Greenies

Chapter 14



MPG Base, Eden

August 25, 2146

Jeff Waters took a drag off his cigarette and looked at the five cards in his hand thoughtfully. He was pretty new to poker, had only been taught the basics of it a week ago, but in that week, as he and the rest of the 17^th ACR spent hour after hour, day after day in the interior assembly area near the outside wall of the base, he'd played the game a lot, enough to know he stood a decent chance of taking the pot this hand. Hicks, who had dealt, had chosen five-card draw, jacks or better to open. He'd given Jeff a pair of fours, a pair of eights, and a deuce. Nobody else around the table was looking particularly enthused with what they held. This suspicion was confirmed when Zen Valentine, who was sitting next to Hicks, and Steve Sanchez, who was sitting next to Zen, both checked, unable to open. That brought the first bet over to Jeff.

He licked his lips for a moment as he thought the situation over. His first instinct, his gut reaction, was to throw down the maximum bet — one credit — immediately. He resisted this impulse. It would probably do nothing more than make the entire table fold at once, leaving his pot nothing more than the half of a credit that made up the ante. It would be better if he played them up a little first, drew them in.

"I'll open for two tenths," he said.

His PC, which was open before him and utilizing the standard poker program he'd downloaded when the game was first introduced to him, heard his words and automatically subtracted .2 credits from his bank account and transferred it to Hicks' computer, where it was stored in an escrow folder known as "the pot".

"Fuck my ass," said Xenia Stoner, who sitting next to him. She was dressed in her MPG T-shirt and shorts like everyone else but the lack of a bra beneath it was plainly obvious and quite a distraction to the males at the table. "I'll bump you a tenth."

"Three tenths to me, huh?" said Hicks. "What the fuck? It's only credits. I'm in. What about you, Zen?"

"I'm in this motherfucker too," said Valentine. "Three tenths."

Steve Sanchez, at sergeant, was both the oldest and the highest ranking at the table, the only one among them who had been a member of the MPG prior to the revolution. He made a look of disgust. "I'm out," he said, throwing his cards down. "Somehow I don't think this jack-high I'm holding is gonna be improved much."

This brought it back around to Jeff. "You still in, Waters?" Hicks asked. "Or do you need to call your mommy first to check?"

"Still in," Jeff said. "Another tenth to the pot."

Hicks' PC made the announcement that the pot was now right with one point seven Martian credits in it.

The five of them at the poker table were all members of the 17^th Armored Cavalry Regiment, as was every one of the other 1736 men and 755 women currently stuffed into this particular staging area. It was very crowded, very noisy in here, with a haze of tobacco smoke obscuring the view across the room. The entire regiment had been deployed to their defensive positions the day the first Earthling landings took place but they'd been pulled back into the base as soon as it became clear the Earthlings were following strict doctrine and would have to march to the city to fight. The 17^th ACR had been on what was called "one hour readiness" ever since. This meant that every last one of them could be back in those defensive positions, armed, armored, supplied, and ready to fight, in less than sixty minutes if the call-up came. Unfortunately, the only way to insure this one hour state of readiness was to keep all of the personnel in a holding area close to their biosuits and the airlocks to the outside. They couldn't drink alcohol or smoke marijuana. They were not allowed to make voice or text message or to send any other form of communication out of the base. They could shower and shave but that was only about once every three days at the rate the waiting list was going. To make it all worse, the cigarette supply — which came from Earth and was therefore getting pretty low planetwide — was quickly dwindling to the point that packs of smokes were going for twenty credits apiece or two hundred and fifty dollars.

The sheer boredom was a worse enemy than the marines. About the only thing there was to do was watch MarsGroup on the Internet screens or play poker. Jeff and Hicks had both decided that the latter of these choices was far superior. Their companions at the table — Sanchez, Valentine, and Xenia — were the crew of one of the tanks that provided overwatch to their platoon when they were out in the field.

"Okay... cards?" Hicks asked, picking up the deck. "How many you want, Mr. Jacks or better?"

Jeff took the deuce out of his hand and tossed it down in front of Hicks. "Just one," he said.

There was a murmur around the table at his actions, a few disquieted looks. Jeff did a good job of keeping his poker face neutral, especially when he looked at the new card he'd been given and saw it was another four. He had a full house! A full fucking house!

But Xenia only took one card as well. What did she have? Had she just pulled down a full house as well? If she had, odds were that it would be higher than the paltry fours over eights he was holding. He looked at her, trying to read her emotions but it was impossible. She had been playing the game longer than Jeff.

"Could be I have straight flush," she told him sweetly when she saw his perusal. "Or it could be I have a broken straight. That's what makes the game interesting, isn't it, Waters?"

Jeff returned her smile, an expression he'd rarely offered to anyone in the past, particularly people of the female persuasion. He, like all of the other men at the table, was strongly attracted to her although he held very few illusions about actually having a chance with her. In the first place, he was still married to Belinda, the woman who was still sitting back in their one bedroom apartment in the Heights, living off welfare money, contributing nothing to the revolution, her ambition in life to pump out her one child so she could score the extra bedroom and the extra welfare allotments that came with it. Jeff had no problem with the thought of cheating on her, in fact he planned to never touch her again, to dissolve their blessed union as soon as the fighting was over and he had a chance to take a little breather, but the most significant barrier between himself and Xenia was their upbringing. Xenia had been brought up in an employed family living in the Casting Meadows section of Eden — a solid, middle-class neighborhood. Her father had been a mid-level manager for MarsTrans, one of the highest positions a Martian could hope to rise to in the Earthling corporate system. Xenia herself was an educated woman, the holder of a bachelor's degree in agricultural engineering. She had been working for AgriCorp as a planting supervisor when the revolution came. She was articulate and well spoken, everything Jeff fancied he wasn't. He knew there couldn't possibly be anything she would see in a multi-generational ghetto dweller five years her junior, but still, she was always friendly to him, always had a kind word to say to him, and genuinely seemed to like his company despite their differences. In the back of his mind there was a part that always seemed to be wondering if there was some spark there.

"This is startin' to look really bad," said Hicks. "Dealer takes two. How bout you, Zen? What do ya, want?"

"Three," Valentine said in disgust. He slapped his discards down hard enough to send one flying off the table. Hicks picked it up wordlessly and then dealt him three more.

"Okay," Hicks said after giving everyone a minute or so to peruse their cards, "the bet's to you, Waters. What do ya say?"

"Half a credit," he said.

"Hmmm," said Xenia, casting a wary eye upon him. "Someone seems to think he has something going on here."

"Could be," Jeff said. "You in?"

"I'll see your half and raise you another quarter credit," she said.

"Fuck this shit," Hicks said, tossing down his cards. "Dealer folds."

"I'm out too," said Zen. His cards joined Hicks'.

"Well?" Xenia asked Jeff. "You gonna put up?"

Just what did she have? Was she bluffing? Or did she really have his full house beat? Did she think he was bluffing? He decided to push the envelope a little. "I'll see your quarter and raise you another half," he said.

She hardly blinked. "Call," she said. "Let's see what you got, tough boy."

He took a deep breath and laid his cards on the table. "Full house," he said. "Fours over eights."

Her poker face collapsed, turning to a frown of disgust. "Oh fuck me raw with an apple picker," she said. She put her cards down. They were the eight through queen, all in a nice order but of multiple suits. "I thought you were bluffing. I finally fill in a goddamn straight and your scraggly ass gets a full house. I hate this game."

"Its kind of a microcosm of life, wouldn't you say?" Sanchez asked, giving her a meaningful look. He was on the prowl for her as well and seemed to be hoping that his status as a semi-educated man would help make a connection with her. Sometimes it seemed like it was working, sometimes, like now for instance, it didn't.

"What the fuck's a microcosm?" Hicks asked. Like Jeff, he was a product of the ghetto school system, which was to say he had dropped out shortly after ninth grade and was barely literate.

"A small example that symbolizes a larger concept," Xenia replied, flashing her warm look, her smile at Hicks now.

"Huh?" he asked.

"It's like this poker game, this hand we just played," she said. "You can look at it as a microcosm of the war."

"How's that?" asked Jeff.

She looked at him. "You're a beginner to this game," she said. "Someone that a more experienced player like me would assume an easy target, a walkover. You bet high and risked a lot while I assumed you were trying a half-assed bluff to try to rook me out of the pot. However you weren't really bluffing. You were sitting there with a full house to my straight. I let you draw me in because of my underestimation of your knowledge and abilities and I got my ass kicked. You represent us greenies. I represent the Earthlings. The hand was a microcosm of what's going on outside in the wastelands. Do you understand now?"

"Whoa," said Hicks, his eyes showing awe. "That is fuckin' static, Xenia. Damn, I wish I had me some AgriCorp green to think that one over with."

"No shit," said Jeff. "I think I fuckin' love you."

She giggled and actually blushed a little. "I'm sure your wife wouldn't be too thrilled to hear your proclamation, but I'm glad I could help explain the concept to you. Now then, shall we deal?"

"Oh... right," Hicks said. He looked down at his PC. "Waters takes the pot. Valentine deals."

"Four point two credits transferred to Waters' account," the PC replied. "Deal transferred to Valentine."

"Right," Valentine said, picking up the cards. "I guess this is a microcosm of tomorrow, right? A shuffle of the cards, a new hand, a new set of circumstances to symbolize what is going to be thrown at us next."

