurora CO 80047-3543

  www.AspenMountainPress.com

  First published by Aspen Mountain Press, July 2007

  This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-60168-050-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Editor: Nikita Gordyn

  Cover artist: Tuesday Dube

  Prologue

  Lt. Zale Melbyrne, of the U.S. Marines First Platoon Recon Squadron, climbed wearily out of his yellow Harsh Terrain Snow Tractor (HTST). It was his squadron's fourth check in an eighty-kilometer zone and there was no sign of the missing Expeditionary Team. Zale zipped his black parka, trapping the heat against his stout body. He pulled his hood tighter over his head and squinted as he pulled down his visor. Zale's eyes tried their best to cope with Tau Ceti's mid-day brilliance. The aging star's light shined brightly on the surface of the third planet in its system. Visibility was definitely at a premium.

  Zale's head turned reflexively as the HTST doors slammed, telling him the last of his five-member squadron disembarked. Ignoring the grumbling of his crew, he retrieved his binoculars and surveyed the terrain around him. He could barely make out any features on the plateau except for the occasional snowdrift that rose out of the ground.

  "It's too damn cold here.” A crewmember mumbled as he walked passed him patting his hands and rubbing his arms.

  Of course it's cold, he thought to himself. It's winter on this godforsaken planet. What did they expect on Tau Ceti Three? Hawaii? This place stays cold over eighty percent of the year.

  Corporal Ashtaroth approached him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the corporal waiting quietly. “What is it Corporal?” he asked while looking through his binoculars.

  "Sir, shall I start scanning?"

  "Yeah, go ahead. And tell Baker to get back inside the tractor to monitor the radio. And for godsakes, tell him not to turn off the damn engine! At this temperature, the lubricant will freeze and we'll never get that bloody thing started again," Zale grumbled to himself.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out an Implant Sensor Device. The palm sized gray rectangular box beeped as he turned on the homing beacon. A red dot and the number zero with the letters km appeared on the small screen.

  "Eight months out here, and six of which, no contact,” Zale mumbled while scanning the area with his ImSensor Device hoping the Expeditionary Team's implants sent out a detectable reading. “It'll be a miracle if they're still alive."

  He took a few steps forward. The snow crunched under his boots. He licked his dry lips and waved the ImSensor in front of him. It remained silent.

  "I'm not getting anything Lieutenant Zale,” Private First Class Kardel called from behind him. “Were they even given an implant?” he asked sounding unsure.

  He shook his head and ignored the question. Newbies.

  He and the rest of his crew had worked together for a long time scrubbing through miserable holes in one system after another looking for survivors. As a rule their very natures survived off of hope, and because of that it drew them closer together. Still, in order to stay on top of their game they had to be tough in order to survive where others couldn't. It seemed to him that his team was beginning to soften around the edges.

  "Of course they were,” Ashtaroth answered flippantly as she took out her ImSensor Device.

  "What do they do? And why don't we have ‘em?” PFC Kardel asked.

  Corporal Ashtaroth's boots plodded towards Kardel in the steadily hardening snow. “Implants are given mostly to diplomats and high ranking civil servants so they can always have access to information ranging from universal translators and radio communications to tracking their vitals and location. Because of this, military personnel as a rule, are not allowed implants. It compromises our basic need for stealth."

  "Yeah? Well, the E-Team's military and they got ‘em."

  "In a frozen Hell like this,” Ashtaroth quipped gesturing to the area around them, “exceptions are made.” She finished returning her gaze to the private.

  "Cut the chatter!” Zale barked. They were definitely getting soft, he figured. “Get your gear together and get ready to move out. Baker!"

  "Yes, Lieutenant?” he answered, peering from behind the tractor.

  "How's our fuel?"

  The fuel tank door squealed shut. “We got just enough to get back to the rendezvous point.” He placed an empty container inside the vehicle.

  Great, he thought and faced his team. “I guess this means we're walking. Stick together, keep the chatter down to a minimum ... this could be enemy territory."

  He tapped his ImSensor and barked, “Ashtaroth."

  Dammit. Where are they? We picked up their beacon on the ship. He hated the snow; freezing was a hard way to die.

  He was starting to worry but didn't want it to show. He knew the implants only remained viable for a short time after a person's death.

  "Yes Sir?” she answered over the whine of the tractor's engines.

  "Have you spotted anything?"

  Ashtaroth took two steps forward while adjusting her equipment. Finally giving in to her frustration, she hit the equipment a couple of times with her gloved hand. It beeped in agreement.

  "Yes Sir,” she grinned, “twenty yards dead ahead."

  "Baker, stay here and watch the vehicle. The rest of you move out,” Zale ordered.

  He and his team dashed ahead, awkwardly bounding through the deep snow. Suddenly he stopped and surveyed the area. There was a faint object in the distance. His ImSensor Device remained silent.

