Greenies

Chapter 20

Aboard the WSS Nebraska, Mars orbit

September 5, 2146

Rear Admiral Mitchell Spears was the commander of all of the task force's F-22 space fighters. Each of the California Class superdreadnoughts housed a wing of ninety-six of these saucer-shaped craft for a total of 192 of them — or at least that was what they'd left Earth with, they were currently down to 147.

Like most of the command rank officers involved in the conflict, Spears was somewhat upset and disillusioned by the losses and defeats his forces had taken in what had been promised a slam-dunk conflict. His spacecraft had not had to perform their primary mission of fleet defense since the Martians had not been so dumb as to attack the armada with their A-12s based in Triad but even so he had lost more than forty spacecraft and twenty crews, most of them escorting AA-71s on useless photo-recon missions of which only three had been successful since establishing orbit. The reason for this was twofold. The first was that the Martian pilots had turned out to be much better at their jobs than even the most pessimistic pre-war reports had given them credit for. The second was the fact that political and economic concerns had not allowed him to take the most basic precautions of any orbital space campaign — that of removing the enemy's ability to detect outgoing launches and sorties.

But now Spears was finally starting to sense a turnaround in the conflict — something that would put orbital space superiority back in his hands where it belonged. Two days ago he'd been asked by General Browning's aide — Major Wilde of the marines — to formulate a plan to destroy the Martian's navigation, communications, and, most importantly, their space reconnaissance satellites, a mission his F-22s had been specifically designed to undertake, that his crews regularly trained in as it was a vital part of EastHem vs. WestHem doctrine. This was the plan he was now presenting in detail to the good major by means of a holograph generated in his main pilot briefing room. The holograph showed a two-meter globe of Mars with the cities showing on the surface and each and every known satellite in both geosynchronous and low-Mars orbit represented by constantly moving red dots. The positions of each of these satellites could be updated in real-time, shown in past time, or projected forward into future time.

"Basically, the plan is this," Spears explained to Wilde, who had a digital notebook open on his laps and was making constant notations. He used a laser pointer to show the location of the armada. "We start with the geo-sats first, hitting the recon birds that are closest to our own position and then moving outward from there. The rationale behind this, obviously, is to eliminate their closest assets first which will cripple or destroy their ability to detect our spacecraft launches and flight paths on subsequent missions."

Wilde nodded. "Space operations are not exactly my specialty," he said. "But my understanding is that our losses so far on the recon missions have because we have not been allowed to hit these satellites?"

Spears looked at him carefully. The rumor at the top was that this man — a mere major — was actually much more than just an aide to former General Wrath and current General Browning. It was said he was actually a brilliant military tactician who had been trying to keep this war steered on the path it was supposed to have been on the entire time, only to have most of his advice disregarded again and again by political concerns. It was said that he now had pretty much a free hand in planning the next phase of Operation Martian Hammer and that his "suggestions" to General Browning had already been approved. That was the rumor anyway. But this was the WestHem military after all so it was possible the rumors were wrong and Wilde was actually nothing more than a sneaking, back-stabbing, two-faced weasel like most aides to command rank officers (including Spears' own aide) and he was only trying to get Spears to spout off something negative about the war to date so he could report it and use it as the basis for finger-pointing in upcoming reports on the losses.

"Look, Admiral," Wilde said, seeming to pick up on his thoughts. "I'm not here to start finding blame or to pin the responsibility for past mistakes on anyone. I'm not composing any reports on what went wrong or why we lost what. I'm simply trying to put together a cohesive and logical plan to achieve the objective of capturing the city of Eden with the least amount of friendly casualties as possible. Now I know your forces took some significant losses on those recon missions they escorted. Logic and common sense tells me it was because of the real-time recon those satellites provided the Martians as you launched and headed for the IP. I just want to know if this is true or not."

Spears nodded, his respect level for this man climbing upward a few notches. "Yes," he said. "Basic doctrine for orbital space warfare around an enemy planet or moon is to take out the enemy's satellites first and foremost. Since we weren't allowed to do this in the initial phases, everything my ships do is transmitted immediately and in real-time to Martian Space Command at Triad. No matter how many spacecraft I sent to escort a recon mission, they knew about it the moment they leave the bays and send more."

"So once we take out the nearest satellites?"

"We'll be able to hit the rest with near impunity," Spears confirmed. "Not only that, but our bombing missions — when they go — will also be able to launch and enter the atmosphere unseen and unchallenged, therefore almost insuring their success in their missions. It's the same thing the EastHems did to this very planet during the Jupiter War."

Wilde smiled. "That's exactly what General Browning wants to hear, sir. Please proceed with your briefing."

He proceeded, explaining the order of attack, times of attack, and methods of attack one by one. He was only halfway through, however, when Wilde's PC began to buzz, indicating an urgent communication request from Browning.

"Excuse me for a minute, Admiral," Wilde said, pulling the PC from his waist and flipping it open. As expected, Browning's face was on the screen. It looked a bit nervous and upset. "Yes, General?" Wilde asked.

"I need you to drop whatever you're doing and come to my office right away," Browning told him.

"Uh... well, sir, I'm receiving a briefing on the upcoming anti-sat campaign from Admiral Spears at the moment. Can it wait until I'm done?"

"No," Browning said without hesitation. "Tell the admiral you'll hear the rest of the briefing later."

Wilde suppressed a sigh. "Yes, sir," he said. "I'll be there in five minutes."

Browning didn't acknowledge him. He simply ended the communication, his face disappearing from the screen to be replaced by the Marine Corps emblem. Wilde flipped his PC closed and looked up at Spears. "My apologies, Admiral," he said, "but could we finish the briefing later? General Browning needs me for an urgent matter."

"Of course," Spears said. "I think you've got the basic feel for the plan anyway, don't you?"

"I do," Wilde agreed. "As you said, the important part is to hit the nearer satellites quickly and simultaneously in a coordinated initial strike. After that, it will be nothing but mop-up."

"You've got the feel for it all right. Assuming that General Browning approves this attack plan my flight crews can be ready to launch that initial strike in forty-eight hours."

"I think you can be assured the general will approve the plan," Wilde told him, meaning, of course, that if Wilde recommended approval it was as good as done.

"Excellent," Spears said. "Now all that's left to do is come up with a suitable starting time for the first launch and a catchy name for the operation itself. You know how the media eats up stuff like that."

Wilde wanted to shake his head and roll his eyes. He didn't. "I'm sure whatever you come up with in that regard will be fine, sir," he said. He braced and gave a smart salute. Spears returned it and dismissed him.

Wilde walked quickly through the halls of the Nebraska, making his way from the naval operations section to the main operations deck, wondering just what Browning — who was almost completely incapable of tying his own shoes without assistance — thought was so urgent. He passed effortlessly through the layers of dense security and directly into General Browning's office.

"Major Wilde, reporting as ordered, sir," he proclaimed, giving a half-assed salute.

Browning returned it in half-assed fashion and motioned for him to sit down. He looked at his aide a little guiltily, as if he didn't quite want to share the news he had to share. Finally he just blurted it out. "I need you to prepare a press briefing for me on the upcoming second stage of Operation Martian Hammer."