"Exactly!" Xenia said, delighted, giving him the warm look now. "Very well put."

Valentine shrugged, feigning shyness. "Not bad for vermin, huh?"

"I wish you guys would stop calling yourselves that," Xenia said. "It's such an offensive word."

"It doesn't offend us," Valentine said, "so why should it offend you if we call ourselves what we are?"

"Because a vermin is a parasite, something that leaches off of society," Xenia said. "To apply it to a human being is... well... wrong."

"Is that what it means?" Hicks said angrily. "Motherfuck! Now I am pissed!"

"I gotta say," Jeff said, "that I never really knew the exact definition of that word either, but now that it's pointed out to me, I guess you employed people had it right on the money, didn't you?"

"I never used that word," Xenia said, perhaps a little defensively.

"I did," Sanchez admitted, "but I know now that I was wrong to."

"You guys ain't gotta get all politically correct on us about it," Valentine said. "I was vermin and I admit it. My grandmother was a doctor, you know, a fuckin' doctor pulling in the big dollars but the Earthlings took her medical license away back in 2102 when my dad was just twelve years old. They did that 'cause she was pushin' for better medical care for the vermin. Ever since then, our family has been vermin too, doing just what the definition of the word means, living off of society, using society's resources, and not giving anything back in return. Why should I argue about what I am? Why should I be offended for being called what I am?"

"Yeah!" Hicks said, righteously. "It ain't like it was by choice we're vermin."

"It's just the way things are," Jeff said. "Zen's right. You don't have to worry about offending us."

Xenia and Sanchez looked at each other for a moment and then at their companions. "I understand," Sanchez said. "And that too was very well put."

"Fuckin' aye," said Xenia, "but you can't call yourself that anymore."

"What?" Hicks said.

"Didn't you hear what we just said?" asked Jeff.

"You are contributing to society now," Xenia told them. "You're making the most important contribution possible. The definition no longer applies to you."

Valentine nodded agreeably. "I suppose you have a point," he said.

"Fuckin' aye," agreed Jeff.

"We gonna play some more, or what?" said Hicks. "This shit is getting a little deep."

"Right," said Sanchez. He had been shuffling the cards during the entire conversation. Now he began throwing them down on the table, face down. "Seven card stud. Lowball. Deuces are anti-wild. Ante up."

"Deuces are fuckin' anti-wild?" Xenia said as everyone else anted up. Anti-wild meant that a two would be considered a higher card than a king in a game where getting the lowest cards was the goal.

"You don't like it, deal yourself out," Sanchez said.

She shook her head. "I'll beat your ass anti-wild or no anti-wild. Ante up," she told her PC. It anted.

"Look at it this way," said Jeff. "An anti-wild deuce in lowball is another microcosm of the war."

Everyone looked at him, interested.

"In what way?" Xenia asked.

Jeff looked back at them for a moment and then laughed. "Fuck if I know," he finally said. "It just seemed like some cool shit to say."

A high-pitched tone suddenly sounded throughout the room, loud enough to be heard by everyone over the background noise of the overcrowded staging area. This was the attention signal, its purpose to let everyone know that something of importance was about to come over the video system. Five meter high-resolution screens were mounted on the walls at just above head level, their spacing every twenty meters. Additional, smaller screens hung down from the ceiling every fifty meters in the interior of the room. At the tone everyone stopped whatever they were doing and looked at the screen nearest them. A few people had to shuffle around and change position but by the time the logo of the MPG appeared, the entire regiment was able to see the view.

The face of Lieutenant Colonel Douglas Martin, commanding officer of the 17^th ACR, appeared on the screens. Colonel Martin had been known as Captain Martin prior to the revolution and it was his company that had rolled on the southern flank of the WestHem marines and pinned them into their barracks from that side. He had been promoted and placed in charge of integrating a motley collection of new recruits, non-combat assigned MPG members, and veteran combat unit members into a cohesive fighting unit with a hope in hell of taking on a superior force of marines. Like most MPG commanding officers his means of doing this was brutal, realistic, and repetitive training.

"Good evening, men and women of the 17^th," he said now. "I'm coming to you live from a room not four hundred meters away, and, like all briefings, this one is being transmitted to you on the closed circuit system only. Unlike our WestHem friends, we prefer to keep our operational briefings confined to the troops who will be operating under them and not broadcast to the general public as popular entertainment. In other words, what I'm about to say here needs to stay here."

"As if we could get out to tell anyone about it anyway," Hicks said, half jokingly, half contemptuously.

"Shut the fuck up," Jeff told him. "This sounds like some important shit he's gonna be spouting."

"You shut the fuck up," Hicks returned. "You're just a fuckin' private like me. You can't be telling me..."

"I'm a fuckin' sergeant," Sanchez interrupted. "So I can be tellin' you and I am tellin' both of you, shut your asses."

They shut their asses even though technically Sanchez — since he wasn't their sergeant or in their unit — wasn't allowed to tell them what to do.

"As you know from last night's briefing," Martin continued, "our special forces units and our air wing put a major hurt on the marine units yesterday, particularly upon their air cover. Our most conservative estimates are that better than thirty percent of the WestHem combat hovers deployed from the Eden LZ were put out of action, our more realistic estimates put that number at our about fifty percent."

Cheers erupted from the ACR troops as well as a considerable amount of profanity and contemptuous crotch grabbing. Martin, who was being fed an audio link to the room, waited until it died down a bit before continuing.

"As for enemy casualties," he said, "we're estimating that the mortar attacks and the sniper attacks alone put better than two hundred marines out of action. That number includes a significant amount of their officers and squad leaders. They were stung and quite badly, just as our doctrine predicted."

Another symphony of cheers, jeers, and general sneers erupted, this time lasting a bit longer.

"But that was yesterday," Martin said. "Today is another story. There are still a shitload of WestHem marines out there and they spent the bulk of today readying themselves to perform the task they came here to do. All day long they've been unloading their armored vehicles from the landing ships, fueling them, supplying them, and getting themselves ready to start their march towards Eden. Now I know you all saw this on the big three channels today since the Earthlings were kind enough to broadcast their preparations for us and transmit them out..."

There were chuckles at his words. The big three had indeed spent the day showing the marines readying for their march with video clips and even live reports from several of the landing ships. Nor was that all. General Wrath had actually gone on live at one point and drawn out on a computer screen the actual formation his units would assemble in and the route they would take to get to both Eden and New Pittsburgh. He had even been kind enough to show the approximate location they planned to set up their fueling and resupply points halfway to their objective.

"... but," Martin continued, "it is still my duty and obligation to give you an official briefing on what is facing us out there and to show you our intelligence department's best guess on their overall intentions. So... with that in mind, let me show you some satellite overheads of the Eden LZ. These were taken just before sunset tonight." The screen changed to show a high-resolution image of the ten square kilometers around the landing zone. The large shapes of the landing ships were plainly visible. Gathered all around them were the tinier shapes of various armored vehicles — a lot of armored vehicles.

"This is what we're going to be facing, people," Martin's voice said. "There are three thousand tanks down there, more than seven thousand armored personnel carriers, six hundred mobile artillery pieces, four hundred anti-air vehicles, and almost three hundred supply train units capable of carrying hydrogen fuel, liquid oxygen, extra ammunition of all types, food, water, and portable air packs for the troops. In short, we're looking at a full-scale ground invasion of anywhere from ninety to one hundred thousand troops."

An uncomfortable silence suddenly enveloped the room as everyone pondered those numbers. One hundred thousand troops? Three thousand tanks? Seven thousand APCs?

"I know what you're all thinking," Martin told them. "That's a fuck-load of WestHem marines and armor coming at us. I'm not denying this. But I'm also here to tell you that I don't think it's enough to take us."

There were some murmurs, many of them disbelieving in tone, some of them downright hostile.

"Look, people," Martin said, "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that all this patriotic bullshit is easy for me to say since I'm going to be sitting nice and safe in the command center while you guys are out there in the wastelands facing down these marines and their armor. And since we're an armored cav unit our job, of course, is to be out in front. The ACRs advance to contact on offense and stand on the first line on defense. You'll be forty kilometers out there, in the Jutfield Gap, waiting for the marine ACRs to come marching in. You're thinking that I don't give a shit whether you live or die, as long as you kill enough marines before they take your position." He looked hard into the camera, making it seem like he was addressing each soldier personally. "Well you're wrong about that. I do give a shit about each and every one of you and I wouldn't have agreed to send you out there if I thought you were going to be slaughtered. That is not what MPG doctrine is about and that is not what I am about. My first goal — even before repelling the marines and keeping them from taking our city — is the welfare of the soldiers under my command. MPG doctrine commands that this be my goal. We will take casualties out there — unfortunately there is no way to avoid that — but I swear before Laura Whiting herself that they will be as minimal as possible. If it starts looking bad out there, if it starts looking like the marines are getting the upper hand, you will be pulled back. And if it starts looking like they're going to rout us, I will order surrender. General Jackson agrees with this strategy himself, he insists upon it, and he is prepared to surrender Eden to the marines if it looks like the cost of repelling them will be too high. We're not out here to sacrifice ourselves, people. We're out here to make those Earthling motherfuckers sacrifice themselves. If we can't do that, we give up. That is our doctrine and it always will be. Does everyone understand that?"

Everyone seemed to understand it. There were some more murmurs, some more disquieted talk, but no open dissent.