  He grumbled, “Damn thing isn't working."

  "I don't see anything, Sir,” Kardel remarked looking through his binoculars.

  Ashtaroth raised her scanner, “They're supposed to be right in front of us."

  The group looked around and saw nothing but gusting snow and giant drifts.

  "Bittan! Rambert!” He yelled, calling the names of the Expeditionary Team leaders. He could barely hear himself over the wind.

  No answer.

  "Bittan! Rambert!” he called again and walked over to Ashtaroth and examined her sensor.

  "The signal keeps bouncing off that snow bank,” she explained and pointed to a six-foot mound of snow.

  Zale took her sensor and walked toward the mound as
it beeped. The digital readout counted down to zero indicating they were at the point of the signal's origin.

  "Dig it out.” he said his voice anxious and tense.

  The crew scrambled to remove the snow, digging furiously with small shovels, whipping the powder into the frigid air. Zale dug as well, hoping they weren't too late. He knew his crew felt the same way. They all stopped when a black, narrow nylon tent was exposed. Its frozen peak stood stiffly in the blowing wind.

  Zale immediately looked inside. He hunched over, unable to straighten himself without bumping into the top. Even though the tent offered protection from the wind, it could not shield anyone from the bitter cold. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a flare and cracked the seal. A green haze illuminated the dark interior. He could see steam from his breath curl in front of his face. As he moved forward, his foot stepped on what seemed to be a hard stick covered with felt.

  Zale shined the light on the ground. His breathing accelerated with horror as he saw that he was standing on the arm of one of the team members. As he swept the light around the tent, three more bodies frozen in their sleeping bags came into view.

  "Jesus Christ,” Haywood whistled behind him while peeping inside the tent.

  "Good God,” Ashtaroth gasped while poking her head inside next to Haywood's.

  Zale turned to Ashtaroth, “Cover the tent.” He tried to control his breathing. “We'll leave ‘em here."

  Disappointed, he stepped out of the tent. They hadn't arrived soon enough. When he and his crew landed in the wee hours of the morning, he guessed there would be no survivors of the team. He didn't know them personally, but still it hurt to find a fellow soldier dead on a rescue mission.

  That's a Helluva way to go; he shook his head and stared at the blue sky.

  The whining of the snow tractor interrupted his thoughts.

  "Baker, I told you to stay put,” Zale yelled over the rising wind.

  Baker opened the driver's side door and handed him the round mouthpiece to the radio.

  "Yes Sir, but I've got Echo One,” he explained.

  He grabbed the mouthpiece annoyed that the brass onboard the USS Blanchard was already checking up on him. “This is Echo Two over."

  "Fishing any good?” The voice crackled coming out of the speaker in the dash.

  "Got a bite but had to throw it back,” Zale licked his lips. He was starting to get thirsty.

  "Too small?"

  "Negative. Extinct. Is Beta a go?"

  The radio went silent, and he waited patiently for a response.

  "Negative. That's a negative. Abort. Say again, abort. Radar shows a storm is coming your way. Over."

  "That's an affirm, Echo Two out."

  Zale slammed the tractor door. Ashtaroth approached him and saluted.

  "Sir. We're all finished. Should we set up camp?"

  He looked at the mound of snow that contained the soldiers’ final resting place. A tiny American flag jutted out of the mound flapping wildly in the breeze.

  "Negative. Prepare to move out,” Zale directed quietly.

  "Sir, may I ask why? Haywood thinks there might be rock formations about twenty clicks out."

  "No.” He looked at Ashtaroth and pointed at the tent. “Because if we don't move, we'll end up like them. Remove the colors."

  Ashtaroth cocked her head.

  Walking passed her, he threw his shovel into the back of the HTST. He stopped and noted her disappointment. “CIC says a storm's coming.” The safety of his crew came first and foremost in his mind. He did not want them to end up like the E-Team.

  "Aye, aye. Sir.” She nodded and ordered the crew to move out.

  Feeling the need to say something over them, Zale ambled to the snow mound and said a silent prayer. He bowed his head and whispered, “May the Lord give you peace."

  He tended to his crew, determined to beat the in-coming storm.

  Chapter One

  Six Months Later

  Corporal Jackson peered at his monitor. The atmosphere of the Combat Information Center (CIC) aboard the USS Blanchard was tense. Jackson ignored the cacophony of sounds emanating around him as he tapped the buttons on the keyboard and checked the screen again. A small dot flashed in the grid system on the monitor and ordered the carrier's Advanced Radar to identify the type of object that flashed in the middle of the screen. The computer beeped sending a diagram of a ship rotating on the monitor. Satisfied with the results, Jackson nodded to himself, leaned back in his chair and sighed.

  It's time to tell someone.