Wilde's eyes widened. "A press briefing?" he asked. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you don't mean a... a press briefing, do you? Sharing details of our war plans with the media?"

"I'm afraid so," Browning said. "I've been exchanging communications with the Executive Council and the joint chiefs of staff all morning and they have ordered me to provide the big three representatives with a summary of our plans."

Wilde was aghast. "Sir... that's... I mean... that could destroy our entire plan! Why would they order such a thing?"

"Apparently lobby groups for the big three and their CEOs have been hounding them ever since the pull-back for us to release details to them. The public back home is demanding to know what happens next and the big three are afraid that if they don't keep them apprised of the current situation that ratings will start to slip on the primary news channels. If that happens the other corporations will not be willing to pay as much for advertising and product placement spots."

"Advertising?" Wilde said. "They want us to compromise operational security for advertising revenues?"

"The big three are recording record advertising revenue since the start of Martian Hammer," Browning said, in all seriousness. "It's understandable that they would want to protect those profits."

"But, sir," Wilde pleaded, "the very success of this plan depends on the Martians not knowing what we're going to do until we do it. If they know we're going to start hitting their satellites, they'll double or triple their combat space patrol. If they know what city we're going to launch at they'll reinforce it with troops from the other cities before we have a chance to put their rail network out of commission. This could turn into an even worse disaster than phase one!"

"I'm not an idiot, Major," Browning said, irritated. "And neither are the council members. We all realize that secrecy is paramount in this operation and the council has taken steps to insure it is maintained. The big three have all promised to release the information to the public only as it occurs. They just want advance notice of our intentions so they can have their assets in place and get rough drafts of their stories composed."

"The big three hold on to information?" Wilde said doubtfully. "Do you really think they would honor such an agreement?"

"Of course they will," Browning almost shouted. "The council has given me their word on this."

Great, Wilde thought. A bunch of lying, cheating, backstabbing politicians have given their word. "Listen, General," he said. "What if we gave them misinformation instead?"

"Misinformation?" Browning said, appalled. "You mean lie to the media?"

"We've been lying to the media the entire time," Wilde reminded. "They still think we've only lost a thousand soldiers in this conflict. They still think Martian suicide crews killed our Panamas. Why don't we just tell them we're going to be attacking New Pittsburgh or Libby instead?"

"That's a different kind of lie," Browning said. "The suicide attacks and the casualty figures are official lies designed to help protect the public from a truth they would not be able to handle. You're suggesting we be deliberately deceitful."

"There is historical precedent for it," Wilde said. He was about to start citing examples — the most famous of which being the Persian Gulf War of 1991 in which the media had been told the ground attack would start with an amphibious invasion instead of the overland campaign intended all along — but Browning wanted to hear nothing about it.

"The media would crucify all of us if we did something like that," he said. "If we told them we were attacking Libby and then attacked Eden they would smear me, you, Admiral Jules, and the entire Executive Council. We would all end up as vermin at best, in prison doing hard labor at worst."

"But what if told them we changed our mind at the last minute? What if we..."

Browning was shaking his head. "It would never work," he said. "Besides, the Executive Council is having the Joint Chiefs draw up their own briefing papers so ours needs to match theirs."

Wilde was fuming. "Sir," he said. "I must protest this in the most stern manner possible. There has to be a certain degree of military secrecy here or all may be lost."

"Lose to the greenies?" Brown scoffed. "Impossible. Not with an eight to one advantage. You drew up a good plan, Wilde. You should be proud of yourself. I hardly see how giving the media advance notice of the stages of it will have any effect on the outcome. Like I told you, they are not going to release any information until the plan is already underway."

"Sir," he said. He had to try one more time. "I find it hard to believe that the media, once they get hold of this information, will keep it quiet."

"I'm not asking your opinion of what we should do, Wilde," Browning told him. "I'm ordering you to prepare a press briefing. Now are you going to do it or are you going to be relieved of your position and sent down to the surface to command a company?"

Wilde shook his head. "I'll have something for you in two hours, sir," he said.

"Very good," Browning said. "You're dismissed."

The briefing documents were prepared and distributed, both to the big three representatives accompanying the task force and to the representatives back on Earth. The documents were a truthful and comprehensive summary of the plan, outlining each step of the process including target order and preference, what facilities were being marked for destruction on the surface, and which railheads, bridges, and tunnels would be struck. The document was marked Top Secret and every representative that received a copy was required to put his or her fingerprint to a secrecy document that threatened prosecution under the WestHem code and prison time if the information was released prior to official authorization. As such it took almost six hours before the first reports of the document were aired to the public on one of the big three channels.

It was an InfoServe station in Denver that broke first. They published a copy of the document on their website and reported its existence on their main news channel claiming an "anonymous source within the military complex" had provided it to them. Within an hour of this the other two of the big three were reporting the same thing. Within twelve hours of the document's release, nearly everyone in WestHem and everyone on Mars knew what the plan was.

"I knew this would happen!" Wilde told Browning in the latter's office. He was yelling at his commanding officer and didn't even care. "The goddamn Martians know what we're going to do now! They have a complete and detailed copy of our war plan for the next phase!"

"Surely you don't think one of the media representatives went back on their word, do you?" Browning asked him. "It had to have been one of the staff members of the joint chiefs or perhaps some lowly secretary in an Executive Council office."

"It doesn't matter who leaked," Wilde hissed, resisting the urge to slap the man across the face. "Don't you understand that? It doesn't matter! The information is now out there and the Martians are going to start responding to it. We need to begin initiating the plan immediately, before they have a chance to take steps to counter us."

"But it's not scheduled to start for another twenty-seven hours," Browning said. "It begins at midnight with the coordinated anti-satellite missions. The media need to have time to set up their cameras and microphones in the F-22 bays so they can get shots of the fighters heading out on their missions."

"General," Wilde said, "if we wait until the scheduled start time the Martians will be waiting for us out there with their own F-22s. We have to launch within six hours if we want to avoid a slaughter of our pilots and the destruction of the bulk of our ships."

"Do you really think its that bad?" Browning asked him. "I mean, even if they do have advanced notice, they're still greenies who only fly part-time. We should still be able to plow right through them."

Wilde clenched his fists and then his teeth. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. "General, listen to me," he finally said. "If we don't launch our anti-sat missions in the next six hours, we might as well not launch at all. They'll kill us!"

Browning sighed. "All right, Wilde," he said. "If you really think things are that bad. Let me get online with Admiral Spears and we'll see if his crews can start launching in six hours."

"Very good, sir," Wilde said, relieved. "And as soon as we get the nearer satellites taken out — that should be about twenty-four hours — we need to get those bombers moving on the rail targets before General Jackson starts shifting his forces to Eden."

WestHem Capital Building, Denver

September 6, 2146

1430 hours.

The entire WestHem Executive Council — all nine of them — were assembled in their private briefing room atop the capital building. It was Labor Week, technically a seven-day period off from their official duties, but an urgent communication had been sent to each of their private numbers demanding that they assemble for this meeting. Although they liked to think of themselves as the most powerful people in the solar system, all knew that they really weren't. When important sponsors — their most important after Agricorp and the other agricultural CEOs — called and told them to jump, they only asked how high.