"All right then," Martin said. "Having beaten that point into the ground, let me offer you some concrete strategic information." The screens changed, showing a breakdown of the main MPG forces assigned to the Eden theater of operations.

"As I said before," Martin told them. "The ACRs will be out in front, the first units to make major contact with the OPFOR. There are three armored cavalry regiments based in Eden, ourselves, the 9^th, and the 14^th. All three of us will be spread through the first line of defense in the Jutfield Gap, the very same area we've been training in all these weeks. We know every inch of this ground, every rock, every boulder, every grain of sand. We have defensive positions dug atop every single hill out in this gap and our tank and APC drivers know every route through and around those hills. The 9^th ACR will be deployed in defensive zone two on the southern end of the gap. The 14^th will be deployed in defensive zone three on the northern end. And we, the 17^th ACR, will be covering zone one, right smack in the middle of the gap, covering the most likely avenue of advance the OPFOR will take.

"As you are aware, each one of our armored cavalry regiments consists of three infantry battalions, one tank battalion, and one support battalion consisting of mortar teams, medivac units, vehicle repair and rescue units, and re-supply units. The infantry units will dismount and man their hilltop positions. This will give us approximately six thousand soldiers spread throughout the gap from one end to the other with overlapping fields of fire. The APCs that transported you will provide heavy machine gun support and sixty millimeter cannon support. The tank battalions will be deployed to the flanks of their respective regiments to keep the WestHem tanks at bay and to cover your retreat when it comes time to fall back to the next position. Artillery and air support will be provided by the 2^nd Infantry division, who will be holding the main line of defense, and the Eden air wing, which will be operating on rapid turn-around deployment.

"Now remember the most important thing about an armored cav regiment. Our job is not to throw back the WestHem marines but to kill as many of them as we can before they push to the main line of defense. We know we can't hold our positions indefinitely but we can hold them long enough to inflict some serious damage on their numbers and their morale. We start hitting them the moment they come into range and we go after their APCs first and foremost when their infantry is mounted, and their foot soldiers themselves when they're dismounted. I know we've pounded this concept into your brains time and time again and I know you all know this is MPG doctrine but let me stress it for you one last time. WestHem and EastHem both rely heavily on their tanks to support their infantry and they have come to believe that tanks are the key to winning a battle both on their own planet and on an extra-terrestrial planet like this one. That is why they brought so many tanks here to Mars and that is why their doctrine commands them to kill enemy tanks first. Tanks, however, do not take ground and they do not hold ground; soldiers do. Men with guns have to stand upon that ground in order to capture it. Tanks will not be what enter Eden if our defensive measures fail; soldiers will. We kill enough of their soldiers and it won't matter if their tanks surround every position we hold, they won't be able to take them from us. Kill those marines, people! Kill as many of them as you can as violently and ruthlessly as you can. This will whittle those numbers down and demoralize those who survive. They will be coming at us with one hundred thousand troops. We have a little more than twenty-five thousand to counter this. That's a four to one ratio. The special forces units and the air wing will continue to hit them as they march, demoralizing them further, whittling them down further, but it will the armored cav units who will make the first real contact with them. Let's show them what a war is really all about. If we do our jobs the way we've been trained we can bring that ratio down to three to one by the time they reach the 2^nd Infantry at the main line of defense. With only a three to one ratio, we will hold Eden and send them back to their landing ships with their tails between their legs.

"That is all I have to say. Tomorrow morning, as soon as we get confirmation they have begun to march, you will be ordered to the Jutfield Gap and you won't come back inside until this battle is over. Try to sleep well, people. Pretty soon you're going to need it."

The image signed off. The room remained eerily silent for a few moments and then the babble of conversations began again, quickly sweeping the room, filling it with noise.

"I guess this is finally it," said Sanchez.

"Three thousand tanks," said Valentine. "Holy fucking shit! I mean, I knew they had a lot more than us but three thousand? The whole MPG planet-wide only has fifteen hundred, right?"

"Right," said Sanchez.

"What do we got here in Eden?" Valentine asked. "The three ACRs each have one battalion of tanks attached to them, right? A battalion is a hundred and eight tanks. That's three hundred and twenty four tanks against three thousand!"

"The 2^nd Infantry has two battalions of tanks attached to it too," said Xenia. "That makes it five hundred and forty."

"But they keep their tanks on the main line," Valentine said. "That won't be any help to us in the fuckin' Jutfield Gap."

"It doesn't matter," Sanchez spoke up. "The numbers don't mean shit."

"What do you mean they don't mean shit?" Valentine asked. "They have a ten to one advantage over us in tanks! And Waters and Hicks and all the rest of the dismounts up on the hills will be going after the APCs and the soldiers."

"We're not using our tanks offensively," Sanchez said. "They're for defense only, specifically as mobile platforms for keeping WestHem tanks away from the dismounts when they're pulling back. We have hiding positions and cover all over the place out there. How many times have we pounded the OPFOR on training runs when we were defending? How many times did they pound us when we were playing offense?"

"We never practiced with a ten to one ratio before," Valentine said.

"So what are you saying, Zen?" asked Xenia. "Are you quitting?"

Everyone looked at him. Under orders from General Washington and Governor Whiting, any MPG member was able to quit the war for any or no reason at any time. Several dozen members of the 17^th had done just that over the past week, just walked up to the MPs guarding the room and told them they wanted out. They were being held elsewhere on the base, incommunicado, until the operation was over, but they would not be charged with any crime or otherwise persecuted in an official manner.

"No," Valentine said. "Fuck no! I'm in this for the long hall, for better or worse. The moment I heard Whiting asking for volunteers to fight this war I was down there at the MPG office, putting my fingerprint on the pad. I'm just wondering if General Jackson was really all that smart when he decided not to concentrate on tanks."

"Tanks aren't gonna win this war," Sanchez told him. "Hicks and Waters and the rest of the grunts behind the sandbags are gonna win it."

Eden Landing Zone

August 26, 2146

0600 hours Eden time

The inside of an armored personnel carrier was a very cramped space. The ten infantry troops and their weapons were packed like sardines into the rear compartment along with extra ammunition boxes, extra food and water cartridges, and extra tanks of breathing air. Beneath them, under five centimeters of steel flooring, was the hydrogen burning turbine engine that powered the APC and the tanks of liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen that fueled and oxidized the engine. Forward of the infantry compartment was the command compartment, although with only two seats and less than 1.5 square meters of total space, compartment was probably too strong of a word. It was here that two seats had been installed, one for the APC gunner, who would control the ten millimeter heavy machine gun and the sixty millimeter cannon, and one for the squad leader of the infantry squad being transported. These two seats had a variety of controls and computer screens that allowed either position to survey the outside terrain. Above this position was a hatch that could be opened so the squad commander could poke his head out and look around. Sometimes a real-time, three-dimensional look around with a standard pair of eyeballs was infinitely more helpful than the digital images from the screens.

Lieutenant Callahan, as platoon commander, had usurped the sergeant of this particular squad's right to occupy the commander's seat. He had the hatch wide open and his head sticking half a meter above it. All around him were the other APCs of the newly reinforced 314^th ACR, hundreds of them. Beyond the APCs he could see the tanks, their lethal eighty millimeter main guns pointing forward, their dual laser cannons raised three meters above the main guns, mounted on retractable swivels. He could see the heat shimmer from thousands of engines rising into the thin, freezing air over the staging area, could feel the thrum of vibration coming from his own APC's engine. As cynical and scared as he'd become over the last week he could not help but be awed by the sheer numbers of armored vehicles he was looking at. Never before had he seen so many gathered in one place.

"This is what an invasion is supposed to look like," he said.

"Goddamn right, Callahan," said the voice of Captain Ayers, who had finally left the safety of the landing ship and was now standing in the hatch of his own APC about thirty meters away. He would be leading his company from the rear of the column, of course, but he was at least going to be out in the field with them, as were the lieutenant colonels in charge of each battalion. The full bird colonels who commanded each ACR would remain in the landing ships, which was probably, most of the lieutenants and captains thought, for the best. Most of them were too fat to fit into an APC anyway. "We're gonna roll those greenies up like a rug."

"Uh huh," Callahan responded. He had noticed that those marines who had not done battle with the enemy in this conflict still called them greenies while those who had, like himself, had started calling them Martians, with a capital M. "That's what we've been saying this whole time and so far we're the only ones getting rolled."

"That's because we've been playing their game," Ayers said. "Now we're playing ours. Brute force slamming into their lines and overwhelming them."

"I suppose," Callahan said thoughtfully. It certainly seemed like nothing else could go wrong. Up to this point the Martians had used guerrilla warfare tactics — sniping at them from cover, drawing them away from their concentrations and safety zones in small numbers and then doing hit and run attacks. To give them credit they had done an admirable job of opposing the landings, of slowing down the assembly of the armored forces, and of decimating their air cover. The Martians had been underestimated, that was now quite clear and the lessons learned with blood on this campaign would undoubtedly be studied and taught in the WestHem military academies. But the speed bump tactics of the Martians — however effective — had now ceased to be a threat. The armor was down, was assembled, and was ready to move out, one hundred thousand marines marching against what Intelligence figured to be eighteen to twenty thousand weekend warriors. True, the Martian hovers had proved they could easily take down WestHem hovers, thus rendering the air wing of the invasion impotent, and true, Callahan's own platoon was now fractured and staffed with inexperienced NCOs and green private and corporals whose names he hadn't even had time to learn yet, let alone their strengths and weaknesses, but the sheer numbers alone couldn't be discounted. The marines had a ten to one advantage in tanks and a five to one advantage in manpower. There was no way they could be repelled. No way.

