Greenies

Chapter 11

MPG Base, Eden

July 24, 2146

The office of Major Frank Jorgenson overlooked the flight line. Down below, on the floor, ground crews were busy doing pre-flight inspections on a group of Mosquitoes that would soon be launched on a training mission. Up above, Jorgenson himself, commander of the 27^th Attack squadron, was sitting behind his small desk, his Internet terminal showing a screen saver of vaguely pornographic images. Standing before the desk, dressed in his uniform shorts and T-shirt, was Brian Haggerty.

Brian was not in the least bit happy. "It's bad enough that you took Rendes away from me after we'd been flying together for almost two years," he told his commanding officer. "You already know how I feel about that."

"Yes, Haggerty," Jorgenson said with a sigh. "We've been through that quite enough I think. We had to break up the experienced aircrews so we could pair up some of the newbies with the veterans. That's all there is to it. Rendes is now in the 24^th."

"I'm down with that," Brian said. "Like I said, I don't like it, but I've accepted it. But what you've done now..." He shook his head angrily. "I'm sorry, Frank, but it's just not acceptable."

"You would be referring to your new sis, I assume?" Jorgenson asked dryly.

"Of course I'm referring to that! Did you think I was talking about the fucking food in the mess hall?"

Jorgenson let the impertinence pass. He and Haggerty did go back a long way after all. "Okay," he said. "Let's get this over with. What's wrong with him? He graduated third in the training class on navigation skills and second on gunnery. He's fully qualified to fly in that Mosquito with you. So what's the problem?"

"What's the problem?" Brian almost hissed. "He's vermin! That's what the fucking problem is. He's a lowlife, gang member piece of shit and I will not fly with him. There's no way in hell. I'll fucking resign first!"

"You'll resign before you fly with Mendez?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Goddamn right I will," he said. "If you can't give me Rendes then I demand a sis who knows what its like to hold a goddamn job at least."

Jorgenson cracked his knuckles thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair and appraising his pilot for a moment. This was of course not the first such conversation that he'd had along these lines — on the contrary, there had been many, particularly from the experienced systems operators who didn't want to fly with a novice pilot — but this was by far the most heartfelt. Haggerty's hatred of the unemployed class went far beyond what most projected, even for a police officer. Jorgenson even knew the story of why he hated them so much, how a group of gang members had raped and killed his pregnant wife. But at the same time, he had a squadron to run, time was getting very short before the Earthlings arrived, and order were orders.

"Is that the way it's going to be then?" he asked. "Either Mendez goes or you go?"

"That's right," Brian said.

"Okay then," he said. "I'll start processing your resignation immediately."

The smug look that had appeared on Brian's face suddenly disappeared, being quickly replaced by one of disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked.

Jorgenson ignored him and turned his Internet terminal towards him. "Computer, access personnel files," he said.

"Accessing," the computer responded.

"Frank, what are you doing?" Brian said, alarmed.

"I'm changing your status in the computer," he told him. "Will you be resigning from the service completely, or would you like me to just remove your flight status and find you a support position? You'd probably be a good help in the logistics..."

"You can't do that!"

"You just told me that you would resign before you would fly with Mendez, didn't you? Well Mendez has been assigned to your aircraft and he is not going to be removed from it. So that means you're going to have to be the one to go. So how about that logistics position? We'd really hate to completely lose..."

"Goddammit, turn that fucking computer off," Brian told him.

"Oh?" Jorgenson said. "Are we changing our mind? I wouldn't want you to compromise your ideals here."

"Fuck off," he said angrily. "I withdraw my resignation. But listen..."

"No, Brian, you listen," he cut in. "Don't ever try to bluff me with that shit again. The next time you come in here ranting and threatening to quit if you don't get your way, I'll kick your ass right the hell out of here. We have about three weeks until the WestHem marines establish orbit. I have an entire squadron full of flight crews that need to learn to work together before that occurs. I don't have time for this shit and I won't stand for it. Is that clear?"

"Yes," he said, fuming. "It's clear."

"Now Mendez is your sis. Period. End of story. You have three training missions a day scheduled for the next two weeks before we do a final stand down for maintenance. You'd goddamn well better find a way to put aside the problems you have with him or you're both going to end up splattered across a mountainside out there in the wastelands. I'm sure Mendez isn't any more thrilled than you are that he's been paired with a cop. But he hasn't been in her threatening me or bitching at me. So get your ass out there and run your mission like a good little pilot, okay?"

"Fine," he spat, turning on his heels and heading for the door.

"Brian," Jorgenson called when he was three steps away.

He turned to look.

"I'd accommodate you if I could. You have to know that. But there's simply not enough time to go changing things now. If I reassign your sis, I'll have ten crews in here in the next hour wanting to do the same thing. So don't take it personal, okay? It's not becoming."

Brian stared at him for a moment and then turned back around. The door slid obediently open in front of him. He walked through it without another word.

The mission planning room was a large, windowless office located directly adjacent to the ready room. It had small desks arranged in a manner so that as many flight teams as possible could occupy the space at the same time. Each desk had an oversize computer screen mounted on swivels so that it could be turned back and forth. As Brian entered the room the rest of the squadron was already in there, each flight team sitting together and going over the maps of the training area and planning their upcoming missions. The babble of conversation echoed through the room as the pilots and system operators discussed the best means of attacking the MPG column that was to be their target for the day.

Brian found Mendez sitting at one of the desks, a digital satellite shot of the training ground on the screen before him. Mendez, like all of the other flight crewmembers, including Brian himself, was dressed in the standard issue MPG red shorts and white T-shirt. He was smoking a cigarette thoughtfully as he traced over the landscape on the screen with his finger, highlighting certain areas. Brian felt himself seething with hatred as he looked at him, as he took in the Capitalist tattoo that was plainly visible on his arm. Not so long before he had been throwing vermin like that into jail. Now he was supposed to fly with one? To trust his life to him?

With another grunt of disgust we walked over and sat down in the chair next to him.

"Hey, boss," Mendez said. "Where you been? Have to take a big shit or somethin?"

"Where I was is not any of your concern," he said shortly.

Mendez stared at him for a second, hostility flashing in his face for an instant and then disappearing. He shrugged. "I guess not," he said. "Anyway, I started the mission plan while you was gone. I got a prelim path through the southern part of the range about sixty klicks from the target area. I think that the category four hills and ridges will give us good coverage for the..."

"I don't really care what you think," Brian cut in, grabbing the computer screen and turning it towards himself. "Computer, purge current document and set up a new one."

"Say what?" Mendez said.

"Confirming that you wish to purge the current document?" the computer asked.

"Computer, confirmed," Brian said. "Get rid of it and open a new one." A moment later the map and the tracings that Mendez had completed disappeared and was replaced by a blank view of the area.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Mendez demanded. "I had a goddamn prelim path already completed!"

"Like I'm going to trust my life to any flight path that you've worked on," Brian spat. "No thanks. I'll figure out my own flight path to the target area if you don't mind."

"You didn't even fucking look at it," Mendez said. "I worked on that thing for half an hour while you were off jerking your missile somewhere."

"As I said," Brian told him, "my whereabouts were not your concern. And I don't really give a shit how long you worked on it, I'm not flying any path that you've come up with."

"We only got forty-five more minutes until wheels up," Mendez said. "And I was doing what I'm supposed to do. I'm the sis, remember? I'm responsible for..."

"Get this straight, newbie," he said. "You're not responsible for shit on my aircraft. I'll come up with the flight plan. I'll fly the goddamned plane. You will sit your ass in the back seat, keep your fucking mouth shut, and shoot at the targets when I get us into the target area. That is all that you will do. Is that clear?"

"That ain't how its supposed to work," Mendez told him.

"Well that's the way its gonna work on my aircraft. Now just sit your ass over there and shut up until its time to fly."

Mendez' hands clenched into fists and it seemed for a second that he was going to throw a punch at Brian. Brian sincerely hoped that he would. He would then have an excuse to kick the vermin's ass into the ground. He would also have an excuse to have him thrown out of the MPG. But Mendez didn't rise to the occasion. He simply took a few deep breaths and then slumped back in his chair.