The sponsors in question entered the room precisely on time. They were Roger Warling, CEO of InfoServe; Richard Jones, CEO of Internet Communications Systems, or ICS; and Daniel Rupert III, CEO of WestHem Internet Visualizations, or WIV. It could perhaps be argued that these three men really were the most powerful people in WestHem since, between the three of them, they controlled all of the media, television, publishing, Internet sites, filmmaking, private communications, and news reporting on their half of the Earth, the Jupiter colonies, and, until the revolution anyway, Mars (with the exception, of course, of that perpetual thorn in their side — MarsGroup).

Still, protocol needed to be maintained and they feigned subservience to the nine elected members — all of whom one or the other of them controlled in some fashion — bowing respectfully and awaiting permission to be seated.

"Thank you," said Warling, who, as the CEO of the largest of the big three, had been appointed spokesman for this particular meeting.

They went through the standard round of preliminaries. This took the better part of twenty minutes as each CEO asked about the families and current pursuits of each councilmember and as each councilmember did the same for each CEO. Then they talked about the weather and whether or not the early snow that was predicted would actually materialize. Finally the small talk petered out and Warling was able to move onto the business at hand.

"As you are aware," he said, "we've received briefing documents from the military regarding the plans for the next phase of Operation Martian Hammer."

"Yes," said John Calvato, Chief Executive Councilperson, judiciously not mentioning that those briefing documents were not supposed to have been made public. "Is there a problem with the plans?"

"We do have some concerns with the plans," Warling said. "Nothing major, however, and nothing that I'm sure we won't be able to work out. You see, we notice that your military leaders have called for the destruction of all of the communications and navigation satellites in Mars orbit as the preliminary phase to the attack."

"They have," Calvato agreed. "The reasoning behind this is that it will hinder Martian communications both during the space attack phase of the plan and during ground operations. One of the reasons for the uh... problems encountered on the surface during the first phase of the operation was that the greenies were able to accurately navigate and maintain communications with each other out in the field while we were not."

"Yes, we can certainly appreciate that," Warling said. "But surely you can appreciate the fact that between the three of us, we own every last one of those communications satellites and we co-own, with the military and intelligence complex, all of the navigation and reconnaissance satellites since most of them are dual purpose."

"We do understand that," Calvato said. "And it is regretful that these assets must be destroyed in order to carry out the plan, but my military advisers all tell me it is absolutely necessary."

"Ah yes, your military advisers," Warling said. "Those would be the same men who assured you of that the greenies would surrender in the face of the armada you sent after them? The men who, when that failed to happen, assured you that the campaign would be quick and painless, over in a matter of days with our victory and with light casualties?"

"Well... yes," Calvato said, "but one of the reasons they've cited for their... uh... problems with the first phase of the campaign is the ability of the greenies to utilize those satellites, both to navigate on the surface and to detect the launch of our reconnaissance assets from space."

"We've been reporting that General Wrath's failures as a commanding general are the reason for the lack of immediate victory on Mars, remember?" Warling asked.

"Well... yes," Calvato said. "And that is certainly the case, but the fact of the matter is..."

"Isn't General Browning guaranteeing you a quick victory in his campaign to capture and hold Eden?" Warling asked. "We've been reporting that as well."

"Yes, General Browning will capture Eden as reported," Calvato said. "But you see, part of the plan to foment that capture involves the destruction of those satellites."

"We have our own military advisers on our staffs, sir," Warling said. "All of them assure us that General Browning's plan is a sound one and will succeed in its goal of taking and holding Eden with or without the destruction of these very expensive assets in Martian orbit. Do you know that Jupiter is now approaching maxima from Earth."

"Uh... yes, I believe I was advised of that," Calvato said. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"I would think it would be obvious to a man of your education, sir," Warling replied. "When Jupiter reaches maxima the sun will be between it and the Earth, therefore blocking all direct communications. When that occurs our software automatically routes communications to satellites in Martian orbit for relay. If we have lost all of our com-sats on Mars and Jupiter is at maxima that would mean there would be no far space communications of any kind available to anyone in WestHem, including the military. This is simply unfeasible."

It didn't occur to Calvato — or anyone else on the council for that matter — that even if the satellites weren't destroyed they would still lose all communications with far space if the Martians remained in control of their planet. "That is something we didn't consider," he admitted.

"We simply cannot tolerate a break-down of our communication chain such as what is being suggested," Warling said. "Nor can we be expected to simply absorb the cost of replacing all of those expensive satellites you propose to carelessly destroy simply because your General Browning is trying to be a bit dramatic in his new task."

"Well, we can certainly understand your concerns," Calvato said. "But this plan has already been approved and I'm told that General Browning is going to be pushing for its immediate implementation."

"You need to stop him from carrying out the anti-satellite portion," Warling said forcefully. "You need to stop him immediately! We must insist that not a single orbiting asset around that planet be harmed in any way."

"Mr. Warling," Calvato said, "I don't think you understand. This is a military decision that has been deemed vital for achieving the objective. We agreed to provide you folks with briefing material on the upcoming operations even though General Browning asked us quite forcefully not to. Now you're asking us to modify what is purported to be an integral part of the plan. I understand and appreciate all of the assistance you've given me and the other members of this council over the years, but I'm afraid we can't accommodate you in this instance. The launching of the spacecraft against the first of those satellites is less than five hours away now."

Warling's eyes became steely, unfriendly for the first time during the discussion. "Mr. Calvato, and all of you other politicians sitting around this table. I don't think you're quite understanding what we three CEOs are doing here. We didn't come here to ask you not to destroy our satellites, we came here to tell you that you will not destroy them. It seems that maybe you are letting your positions go to your heads to some degree. We are the media in this nation and we are responsible for putting each and every one of you in the position you are now in. We can remove that support as easily as we gave it. With a word to our staff members we can begin reporting the real story from Mars. Don't think we don't know what it is. We know about the horrid losses, the destruction of the armor, the thousands of wounded piling up in the hospital ships. We've been keeping that story suppressed in the interests of national unity but if you cross us, we won't hesitate to release it, nor will we hesitate to begin reporting on every unfavorable aspect of each of your lives, real and imagined."

Calvato was looking pale. So were the rest of the council.

"I don't believe we're being unreasonable here," Warling said. "You are threatening to destroy a vital part of our assets — unnecessarily we are told — and we are simply preventing that. You give the order to stand down the anti-satellite campaign and everything remains status quo without any hard feelings. Is that understood?"

It was understood.

"Good," Warling said. "Then I suggest you take your vote or do whatever it is you do here and then get that order sent off to Mars before it is too late."

They didn't bother to vote. The order was sent off ten minutes after Warling and the other two left the room.

Aboard the WSS Nebraska, Mars orbit

September 7, 2146

It was close to midnight and they had been locked in the briefing room for the past six hours. Major Wilde was with Rear Admiral Spears of fighter command and Rear Admiral Haybecker of attack command along with the captains that controlled each respective wing of spacecraft. They were trying to hash together a new plan to take out the Martian rail network around Eden without first taking out the satellites in the vicinity that would alert the Martians to their launch.