"I just got word from battalion," Ayers said. "It's time to move out. We and the 324^th are going to be the lead elements. Standard marching formation — APCs in the center, tanks on vanguard and both flanks. No rear guard is deemed necessary. We advance at best possible speed to grid 35-C and secure the area for a re-supply point and a forward air base."

"Right," said Callahan, glad that they would be moving soon. He switched radio frequencies and transmitted this information to his squad leaders. They all acknowledged it.

Soon the tanks assigned to the vanguard started to move, pulling out from their parking areas by platoon and forming up in a broad semi-circle out in front. Once they were underway the APCs rolled out, forming up in ranks of eight. Callahan and his platoon were in the second rank. The view to the front quickly became obscured by a thick haze of Martian dust kicked up by hundreds of treads. Callahan slid back into the hatch and shut it, turning on his infra-red view screen to help him see.

They were on their way.

MPG Headquarters, New Pittsburgh

0730 hours

"They're on their way?" asked a voice from behind General Jackson in the war room.

He turned and beheld his boss — Governor Laura Whiting. Her presence here alarmed him greatly. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Why aren't you in the capitol building?"

She reached over and grabbed the half pack of cigarettes from his desk. She pulled one out and put it in her mouth. "I heard you still had some smokes," she said. "Looks like the rumor was true. I ran out yesterday morning and no one else in the capitol has any."

"Laura!" he said, exasperated. "You shouldn't be out on the streets! Did you ride the MarsTrans to get here?"

"I'm just an ordinary citizen like everyone else," she said. "Why shouldn't I ride the MarsTrans?"

"Because every Earthling on the planet and about two percent of the Martians would like to see you dead. Without you this whole revolution falls apart! All it would take is one gangbanger with a gun and that's your ass!"

She shrugged, unconcerned with his concern. "I had my security detail with me," she said, nodding towards the three armed MPG special forces members behind her. "You hand-picked them, didn't you? If I'm not safe with them, I'm not safe with anyone."

He shook his head, knowing that trying to argue with her would be futile. Her stubbornness, after all, was one of the traits that had put her where she was today.

"So," she said, "you gonna light this thing for me, or what?"

"Sure," he said, pulling out his laser lighter. He touched it to the end of her cigarette and she lit up, blowing a plume of smoke out into the room.

"Mmmm," she said. "Now that's rankin' static. I hope this war ends soon so we can get those Earthlings to start shipping us coffee and cigarettes again."

"And booze," said one of her security detail. "Don't forget about the booze. I tried to score some the other night and the only thing left on the shelves is bottled beer, and that's going for five credits a bottle."

"The price of being free," Laura said sadly, enjoying another long drag on her smoke.

"So what are you really doing here?" Jackson asked. "You checkin' up on me?"

"Hardly," she said. "I wouldn't know what incompetence looked like in a military room even if I saw it. Actually, I'm on my way to the freight yards to meet with the cargo handlers. There's some trouble brewing out that way and I need to head it off before it comes to a boil."

"Union trouble again?" Jackson asked. This was becoming an old story since the revolt, one that had played itself out in several vital industries. The leaders of the various labor unions that operated on Mars were — despite the fact that most were Martians — violently opposed to Martian independence. Though unionization of labor had noble beginnings just like the capitalistic constitution of WestHem, over the years the system of organized labor and the leaders that controlled it had become just as corrupt and just as far removed from the people they were supposed to be representing as the politicians themselves. At the time of the revolution most unions had become little more than vassals for the various corporations they were providing labor for, existing only to collect mandatory union dues from the working class and distribute them to the politicians who helped them stay in power. These union leaders were opposed to the revolution for the same reason the corporations were: it changed the status quo in a way they could not control or predict. Every single union on Mars had urged its members to vote no on independence when it came time to make the decision. When that failed, several of them had tried to stop work in vital industries in protest. So far Laura had managed to convince the actual workers of these vital industries that they didn't need the unions in order to remain employed and productive.

"Jack Strough is the leader of cargo handlers union," Laura said. "He's protesting the payment of 'his people', as he calls them, in Martian credits instead of dollars. He says there is nothing in their labor contract about any alternate forms of compensation and he's trying to get them to go on strike immediately until we start paying in dollars again."

"Are they considering going on strike?" Jackson asked, alarmed. There would be big problems for the war effort if the cargo handlers suddenly stopped working. It was they who loaded food stocks from the agricultural cities for distribution to the northern latitude cities. It was they who loaded armaments, fuel, and ammunition from the northern latitude cities for distribution to the equatorial cities. It was they who loaded the tanks and the armor onto the trains for movement from one region of the planet to another. Without them, his soldiers could not be resupplied or transported en masse to reinforce another area if the WestHems decided to shift their forces.

"He's playing at the fears our people have about the new credits very well," she said. "They're starting to get quite riled up. You'll notice he waited until now, when the WestHems are actually moving on our cities, to bring this thing to a head."

"Yes, I did notice that," Jackson said sourly.

"That's classic Jack Strough," she said. "He's a sleazebag extraordinaire. He doesn't give a rat's ass about anyone but himself and his power structure. He doesn't care if his strike ends up killing thousands of MPG members and costing us this war. He doesn't care if the rest of the planet starts starving because food can't get from one place to another. He just wants to remain in power and keep collecting those union dues no matter what. Sometimes I wonder if he's not really an Earthling. He sent me an 'unofficial' message yesterday telling me that he would consider recommending acceptance of the credit as official currency if I were to give his organization a donation of two hundred thousand of them and sign a promissory note that all credits would be reimbursed in dollars from the general fund at twice the going rate if we ended up losing the war."

"Very patriotic of him," Jackson said. "How much do I need to worry about this?"

"You don't need to worry about it at all," she said. "I'm going down there to take care of this problem personally and it will be taken care of, one way or the other. I'm not going to let the freight industry shut down in the middle of a war."

He nodded, not bothering to ask anything further. If Laura said she would take care of it, then it was as good as taken care of. She would do nothing more than talk to the workers using the same brutal honesty that got the revolution voted in in the first place and convince them that Jack Strough was not really their friend. With someone like Jack, whom most of them probably already suspected wasn't their friend, it wouldn't be all that hard to do. "Just be careful out there," he warned. "Why don't you let me send a few extra security personnel with you? I don't really need them here anyway."

"I'll be fine with what I have," she said. "Showing up with a platoon of armed soldiers tends to make me look elitist. I wouldn't even take the three I have if I didn't know you'd ordered them to tie me to a chair before letting me go out alone."

He grinned. "You know me well, don't you?"

"Sometimes I think too well," she replied. "So anyway, you didn't answer my question. Are the marines on their way?"

"They're on their way," he confirmed. "We just got the latest recon-sat video from the KH-91 and the KH-111." He turned to the computer screen on his desk. "Computer, replay latest com-sat videos."

"Replaying," the computer replied. An image appeared showing thousands upon thousands of tiny white objects moving against a gray background, stretching from one end of the screen to the other.

"This is the Eden LZ," Jackson said. "The shot is in infrared because the dust cloud they're creating is obscuring the visual mode. As you can see, they've moved out and are heading in our direction at about thirty kilometers per hour." He began to point at different portions of the image. "Tanks are out in front and on the flanks. APCs are in the middle in ranks of eight, that's two platoons to a rank. Mobile artillery units are behind the APCs. Anti-air vehicles are interspersed throughout the entire formation. Back here, just leaving the LZ, are the supply trains. These are freight car sized units strung together in trains of fifteen cars apiece and towed by six specially modified tanks per train. They carry all the WestHem ammo, food, water, extra air tanks, and spare parts for the armor. These cylindrical cars are full of hydrogen fuel. The trains are formed up in ranks of six trains and they're guarded by the bulk of the WestHem anti-air vehicles, a battalion of tanks, and half a battalion of infantry."

"Can you take out their supply trains?" she asked.

"It would be possible but very difficult," he replied. "Some of their best military technology went into the armor coating on those supply cars, particularly the hydrogen tankers. It would take at least two laser hits in the exact same spot in order to breach one of those things."

"Then why don't they put that kind of armor on their tanks and their APCs?" she asked.

"It's too heavy," he said. "It's four times as thick and eight times as heavy as the alloy used on armored vehicles and spacecraft. If they made tanks out of it they'd be a lot tougher on the battlefield but they wouldn't be able to move much faster than twenty or twenty-five klicks an hour and they would have a range of about sixty klicks."

"Oh... I see," Laura said.

"As it is, it takes six super-modified tanks to tow each train. The modifications are that everything has been removed but the engine, which has been increased in size from the standard tank. They have no guns, no lasers, and only one crewmember. The extra room they use to hold extra fuel. Even so, they can only pull along at thirty klicks an hour and they have to have a supply hose connected to one of the hydrogen tankers in the train. They are the reason why the formation moves so slowly."

"What if you took out the tanks towing them?" Laura asked. "Are they covered in that special armor too?"