  He glanced around the CIC for his Tactical Action Officer, Commander Webb, but didn't see her. He saw Colonel Medoro Keegan, his Executive Officer (XO), instead. Disappointed, he flipped on the communication switch of his micro-headset. He'd forgotten that today the captain of the ship and her second in command were in the CIC rather than on the bridge where he thought they belonged.

  War is Hell, Jackson thought. Too bad Webb isn't here. At least she wouldn't get overly pissed about finding another drifting ship.

  "Sir,” Jackson spoke into his micro-headset, “I've located a ship in the Foxtrot vector."

  Very well,” the second in command responded. Even over the headset his voice sounded intense.

  Jackson asked the computer to scan the markings of the ship and to note any hailing frequencies. He read the computer's response as it scrolled across the screen.

  No hailing frequencies available at this time.

  As the computer continued to scan the ship they were approaching, more information scrolled across the screen.

  Probably another medical drone ship just drifting. Jackson's thoughts were interrupted by the XO.

  "What is it, Corporal?” Colonel Keegan asked standing behind him with his arms folded. He barely interrupted the stiff creases in his khaki shirt.

  "Sir,” he said startled, “it appears to be a medical drone.” He always felt that his best wasn't good enough whenever he spoke to Keegan.

  Keegan leaned over the corporal's shoulder in order to get a better look at the screen. “Any reply?"

  "No Sir. There isn't even an automated return signal."

  "Life support?” Keegan frowned slightly.

  Corporal Jackson furiously typed the keys again. The word Nominal appeared on the screen.

  Keegan stood up. “Keep monitoring the ship and let me know if the status changes,” he ordered

  "Aye, aye Sir.” Jackson nodded.

  Colonel Keegan walked to the center of the room. His six foot-two inch, lean muscular frame made him appear formidable as members of his crew moved out of his way. His salt and pepper hair and intense facial expression made him appear older than his thirty-eight years; unfortunately time and many battles kicked any innocence from his bright blue eyes.

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  He stopped in front of the captain of the ship, his Commanding Officer, Major-General Ruthanne Hollis, and stood at parade rest. It was his job to tell her that they had found yet another medical drone ship. She was not going to be pleased. He waited patiently while General Hollis spoke to Lieutenant Weller, the on-duty Tactical Officer.

  General Hollis’ graying bun bobbed up and down as she spoke. He had served under her for two terms on this carrier and respected her as a leader and a friend.

  "You tell the CAG that I said the mission is a no go and that he should get that squadron back here on the double,” she warned in raspy voice tinged with a southern accent and a tiny lisp.

  Keegan tried to hide a knowing smile as he heard her go on about his friend the CAG—the Commander of the Air Group. Obviously he was up to something again and it didn't sound good.

  "Yes Ma'am,” Lieutenant Weller acknowledged, nodding her head.

  "Carry on.” General Hollis nodded and turned to him.

  The lieutenant walked away talking into her micro-headset.

  "What d'ya have Colonel?"

  "An unidentified ship in the Foxtrot vector.” He wondered why he was in the CI
C and not on the bridge. Then he remembered he was there because his CO wanted him to be there. She had a hands-on approach to command. She believed that being in the CIC was like being in the heart of the ship and its operations. If you were away from it for too long, you lost sight of its life pulse. Keegan tended to agree, though during times like this he'd prefer to be somewhere else.

  "More frozen stiffs?” Hollis asked relaxing in her chair.

  "Looks like it, Ma'am."

  Hollis shook her head. “Didn't they bury anybody back then?” Keegan held back a grin and didn't answer.

  "Did the scan come up with anything?"

  "No, Ma'am. Nominal life signs, not even an automated hailing signal."

  General Hollis frowned. “Send a team over there and get SAT-COM on the horn. I wanna know why the Blanchard's being turned into a frozen coffin."

  "Yes Ma'am.” Keegan nodded.

  "And Keegan, S.O.P. on this one. You never know what you're going to run into."

  "Yes, Ma'am. Standard Operating Procedure always."

  Hollis eyed Keegan with displeasure. “If only I can get that into your friend Max's thick skull."

  "Ma'am, the CAG is a little eccentric."

  "Walking around with your underwear on the outside of your pants is a little eccentric. The CAG is bordering on insubordination."

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  Several hours later, Keegan entered the infirmary. He noticed the ship's surgeon, Major Anthony Bishop, intently studying a clipboard chart and laughing. Keegan approached the chuckling doctor.

  "All right doc,” Keegan folded his arms. “What's the verdict?"

  Bishop closed his clipboard. “Well,” he turned to examine one of the new arrival's stats on a health monitor, “we've got nine arrivals, three of which don't have a body and six that do."

  "Any viables?"

  "Not counting the Jack-o-Lanterns?” Bishop quipped scratching his balding head.

  Keegan nodded ignoring the crack.

  "Four with hospital standard equipment, two with what we have here on the ship and three we'd need a specialist.” Bishop grinned.

  Keegan looked at the doctor curiously.