"This is just asinine," complained Captain Biggers, the commander of Nebraska's AA-71 wing. "I complained about this when they asked us to do recon and I'm complaining about it now. If the greenies are able to see us launch they swarm us before we can even approach the atmospheric entry point. If we can blind them to our launches, we could hit any strategic target on that shithole of a planet with impunity. Once we make atmospheric entry they have nothing that can touch us. Nothing!"

"I know," sighed Wilde. "I was as appalled as anyone by General Browning's sudden reversal of orders. I begged and pleaded with him to allow us to at least hit the nearer satellites but it was like talking to a brick wall. The order came directly from the Executive Council. The big three don't want to lose their satellites so they applied political pressure to achieve their goals."

"They're letting a bunch of fucking accountants make military decisions for them!" yelled Captain Powell, commander of Nebraska's F-22s. "It's the same shit they did back in the Jupiter War and look what happened there."

"I know," Wilde said, trying to be soothing but actually coming across in the bitter spectrum instead. "But the situation is what the situation is. Our orders are to come up with an attack plan to level the Alexander Industries plant and to isolate Eden by rail to prevent re-supply and reinforcement. We need to start launching these sorties as soon as possible. So my question to you, gentlemen, is do we have the basics of a plan here or don't we?"

"We have the basics of a plan," said Admiral Spears. "We launch two major alpha strikes — one at New Pittsburgh, one at Eden. The New Pittsburgh strike will consist of twenty AA-71s escorted by the entire fleet of F-22s. Our only target at NP will be the Alexander Industries plant. Assuming that even half of the spacecraft make it through to fire their lasers from attack altitude, that plant will be leveled several times over."

"You got that right," said Admiral Haybecker, "If you get us safely to atmospheric entry my pilots will knock that place out. It's a sitting duck out there — a nice big target surrounded by wastelands and filled with high explosives."

"We'll get you there," Spears promised. "The strike against Eden is a little more complex, however. We're being tasked with taking down an entire rail network and isolating a major city. We need to hit the two major freight loading facilities on the edge of the city and take out no less than twenty bridges and tunnels out in the wastelands on the approaches to the city. The targets are much smaller and the margin for error is much finer. We plan to send everything we have against Eden — ninety-three AA-71s escorted by the entire inventory of F-22s. Even so, there's a better than fifty percent chance we won't hit every target on one strike and we'll have to go back."

"I think the real problem here," said Haybecker, "is the losses we're going to suffer. The F-22s are going to get pounded by the Martians on the approach and the AA-71s are going to get hit as they climb back out after their strikes." He shook his head angrily. "All of this could be avoided if they'd just let us hit those fucking satellites!"

Wilde ignored this last. They'd already been over what could have been avoided twenty or thirty times. "So you're saying that the possibility of significant fighter and bomber losses on each of these strikes is more than significant?" he asked.

"Yes, man!" Spears yelled. "Haven't you been listening to us?"

"I have," Wilde said. "And I sympathize, gentlemen, really I do. But my concern is that losses might be so heavy with one strike — particularly with the fighters — that we won't be able to launch a subsequent strike. Can the Martians cause such attrition on one mission that a second won't be adequately protected?"

Spears, Haybecker, and all of the captains nodded as one.

"Yes," Haybecker said. "If the Martians send everything they have after us they may very well cause greater than fifty percent losses in fighters."

"Fifty percent?" Wilde asked. "Is that an exaggeration?"

"Not in the least," Spears assured him. "The Martians have a wing of 184 F-22s at Triad and, as we've found, their pilots and gunners are pretty damn good. Now they've lost a few in the skirmishes we've had with them but not as many as we've lost. If we send every fighter we have to escort my bombers and the Martians send everything they have to try to stop them, it will result in a full-blown, knock-down, drag-out space battle of epic proportions between two forces that are pretty much evenly matched. Fifty percent losses for such a battle is very possible."

"And with less than fifty percent strength in fighters," Haybecker added, "we would have a difficult time defending the armada if the Martians decided to send their own alpha strike against us. We would beat them off with the close-in defenses, of course — one of the big lessons of the Jupiter War is that small craft cannot stand up to fixed defenses on large space platforms — but with adequate fighter cover enough of them might get in close enough to score some hits, maybe enough to destroy a few ships. And you know they'd go after the Californias if they tried such a thing."

Wilde shook his head, his frustration wanting to boil over. No matter which option they looked at, no matter which way they sorted through the scenarios available to them, they were going to take heavy losses and face a degradation of vital fleet protection. The only option that would accomplish their goals painlessly and effectively was the one option that had been nixed by men in suits two hundred million kilometers away. "Okay," he said. "That at least lets us set the targeting priority. Since there is a significant possibility that we may only have enough assets to pull off one major alpha strike against the Martian surface, we'd better do the important one first."

"The strike against the Eden rail network?" they both asked.

"Exactly," Wilde said. "Taking out the ammunition factory in New Pittsburgh is important — don't get me wrong on that. That factory is supplying the Martians with all of their bullets and artillery shells and even with the rail network disabled, they would still be able to ship these things to wherever the fighting is taking place by putting them in orbital lifters and flying them there. However, they cannot do that same thing with tanks or APCs at all and, though they could conceivably transport soldiers in this manner, they couldn't in the numbers that would be needed — especially with all the equipment a soldier requires. That means the destruction of the Eden rail network is the paramount concern and will be the first mission launched. We must isolate our primary target from reinforcement, especially now that the big three are telling the whole damn solar system that Eden is the primary target."

"Your reasoning is sound," Spears said. "And who knows? Maybe the Martians won't want to risk so many of their spacecraft countering the strike — especially if they see the results of it are inevitable. If that's the case we'll have plenty left to escort the New Pittsburgh strike."

"We can always hope," Wilde said bitterly. Hope was not something a military commander was supposed to rely on. If you were down to hoping, something had gone wrong somewhere. "Can we launch the Eden strike in the next twelve hours?"

Spears and Haybecker both frowned. "That's pushing it a little," Spears said. "But I think we can."

"Good. The sooner the better. It's entirely possible the Martians are loading up tanks, armor, ammo, and men from Libby, Proctor, and New Pittsburgh onto their trains as we speak and sending them to Eden. If we give them much more than twelve hours some of those reinforcements and re-supply could start arriving in Eden."

"We'll get the final targeting assignments hashed out and then start briefing the pilots," Spears said.

"Very well. While you're doing that I'll go brief General Browning on the plan."

"Right," Haybecker said. "And maybe you could ask him one last time about hitting those satellites first? At least the nearer ones?"

"I'll be sure to mention it," Wilde said, and he would too, but he already knew what the answer would be. When the suits in Denver talked, the generals always listened.

The forty-eight hour pass was now expired and the members of the 17^th Armored Cavalry Regiment were back in their biosuits in the Jutfield Gap. They carried no arms or ammunition with them on this trip. Instead, they carried shovels, sledge hammers, chisels, jack hammers, bags of specially designed cement capable of being utilized in the atmosphere of the planet, and fresh ninety kilogram sandbags filled with fresh industrial shavings. Their task was to repair the defensive positions that had been damaged in the first phase of the conflict in preparation for the second phase.