"No, they're actually easier to take out than a regular tank, but all that would do is slow them down a little. Regular tanks can replace the towing tanks if need be, although it takes twice as many. We do have contingency plans for delaying and even destroying the supply trains if it's deemed necessary but remember what our doctrine is. We are not out there to kill supplies. We're out there to kill marines. And we don't necessarily want to slow them down at this point. If Interdiction hadn't worked as well as it did I might have considered hitting the supplies in order to keep them out in the wastelands longer and give us more time to focus on the numerical advantage. As it is though, the quicker we get them to our first line of defense the quicker we can start chewing them up in large numbers."

She nodded. "I see what you mean," she said. "You're the military expert. I haven't questioned you so far, I see no reason to start now."

He smiled. "That's the way it should be," he said. "In any case, that's the way things are looking outside of Eden. They look pretty much the same outside New Pittsburgh. In both cities I have the special forces teams and the Mosquitoes already gearing up for the day's action. They should start hitting them in less than an hour. At Libby and Proctor the sun is just now coming up. The latest overheads from there show thousands of engines running at the LZ's and thousands of people loading onto their armor but no movement as of yet. That will probably change within the hour as well."

He was right, of course. By the time Laura Whiting made it to her meeting, the columns at the Libby and Proctor LZs had begun to move in as well. And, as at New Pittsburgh and Eden, special forces teams began to move in too.

Lon and his squad saw the dust cloud long before they saw the first of the WestHem armor coming down the valley below them. They were spread out atop four different hills on the south side of the valley, some forty-five kilometers from the landing ships, just outside of the effective range of the 150-millimeter guns on the ships. They were heavily laden with anti-tank lasers and charging batteries. Supporting them were two sniper teams on hills to the east and west of them and two mortar teams further south. On the other side of the valley — which was just over thirty kilometers wide at this point — was another team of the same configuration.

"What do you think, sarge?" asked Lisa as she spied the dust drifting hundreds of meters into the air and blowing towards them on the wind currents. "They taking the middle?"

"Looks like they're going right down the old poop chute all right," Lon agreed. Though the WestHem marines probably thought that sticking to the center of the valley afforded them protection since it was as far as they could get from the hills, it was actually exactly what the Martians wanted them to do. If they were in the middle it meant they were in range from both sides of the valley instead of just one. It also greatly increased the time it would take for WestHem infantry troops to get to the ambush sites.

"Want me to send a report?" asked Jefferson. "I can get a good lock on the sat from here."

"Not yet," Lon replied. "The Mosquitoes are already in the air, circling about a hundred klicks behind us. Let's wait until we have an actual visual on the OPFOR so we can give them exact targeting data."

"Right, sarge," Jefferson said. "Standing by on the update."

The dust cloud grew closer and closer and soon began to drift over the top of them, obscuring everything beyond twenty meters or so in the visual spectrum. The team switched their combat goggles to full infrared, allowing them to peer through the dust. Soon the ground began to shake as the vibration from thousands of tank and armored vehicle treads was transmitted along it. The shaking was hardly noticeably at first but it grew steadily more intense, to the point where you could feel it rattling your teeth and your bones. It was not a pleasant sensation.

"That feels evil," Lisa said. "I know it makes me sound like a girl to say that, but..."

"I'm just glad you said it first, Wong," Horishito put in, "because you're totally down with it. It is evil."

"Look," said Jefferson, who was on the easternmost hill. "They're starting to come into view now."

They all looked and saw the tiny forms of WestHem main battle tanks appearing one by one, stretching across more than a kilometer of the valley floor.

"Wow," said Horishito. "Look at all of them."

"I am," said Lon. "And this is only the vanguard."

Another ten minutes went by, during which more and more tanks came into view, rumbling along at just below thirty kilometers per hour, kicking up tons of dust. The vibration of the ground grew worse, to the point that small pebbles and rocks were starting to move and roll down the hill.

"Okay, Jeffy," Lon said. "Send off the first report. Vanguard in sight, moving westward at approximately thirty klicks, holding to a one and a half klick area in the valley center. Tanks in front, semi-circular formation, multi-battalion strength."

"Got it," Jefferson said. "Sending it off."

When the front tanks reached the point where Lon and his squad could have engaged them if they'd wished, the APCs began to come into view. They were grouped tighter together in ranks of eight. More tanks were spread out to either side of them.

"Send another position report," Lon ordered. "And then start scanning for command vehicles and marking them."

"You got it, sarge," Jefferson said. He spoke to his computer for a second and it sent off a com laser to the satellite. He then began focusing his ESM detector on the APCs, scanning for any vehicle that was utilizing more than one radio frequency. Like with the individual soldiers on the ground, anything using more than one frequency was more than likely an officer — a lieutenant at least, possibly even a captain or a lieutenant colonel.

"Anything?" Lon asked after three minutes had passed.

"Not much chatter going on at the moment on any frequency," Jefferson replied. "I guess they're not very talkative. Wait... there's one." He smiled, looking directly at the APC in question and using a finger on the kneeboard of his biosuit to put a mark on it on the combat computer. "Got ya, you fuck." As long as this APC remained in Jefferson's sight, it would appear as dark blue to the other team members and therefore a primary target.

"I got him too," Lon said, watching as one out of the hundreds of APCs in view suddenly changed color. "Wong, how about you?"

"Me too," she confirmed.

"Okay," Lon said. "Looks like the program is working. Keep marking them, Jeffy, and they'll be the first through the pearly gates."

"You know it, sarge," Jefferson said. "I'm getting an update from command. Two flights of Mosquitoes are inbound. One from the south, one from the north. ETA less than five."

"Right on," Lon said. "The moment they finish their runs, the fun begins. Let's get the ATs charged."

Lisa was one of the four squad members in possession of an AT-50 laser. She pushed the charge button and trained it out over the valley towards the collection of armored vehicles. She zoomed her combat goggles in a bit, pulling the images closer, and placed her targeting recticle on one of the closer APCs, noting that the range-finder read 8356 meters — just over eight kilometers. The official maximum range of the AT-50 on the surface of Mars was fifteen kilometers (assuming, of course, that one had a direct line of sight to one's target). Beyond that too much of the energy of the laser shot would be absorbed by the atmosphere on the way to the target for a burn-through of the armor to be guaranteed.

"Hey, sarge," she said as something occurred to her. "What's the word on this dust affecting the range? Won't it absorb more of the energy than the atmosphere alone?"

"It will absorb some," Lon replied. "The loss of energy should be low enough that we can still penetrate at this range though."

"Should be?" asked Horishito.

"I know," Lon said. "It's more theory, but so far all of our theories have been good ones, haven't they? Just stick to the nearer targets until we know for sure."

They waited, watching the targets rumble by, oblivious to their presence. Jefferson continued to scan and located two more probable command vehicles. They too were turned blue by the combat computer.

"The Mosquitoes should be here any second now," Lon said. "Once they start making their runs and the commanders start barking orders at everyone Jeffy will be able to pin down more of them."

Less than thirty seconds later the ground started vibrating in a different manner. Sound reached them, an ominous whine of semi-rocket engines swelling up from behind. While their brains were still processing this information two Mosquitoes suddenly appeared from the hills behind them, hugging the terrain as was their habit. They passed right over the top of Lon and Lisa, clearing them by no more than twenty meters, close enough to send dust swirling off their hilltop.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Lisa said, both terrified and exhilarated.

Even before the words were out of her mouth the two aircraft had banked out over the valley and their lasers began to flash. They banked back into the hills a few kilometers further west and disappeared. Down in the valley four APCs were now destroyed, blasted apart after having high intensity laser energy burn through their hulls, exploding their ammunition stores, their hydrogen tanks, and their oxidizer tanks. A combination of smoke and blood vapor from the shredded bodies within drifted up from each to join the dust cloud.

"Goddamn they're fast," Lon said, shaking his head in admiration. As many times as he'd seen the Mosquitoes in action, he was still awed by the sheer speed of their attacks. "Jeffy, how's the scanning? Did that get their attention?"

"Oh fuckin' aye," Jefferson affirmed. "They're chattering up a storm down there. I've got at least six more command APCs identified. Should be comin' up on view in a few seconds."

Sure enough, seven more APCs turned blue. They were scattered throughout the portion of the formation that was visible.

"AT holders," Lon said, "start picking your targets and tracking them. Remember your zones of fire. Let's not waste shots by having two of you hit the same target."

On the far side of the formation three more APCs suddenly exploded one after the other. None of Lon's squad had even seen the Mosquitoes that had been responsible for the attack.

"Yes!" Horishito yelled triumphantly. "How do you like that action, assholes? Looks like our little Mosquitoes got somethin' for your ass, don't they?"

"One of them missed," Jefferson said sourly. "What's up with that shit?"

"Just on one shot," Lisa said. "Give the guys a little credit. They only have four seconds or so to pull off two shots."

"True," Jefferson said, "but they also have computer assist to find the firing zone, don't they?"

"Yeah, but..." Lisa started.

"Okay, guys," Lon interrupted. "We're starting to edge into the land of too much non-essential chatter here. Jeffy, are you still scanning? It looks like they're maneuvering about down there. Aren't there command APCs issuing orders that you should be identifying?"

"Yeah, sorry, sarge," Jefferson said. "There will be a few more on view in a few seconds."