"You're the boss, boss," he said through gritted teeth. "But you'd better get crackin I think. We got about twenty minutes until we hit the ready room."

They roared into the red Martian sky an hour later, Brian's hastily assembled flight plan programmed into the navigation computer. Matt tried reading off altitude and upcoming heading changes to him over the intercom — something that had been drilled into him in training — but Brian only told him to shut his ass again.

"I've got the nav references on my HUD," he said dryly as he leveled them off at 1000 meters. "I don't want to hear anything out of you until the target area, and even then the only thing I want to know is when your weapon is discharged."

Matt's glare burned into the back of his head through the cockpit partition. "Is it okay to breathe back here, boss? Or is that too noisy for you too?"

"You're talking, newbie," Brian said. "You can breathe, piss, shit, jack off, or do whatever the hell else you want back there. Just don't talk."

"You can't fly a mission this way, Haggarty," Matt told him.

"Oh? Are you basing that statement on your years of flight experience or on the superior education that you received in Helvetia Heights? Or is it maybe a combination of both?"

"It's common sense, asshole," he said. "Remember common sense? Its the thing we're supposed to be fighting for here?"

"Yeah, I remember it. And General Jackson showed a distinct lack of that factor when he let you vermin in the MPG. Now keep your mouth shut or I just might accidentally eject your ass over the Sierra Madres."

Matt fumed but did as he was told and kept quiet. Brian continued to fly without verbal input from his system operator and using a flight plan that had been put together far too quickly. It wasn't very long before things started to go wrong.

Brian descended the aircraft to 200 meters and streaked along the uneven surface towards the mountain peaks. He dropped down another 100 meters just before passing between two of the peaks. He cut hard to the right, his hands and feet manipulating the controls, his eyes watching the guidance carrot on the display in front of him as it moved back to center. He straightened the plane, flew onward for another fifteen seconds, and then the carrot suddenly swung back to the left. With no warning of the upcoming course change, he was forced to react strongly, pulling them into a turn of nearly four times the force of gravity. He then had to scramble to level the plane back on its course. Just as he did, the next turn came up, forcing him to cut hard to the right.

"Goddamn, Haggarty," Brian grunted as he was slammed up against his restraints and his G-suit squeezed forcefully on his legs. "You're gonna lose it if you keep this shit up!"

Brian didn't answer him. He simply pulled into the next turn, forcing another three and a half G's on them and missing the side of one of the mountains by less than half a kilometer. He could feel himself tense up uncomfortably. For the first time in hundreds of flight hours, it seemed like he was fighting to control the plane instead of reacting as if it were a part of his body. He spun them around another one of the mountains and then was flying high above a valley. Within two seconds the instruments began to pick up the tones of active search systems.

"You're too goddamned high!" Matt yelled in frustration. "They're getting a hit on us!"

"Shit," Brian muttered, pushing down on the stick and putting them into a steep dive. He pulled up just 50 meters above the valley floor, leveling out. The tones went silent once again but before he could even take a breath of relief, the next turn was suddenly upon him, forcing him to cut sharply right. This had him aimed directly at another mountain.

"You're off course now," Matt said, real fear in his voice for the first time. "Pull up!"

Brian, seeing the large red mountain looming in his view, acted more out of instinct than anything else. He pulled up and cut to the right, putting the plane through a narrow gap in a ridgeline, the left wingtip missing the side of the mountain by less than thirty meters this time. The tones from the ESM set began again as soon as they were clear.

"Way off course now," Matt said, his hands gripping the armrest. "And they've got a solid hit on us with a search set. Probable detection."

"I know what the fuck that means!" Brian yelled at him as he tried to dive back down out of the coverage. "Shut your ass while I get us back on course."

"You wouldn't be off course in the first place if you'd let me do my fucking job!"

"I said shut up!" he said, cutting hard left again, trying desperately to get the carrot to swing back towards the center. It refused to do so. They were now well off their path and there were too many mountains between them and the route back to it.

"We're off course, Haggarty," Matt told him. "I need to go manual and plot us a new path or we're never gonna find the targets."

"You're not plotting shit," Brian told him. "Computer, switch to manual mode and give me an overlay of the terrain on my HUD. Make sure that the course path is marked on it."

"What in the hell are you doing?" Matt demanded. "The only time you're supposed to put a course overlay up is if your sis is incapacitated. That's a fucking emergency measure."

"I said shut up!" Brian said. "You say another word and I'm cutting your goddamn intercom off!" In front of him, a faint outline of the surrounding terrain appeared, partially obscuring the windscreen. The course that he had plotted to the target area was marked in red. The blip in the center of the view, which was what represented their current position, was now more than thirty kilometers from that line.

"You can't run a mission this way, Haggarty," Matt said. "The map overlay is just so you can find your way clear if I get hit."

Brian ignored him, knowing deep down that his inexperienced, vermin system operator was right, but not wanting to admit it. He couldn't divert his attention away from the terrain they were flying through long enough to figure out a path back to his course. To take his eyes off of the mountains and ridges even for a second would cause him to fly into one of them. Still, he tried for almost a minute, turning and diving, banking and leveling, his hands and feet moving automatically, the aircraft rising and falling, pushing them back and forth.

"You're gonna kill us, you asshole!" Matt said in terror. Though he had long since gotten over the motion sickness that he had experienced early in training, he felt it returning to him now, a swelling nausea in his stomach as the G-forces slammed him this way and that, as rocky hills flashed by on both sides.

They got no closer to their target area or their course. They just went further and further into the mountain range, where the terrain became even more dangerous. Finally Brian was forced to acknowledge that this was getting him nowhere. With a frustrated sigh he pulled up and put on power, putting the plane into a steep climb. Within seconds they were above the highest of the mountain peaks and the ESM was beeping steadily.

"They've got a lock on us," Matt said disgustedly from the back seat.

"No shit," Brian said.

"And they've got a clear line of sight. If those would've been Earthlings they'd be blasting our asses out of the fuckin sky right now."

"Well, they're not Earthlings though, are they?" he responded, keying his radio transmitter. "Flight Alpha 7, aborting mission and returning to base."

"Flight Alpha 7?" the controller back at the MPG base asked, alarm in her voice. "Your status? Are you declaring an emergency?"

"Negative," he said, flipping on the transponder switch. "We're not declaring an emergency. We just need a vector back to the landing pattern. We were unable to complete our mission."

"I copy," she said slowly. "I have your transponder now. Your course is 95. Please maintain Angels zero-eight until the pattern."

Twenty minutes later, the aircraft was touching down on the runway and rolling towards the airlock. Twenty minutes after that, Brian and Matt were in their shorts and T-shirts once again and standing in Major Jorgenson's office giving him a debriefing on their aborted mission.

Brian was basically an honest person, not prone to assigning blame to others. True to his personality, he did not try to field the blame for what happened on Mendez. He told the exact truth in a sterile, monotone voice while Jorgenson listened in disbelief.

"So you're telling me," Jorgenson summarized when he was finished, "that you refused to let your sis participate in planning the mission?"

"Yes," he agreed.

"And that you threw together a flight course of your own in twenty minutes?"

"Yes."

"And that once you were up in the air, you refused to receive navigation inputs from your sis, refused to allow him to manually guide you back on course once you strayed from it, and that you actually tried to continue a mission on pilot manual mode?"

Brian swallowed nervously, realizing, now that Jorgenson was saying it back to him, how asinine his behavior had been. "Yes," he said.

Jorgenson looked over at Matt. "Is that the way it happened, newbie?" he asked him.

"Well... uh..." he started, his voice hesitant. One of the unwritten rules that had been pounded into the students during training was that what happened in the cockpit stayed in the cockpit. As a former gang member, Matt understood this code well. Even if Haggarty was a raving asshole and a cop to boot, he had no desire to squeal on him. "I'm not sure if... that is to say that maybe it wasn't... uh..."