Jeff, Hicks, and Drogan were atop Hill 611, in the central portion of the gap. It was only half a kilometer away from the hill they'd occupied in the first battle and it had fared about as well. Most of the original sandbags had been blown apart, some completely destroyed. The cement barrier beneath had taken an intensive pounding as well. They had been out here for eight hours now and were only about a quarter of the way through the first stage of the repair job — that of removing the old debris so it could be replaced.

"Take ten, guys," Sergeant Walker said to his squad. "Everyone grab a seat, catch your breath, shit if you need to."

Jeff put down the electric chisel he'd been using to pry loose damaged sandbags. Hicks put down the jackhammer he'd been using to break loose damaged concrete from the under-barrier. Drogan simply sat down the broken sandbag she'd been about to heave over the side of the barrier and down the hill. At this point in the process they weren't too worried about littering the landscape.

"Anyone got a smoke?" Hicks asked, eliciting a dutiful chuckle from the rest of the people on the channel.

"I got some back in my locker," Drogan told him. "Damned if I didn't forget to bring them out here."

This got a chuckle that was a little bigger.

Jeff, tired of being in the trench — it brought back some unpleasant memories — decided he needed to get out of it for awhile. He climbed through the large opening they'd created with their removal duties and sat on a heap of discarded sandbags that had collected just below. After a moment Hicks and Drogan decided to join him. They made a few hand gestures and then switched over to a short-range channel so they could talk without the rest of the squad having to listen to them.

"Look at those poor slobs down there," said Drogan, pointing downward to where several platoons from the 2^nd Infantry were collecting all of the dead WestHem marines that had been left behind — which meant all of them that had fallen out here since the marines had not had any place to store their dead during their retreat — and carrying them one by one to a flatbed, tracked agricultural truck that had been driven out for this purpose.

"Yeah," said Jeff. "I won't complain about this job. I'd rather be doing this than that."

Hicks only shrugged. "It serves 'em right," he said. "Those assholes down there never got their cherries popped at all. They sat in their trenches while we put the fuckin' hurt on the marines and drove 'em back. They never even had a goddamn arty shell land on them. They should have to come out here and grab all the dead ones we in the ACR fuckin' killed."

"It wasn't like they stayed out of battle on purpose," Drogan told him. "Cut 'em a little slack. They were prepared to fight, just like we were."

"Yeah," Hicks said grudgingly. "I suppose."

"What are they gonna do with 'em?" Jeff asked.

"I was talking to one of their guys on the way out here," Drogan said. "They're supposed to scan all of them so General Jackson can send their info back to Earth. Then they load 'em on the truck and drive 'em back to Eden and stick 'em in a freezer somewhere. When the war is over we'll send their bodies back home so their families can burn 'em with honor and all that shit."

"Well that's awfully fuckin' nice of us," Hicks said bitterly. "I say have a fuckin' bulldozer just plow them under. Why should we give a shit about those assholes or their families?"

"It's part of the rules of warfare, Hicks," Drogan said. "You collect and account for enemy dead when practical and feasible."

"You mean like the way they accounted for Sanchez?" he asked.

Sanchez's body had been found on the way out — fortunately not by those who had known him but by an infantry platoon on their way to collect marine bodies. Though the tracks of the tank that had run him down had long since been obliterated by the Martian dust that blew through the air, and though Sanchez's body had been nearly completely covered itself, there had been no mistaking what had happened to him. With the speed of a wildfire the story of the smashed MPG tank commander named Sanchez had spread through the net in minutes, fomenting sadness, outrage, and blind anger by all that heard it.

"Yeah," said Drogan. "You make a good point there."

"Yep," said Jeff. "Now we know what Valentine's not talking about. It must have been fuckin' awful to watch that."

"Anyway," said Hicks, "the WestHems still ain't never gonna know how many of their fuckin' marines we killed. Most of them are in those APCs and tanks out there and we ain't counting their asses, are we?"

"That would be considered impractical and unfeasible," Drogan said, looking out towards the armor in question. There were literally hundreds of dead WestHem tanks and APCs out there, all of them containing at least two dead marines, some containing as many as twelve. The engineer battalions from both the 17^th ACR and the 2^nd infantry were down there hooking each one up to a towing tank or wrestling it onto a tracked flatbed carrier. But, as Hicks pointed out, they weren't bothering with trying to collect the dead inside or even scan them since most were smashed and exploded by the lasers that had felled them. They were only moving them out of the way, dragging them to the north or the south portion of the valley and just dumping them there for all eternity so they wouldn't serve the second wave of WestHem marines as cover for their un-smashed armor or their un-shot infantry.

"They're already all accounted for," said Jeff. "We only killed a thousand or so planetwide, remember? That's what the big three are reporting anyway."

"Sure," Drogan said. "And they wouldn't lie, would they?"

"Fuck no," said Hicks. "They're the goddamn bastions of truth."

They all had a laugh at that — a slightly bitter one. Hicks was the first to mention what was really on their minds.

"They ain't lying about them coming for Eden though, are they?" he asked.

"No," Jeff said. "I don't think they are. Every military plan they announced to this point has been true."

"Sure has," Drogan agreed. "That's why General Jackson has us out here repairing all the positions in the Gap. He knows this is where they're coming."

"Almost four hundred fucking thousand of them," Hicks said. "And all their armor, all their hovers, all their artillery. We ain't gonna be able to stop them on our own."

"No," Jeff said. "Not a fuckin' chance in hell of that. Jackson needs to send us reinforcements."

"A lot of fuckin' reinforcements," Hicks said. "We need every MPG unit from every fuckin' city to fight that off. If they don't get here soon, it'll be a slaughter."

"No it won't," said Drogan. "Because if we don't get reinforcements, I'm not coming back out here. Neither are most of the others."

Jeff nodded. "I'm down with you there, Drogan. I signed up for the long haul here and I knew I was laying my ass on the line, but I ain't puttin' it in front of no fuckin' firing squad. Jackson needs to even these odds or he can count my ass out."

Hicks seemed relieved by their discussion. "I thought I was the only one thinking that way," he said. "I was keeping it to myself."

"No need to do that," Drogan said. "This is a voluntary war. Laura Whiting and General Jackson been saying that shit the whole time. No one's gonna throw their ass away against eight to one odds, me included."

"So when the fuck is he gonna start movin' those troops over?" Hicks asked. "The big three been saying that they're gonna bomb the train tracks around Eden, cut us off from supplies and reinforcement. They're probably getting ready to do that right now as we're having this conversation. So why ain't anything moving this way?"

Drogan and Jeff both shook their heads. They knew what Hicks was saying was true — MarsGroup was reporting that no reinforcements had been loaded or had even started the process for loading — but neither understood it.

"I don't know," Drogan said. "Sometimes I worry that Jackson's fuckin' lost it, that he's choking at the final moment here."

"I think maybe he bit off more than we can chew," Hicks said. "I mean, he was a smart motherfucker getting us to this point — I won't take that away from the man — but maybe WestHem was right all along. They're gonna jack this place back from us no matter what and maybe Jackson realizes that and just don't know what to do about it."

Neither of them had an answer for him. Neither wanted to admit that what he'd suggested might be the truth but neither could think of any other explanation either.

"Oh well," Hicks said, stretching his sore shoulders a little. "Enough of this depressing talk. I'm gonna go back inside and take myself a nice shit."