The APCs were indeed maneuvering about, spreading out from their tight formations and scattering over a larger area. The tanks were also spreading out as well as putting on speed and starting to zigzag in evasive courses. The anti-air vehicles had all stopped and were pointing their laser cannons towards the hillsides, radar and infra-red dishes turning madly in search of the aircraft that were menacing them.

None of this did any good. The first pair of Mosquitoes, the pair that had passed over Lon and the others on their first run, suddenly emerged from the hills again, this time about four kilometers to the east. Their lasers flashed and four more APCs exploded into smoke, debris, and blood vapor. The Mosquitoes disappeared again. More than twenty of the anti-air vehicles fired their laser cannons after them but all of them were too late. They did nothing but pepper the hillsides or send their laser energy out through the atmosphere.

No sooner had this pair disappeared before the other pair reemerged from the other side of the valley and took out another four. They too escaped before any of the anti-air vehicles could get a lock on them.

"That's it," Jefferson said. "The Mosquitoes are pulling back. They will be circling twenty klicks south of us in case we need them to cover our retreat."

"Good fuckin' deal," Lon said. "Okay, people. It's time for us to get to make our presence known. AT holders, commence firing. Primary targets are the command APCs. Stick to your zones."

Lisa smiled beneath her helmet, adjusting the AT-50 on her shoulder. It was charged and ready, her targeting recticle resting on one of the blue APCs. Her finger went to the firing button and slowly, smoothly, she pushed it.

Callahan was a little nervous but not really alarmed just yet. He had not actually seen any of the APCs get hit, had not actually seen any of the Martian aircraft that were hitting them, he only knew they were under attack because Captain Ayers had told him they were under attack.

"It's those Mosquitoes!" Ayers told him and the other platoon leaders on the command frequency. "They're coming in low from the hills and hitting us. All platoons need to go into evasive maneuvering!"

Callahan passed the order along to his squad leaders but wondered just what good it would do. If they were being hit with lasers, which moved at the speed of light after all, what good would zigzagging around do? "What about the SALs?" he asked Ayers. "Why aren't they taking the aircraft down?" That was what they'd been told would happen if any of those greenie aircraft dared trying to engage the armor on the march. SALs were ringing the entire formation and they too fired lasers that moved at the speed of light.

"They appear and disappear so fast the SALs can't get a lock on them!" Ayers said. "It's just like when they hit the hovers at the LZ."

"But we have twenty times as many SALs out here now," Callahan said. "None of them are able to get a lock?"

"It seems that the greenies have been practicing this maneuver," Ayers said. "Somebody is out there guiding them to their targets and they're keeping their exposure time at four to five seconds. We simply can't lock on and fire that quickly."

"Clusterfuck," Callahan muttered, not bothering to close his transmission link first. Why in the hell didn't they know the greenies operated like this? Obviously they'd practiced this maneuver for years. Had the marine units stationed on the planet held them in such contempt that they'd never bothered learning what their tactics would be?

Ayers had no answer for him. Callahan shook his head in disgust and then looked at his screens, trying to get a sense of what was going on outside. He could make nothing out of the confusing array of infrared enhanced images so he opened the hatch on the APC and stood up, poking his head out to take an actual look around. Like before, the dust was so thick he couldn't see a thing. He set his goggles for infrared enhancement and looked around. Still, nothing seemed unusual except for the fact that all of the armor was maneuvering wildly about. He could see no burning APCs or tanks, could see no Martian aircraft in the sky. They must have hit further back in the column.

"What about getting some dismounts out there with hand-held SALs?" Callahan asked Ayers. "If we put enough lasers into the air we're bound to hit one of those things."

"I've passed that idea onto battalion," Ayers said. "They're checking with regimental about it now."

Callahan shook his head in disgust and continued his look around. Wondering about who was guiding the aircraft to their targets he began scanning the hillsides to the south just in time to see the flash of Lisa Wong's weapon sending a burst of laser energy out. It was followed by three other flashes in close succession. He didn't know where the first three flashes went but he had a pretty good idea about the fourth. Two hundred meters to his left an APC suddenly exploded, the turret flying into the air, shrapnel flying in all directions, blood vapor and smoke boiling out into the atmosphere.

"Holy fuck!" he yelled in horror. Twelve marines had just died in the time it took him to blink an eye.

"They're hitting us again!" Ayers said. "No aircraft spotted!"

"It wasn't aircraft!" Callahan reported. "AT-50 fire from the south! Spread out among at least four hilltops!"

"Confirm AT-50 fire?" Ayers demanded.

"I saw it with my own eyes!" Callahan reported. "Let me get the coordinates." He called up his map display and quickly read off the grid and hill numbers. By the time he'd done this several other units had reported the same information.

"We got it!" Ayers said. "Regimental is ordering the tanks on the left flank to engage."

"They're not close enough!" Callahan said. The tanks could only engage dismounted troops with their main guns or their machine guns and the range on those weapons was only four kilometers for the former and less than a kilometer for the latter.

"They're moving them in!" Ayers said. "Continue evasive maneuvering. They're sending a company from the 324^th to take that position!"

Callahan opened his mouth to ask why in the fuck they were doing that when it was reported that more laser flashes had been spotted, that more APCs had been hit, this time from hills on the north side of the valley.

"It's a fuckin' ambush!" Callahan said. "Screw going after them, we need to get the fuck out of here!"

"We need to take them out!" Ayers countered. "We're going after them. Bravo Company is moving to the north position along with the tanks from the right flank."

Things were suddenly becoming very clear to Callahan. "Cap," he said, "that's just what the Martians want us to do! They're drawing us into a trap!"

"Regimental is ordering it, Callahan!" Ayers said. "They did not ask for your goddamn opinion on how to counter the enemy!"

"Well maybe they should!" Callahan yelled back. "I've been out here. I know how these Martians fight. They're trying to get us to hold here while they pick us off from out of range and then as soon as we get in range to counter them they're going to disappear! We need to push through this area as fast as we can!"

"You're out of line, Callahan!" Ayers returned, quite pissed now. "You do what the fuck you're ordered to do and shut your ass about everything else!"

"Yes sir," Callahan said through gritted teeth. At just that moment the lasers flashed again. He saw another APC — this one about three hundred meters away — explode with a spectacular, lethal flash.

"Keep it up, guys, keep it up," Lon encouraged. "We still have a couple of shot cycles left before those tanks get into range."

Lisa nodded but said nothing as she waited for her AT to charge from the last battery she'd put in. So far she'd fired three times and had scored three definite kills on command APCs, watching with glee each time as they'd exploded into wrecked piles of steel and smoke. Each hit equaled at least twelve marines who would not make it to Eden, who would not challenge the armored cav units and the infantry behind them. She felt almost guilty that she was getting a thrill out of this mass slaughter she was participating in that was very close to sexual in nature.

Her weapon beeped, indicating it was charged and ready to fire. She already had another target in sight, another blue tank in her zone, another officer and the squad he was riding with. She pushed the firing button and the APC exploded at the same instant. Her smile grew wider, the wetness between her thighs grew wetter. She ejected the spent battery and took another from her case, slamming it expertly into place and hitting the charge button.

"Lead tanks are at fifty-five hundred meters," Lon reported. "They're hauling ass. Seventy-five kph. One more shot and then let's do what we do best."

"Run away," said Horishito. "I'm down with it, sarge."

Lisa took a moment to zoom out and glance at the approaching armor. No less than sixty main battle tanks were bearing down on them like wildfire, their guns pointing forward at the hills. Behind them was a stream of APCs — at least thirty of them — moving nearly as fast. Yes, it was about time to blow this scene. She zoomed out a little further, found another blue APC in her zone of fire and sighted in on it, zooming back in until the APC was the only thing in her view. The charging beep sounded and she fired, watching it explode. "Last shot out," she reported, turning her combat goggles back to normal magnification. "Ready to haul my ass."

The other three AT holders reported the same.

"All right," said Lon. "Let's go. You all know the drill."

Within thirty seconds all ten of them had their equipment stowed and were scrambling down their respective hillsides, careful to keep the bulk of the hills between themselves and the approaching enemy. Their timing was none too soon. As they started heading south, towards the waiting Hummingbird that would extract them from the area, the hilltops they had just occupied erupted in a cataclysm of explosions and flying dust. None of them could resist taking a look back.

"Fuck me," said Lisa in fearful awe as she watched high explosive shells rip apart the place where she had been lying less than two minutes before, as she watched other shells go streaking overhead.

"Now you see why timing is the important thing in this war," Lon told them. "Let's keep going."

They made it to their pick-up point five minutes later. The Hummingbird was sitting at idle on the ground. They climbed inside and a minute later they were in the air, heading back towards the safety of Eden.

Eighteen hundred meters to the west, atop yet another hill, Corporal Brogan Goodbud lay nestled behind a boulder watching as the WestHem tanks blew the shit out of the hills where Lon Fargo and his team had just been. In his hands was his M-64 sniper rifle, which he hoped would soon be put to use. Three meters to his right, behind yet another boulder, was his spotter, Private John Rimmer.

"I just got the word," Rimmer told him. "Main team is safely away. No casualties."

"Static," Rimmer said, nodding in approval. He was glad they'd made their escape in time. Nothing could have lived through the plastering those tanks had just inflicted.

"Rick and Glory are still in position on Hill 678," Rimmer said, referring to the other sniper team located three kilometers east of them. "The mortar teams are standing by at Hill 650 and Hill 589."