But Jorgenson wasn't having any of this. "Don't you try to soft-pedal what happened for this asshole," he said. "I just want a straight answer. Is that what happened?"

"Yes," Matt admitted.

Jorgenson put his fingertips to his temples and massaged for a moment. He then looked at Brian. "I honestly don't believe what I'm hearing here, Brian. I've known you for years and you're one of the best pilots that we have. And now you come in here and you tell me that you just violated no less than five rules of flight, that you decided that you could disregard basic navigation and attack tactics, that you risked your aircraft and your highly trained lives. What in the hell were you thinking? What in the hell were you doing?"

"All I can say, Frank is that I have a personality conflict with my sis. I don't trust him to navigate me or to plot courses for me."

"A personality conflict?" Jorgenson said. "A personality conflict? How in the hell can you have a personality conflict with a man you just met today? You've spent less than three hours with him and you haven't said anything to him in that entire time except to tell him to shut up and to call him a few nasty names."

"We already had a discussion about why I have a personality conflict," Brian said. "And you'll recall that I asked for a reassignment."

"And you'll recall that I denied it," Jorgenson said. "And I'm sure you'll also recall why I denied it. We simply don't have time for this kind of shit, Brian." He looked at Matt. "You're vermin, right Mendez?"

"Yep," Mendez confirmed.

"That's why he don't like you. You've probably picked up on that, right?"

"I didn't think it was because of the way I dressed."

"And did you know that Haggarty here is a cop?"

"Yeah, I knew that."

"And do you, being vermin, have a great love for our men and women in blue?"

"No," he said.

"In fact, you probably hate all fucking cops, don't you?"

"Yeah, actually I do."

Jorgenson nodded. "But you're willing to work with Haggarty here, aren't you? You were willing to put that aside and fly with him in the interests of killing some Earthlings, weren't you?"

"I was," he said. "I'm not sure about that now after that flight we just had."

"Well, let's leave that alone for the moment to keep from detracting from my main point." He shifted his gaze back to Brian. "You told me that you don't trust him to navigate for you or to plot courses, right?"

"That's right."

"Because he's vermin?"

"Yes. Because he's vermin."

"But other than the fact that he's vermin, and that he used to be in the Capitalists, you don't know a damn thing about him, do you?"

"I know what vermin are like," he said. "I've been working the streets for ten years and I've seen ten thousand pieces of shit like him. I don't need to get to know him personally."

"Well, Brian, in this case, you're wrong. You do need to get to know him personally because he's your goddamned sis. He's probably seen ten thousand cops in his life and knows what all cops are like, yet he's willing to work with you. He didn't come in this office bitching at me before he even talked to you. He strapped into a plane with you and let you fly him through the Sierra Madres Mountains at three hundred meters. He gave you a chance, you see, and I might add that you probably haven't changed his image on what assholes cops are. You, on the other hand, did not give him a chance. Instead, you risked his life and yours because you let your pre-conceived notions override your common sense. Didn't you?"

Brian opened his mouth to protest, but couldn't think of anything to support such a position. "Yeah," he finally muttered. "I guess I did."

"Now you two get your asses out there in that mission planning room and you start working on your next mission. And Brian, if you discover some concrete reason why Mendez shouldn't be in that aircraft navigating and shooting for you, than you come back and we'll talk. I'm talking about something real, not the piddling little mistakes that all the newbies make, and you know goddamn well what they are. You are to give this newbie a fair chance. That's a fucking order, do you understand?"

"I understand," he said.

"Good. Now I don't expect you two to be bong-hit buddies or anything like that, but I do expect that you do your jobs. Now go do them, and there better not be any more aborted missions."

The briefing room was about half filled with crews that were already in the midst of planning their second missions. They found a terminal at a desk near the back and sat down at it. Brian called up their next mission assignment, which was yet another hit and run attack on the column, although in a different part of the mountains. They both stared at the map for a while, neither of them talking, neither of them doing anything. Finally Matt made a hesitant first suggestion.

"How about initial entry in this sector?" he asked, pointing to one of the narrow valleys on the western side of the range. "The bulk of the row of mountains here will block detection and we'll be able to stay at 400 AGL for most of the ride."

Brian wanted to disregard the suggestion immediately, simply because the vermin had been the one to come up with it. He felt his mouth opening to say something acid, felt his hand wanting to reach up and twist the terminal away. But, heeding Jorgenson's words, he restrained himself. He took a deep breath and looked over that point on the map in relation to their target area. And even though he did find fault with the plan, he knew that it was not incompetence on Mendez' part that had formed the basis of it. "I think that over here would be a better place," he said, pointing to another gap about thirty kilometers to the north.

Matt's eyes flashed hostility again. He too wanted to say something acid. He too restrained himself. "What's wrong with my spot?" he asked, his voice even and level.

"It's too damn obvious, that's what's wrong with it."

"Too obvious?"

Goddammit, why do I have to explain things to this vermin? Brian's mind screamed at him in anger. Another part of his brain however, knew that what Mendez had suggested was a simple mistake of inexperience, something that any newbie would do. "Look," he said, putting his finger on the spot and tracing out a route, "it's a good entry for a nice easy ride and for good cover from the main formation. That's what makes it too obvious. Any competent commander who knows he's going to be hit with Mosquitoes will send a scout team or two right into this valley in an APC. Those APC's will be equipped with passive infrared and twin anti-air laser cannons. If we come screaming up that valley heading for the IP at 400 AGL, they'll pot us right out of the sky. We need to stay away from that broad valley as much as we can. The ride will be a little bumpier, but we'll get there in one piece."

"I didn't know they sent out scouts," Matt said, not sure whether to believe him or not.

"Why in the hell would you know that? You're a goddamn newbie. You learn things by making mistakes. You haven't been here long enough to make any yet."

Matt thought that over for a moment, trying to figure out if he was being insulted or not and finally concluding that he wasn't. "Okay," he said at last. "I get you."

"If we were hitting the actual Earthlings in this spot and if they hadn't dealt with our Mosquitoes yet, that's exactly where I'd head. But we're dealing with Colonel Chin today, and Chin is a veteran of our tactics and his goal in life is to make our jobs hard for us."

"Shouldn't we be training for what the Earthlings are gonna be like instead of what our own commanders are gonna be like?"

"The Earthlings will learn fast once they land and we spank them a few times. They'll never be as competent as Chin at taking us down and predicting what we're going to do, but they'll also be using fully charged weapons instead of training charges. So don't you think its best to train for the worst case instead of for the best?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "I guess that makes sense."

"So here's where we'll go in," Brian said, pointing to his spot again. "We scream in low, hang a hard right at this ridge here, and work our way through these smaller valleys on the west side of the range until we're almost directly across from the target area. We don't cross that valley until we absolutely have to. Hell, we don't even get within ten klicks of it if we can avoid it."

"All right," Matt said, leaning a little closer to the screen. "Let's figure it out then."

"Right," Brian said, leaning a little closer himself. Soon, the both of them were tracing different routes through the western section of the mountains, zooming in on sections, and marking them down on their flight path. Before long both were completely absorbed in their task and almost forgot that they hated each other.

They made their second training flight two hours later. This time Matt was allowed to do his job. He called out course changes to Brian and kept him updated on his position. They only strayed off of their projected course twice and both times Matt was able to go to manual mode and quickly navigate them back onto it. When they reached the target area the initial attack run went flawlessly. They appeared over the travel corridor like an apparition and Matt identified a formation of APCs and hit two of them with the laser in less than four seconds. They disappeared back into the safety of the mountains a second later, long before any of Colonel Chin's men could lock an anti-aircraft laser onto them. Matt then switched back to manual mode and was able to guide them around two more times for follow up attacks, hitting two more APCs and a tank.

"Not bad, newbie," Brian grunted at him as they made their egress from the area.

"Thanks," Matt responded.

"Of course you still got a lot to learn."

"Never said I didn't," he said. "But I think this mission went a little better than the last one, didn't it?"

"Yeah," he said. "I suppose it did. Now how about plotting us a course back? We still have one more mission before we stand down for the day."