"Why don't you just do it out here?" Drogan asked. "We've all seen you squat and grunt a hundred fuckin' times."

"I know you like watchin' me, Drogan," he said. "And I'd love to accommodate you, but I also hear they got a new kind of food gel for us, something that's supposed to taste like cherry pie." He looked at her slyly. "You've eaten your share of cherry pie, ain't you, Drogan?"

She pushed him playfully, almost causing him to tumble off his perch. "Get the fuck out of here, asshole," she said.

He laughed and then got the fuck out of there.

Drogan and Jeff both looked at their communications status screens once he'd walked away. When they saw he'd turned his set off of the private frequency they looked at each other.

"Well," Drogan said, "go ahead. You know you wanna ask me."

"Ask you what?" Jeff said, although he knew exactly what she was talking about and knew that she knew.

"You're wondering about me and Belinda Maxely," she said. "You're wondering if I made her fall so deeply in love with me that she's forgotten all about your good friend Xenia and her supple, suckable boobs, aren't you?"

"Well... I wouldn't exactly have put it that way," he said. "But since you brought it up... ?"

She laughed, a laugh that was full of pity. "Belinda and I are just fuck buddies," she told him. "It'll never go any further than that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she said with a nod. "She's fuckin' premo in the sack, I'm here to tell you. She's on my top ten list of female pussy eaters and I made her scream when I returned the favor the first time." She sighed. "But you know what?"

"What?"

"When she screamed it was Xenia's name she screamed out."

"Really?" Jeff said, dejected and a little shocked. In Martian culture that was considered one of the ultimate faux pas, right up there with coming before your partner had a chance to.

She nodded. "That bitch is so in love with Xenia I'm surprised she even let me munch her muff out. If you were hopin' she'd fall for me and leave you in the clear with the X-girl, you can just put that thought right out of your horny little head."

Jeff didn't even bother denying that was what he was hoping. "Xenia never said she was that good in the sack," he said.

"Oh?" Drogan said, raising her eyebrows a bit. "They've done it before?"

Jeff clenched his teeth, knowing he'd just revealed more than he was really supposed to. "Keep that to yourself?" he pleaded.

She chuckled. "You know it, Jeffy," she told him. "You and Hicks saved my ass out here in the Gap, remember? I'd do anything for you, for either one of you. Why the fuck do you think I snatched Belinda away from Xenia in the first place? I was trying to open a corridor for your advance."

Jeff was surprised. "You mean... you mean you took Belinda away on purpose?"

"Fuckin' aye," she said. "She's not really my type anyway. I like... well... Xenia's type to tell you the truth. But I saw you was trying to get your weenie wet with her and thought I'd give you a hand. Turned out Belinda was a better fuck than I thought she'd be and I turned down what was probably a premo opportunity to lick a little X myself, you know what I mean, but I did it." She looked sharply at him. "You were supposed to take advantage of the opportunity and nail the bitch while I had her softer interest occupied."

"Well... yeah. I appreciate all that you did, really I do, but there are some complications."

"You mean that stupid-ass vow you made not to fuck her until she says she loves you?"

"Belinda told you about that?" he asked with a sigh, embarrassed.

"Yeah, she told me," Drogan said. "She told me she vowed the same thing." She shook her head in wonder. "I think both of you are out of your damn minds. Not fucking someone that you want to fuck and that wants to fuck you is a very un-Martian way to behave. I mean, for the love of Christ, what do you think we're out here fighting for if not our way of life, man?"

Jeff wasn't sure if she was joking or not but he got her point. She, however, wasn't getting his. "I'm not doing it just to be mean or to try and blackmail her and shit," he said. "I'm doing it because..." a sigh "... because I really love her. I've never felt anything like this for someone before. I didn't think I could feel something like this. I mean, look at me. I was a gang member in the worst neighborhood on the fuckin' planet. I used to sell dust and I've killed other gang members — just shot them right the fuck down in cold blood. I used to think I was the toughest motherfucker there was, someone my dad would be real proud of, and here I am now falling in love like some motherfucker in one of them stupid-ass daytime shows on the MarsGroup. Do you see what I'm getting at here, Drogan?"

"Not really," she admitted.

"I love her," he said. "I have a hard time thinking about anything but her. When those fuckin' marines were lobbing tank shells at us and hitting us with mortars, even when they were climbing those fuckin' hills to take us out, I was still thinking about her, worrying about her. That's what love is, man. You understand?"

"I think so," she said, smiling, pondering what he was saying.

"I just think that fucking her like she was just another bitch I made a connection with... well... I think that wouldn't be all that fun, that it would take away from what sex with Xenia is supposed to be like for me. I think maybe that sex between people in love is better than just the normal sex we all have and I don't want to fuck that up by doing it too soon."

"Wow," Drogan said, beaming now. "That's some romantic-ass shit you're spouting there."

"So you see where I'm coming from now?"

She nodded. "I do. And you know what?"

"What?"

"I think I kind of like the idea."

Mars Capitol Building, New Pittsburgh

As soon as Laura Whiting entered her outer office Cyndee — her secretary — glared at her in a most unfriendly way. It was understandable. She had been worried about her, just like always.

"Where have you been, Governor?" Cyndee demanded. "You were gone for three hours!"

"Sorry, Cyndee," she said, actually feeling bad. "I had some business to take care of. Everything is under control."

"You left your security detail behind!" Cyndee said. "Governor, this is the fourth time in the past week you've done this. We were all frantic!"

"I apologize for disconcerting everyone but I'm back now. No harm no foul. How's the planet been holding up while I was gone?"

"General Jackson is requesting to talk to you immediately," she said. "He's called six times."

"Oh really?" she said. "Did my so-called secret service rat me out to him again?"

"Well... you ran off without telling anyone where you were going, Governor. What did you expect them to do? It's their job!"

She nodded amicably. "Yes, it is, and I'll never come down on anyone for doing his or her job. Anything else I need to know about?"

"Jack Strough called twice just after you left," she told her. "He said something about you needn't bother trying to interfere this time. His people are committed."

"Uh huh," she said, smiling in amusement. Jack Strough was the head of the cargo handlers union — a virulent, anti-revolutionary, self-interested asshole who had been a thorn in her side ever since her inauguration day speech. "I've already taken care of that particular problem. That is, in fact, where I was all morning. Anything else?"

"Nothing terribly pressing," she said. "You're getting the usual emails from the citizenry who are concerned about the upcoming bombing raids and why General Jackson is not moving reinforcements towards Eden yet. There are also several com requests from the various plant managers who are concerned about the same thing. David Reed over at the Alexander Industries plant is the most prominent of them."

"Ah yes, Mr. Reed," she said. "He and I had a most interesting conversation once. I can certainly see the source of his concern since the WestHems are intending to wipe his plant off the map. Did he leave a detailed message?"

"He did," she said. "He wants to evacuate his plant immediately. He says he's sorry about the loss of production this would entail but that he refuses to risk his employees' lives in the event of a WestHem bomber strike. He has given you five hours to reply with a coherent plan for strike forewarning or he will shut the plant down and move all of his workers to safety. And that was two hours ago, Governor."

"That's about what I would expect from him," Laura said. "He's proving to be much more of a Martian than his background would dictate."

"His background?" Cyndee asked.