"Right," Goodbud said, looking around. The tanks had stopped firing and had formed up in a protective semi-circle around the hills. The APCs were now moving forward, spreading out into position behind the tanks. He checked the range on the closest tanks to their position and saw that it was only nine hundred meters. That was a little too close for comfort. "Tell Rick and Glory that we do no more than three shots. Nine hundred meters is within potential detection range for our gun flashes. Reiterate that in a stern manner if you will. I know the pickings will be rich but we're not out here to get ourselves killed."

"You got it," Rimmer said, looking nervously at the tanks, wondering if even three shots was maybe two too many. Nevertheless, he recorded his message and ordered it sent. Since the other teams were well over half a kilometer away it did not go out over radio waves since this would potentially give away their position. Instead, the message was encrypted and sent via communication laser to a com satellite where it was then re-broadcast by the transmitter in Eden. As such, it took almost six seconds to get a reply. "They understand and agree," he reported.

"Good," Goodbud said. "It looks like they're going to start dismounting here in a minute. As soon as they do, start finding me some green helmets."

"You know it," Rimmer said.

The APCs all came to a halt. Their rear ramps opened and biosuited marines began to emerge, hundreds of them, all carrying M-24s or SAWs. They formed up into units and began to move forward, towards the hills, moving slowly and awkwardly.

"I can't believe they're dumb enough to try this after what we did to them last time," Rimmer said. "Don't they ever learn anything?"

"They do but their commanders don't," Goodbud replied. "At least not for awhile. Their doctrine says to dismount and engage any enemy forces so that's what they're doing. Like General Jackson said, their predictability and their underestimation of us is what will be their undoing."

"I suppose," Rimmer said. "It almost seems unsportsmanlike, doesn't it?"

"Almost," Goodbud agreed. "But who said war had to be sportsmanlike."

The marines passed through the gaps between the tanks and continued southward, towards the hills. They moved more slowly now, more carefully, as if they expected the special forces teams to engage them at any second.

"Tell the mortar teams to sight in on grid 47-2, 47-3, and 47-4," Goodbud said. "Ten meter fused high explosive. Fire on my mark."

"Sending it," Rimmer said. Eight seconds later, "acknowledged."

The dismounted marines moved closer and closer to the hills, spreading out a little. Slowly but surely Rimmer began to identify those among them who were speaking on multiple radio frequencies and turned their helmets to a green color. By the time they reached the flat area Goodbud had chosen as the killing ground, sixteen had been "tagged", as the expression went.

"Okay," Goodbud said, "this is it. Have the mortar teams fire for effect, maximum rate."

"Fire for effect," Rimmer repeated. "Maximum rate." He sent the order off.

Goodbud zoomed his goggles in on one of the green helmets and adjusted his rifle, putting the recticle on his face. His finger went to the firing button and he waited. He didn't want to shoot until the mortars began to fall. The idea was to use the confusion and chaos they caused to cover their fire.

"Here they come," said Rimmer, who was looking off to the south and had spotted the white streaks of the mortar shells arcing over the hills. "Get ready for the big bang."

The marines apparently spotted the incoming rounds as well. They began to dive to the ground, falling in that slow manner the Martian gravity caused. Goodbud didn't look away. He kept his recticle on his target, following it to the ground. When the mortar rounds began to explode, showering the formation of marines with shrapnel, he fired, sending his bullet directly through the middle of that green helmet. He immediately zoomed out and found another green helmet, this one lying twenty meters further out. Before he could sight on it, however, the head it was attached to was blown to pieces by the second volley of mortars. He shifted his recticle again, finding yet another green helmet, and this time he was able to zoom in and fire, erasing another officer or NCO from existence.

"One more," he said, zooming out and finding another green helmet. "Be ready to move."

"Fuckin' aye," Rimmer said.

Goodbud zoomed in and fired, his third shot just as true as his first two had been. He safed his weapon and then began to roll backwards, off the crest of the hill. "Let's get the fuck out of here," he said.

"I'm with you," Rimmer told him, following him down the hill.

While the mortars continued to fire, Goodbud and Rimmer made their way south, towards their pre-determined rendezvous point. Three kilometers to the east, the other sniper team did the same. Since there was no WestHem artillery set up and since there were no WestHem hovers in the air the two mortar teams could keep firing with impunity. They did so, raining eighty millimeter shells down on the helpless marines until their entire inventory was expended. They then packed up their equipment and moved at an almost leisurely stroll towards their rendezvous points. Two Hummingbirds were waiting there. One sniper team and one mortar team climbed into each of the aircraft. They took off and headed towards Eden to re-arm for another deployment later that day.

No sooner had they left then two more flights of Hummingbirds came screaming in from either side of the valley. They made two runs apiece and killed another thirteen WestHem APCs and all inside of them.

The entire formation had come to a halt and many of the troops had dismounted from their APCs to stand on the surface of Mars. Ambushes had taken place both on the north and the south and medivac operations were currently underway to remove the many marines that had been wounded by the Martian mortars. Everyone was expecting attacks on the evac hovers — it would be just like those greenies to hit them from the air or from the hillsides — but so far everything was quiet after the last air attack.

Callahan stood sixty meters away from his APC, his rifle in his hands, his eyes looking over the remains of the APC that had contained Lieutenant Goldberg and the third squad of his company's second platoon. This was the first time he had ever seen close up what an anti-tank laser could do to an armored vehicle and it was horrifyingly fascinating. The vehicle was hardly recognizable. The turret was lying nearly ten meters away, the gun barrel of the cannon twisted and distorted. The body of the vehicle had split open in multiple places from the force of the explosion of the ammunition and fuel inside. The treads had been blown clean off and were nothing but twisted, distorted shapes that were already half covered with Martian dust. And the men inside... well... they were still there but they were kind of like a jigsaw puzzle now. Shredded arms, legs, pieces of skull and bone, fragments of biosuits, pieces of rifles, a few teeth, nothing bigger than a hand or a foot but all of it in an untidy mess inside the compartment or scattered on the dust outside of it. Such was the same with every other APC that had been hit, either from the air or from the shoulder-fired AT-50s the Martian ambush teams had fired. If they hit the body of the APC, this was the result without exception. The only wounded they had to deal with were the ones hit with mortars.

Ironically, though he was as exposed as he could possibly be, this was the safest Callahan had been all morning. The Mosquitoes only attacked armored vehicles and, since they were in the center of the valley, they were out of range of any Martian snipers or mortar teams hiding in the hills. If only they could stay here. But they couldn't. As soon as the wounded were on their way back to the landing ships they would move out again. And undoubtedly the Martians would be waiting for them somewhere up ahead.

Another biosuited marine stepped around the smashed APC and walked over to Callahan. When he got within three meters he recognized the face of Captain Ayers through the helmet. Ayers shouldered his rifle and held up five fingers, indicating that Callahan should switch to tactical channel five, which was an extremely short range frequency designed for private, face to face conversation. Callahan did so.

"Not much like Salta, is it?" Ayers asked him.

"No," Callahan agreed, "not much. What are the damages?"

"Are you sure you want to know that?"

Callahan raised his eyebrows. "Is it that bad?"

"Yeah," Ayers said. "It is. Ninety-six APCs destroyed with all hands. Sixteen damaged enough that they can't go on. Five hit but capable of going on."

"Ninety-six with all hands?" Callahan asked, sure he had heard incorrectly.

"Ninety-six," Ayers confirmed. "Almost twelve hundred marines killed in the APCs alone in less than thirty minutes. Another sixty dead from the mortar attacks and the sniper attacks."

"Snipers?"

"Snipers," Callahan said. "They started popping people off when the mortars began to fall. Like before, they seemed to be targeting officers and NCOs. Everyone found with a bullet through his head was a sergeant or above."

"Jesus," Callahan said. "How many tanks did they get?"

"None," said Ayers.

Once again, Callahan thought he had misunderstood his commander. "Did you say none?"

"Not a single one," Ayers confirmed. "They left the tanks completely alone and only hit the APCs."

"That's... that's... insanity," Callahan said. "What the hell kind of warfare is that?"

Ayers shrugged. "It's completely against WestHem doctrine, that's for sure, but it's quite obvious that's what they're doing. And that's not all."

"What do you mean?"

"We've lost a lot of the command staff. Of the APCs that got hit, a rather large proportion were the ones with lieutenants and captains inside. They also got Colonel Vickers from the 324^th. I'm thinking this is more than just a lucky coincidence for the Martians."

"They're monitoring our radio transmissions from the APCs the same way they do from our suits," Callahan said, feeling chills down his back at the thought. After all, he was in charge of one of those APCs broadcasting on multiple frequencies.

"Yes," Ayers said. "Intel thinks they're identifying the command vehicles and targeting them deliberately. Maybe that's their rationale behind going for the APCs only. If they can take out all of the command staff then there will be no one to lead when we hit their main defenses."

"But the tanks will plow through their defenses and surround them," Callahan said. "We already outnumber them ten to one in heavy armor and they're doing nothing to try to change that ratio?"

"Who knows what the Martian mind is thinking? Truth be told, I'm not worried about what's going to happen once we reach their main line of defense, I'm worried about what's going to happen on the way there. You and I, my friend, are primary targets for those sneaking little fucks. Every time I give an order to my platoons, every time you pass that order on to your squads, we are identifying ourselves to them as surely as if we put our rank on the outside of our APC, as surely as if a private walked up and saluted us."