July 26, 2146

Sector Bravo-7, 60 kilometers west of Eden

The hill stood 234 meters above the surrounding terrain and was nearly a kilometer in diameter at the base. Four APC's, all with the WestHem Marines emblem painted over and the Martian Flag stenciled on instead, rolled slowly up to the base of it on the south side and stopped. While gunners stood by at their mounted weapons, the back doors of the vehicles opened and ten fully equipped and bio-suited soldiers climbed out of each one, their weapons in hands. They quickly formed a defensive perimeter away from the APC's, weapons pointed outward and ready to engage any targets they found. Of course they knew that they wouldn't find any targets out here since the training mission they were engaged upon had not yet started, but their lieutenant insisted that they treat every drill as if it were the real thing.

"Clear," said Sergeant Walker, the second-in-command of third platoon of Baker company of the 1^st Battalion of the fledgling 17^th Armored Cavalry Regiment. The entire 1^st of the 17^th was engaged in this particular drill, which was designed to be a realistic simulation of the situation that they would soon be encountering with the approaching WestHem marines.

"I copy clear," said Lieutenant Fernandez, the platoon commander. He slowly got to his feet, looking over his assembled troops with a practiced eye. They were not exactly in perfect formation, but they were better than they had been a few days before. At least if they had been fired on they might've been able to return it with some effectiveness. "On your feet, platoon," he told them.

One by one they stood up. Jeff Waters, who had been tasked with a squad automatic weapon today, flipped on the safety and slung it over the shoulder of his biosuit. He took a few breaths of the manufactured air and then flipped down the water dispensing straw with his tongue and had a small drink. He was facing back towards Eden and he could see the distant high rises poking up over the horizon. Next to him was Hicks, his constant nemesis, and the man who always seemed to be on his heel or in front of him. Hicks was looking at the buildings too.

"We're way in the hell out here," Hicks said whimsically.

"Missing you mommy?" Jeff asked him.

"No, missing yours. She always did have the tightest pussy."

Jeff let that one go. In truth the banter between them had evolved to the point where it was almost friendly in nature. Now when they were actually mad at each other they didn't talk at all.

"Waters and Hicks," said Fernandez, "if you two are done with your little chat, maybe we could proceed with the briefing, huh?"

"Sorry, LT," Jeff said.

"Go ahead, LT," said Hicks.

"Thank you," Fernandez said. "Now then. What we're standing at the base of is Hill 678. It is one of many hills that overlooks the main route that an attacking enemy will use to approach the west side of Eden which, as I'm sure you're aware, is where both the spaceport and the MPG base are located. Ladies and gentlemen, this is where the battle is going to take place. This is where first contact with the WestHem marines is going to occur. This series of hills that stretches twenty some-odd kilometers from north to south, is our first line of defense.

"Now hopefully the special forces teams will whittle their numbers down a bit before they get here. And I'm sure that you've also heard rumor that we've formed a Navy of sorts and that even as we speak they are out there knocking off a few of those transports for us."

"You mean that those ships didn't just collide with each other?" asked Hicks, to the amusement of all. The official WestHem explanation for the destroyed transport ships and the fact that the ships that had collided had not really been anywhere near each other in the formation was not something that had escaped the notice of the Martian people. Though the interim Martian government refused to comment on the events, it was a known fact that a number of the Owls that had been captured at Triad Naval Base were no longer docked there.

"Be that as it may," Fernandez continued, "our job out here is to train for the worst case scenario and the worst case scenario is that an entire army is going to be marching towards this line, equipped with tanks, APCs, and heavy hover and artillery support. We have an understrength division of inexperienced troops to hold that off. Our task is to keep them away from Eden. We, the dismounted infantry, will play a key role in that task. We will occupy this hill, along with Lieutenant Zander's platoon of anti-armor troops. Zander and his people will use their shoulder fired AT-lasers to blast the armor that approaches. This will force the WestHems to take this hill away from us before they can move through this section in safety. That is what we are here to prevent.

"Now the enemy will pound us with heavy artillery, mortars, and hover attacks. But the only way that they can actually take this hill away from us is to march their own dismounted infantry up here and occupy our positions. Our part of the battle will be nothing different than what our great-great-great grandfathers did back in World War III on Earth. We will engage in gunfights from our high ground and our trenches with armed men trying to move upward on us. It will be warfare brought down to its most basic level. We're the grunts people, the dogfaces, the doughboys, the whatever-the-hell-you-want-to-call-us. And this is where we're going to make our first stand against them.

"So what we're out here to do today is to practice this ancient art of warfare. We are but one hill among many on this line of approach. The entire 1^st of the 17^th is going to go up against the entire 16^th ACR, our most experienced and oldest MPG unit. Even as we speak, they are out there in the wastelands, moving in on us. This will be the most comprehensive and realistic exercise that we've performed so far. So let's get ourselves up that hill, get our training rounds loaded, and start doing what soldiers do best: waiting for the opposition to arrive."

One by one, in a loose formation and moving rapidly, the men and women of third platoon moved up the hill and occupied the trenches that had been dug there long before.

The training battle raged for almost forty hours. Though the 16^th ACR, under the command of Colonel Chin, took heavy simulated casualties from the 1^st of the 17^th, they pushed them methodically off of each hill, clearing an open path westward. The remnants of the 1^st battalion fell back to other hills and fought on, inflicting more casualties as they made a new stand but were soon pushed even further backwards. When it was all said and done, the western edge of Eden fell to the 16^th ACR and the bulk of the 1^st Battalion were either simulated casualties or simulated POWs.

Thought they lost the exercise, and though the men and women who had stayed awake for nearly two days, firing thousands of helium-filled projectiles down at the their attackers, were dispirited by the apparent ease with which they were dislodged, their commanders were quite pleased. The exercise had been designed to be nearly impossible to win, with every advantage going to the attacker. Now the 1^st of the 17^th had a taste of what battle would be like, the unpredictability of it, the mind-numbing fatigue of it, and most important of all, the mechanics of it.

After a two-day stand-down for rest, Colonel Chin's regiment would be out in the wastelands again, this time attacking the 2^nd Battalion of the 17^th ACR. Four days after that, they would attack the 3^rd of the 17^th.

July 28^th, 2146

Deep space, between the orbits of Mercury and Venus

The armada continued on, coasting through space at seventy kilometers per second. Because of the attacks made by Mermaid, it was now an armada that was significantly more alert than it had been on the outset. All active detection systems on all ships were powered up and sweeping through designated sectors. A full wing of attack and detection craft now maintained a 24-hour combat space patrol, circling around on all sides in overlapping patterns. However, despite all of this surveillance of the flight path, it had been more than a week now since Mermaid's attacks and no one really believed that there could be any more Owls out there gunning for them. As a result, reactions were a bit lapsed and judgment was a bit overconfident once again. The perfect environment for disaster.

Swordfish was the second of the Owls that had been launched from Triad Naval Base. Ron Bales, her commander, a former detection technician in the WestHem navy like Brett, employed the same classic attack pattern Mermaid had used. He set his ship right in the path of the advance, relatively motionless from the perspective of the fast-moving armada. When the time was right, Bales gave the order and Swordfish's weapons crew unleashed two nuclear torpedoes — each at a Panama transport ship — from a distance of 320,000 kilometers. She then turned and moved clear of the firing zone as fast as she could without risking detection. Bales knew better than to press his luck by attempting a third shot against an alerted enemy.

The torpedoes drifted through space for more than an hour, closing on their targets. The first was detected at a range of 8000 kilometers by Packhorse, the ship it was stalking. A fury of anti-missile laser fire was directed at it, trying desperately to make a lethal intersection of beam and torpedo through the electronic jamming. Purely by blind luck, that is exactly what happened. One of the lasers scored a direct hit, burning into the delicate mechanisms of the nuclear package and destroying any chance of a detonation.