"Never mind," Laura said. "I'll talk with General Jackson and then have a little chat with Mr. Reed when I'm done. Hopefully I'll be able to ease his mind and keep that plant in operation as long as possible."

"Very good, Governor," she said. Her face softened. "And, Governor?"

"Yes, Cyndee?"

"I'm glad you're safe. I was worried sick about you being out there all by yourself. Anything could happen to you out there. You've made a lot of enemies."

"I know," she said. "I appreciate your concern, Cyndee but I'm a big girl. I know what I'm doing."

"Yes, Governor."

Laura turned and entered her office, letting the door slide shut behind her. She sat down at her desk and leaned back for a minute, looking at the ceiling. Finally she pulled out a pack of Earth cigarettes — one of the workers at the train yards had laid them on her after the speech she'd given them today — and pulled one out. She sparked up, taking a deep drag and slowly exhaling the smoke into the room.

"Heaven," she said as she savored the rush of nicotine to her head. This was the first smoke she'd had in days.

She turned and looked at her computer screen, which was showing a screen savor that consisted of various views of Mars, Phobos, Demos, and the skylines of each Martian city. "Computer," she said. "Com General Jackson."

"Comming General Jackson," it dutifully replied.

He answered less than five seconds later. "Where in the name of ass-fucking and clit licking have you been?" he demanded.

"That would be ass-fucking and muff-munching," she replied dryly. "Let's not start using offensive terms in our communications now. Remember, all of this is being recorded for posterity."

He was not amused. "Laura, haven't I asked you, begged you not to sneak out without your security detail? This is the fourth time you've done this! It's an ass-tapping miracle that some disgruntled Earthling or Martian hasn't shot you on the MarsTrans just to say they did it!"

"I can take care of myself," she said, giving her standard answer to such ass-chewings.

"Why are you doing this to me, Laura?" he asked. "You used to take the entire security detail with you wherever you went. You used to realize how vulnerable you were and how much we need you. What the hell happened?"

"Back then there was a very real possibility that WestHem agents would try to assassinate me," she said. "And back then, if they would have succeeded in killing me, the revolution would have fallen apart before it could get started. Things have changed now. We've gone too far to stop now and the revolution would go forward with or without me at this point."

"That's no reason to invite death," he said. "I agreed to let your security detail wither down to only two men — very much against my will I might add — but now you're shunning even that. You can't simply go walking around outside like you're a normal person!"

"I am a normal person," she said. "That's one of the reasons I do it. I'm safe and sound in my office now, General, so why don't we drop the subject? Let's talk about more pressing matters."

He sighed, obviously wanting to say more on the subject but he didn't. "Fine," he said. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Let's start with Jack Strough, shall we? I just came from the rail yards and a meeting with the cargo handlers. Strough had them whipped into a frenzy about this WestHem bombing of their facilities. I mean, the WestHems aren't even planning to bomb the NP yards and he had them ready to walk off the job. You can imagine how upset the Eden cargo handlers were."

"Yes, I've been receiving reports about that," Jackson said. "Strough has them riled up all right. They're threatening to strike if we don't do something about the bombing threat — as if there was anything I could do. What did you say to him?"

"I didn't say anything to Strough — not directly anyway. I did address the New Pittsburgh cargo handlers personally in their union hall and had my speech to them beamed to all of the other cargo handlers union halls throughout the planet, including Eden. I thanked them for their loyal service to this point and told them the war will be lost without their assistance. I then gave them my personal guarantee that the moment we detect a flight of bombers leaving the WestHem armada we will immediately inform all vulnerable targets so they can evacuate. Since it takes forty-five minutes from the time an AA-71 launches to the time it can make its attack, this seemed a reasonable promise."

Jackson nodded. "Indeed it is," he said. "I already have standing orders for such a thing drawn up. Triad Space Command has direct links to all potentially targeted installations."

"I figured you had something like that in the works," she said. "And I also told them that if WestHem did actually attack and neutralize the recon satellites that are detecting these launches, they could evacuate at that time, mission be damned."

"I agree with that as well," he told her. "Mostly because I know the WestHems are too dumb to actually do that. It took less than twenty-four hours from the release of their attack plan to having the anti-satellite strikes scrubbed. They are behaving exactly as we both predicted."

"Yes," she said, "but I'm still worried. Nor am I the only one. I've got MarsGroup reporters crawling up my ass demanding to know why you haven't started shifting troops and equipment to Eden. I've got thousands of emails from citizens demanding to know the same thing. So tell me, Kevin — when are you going to start shifting those troops? I was just watching a big three station on the MarsTrans and they had a camera crew inside the AA-71 bay up on the Nebraska. They were showing the maintenance crews getting those bombers ready for the strike. They were even saying that the Eden rail network will be the primary target. Don't you think it's a good time to start shifting forces?"

"No," he said. "Not yet."

"But if they launch those strikes any time in the next twelve hours and they are successful in their mission, you won't have the ability to reinforce us any further."

"I'm aware of that," he said. "And I'm not trying to be secretive, I'm not choking, and I'm not caving under the pressure or any of the other reasons people have assigned for why I'm still holding those units in place. The simple fact of the matter is, I don't think the plan they're announcing right now is the plan they're eventually going to initiate."

"You don't think they're going to attack Eden?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," he said. "Eden may still be the subject of the attack but..." He shook his head a little, having trouble articulating what he was trying to say. "Look, I know it sounds crazy and I know it sounds like I'm putting everything at risk, but I'm really not. The plan they came up with was a good one, a damn good one. If they had carried it out as it was written they would have taken Eden without firing a shot. I would've been forced to surrender our most important city to them under our own doctrine and under my own common sense and we would have had a bitch of a time taking it back from them."

"But they didn't carry it off as it was written," she said.

"No, they didn't," he said. "Their first mistake, maybe the most significant mistake, was releasing details of what they planned to do, of allowing it to leak to the WestHem press. Not only did that give us forewarning of what they are planning, it allowed their powers-that-be — namely the corporations — to start doing what they're doing now."

"Picking the plan apart?"

"Exactly," he said. "We've both known all along, ever since those first days after the Jupiter War when we first concocted this crazy scheme, that if the WestHems fought this war like it was a real war, like it was a conflict with EastHem, we would lose and lose bad. There is no way we can stand up to their military might when they use it as its supposed to be used."

"Agreed. And we were both right. They underestimated us from the beginning and that was how your plan allowed us to get where we are now. But are they still underestimating us?"

"Their military commanders certainly aren't," Jackson said. "But their corporate leaders and their politicians... now that's another matter. Within twenty-four hours of them releasing their attack plan the big three — nothing but a collection of powerful corporations — got them to change what was one of the most important parts of the plan. If they can't attack our recon satellites they can't launch their strikes undetected and therefore they're putting all of their spacecraft at risk of destruction and risking the very success of their mission."

"I understand all that," Laura said. "But what does that have to do with moving the troops?"

"I don't think they're done screwing around with that plan yet," he said. "The other corporations haven't had a chance to say their two dollars worth yet and to start putting their own pressure on the Executive Council. I don't want to start shifting my forces around until I see them making some real moves."

"You don't call getting the AA-71s ready to launch a real move?"