"What's the solution?" Callahan asked. "Is there one?"

"They're working on it," Ayers said cynically.

"Wonderful," Callahan said. "I'll sure sleep better tonight knowing that."

Aboard the WSS Nebraska

1200 hours, New Pittsburgh/Eden time

General Wrath looked at the map display in mute rage as he pondered the information he had just been given in his briefing. All four of the marches towards the principal Martian cities had been bogged down by hit and run attacks launched from the air and from the hillsides surrounding each avenue of advance. Anti-air defense systems had proved to be completely worthless against the greenie pilots and their damned Mosquitoes. Tank and infantry runs against the attacking ground forces had proved to be nothing more than ambush set-ups for mortar and sniper teams. In the last four hours more than thirty-three hundred marines had been killed, more than three hundred wounded badly enough to be taken out of action, and more than two hundred and fifty APCs had been destroyed.

"It's all so useless," Wrath declared to Major Wilde. "They know they can't defeat us. They know that once we reach their main line of defense we'll plow through them and cut our way into their cities in a few hours, but still they deliberately attack our soldiers and try to kill as many of them as possible. They really are nothing but terrorists! The fact that they aren't attacking the tanks proves it! Their whole goal is just to kill as many of our brave fighting men as possible!"

"It is a rather unconventional approach to warfare," Wilde agreed. "And they are going to great lengths to hit our officers and leaders. Do you suppose they think they will be able to break down command and control enough with this method to prevent our envelopment of their positions?"

"They're thinking nothing of the sort," Wrath said. "They're just killing for the sake of killing. And when we do surround their positions and their cause becomes hopeless they'll simply surrender and try to say that all is fair in war." He shook his head violently. "Well they can just forget that. When this is over I'll see to it that every one of those special forces soldiers, every one of those Mosquito pilots and gunners are tried for multiple counts of murder and executed. We'll do it by military tribunal in front of live cameras!"

"Yes sir," Wilde said soothingly. "But in the meantime, we need to counter these attacks in some way, to minimize the damage they do. I have a few suggestions if you'd like to hear them."

"I want the attacks stopped, not minimized!"

Wilde swallowed and took a few deep breaths, mentally counting to ten. "I don't see any way to stop the greenie attacks completely," he said at last. "As you said, they seem committed to causing as much death and mayhem as they possibly can while active combat is underway. I do, however, think we can minimize the toll on our APCs, our officers, and our men to some degree."

"All right," Wrath said through gritted teeth. "Let's hear it."

"Well, in the first place we've got to stop having the officers broadcast on multiple channels. If the greenies can't identify them they can't directly target them."

"How can they not broadcast on multiple channels? Colonels have to talk to lieutenant colonels and they have to talk to the captains. The captains have to talk to the lieutenants and the lieutenants have to talk to their squad sergeants. Are you suggesting that everyone blabber everything on one channel?"

"Well... no, obviously that won't work very well for the entire division to talk on one channel, but we can put each individual battalion on one channel with strict orders that absolutely no unnecessary communications will be broadcast. Everything above battalion level will be on another channel. All general orders will be broadcast on a monitor only channel from the landing ships."

"How will the battalion and company levels acknowledge their orders?" Wrath asked. "How will the platoon and squad levels do the same? This can't work."

"We'll just have to repeat general orders several times and assume that everyone copied them."

"We can't run a division that way! Communications are the key to success in any mission!"

"And the greenies are exploiting our dependence on communications," Wilde said. "We either cut our communications down drastically and combine channels or we continue to lose officers. There's no other way, sir."

Wrath thought this over for a second and then nodded. "Okay," he said. "I guess we do that. Nobody is going to like it though."

"They're not out there to like their orders," Wilde reminded. "They're there to obey them. Now as for the route of travel, I think we made a mistake by having the division stick to the middle of the valleys. In every case the greenies were able to hit from both sides and the tanks were out of range to return fire when the ambushes started. They need to hug one side of the valley or the other, keeping as close to the hills as possible."

"Close to the hills where they'll be attacked from? The hills where the Mosquitoes are diving out on them?"

"If you accept that our units are going to be attacked no matter what we do," said Wilde, "then it makes sense. We deploy all the tanks on the hill side of the march."

"No vanguard of tanks?" Wrath asked. "Are you insane, man?"

"The greenies aren't bringing their tanks out to counter us," Wilde said. "They're holding them at their lines for defensive purposes only. If we line our tanks up all along the flank that faces the hills, no matter where the greenies attack from we'll be able to instantly engage them. The reason our losses were so high today was because they were able to get off multiple shots from both sides without fear of return fire. They shot us up again and again from two directions while our tank units were racing to hit them back. If we do as I suggest the greenies may get off one shot, maybe two if they're very lucky, but as soon as we identify their firing positions we can start plastering them with eighty millimeter shells or even heavy machine gun fire."

Again, Wrath had to admit that made sense. "Okay," he said. "That's a very good point. We'll do it."

"And when we are engaged by greenie forces," Wilde said, "we need to send the tanks after them to repel the attack but not try to engage them with dismounted infantry."

Wrath had a big problem with this one. "Not send infantry after them? Just let an enemy force hit us without responding? That goes against the very essence of the corps!"

"I understand that, sir," Wilde said, "but as we've seen, the greenies are very good at ambushing exposed ground troops. They have snipers out there who are able to identify officers and NCOs and they have no problems with taking them out. These same snipers are likely directing the mortar teams who are firing from beyond the hillsides, well out of range of any counter-strike we can launch at them. If the men stay in their APCs the snipers can't shoot them and the mortars can't blow them up. I suggest we order the APCs to continue forward at best possible speed when the ambush teams hit them and let the tanks deal with the situation alone. This will insure that each ambush will result in no more than four to eight APCs being hit."

"That's fifty to ninety men per attack," Wrath said. "We're supposed to let that go unanswered?"

"Going after them with ground troops is exactly what the greenies want us to do," Wilde said. "That's why they send those snipers and mortar teams out there. If we do elect to keep trying to engage them with dismounted infantry we'll still lose the original fifty to ninety in the attacks, but we'll also lose another fifty to ninety to the mortars and the gunfire. In addition, this will continue to bog down the advance and give the greenies more time to launch even more attacks. We need to keep moving, sir, and get to those cities as quickly as possible with as many of our troops alive and capable of fighting as possible. The greenies want us to keep playing their game. They seem to have evolved their entire war strategy around hitting us when we do exactly what doctrine commands. They're trying to wear us down and break our morale and if we keep doing what they want, it just might work."

"Impossible," Wrath scoffed. "You can't break the morale of a marine!"

Wilde looked at his commanding general pointedly. "With all due respect, sir, that sounds good in the daily briefing, but it's simply not true in reality. I've talked to some of the wounded who have been brought up from the surface. Their morale is pretty close to the edge now and if this rate of attrition continues, it will sail right on over that edge. God only knows what the result might be if that happens."

Wrath looked like he was about to go into a rage at his aide for this sacrilegious impertinence. But in the end he simply nodded. "I suppose you're right," he said. "The order will go out. APCs are to keep moving no matter what happens. Tanks will deal with the attackers alone."

"That's very wise, sir," Wilde said.

"And what about the air attacks? Is there any way to stop them or at least slow them down?"

"No," Wilde said simply. "The effectiveness of the greenie airpower is perhaps the single most underestimated aspect of this entire operation. Quite frankly those Mosquitoes are able to operate with impunity as long as they stick to what is apparently their doctrine. They get a fix on our units from special forces units hiding in the hills and then they hug the ground as they approach their target. They pop into the open for no more than four or five seconds, fire off two shots, and then disappear back into the hills. Our anti-air units take an average of eight to ten seconds to get a lock and train their weapons on an aircraft. They were designed to deal with slow-moving hovers, not winged aircraft moving at more than seven hundred kilometers per hour."

"So you're saying we just have to accept that these aircraft are going to be hitting us every thirty minutes or so the entire time we're marching?"

"I'm afraid so, sir," Wilde said. "However, there is one way we can cut down the ultimate number of APCs they wind up hitting."

"How's that?"

"We need to decrease the time it takes to get to our objective."

"Decrease it? How?"

"We need to push towards the cities without let-up. We need to operate at night as well as during the day."

"Operate at night?" Wrath asked. "When will the men get sleep?"

"Most of the actual combat troops will be able to sleep on the way," Wilde said. "The tank crews and the APC drivers and the support teams... well, they'll just have to go without sleep until we reach our objectives. They're marines. They can take it."

"What are you suggesting, exactly?"

"We move up to secure the fueling point at best possible speed," Wilde said. "Instead of letting everyone sleep all night and then spending the next two days getting everyone refueled and rearmed, we start that operation immediately and carry it on through the night. If they work non-stop they should have the bulk of the work done by the time the sun comes up tomorrow morning. By noon we'll be able to resume our march and by 2000 tomorrow night we'll be at the primary staging areas. We'll be subjected to artillery attacks but we can withstand that if we spread our units out. At dawn the next morning we can start to move in. All four cities can be in our hands by noon the day after tomorrow."

Wrath liked the sound of this. He liked it a lot. The sooner this abortion of a conflict came to an end, the better. "Okay," he said. "Get it all written up as general orders and put it into place."

"Yes, sir," Wilde said, knowing that all of this would have Wrath's name on it. "It's a very good plan."