Despite the destruction of the warhead however, the body and mass of the missile remained intact and continued to close with its target. Two minutes and twelve seconds after detection, this mass slammed into the side of Packhorse at a velocity of eighty kilometers per second. This was sufficient kinetic energy to blast a hole more than fifty meters wide in the hull of the ship and into the side of one of the landing ships within. More than two hundred marines inside of that landing ship were killed instantly by the impact. Another sixty were burned to death by the resulting fires or suffocated by the hull breach itself.

The second of the missiles was detected at a range of 7200 kilometers from its target, Llama. This time the luck of the anti-missile fire did not hold and the missile achieved a perfect detonation at a range of forty kilometers. In less than two seconds Llama was nothing more than vaporized metal and scattered debris. Another 20,000 marines were dead at Martian hands.

Admiral Jules was frantic at the news that yet another greenie crewed Owl was not only out there, but had annihilated another of his ships. He personally monitored the search for the vessel, watching the display for more than an hour as attack ships and destroyers swarmed through the area. In the end however, though two of the search craft had passed within 200 kilometers of her, not so much of a sniff of Swordfish was gleamed. The armada passed her by and she turned towards home, triumphant, and without a scratch on her.

Jules, after reluctantly conceding that the offending ship had gotten away clean, was then forced to make yet another report to the executive council on Earth, letting them know that yet another attack had been successfully launched upon his forces. The communication lag was well over ninety minutes at this point in the journey, but this was still not sufficient time to dampen the fury of Loretta Williams. She bluntly told Jules that he was an incompetent, in charge of a larger group of incompetents, and only the knowledge that his second-in-command was an even bigger idiot than himself had kept her from replacing him and having him sent to the brig for dereliction of duty.

Jules took his executive dressing down like a man, only muttering a few obscenities at the image of Williams on the screen. He then was forced to turn to the bigger problem of what to tell the WestHem public about this latest catastrophic loss of life. Though it was an acknowledged fact that the WestHem civilian population was nothing more than sheep that tended to believe everything that they were told on the Internet, there were limits to how much they could swallow. It was unlikely that even the sheep would buy that another of his ships had collided, or mysteriously exploded through crew errors. Reluctantly, after consulting with General Wrath and holding a few communication-lagged conferences with executive staffers, it was decided that they would have to admit Martian involvement this time.

As had been the case in the first attacks, word of what had happened had already filtered down to the landing craft aboard the Panamas. The Internet screens in every room were turned on, the coverage, though delayed by the communication lag (it was ironic that those in the armada, where the story originated from, actually had to wait the longest to receive the Internet signal since it had to travel to Jupiter, Earth, and back to Jupiter again), was constant on the explosion that had destroyed Llama. The knowledge that another 20,000 of their comrades had been erased from existence in an instant weighed heavily on the rest of the troops.

"We're like rats in a cage," said Private Stinson aboard Mammoth. "We're trapped in these floating deathtraps while the greenies pick up off like targets on the range."

This time Lieutenant Callahan didn't bother spouting the company line, that they didn't know for sure that the greenies were involved. Though there had been no official statement yet, even the news was saying that the Martians had been responsible for this latest explosion. Though many wild theories were being floated by the "military experts" that worked for the big three Internet services, the most popular was some sort of kamikaze attack. Various physicists were put on camera to show just how the velocity of one vessel ramming another in open space at full speed could result in a cataclysmic explosion.

"Do you think they felt it when they went?" asked Sergeant Mallory. "Do you think it was real quick, or did the slowly suffocate to death when the hull was breached?"

"Had to have been fast," Corporal Jones said. "The whole ship is gone they say. Nothing but fragments left. They probably didn't even know what hit them."

They all silently pondered that thought for a moment as the latest expert on the Internet screen explained about kinetic energy and velocity. Before he could get too far into his lecture however, the newscaster interrupted to say that Admiral Jules was now giving his briefing on the events. It was time for the official word.

"Here we go," Mallory said. "Get ready to swallow a big one."

Jules came on the screen, resplendent in his class A uniform, his hair neatly pressed, his face dusted with a covering of make-up. He had the same solemn look on his face as he'd displayed the last time he had been forced to give such a briefing.

"Good evening," he told the solar system. "By now I'm sure everyone has heard about the tragic events that took place today, events that come little more than a week after the horrible accidents that befell our forces and cost so many their lives. I'm saddened to announce that once again catastrophe has struck this armada, a catastrophe that has cost many good men their lives.

"At approximately 2116 hours, Denver time, the WSS Llama, a Panama class transport ship carrying 20,000 marines for Operation Red Hammer, exploded, killing all hands on board. Rescue vessels were immediately sent to the scene of the explosion but there was no hope for survivors. The ship was in fact, completely destroyed.

"As before, an immediate investigation was launched into the cause of this explosion and the cause was found rather quickly. This time, the tragedy was not the result of an accident. This time, Martian terrorists were responsible for this heinous act."

He paused for a moment, to let his words sink in. After a few deep breaths, he continued. "Based on tracking data uplinked to the command center just prior to the explosion, it appears that these Martian terrorists took control of one of the Owl class stealth attack ships that were docked at Triad Naval Base when that facility was seized by the rogue units of the Martian Planetary Guard. These terrorists, probably using rudimentary spaceflight skills picked up by accessing the training computers at TNB, managed to accelerate the Owl to a speed of more than seventy kilometers per second towards our armada. Probably more by sheer luck than anything else, they were able to steer this vessel directly onto a collision course with Llama. Since the armada is traveling seventy kilometers per second towards the Planet Mars and since the Owl in question approached from the opposite direction, the closure speed was nearly 140 kilometers per second. This gave only seconds for Llama to attempt evasive action once the vessel was detected closing with her. Unfortunately, seconds were not enough time to prevent the collision. The Owl struck amidships on the port side. At that velocity, the impact was enough to completely obliterate both vessels.

"This is, without a doubt, one of the most cowardly, atrocious acts of barbarism imaginable. I implore all WestHem citizens to say prayers for the souls of these brave marines and naval personnel and for the families they've left behind. I am assured by the Executive Council that those responsible for launching this horrible mission against our forces will be tracked down once the planet has been liberated and they will be tried for crimes against humanity, treason, and for more than 20,000 individual counts of murder."

The briefing by Jules went on for quite some time, with General Wrath making an appearance and spouting a few words of his own about how his marines were still in high spirits and how they would fight on and re-take that planet despite the losses so that those responsible could be punished. This was followed by a question and answer period, during which, as before, not a single reporter asked a single question about the possibility of there having been a nuclear explosion responsible for the destruction of Llama. There was, however, a brief question concerning the WNS Packhorse, another Panama class that had been reported damaged that day.

"Again," Jules answered, "it seems that tragedies are striking this attack force in groups of two. Just minutes before the explosion that obliterated Llama, Packhorse was struck by a small meteor that somehow managed to be missed by the anti-meteor defenses. It is estimated that this was a small meteor, probably composed of a material that does not absorb heat well and that was shaped in just a way that it deflected most of the radar energy. It struck Packhorse amidships and caused a serious hull rupture, which, unfortunately caused the deaths of approximately 230 marines and naval personnel. The ship itself is being repaired in space and is still underway with the rest of the group. The remaining marines on board that ship, although understandably shocked and saddened by today's events, will still participate in Red Hammer when the landings occur."

"A meteor hit it?" asked Mallory. "Oh Jesus. There hasn't been a ship struck by a meteor in more than a hundred years. Now we're supposed to believe that one just happened to hit right before Llama went up?"

Nobody disputed his words. Everyone had a pretty good idea of what had really happened.

"LT?" Stinson asked Callahan.

"Yeah?" he said, wearily.

"Them greenies got those Owls that they took at Triad operational, don't they?"

Callahan wanted to lie, knew that his superior officers would not appreciate him voicing his own opinion in front of the troops. He wanted to, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "It looks like maybe they do," he sighed. "Probably at least two of them, maybe more. They positioned themselves out here and they're pounding on the transport ships."

"They've given us more casualties doing that than they ever could have hoped for on the ground," Mallory opined.

