15 March 2019 – Peace Prosper

The machinery of death stood on the edge of the sea.  The sky erupted with unrelenting sound and steel, sent forth from the last armada of a dying age. The Tomahawk missile, the burst and thunder, the ignorance, hatred, envy, plunder.  Just one last dance to the drums of destruction.

The inhabitants of Peace Prosper made ready their shores for battle.

In question, an idea… human liberty.

Hovercraft Marx held on deck a platoon of One Earth marines.  Marx was one of five hovercraft in the hold of landing ship H. Clinton, which was one of 30 ships bombarding the wayward town.

“Captain, aren’t we offering terms of surrender?” asked a kid.

“No.  Committee must want this town Nagasakied…” hollered the captain.

Another burst of munitions blasted from the big guns of One Earth’s Pacific Battle Group.

“… Commander Chase won’t surrender anyway.”

“Commander Chase?!” screamed the kid.

That name pitched a wave of panic through the entire platoon.

“He’ll kill us all!  I didn’t sign up for this!” said one.

“I was conscripted!” protested another.

“You pussies? Or Marines!?” barked the captain. “This landing party is 20,000 strong!”

“But the Black Knights are bullet proof!”

“They have the sign of the devil on their shields!”

“I heard they’re not human, Captain!  That true?”

“Quiet! Settle down!” Captain Crosby had heard the stories too. Firsthand, from men who faced the Black Knights in firefights. Lucky men who bled enough to be retired, but not quite enough to die.  “This door is coming down, boys.  In a few moments we’ll be looking into the eyes of the enemy.  I don’t give a shit about how fast they can move, how high they can jump, or if they bleed green or not.  I only care about who we are, what we bring, and whether or not we fight like Marines.  Our objective is to wade up on that beach and take the statue in the center of the square.  That is our mission, our purpose, perhaps the last thing we’ll do in this life.  But make no mistake.  We will deploy.  We will face the enemy!”

No one spoke.  Hostile looks from a few of his men triggered an instinct in the captain.  He pushed his way to the aft of the vessel.  He would make sure not to let any of these men see his back again.

“Any objections?!” he posited, with his pistol drawn.

There were none spoken.  The troops had all got the memo after the One Earth Committee took control of the fleet.  Nicknamed the ‘Enthusiasm or Death Memo’ to those it affected, ‘Directive 767′ stated, ‘… and to ensure the enthusiasm of our military personal in the attainment of crucial military objectives, superior officers are granted the right and responsibility to expediently arrest, punish, or execute any enlisted person who questions authority, refuses orders, or stops forward motion toward an objective.’

With trepidation, the men watched the doors of landing ship H. Clinton crank down.  The town of Peace Prosper lay before them, idyllic.  The Statue of Human Liberty blazed in the midday sun.  Marx was launched unceremoniously into the blue sea and began humming forward with scores of other hovercraft… like the Romans unto Carthage… the Huns unto Rome… the Orcs and Uruk-hai unto the fortress of Helm’s Deep.

“Shouldn’t we shell them for a while longer before we beach?”

“Don’t shit your pants.  It’s just a little town.”

A tremendous volley of concussion opened up behind the Marx.  The marines looked eagerly ashore for the expected results of the 2700 pound projectiles from the big 16 inch bore guns.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing but a sudden wave, a dramatic rise in their craft.  One by one they turned to acknowledge the horrific reality: the armada, whence they came, lay smoking and listing, every ship.

All eyes were on the captain.  He spared one furtive look at the other hovercraft; all were still moving forward.  Captain Crosby swallowed his own dread and began to evangelize for his life.

“Julius Caesar had his entire fleet burned!  The Romans conquered the whole of England because victory was their only chance of survival.  Forward motion is our only choice now, men.  For…”

Now the guns of Peace Prosper opened up on them, muting the Captain’s oratory.  A near miss landed short; another zipped above their heads.

“Forward, Marines!” screamed the Captain.  But his battle cry had shrunk to the voice of a mouse within the minds of his followers.  They feared the enemy more than Directive 767.

“Captain!” One of the conscripted men turned around suddenly.  “Please, Sir!  We have another choice!”

A pistol round to the face silenced the dissenter and raised the ‘enthusiasm’ of the platoon.

“Forward!”

Other variations of this conundrum played out on every hovercraft.  Some craft had stalled and some officers lay face down in the sea.  But most pushed forward into the slaughter, one by one exploding under the percussions of Commander Chase. Parts of men flew in all directions.

One mile out, the hissing of the smaller, higher velocity projectiles filled the air.  The impacts they made, through meat and metal, lowered enthusiasm, increased the incidents of mutiny.

The Marines kept their heads down.  One of Crosby’s conscripts looked over at the dissident.  ‘I’m sure O’Donnell is dead by now,’ thought Blake.  ‘Mother Earth, his eyes are still open, not looking, but not not-looking neither.  I’ll be dead soon too.  Matter of seconds.  Black Knights or Captain Crosby — either way, dead! Dead?  What the fuck!?  Captain will shoot me if I look back, if I ask a question, if I jump overboard, if I don’t run like hell up that beach.  I’m a fucking dead man either way.  I’m 18, Mother Earth, never even fucked Jana Bishop yet, and I’m fucking dead!  Mother, give Captain a .50 cal in the forehead.  One .50 cal in the forehead.  One fucking round in the fucking forehead Mother, sorry for cursing, but one fucking round Mother, and I’ll turn this boat around.’

“Be a good time to kiss your earth,” shouted Crosby.

Wimbley, a pale faced kid, pulled a clay talisman out from around his neck and kissed it. “Return to the soil,” he chanted. “Return to the soil.”

“You are more than dirt, kid,” said the man next to him.

“We are One Earth,” said the kid.

“I am not one earth.”

“What are you then, Geranski?”

“Geranski,” shrugged Geranski.

“No,” said the kid. “Yer dust. All of us are dust.”

“For a moment though…”

Geranski stopped speaking as the kid’s head was knocked clean off by a .50 cal round.  The kid behind him too… officially missed out on the pleasures of Jana Bishop.  One by one, the men looked over their shoulders, but no, Captain Crosby stood there still.

“Ready your weapons!  When we hit the beach, it’s a sprint to our objective!”

The Statue of Human Liberty stood over Peace Prosper.  Drawing closer to it, Geranski became awestruck at an unknown quality. The creators had constructed it of steel with a gleaming chrome exterior.  It was of two humans.  A proud Somali man offers his hand for shaking; over his back is a battle rifle.  His other hand is around the waist of a beautiful Somali woman, encircled and protected by his strength.  She smiles and accepts a gold coin falling into her palm.  Her other arm offers you entrance to the city.  Geranski became fixated on some words inscribed below these figures which he could not read from this distance.  He wanted to know what they said before he was dead.

Hovercraft Marx hit the beach and the front gate dropped down.  The 27 living Marines were greeted with .308, .50, and a rocket propelled grenade to boot. 27 dropped to 19.

“Go! Go! Go!” the captain screamed, and they pushed forward into the thrashing wind of lead, charging like madmen toward the gleaming goal; 19, 16, 12….  They rushed the beach under the diaphanous cover of prayer. One glanced up and screamed.

“Blacks!”

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