"Don't worry though," Callahan said. "Once we make our landings we're gonna give it back to those greenie fucks in spades. We're gonna show those bastards what marines really do."

There were a few half-hearted cheers at his words, cheers that were mostly reactions rather than being powered by any actual emotion. In truth, morale was about as low as Callahan had ever seen before. They were trapped onboard a confined ship with primitive washing and laundry services and they were now apparently being stalked by an enemy capable of vaporizing them all in an instant. There was no way that they could fight back against such a thing; no way they could even see it coming.

Meanwhile, in Eden, just outside the MPG base, the Troop Club was doing its fair share of business. Every table was full of off-duty military personnel swilling down alcohol or smoking marijuana. The three servers behind the bar and the two waiters circulating among the tables were scrambling to keep up with the demand. Though the Earthling accountants that had managed the bar had been banished to their apartments along with most of the other Earthling corporate types, the actual labor pool that ran the facility still reported for work every day to do their part to keep the MPG morale from descending to the level being faced by the WestHem marines. In all, it was a project that seemed to be working well. At most of the tables the talk was boisterous and laughter was frequent. On the large Internet screens that were mounted on the walls and above the bar, MarsGroup channels were the ones being viewed.

The clip of Admiral Jules' briefing regarding the destruction of one of their vessels had just been played for everyone to see. Commentary by the Martian newscasters as to just what this really meant was now being offered.

"Laura Whiting, the interim government officials, and everyone on General Jackson's staff have continued to refuse comment on the destruction of the WestHem ships today," said a pretty African descended reporter. "No explanation is offered for the refusal to comment, but it should be pointed out that Whiting and Jackson have both been very candid with past requests on past MPG operations during this conflict. One can only speculate that the reason for their silence must be an ongoing operation that might be compromised if WestHem authorities were given details. As such, our department and all of the other MarsGroup stations that report news and information are honoring their request and not pestering them. It is, however, common knowledge, as we've reported in the past, that at least four of the Owl class stealth attack ships that were captured at Triad Naval Base are no longer in their moorings and that there was a frantic burst of activity at SpaceLab Incorporated, the facility that produces the nuclear torpedoes that the Owls fire. This information, coupled with the wave of explosions that the approaching armada seems to be facing over the last ten days, is certainly compelling."

"Compelling," said Lon Fargo from one of the tables near the back. "She says it's compelling. I think they should keep their fucking mouths shut about it. Don't they know that this planet is full of WestHem spies that are relaying that information back to Earth?"

"Freedom of the press," said Horishito, who had just packed an electric pipe with a hit of some potent marijuana. "Even during wartime, we have to let the press report what they see. That's the only way to run a planet."

"Oh, lets not start that argument again," said Matza, who was packing his own pipe with another load. "I agree with Lon. They should shut their asses about it until whatever operation we're running with those Owls is over with."

"Here, here," said Lon, picking up a pipe of his own. He looked over at the newest member of his squad, the member that he had fought unsuccessfully to avoid having assigned. It was a fight that he was now kind of glad he had lost. "What do you think about this, Wong?" he asked her. "Your partner is usually quite opinionated on these matters. Are you the same?"

Lisa looked up at him, her eyes reddened and half-lidded, a determined expression on her face. She too held an electric pipe in her hands, its bowl stuffed full. "My opinion?" she said with a snort. "My opinion is that it doesn't fucking matter. The Earthlings are a bunch of dumb asses. They haven't even admitted that we've hit them yet, at least not with actual weapons. I think we could send them a schematic of the exact location of every one of those Owls and a timetable showing when they're going to attack, and the dumb fucks still wouldn't do anything about it."

"Fuckin aye," put in Winters, another of the new assigns from the last training class. He had been a dip-hoe in Eden before the revolution and was now the squad's medic. "And you gotta hand it to those guys that went out in those ships to hit them. That takes some balls. I thought joining the special forces was nuts. They're actually out there in deep space going up against the goddamn navy."

"And kicking ass too," said Matza. "They've already knocked out about sixty thousand of the OPFOR. And there's still at least two more Owls out there. Shit, they keep this up and we might not have to fight at all."

"Don't say that," said Horishito. "They give up before they get here then we won't get to watch Wong prove she's got bigger balls than we do. I for one have been looking forward to that."

That produced a bout of laughter from everyone at the table, Lisa included. Though there had been a time when such words, obviously directed at the fact that she was a female, would have provoked anger in her, those days were gone. In two weeks of training with her new squad out in the wastelands, she had more than proved her worth to her teammates. Her physical condition was now better than she had ever imagined it could be. She could haul a full load of sixty millimeter mortars, in addition to her own weapons, up the tallest hill without causing a discharge warning on her suit. She could move boulders and dig hiding holes in the rocky Martian soil as well as any of them. She could shoot any weapon in the special forces inventory with pinpoint accuracy, with or without the combat goggle targeting system active. She could assemble booby traps and plant them in under a minute flat.

"Maybe that's a bad analogy," Lon said.

"Oh?" said Lisa.

"Yes, I've seen you in the shower, remember? Your balls aren't very big at all. In fact, I can hardly see them."

"Yes, and I've noticed you've done a lot of searching for them too, boss man," she said slyly. "Sometimes you've searched so much in there that your weapon started to get cocked."

The table erupted in another bout of laughter, this time at their leader's expense. Lon actually blushed at the attention. True, he had been known to check out his new female squad member in the shower from time to time, and true, it had caused him to develop the beginnings of an erection more than once, but he hadn't been aware that anyone, especially Wong herself, had noticed. Another supposition, proven wrong. Still, Lon was good-natured about the jive, and Wong was a very attractive woman. Could he help it if she insisted on showering and dressing with the rest of the team? That was her decision, wasn't it? "I was just checking to make sure you practice good hygiene after our deployments," he said. "You know what they say about cleanliness."

"Hey, sarge," Horishito said. "How come you never check out my hygiene that thoroughly? Wong got something that I don't got?"

"Yeah, sarge," said Matza. "I'm hurt. That's blatant favoritism, you ask me."

"And what's so interesting," Lisa said, "about a woman soaping herself up in the shower, anyway? I certainly don't find it all that exciting."

"No?" said Lon, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"No," she said, "although you never know what's going on in my little mind while I see all you guys soaping up now, do you?"

"She's got a point there," said Matza. "She could be thinking whatever she wants in there, and we wouldn't have a clue, would we?"

"Part of the beauty of being a girl," Lisa said. "So are we gonna take these bonghits or what? I think we're on number five here, aren't we?"

"Number five," Horishito agreed. "And I still say that no girl is gonna take more hits than I can. Nothing personal, Wong, its just an anatomical fact of life. Men are better suited for sucking up the green."

"That's why we got a hundred bucks riding on it Hoary," she said. "Now lets smoke up."

"Let's smoke," the other two echoed.

On the count of three all of them activated their electric pipes, turning the marijuana inside into shriveled ash and sending the cooled steam that was produced down into their lungs. They each held their hits in for a count of thirty seconds before blowing them out.

"Damn," said Lon, taking a few breaths to get some fresh oxygen in. "There's really nothing in the solar system like Agricorp green. I'm glad all the people who grow it are on our side of the revolution."

"I second that," said Lisa.

"I heard that all the Agricorp managers are trying to keep track of everything that we produce and use from their fields so they can charge us when they win the war," said Horishito.

"Well, they gotta have something to do," said Lon. "Since they're stuck in their apartments all day every day. I guess it makes them feel better to keep accounting things."

"It is their life," said Matza. "What's the word on when we're sending them all home?"

"Not until after we kick the marines off the planet," Lisa said. "I can't wait to go watch all those corporate fucks load up on a ship and slink the hell out of here. Good riddance."

"Amen to that," said Horishito and Matza in unison.

"That calls for another hit," said Lon. "Let's load up."

While they loaded up the MarsGroup channel began showing another clip that had been taken from WestHem Internet channels. This was yet another military briefing, this one by General Wrath of the Marine Corps. He was standing before a hologram of Mars and pointing at it with a laser pointer.

"Hey, look at this shit," said Lon. "He's actually telling us where the landing sites for his troops are going to be."

The rest of the table, indeed the rest of the room, all looked up in disbelief, thinking that Lon had to be wrong. The Earthlings weren't really that arrogant, that stupid, were they?

It appeared that they were. It seemed that in an effort to draw some attention away from their losses in space, the powers-that-be were trying to reassure their audience by releasing some details of the upcoming ground operation.

"Right here is going to be one of the biggest beachheads," Wrath was saying. "This is the equatorial plain, where the Martian agriculture is grown. This is Eden, Mars' biggest city and the center of the transportation hub and home to many key agricultural production facilities. It is also the city where most of the terrorist cells that have seized the planet are based. It is this city that will be key to retaking the planet."

"Terrorist cells," said Horishito with disgust. "Don't you just love..."

"Quiet," barked Lon. "I want to see this."

"In order to facilitate the capture of Eden, we will land more one hundred thousand combat troops in an area approximately three hundred kilometers due east of the city. As you are aware from previous briefings, the rouge elements that have taken over the Martian Planetary Guard may be in possession of some artillery weapons. Landing at this distance will keep us well out of the range of these weapons and allow us to assemble are troops in safety."

The special forces troops in the room all broke out into contemptuous laughter at this statement.

"Wait 'til you see how safe you are, Mr. Wrath," Horishito called out to the room.

"Oh yes," yelled Bennington, a member of Lon's squad who was sitting at the next table. "We'll be out there to say a nice big hello to you when you get there."

Cheers erupted from nearly everyone present in the bar, the staff included. Shouts of encouragement were offered, as well as more than one obscene epitaph to Wrath himself. Meanwhile, the briefing went on, with the general revealing which four cities his troops were going to be landing outside of and the approximate numbers that were going to be deployed at each site. Though he did not reveal exactly where the landing areas were going to be, he did indicate which general direction from the individual cities.

It was agreed that the WestHem populace probably had their minds put a bit at rest by the briefing. They probably enjoyed knowing just what sort of composition their forces would attack with and what the strategic thinking behind it was. So from the WestHem point of view, the release of this information was probably deemed a good idea.

General Jackson and Colonel Bright also thought that the briefing was a success as well. Intelligence analysts recorded the entire thing and set immediately to work analyzing it. And though the possibility that this was disinformation being used to deliberately mislead the MPG was acknowledged, a number of troops were shifted from several cities as a result of what was learned.

August 3, 2146

Deep space, near the orbit of Venus

The captain of the Barracuda — the third of the Martian crewed Owls lying in wait — had released the torpedo at the perfect angle to his target, a one in a hundred shot that managed to approach perfectly through small gaps in the sensor coverage. Not so much as a single bit of artifact appeared on any screen until the torpedo detonated forty kilometers from its target. Without any kind of warning whatsoever, there was the double flash of a thermonuclear detonation and Clydesdale — a Panama class transport — was vaporized. Another 20,000 marines were taken out of the coming fight.

Twenty minutes later, just as the frantic search efforts for the ship that had fired the torpedo were getting into swing, the second torpedo was detected 10,000 kilometers from Elephant, another Panama class. The anti-missile lasers were brought to bear on it and one finally managed a lucky shot, nicking the forward edge of the weapon at a distance of 92 kilometers. Not enough energy penetrated to disable the warhead so the automatic firing mechanism was triggered instead. The weapon flashed and lashed Elephant with an EMP, ripping several holes in her hull, damaging both of her engines, and causing explosions and fires that killed nearly four thousand marines and naval personnel on board. The ship was effectively disabled for good, forcing the offload of its surviving personnel onto three other Panamas. All of the heavy equipment on board was lost since there was no way to offload it in transport and there would be no way to slow the ship down once it arrived at its destination.

Barracuda herself, though she made an almost perfect attack and a textbook egress from the firing area, was nevertheless detected by a flight of A-22s on a search sweep. Within minutes, six more A-22s were swarming her and a Seattle class ship was moving in fast. She put up a valiant fight, destroying three of the A-22s with her lasers before being battered mercilessly with return fire. Her hull was breached in six places, including the bridge, killing more than half of the crew before the Seattle closed to firing range and used her more powerful lasers to explode the propellant tanks and obliterate the shattered wreck. All hands were lost on Barracuda but her mission would be marked down as a rousing success nonetheless.

About four hours later Admiral Jules appeared at the live briefing to announce that another two suicide attacks by Martian terrorists had taken place, destroying one ship and damaging another.

August 10, 2146

Deep space, just outside the orbit of Mars

The armada was now well into its deceleration burn. Every surviving ship had turned its rear end towards Mars, which was now visible as a bright red orb glowing in space, and was running its fusion engines at .25G. This time Admiral Jules and the rest of the command staff were actually expecting an attack to occur. By now word that four of the Owls that had been docked at TNB were now missing had reached them from naval intelligence. Since they had encountered only three of the Owls at this point in time, it stood to reason that they just might encounter the fourth as well. And the deceleration burn was the perfect time for such an encounter from the enemy's point of view. With the ships on acceleration in the opposite direction, their sensors had a difficult time detecting objects approaching from directly in their path. The plasma from the engines tended to scramble outgoing radar signals and mask infrared hits.

Hammerhead, the fourth of the Owls, obligingly made herself known right during this period. Since the armada was now moving at less than half the speed that it had during most of the trip, she was forced to employ a different attack tactic. Instead of simply sitting still in relation to the targets, she had accelerated as they'd approached, bringing her own velocity to forty kilometers per second directly towards the target ships. This maintained a closing speed of nearly seventy kilometers per second, which would allow for a speedy escape after the weapon release.

Hammerhead released her first torpedo 350,000 kilometers from Pacaderm. It was yet another near-perfect release, with the weapon approaching in the clutter from the plasma and closing to less than 6000 kilometers before being detected. There was barely enough time for the anti-missile systems to come on line and begin putting up a defense before the weapon reached forty kilometers and detonated, erasing yet another Panama class and another 20,000 marines.

Hammerhead's second torpedo, which was aimed at Mammoth, did not fair quite as well. It was detected more than 60,000 kilometers out by flight of A-22s making a sweep of the area in response to the attack on Pacaderm. Once detected by the attack ship the torpedo became easy fodder. It was dispatched by two close range shots from the A-22s heavy lasers, which exploded the rocket fuel and fragmented the warhead itself into millions of tiny pieces.

Hammerhead herself was detected by another flight of A-22s ninety minutes later. Since by that time the tail end of the armada was already passing them by, only one other flight was in position to go on the offensive against her. The four A-22s made firing runs at her from two different directions, scoring two shots amidships and one direct hit on the engine room. However, Hammerhead proved a formidable enemy. She destroyed two of the A-22s and forced the other two to withdraw, one with heavy damage that required the crew to eject and be picked up by a rescue ship. Hammerhead herself suffered two hull breaches, lost one engine, and a significant propellant leak in her tanks. Sixteen crewmembers were killed and eleven were injured. Despite the damage, the remaining crew was able to seal the holes in the ship, plug the leak, and get the ship turned around for a deceleration burn.

The armada passed her by and continued on their own deceleration burns towards Mars and an eventual orbital inclination. With this passing, Operation Interdiction, the first operation of the Martian Navy and the first major action of the war, came to a close. The operation could only be described as a success. Though three of the four vessels participating had been engaged, destroying one outright and damaging two, with a loss of nearly 200 men and women, Interdiction caused the deaths of more than 83,000 WestHem marines and the loss of nearly one fifth of the battle equipment and fuel allotted for Operation Martian Hammer. It was the greatest loss by the WestHem Navy in its entire history, including the Jupiter War.

That night, on Mars, Laura Whiting and Admiral Belting appeared live on MarsGroup and finally announced the existence of the operation. They explained that the need for security had kept them from making mention of it before. The briefing was given in exacting detail, from the first recruitments shortly after the seizure of the planet to the last shots fired only hours before by Hammerhead. Admiral Belting, after giving a mournful speech for those that had been lost in the operation, gleefully gave a conservative estimate of the damage that had been inflicted to WestHem. The Martian people — particularly those who would be fighting out in the wastelands soon — cheered as one as they heard that 60,000 to 80,000 marines had been killed and that millions of tons of equipment had been destroyed.

"This doesn't mean that the fight is over," Whiting said after Belting had finished his briefing. "Not by any means. There are still over 400,000 marines set to land on our planet in less than a week. But with the success of Operation Interdiction, we have evened the odds considerably. Keep up the spirit shown by those brave men and women of Interdiction, and we will prevail in this fight and our planet will remain free."

WestHem authorities, who received a copy of the Interdiction briefing by naval intelligence sources operating from the armada's flagship, played a heavily edited copy of it for the WestHem populace. In this copy, Laura Whiting seemed to say that Interdiction consisted of a series of suicide attacks with captured Owls that had been guided to their targets by EastHem Henry's that had been tracking the armada. The WestHem people were of course infuriated by this treachery and demanded that stern action be taken against those responsible once Mars was back in WestHem hands. Loretta Williams, the executive council spokesperson on all matters relating to Mars, assured WestHem that Laura Whiting, General Jackson, and the so-called Admiral Belting would all be tried for terrorist acts and crimes against humanity once they were captured.

August 14, 2146

Martian space

One by one, the ships of the armada, their fusion engines now idle, were captured by the Martian gravity and pulled into orbit around the red planet. Using short bursts of their main engines and longer blasts from maneuvering thrusters, they settled into a geosynchronous inclination some 100 degrees west of Triad. It took more than sixteen hours for all of the ships to get into position, but once they were, they formed a tight group with the transports on the inside surrounded by a solid perimeter of escorts and battleships. Active sensors were powered up and lashed back and forth through the vacuum of space, probing for anything approaching. A constant combat space control circled above and below, ready to attack any intruder in force. The Martian forces kept well away from this virtual orbiting fortress, knowing that there was no way they could effectively attack it. The Martians knew that merely establishing orbit around their planet could not conquer it. Their fight would take place on the ground, not high above it.

It was early morning of August 15^th before the entire armada was situated. Had this been the invasion of an EastHem held possession, attack craft would have fanned out through space at this point, attacking and neutralizing the hundreds of communications and navigation satellites that circled both in geosynchronous and low Martian orbit. WestHem doctrine called for this particular phase of an invasion to last almost a week in fact. In this particular invasion however, the executive council, acting on orders from their corporate sponsors, had forbid the destruction of any orbiting satellites. Those communications and navigation birds were worth billions of dollars and they were all owned by various WestHem corporations or the government itself. It was thought that there was no sense in destroying billions worth of hardware that would only have to be replaced once the planet was retaken. And so, though the space wing of the MPG flew a full combat space patrol and was prepared to guard these orbiting assets as part of their doctrine, not a single ship was launched on a single sortie against them.

Of course the establishment of orbit around Mars was a significant media event for the WestHem people. The big three media representatives that were traveling on the flagship now began broadcasting constant live updates instead of the single daily briefing. General Wrath and Admiral Jules now began spending more time giving interviews to various reporters than preparing for the coming operations. Rehashing the force composition of the marines and that of the Martians became a favorite time-filler during the periods when nothing new was happening. Despite the heavy losses due to "accidents" and "terrorist suicide attacks", it was estimated that the WestHem marines would be in complete possession of the planet in less than seven days with minimal casualties. Unless of course, the greenies decided to simply give up this hopeless battle before it was started. That was still regarded as a distinct possibility and one that General Wrath tried to facilitate when he sent a message on the open channel asking for a press conference with the MarsGroup Internet services.

Diane Nguyen of MarsGroup agreed to the press conference after consulting with Laura Whiting.

"Let them say their piece," Whiting told her. "The Martian people, particularly those with the guns, have a right to hear everything that transpires."

And so, at 1800, New Pittsburgh time, most of the planet tuned in to MarsGroup to see General Wrath facing them from the command center of the WHSS Nebraska. Instead of the class A uniform that he had given all of his previous briefings in, he was now dressed in red Martian camouflage fatigues, as if he were going to be going down to the planet with his men instead of staying nice and safe up in the flagship.

"First of all," Wrath said, his voice tough and gravelly, "let me thank Ms. Nguyen and her people for having enough sense to allow me this statement. I know that there are a lot of good people left on Mars, people that do not agree with what the rogue groups that have taken over your planet are doing, and..."

"Uh... General Wrath, if you'll excuse me for a moment?" interrupted Nguyen, who was personally handling the press conference. As the camera panned over her the audience was able to see that General Jackson, who was wearing his standard uniform of shorts and T-shirt, was sitting next to her, his face neutral.

"Yes, Ms. Nguyen," Wrath said, stammering a little since this was not part of his prepared speech.

"My company is fully in support of the revolution that has occurred on this planet," she said. "I just want that on the record right now. I agreed to air this conference at the insistence of Governor Whiting and General Jackson here. It is their thought, and I completely agree, that the Martian people have a right to hear your final threats before they meet you on the battlefield."

"I... I see," said Wrath, fighting the urge to wipe his forehead. "That is an interesting point of view. In any case, if I may now say what I need to say?"

"Of course, General," she said. "Please continue."

"Thank you," he said. "The reason that I've asked to address the people of Mars this evening is to offer a final plea for your surrender. As you have seen from our previous news reports, we have a whole lot of men and machines up here that will be landing on your planet tomorrow with the intention of liberating it from the terrorist elements that are holding it hostage. We have four tanks for every one tank that you have down there. We have almost four men under arms for every one that you have. We have three artillery pieces for each one of yours. We have twenty times as many hovers. I know that a lot of the men down there that are planning to fight us are simply misguided youths that have fallen for the drivel that Laura Whiting has been spouting. You probably don't know exactly what you're in for. Well let me explain it to you in very simple terms. If you do not unconditionally surrender in the next twelve hours, my marines are going to come down there and take that planet by force. A lot of you people are going to die if that happens. I will not have my men hold back or try to be gentle because we are fighting WestHem citizens. We will fight this conflict as we would a full-scale battle against EastHem invaders and we will prevail quickly and decisively. You are outnumbered, outgunned, and out-equipped. We have superior training and discipline. You cannot win this battle so I ask you, in the interests of avoiding needless deaths, please give it up right now. Send me a surrender message, turn over Laura Whiting and General Jackson to us, and this will all be over without further bloodshed."

Wrath continued to speak his impassioned plea to the Martian people for another fifteen minutes, stating and restating this same theme in several different ways. At times he seemed almost to grovel. At other times he was blatantly threatening. Finally, when it wound up, Dianne Nguyen, who had looked bored throughout the entire presentation, sat up a little straighter in her seat.

"Is that all you wanted to say?" she asked Wrath.

"I have said my piece," Wrath told her. "I only hope that the Martian people have enough sense to take this final chance I'm offering you and give up this hopeless fight."

"Okay, General," Nguyen said. "I thank you for your time and I'm sure the Martian people have been quite enlightened by your words as well." She turned to Jackson. "General? Do you have anything you wish to say?"

"I do," Jackson said. He leaned forward and stared intently into the camera. "I think, Mr. Wrath," he told him, "that I speak for the vast majority of the Martian people when I tell you, respectfully and sincerely, to take a flying fuck at Phobos. If you think you can beat us, come on down and give it a try. We'll be waiting for you."

Wrath actually turned red with rage as he heard these words. "Your people are going to die if you fight us," he told Jackson. "They're going to die and you're going to be executed for high treason!"

"Like I said, Wrath," Jackson said. "If you think you got what it takes, come on down."

And with that, the press conference was effectively over. Wrath made one more mumbled threat and then shut down his transmitting equipment, effectively killing the feed. He stood and turned to his aids, who were just as shocked by Jackson's words as he was.

"It's on," he told them. "We start our landings in twelve hours. Twelve hours!"