"That's the military apparatus doing what they do," Jackson said. "They've received orders and they're preparing to carry them out. If I'm wrong... well, then I'm wrong. They'll bomb the rail network and maybe our ammunition plant and we won't be able to reinforce Eden. Eden will fall and it will be my fault."

"So you're gambling?"

He nodded. "I'm gambling that my instinct is correct," he agreed. "We just need to wait a little longer."

She took a thoughtful drag of her cigarette and then snuffed it out in the ashtray. She blew the smoke out of her nose and then looked at her commanding general. "I've trusted you this far," she said, "and you've carried us this far. I have no reason to question your judgement or your instincts now. You do what you think you need to do."

"Thank you," he said. "Hopefully your faith in me is not misplaced."

The AA-71 pilots were actually in their final briefing, less than two hours from launch, when Major Wilde's PC began to buzz with the priority ring. Wilde was in the back of the room, watching as the targeting assignments were being handed out. He almost groaned, knowing it could not possibly be good news at this point in the game.

"Yes, General," he whispered to the screen, keeping his face expressionless.

"I need to see you right away," Browning said. "There's been a slight change in plans."

He looked out at the briefing room helplessly and then back at his boss's image. "Yes, General," he said. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

He was actually there in seven minutes, his worry causing his pace to unconsciously increase. He walked through the security layers and into Browning's office, finding him sitting behind his desk, sipping on his third or fourth rum and coke of the day and smoking nervously.

Wilde didn't bother saluting, not even the phony, jerk-off salute he normally offered. He simply sat down and lit a cigarette of his own. "A change in plans, General?" he asked.

"It's nothing major," Browning told him. "Just a shift in targets."

"A shift in targets?"

Browning nodded. "What do you think about attacking New Pittsburgh instead?"

Wilde licked his lips, sure he wasn't hearing correctly. "New Pittsburgh?" he asked. "What do you mean? The strike is lining up to hit the Eden rail network. Are you saying you want to take out the Alexander Industries plant first? I thought we'd agreed that..."

"No, you don't understand," Browning said. "We're going to occupy New Pittsburgh with our ground forces. Eden has been scrubbed. NP is the new priority."

Wilde was quite literally speechless. What in the hell was this madman talking about? Occupy New Pittsburgh instead of Eden? Why in the hell would they do that? Especially at this late stage of the game?

"Are you okay, Wilde?" Browning asked, concerned. "You look a little pale."

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, feeling like he was in a dream. "But did you just say that we are attacking New Pittsburgh instead of Eden? That our entire occupation zone is being changed?"

"Yes, that's correct," Browning said. "Is that a problem?"

"Is it... is it..." He shook his head and took a few deep breaths. "This is your idea of 'nothing major'?"

"It's just another city on the surface," Browning said. "We'll just need to reprogram our targeting and entry coordinates and update the marching orders. New Pittsburgh is almost as big a rail hub as Eden and it's also the capitol, where Laura Whiting and that terrorist puke Jackson live. The Executive Council feels that if we are only able to take one city that it should be their capitol where we can capture their leadership. They think that maybe that might foment the surrender of the other cities without requiring further task forces to travel here."

"Sir," Wilde said, "you'll forgive me if I say that's the most asinine thing I've ever heard. We've got pilots in their final briefing right now. They're being assigned targets in the Eden area so they can isolate that city for our invasion. They're within two hours of launching on the biggest space strike since the Jupiter War!"

Browning simply shrugged. "As I said, the target has now shifted. We'll have them stand down and we'll send them out in eight hours against New Pittsburgh. That way we can hit their ammunition plant and take out their rail network all in one strike. And it will be a smaller strike too, won't it? It won't be as difficult to isolate New Pittsburgh since there are less rail junctions to worry about."

"Sir," Wilde said, trying one last time, "you're talking about a complete change in flight missions. It will take much more than eight hours to plan out the sort of strike you're talking about."

"Eight hours, twelve hours, hell... we can go eighteen if we need to. The important thing is that we need to shift our priorities immediately. It's the Executive Council's orders."

"Jesus," Wilde muttered, feeling a flare of his own ulcer now. "Who is behind this? I know the Executive Council isn't suddenly trying to think rationally. I smell corporate lobbyists behind this decision."

"Well... now that you mention it," Browning said, "Ms. Williams did mention to me that Standard Steel and Corrigan Industries were a bit upset that New Pittsburgh — which is where their very operations are based — was going to be left in Martian hands for the indeterminate future. You see, they want their city liberated so they can resume operations as quickly as possible and start supplying the tanks and steel needed for the liberation of the rest of the planet."

"But what about Eden?" Wilde said. "It's the central rail hub and the center of the entire agricultural region! We can paralyze transportation on that planet if we take that city! We can cut the Martian food production in half. We can't let a bunch of corporate heads make our military decisions for us!"

"They didn't make the decision," Browning said coldly. "They suggested it to me and I made the decision. I resent the implication that I would bow to corporate pressure in my military planning."

Wilde clenched his fists in rage for a second and then slowly released them. He took a few breaths, closed his eyes, and tried to remain calm. After a moment or two of this an idea occurred to him. "Okay," he said. "I think this can work and that maybe we can even turn it to our advantage."

"Now that's the spirit," Browning said.

"The important part is that we keep this from the media."

"What?" Browning said.

"We let them think the main target is still Eden. We hit New Pittsburgh with the AA-71s in one massive strike at this time tomorrow and then we send down the landing ships forty-eight hours later. That way we'll catch the Martians off-guard."

Browning was already shaking his head. "You know my thoughts on lying to the press," he said. "We can't keep them in the dark about this major change in plans."

"I thought it was a minor change in plans," Wilde said.

"Don't play word games with me, Major," Browning said angrily. "I brought you up here so you could put together a new briefing for the big three reps onboard. I want our updated plans released to them within three hours."

"Sir... that's madness!" he protested.

"It's also an order," Browning said. "Get that briefing drawn up and on my desk within two hours. I want preliminary times, dates, numbers, and targets of the space strikes. I want an outline of the defenses we'll be up against and how we plan to smash through them. I'll call Admiral Spears and tell him to get a new plan together. You can coordinate with him as needed."

"But, sir..." Wilde said.

"That's an order, Major. Get to it."

Wilde sighed, feeling the war slipping through his fingers once again. "Yes, sir," he said. "I'll get right on it."

General Jackson was sound asleep in his usual place these days — the couch in his office. He was still wearing his MPG shorts and T-shirt and had a two-day growth of beard on his face. He was awakened by Major Tim Sprinkle, the head of MPG Intelligence, shaking him.

"Yeah, Tim," he said with a yawn when his head had cleared enough for coherent speech. "What is it? The space strike?"

"No, General," he said. "They've called it off."

"Called it off?"

Sprinkle nodded, smiling. "I think your gamble might have paid off. I think you should turn on InfoServe, sir. They're carrying a briefing live."

He rolled out of his bed and then looked up at the ceiling. "Computer," he said. "Show InfoServe primary."

"InfoServe primary coming on line," the computer replied.

The screen flared to life, showing a podium where General Browning was standing in his camouflage fatigues and addressing the WestHem press. The caption at the bottom read "Live from WSS Nebraska".

"So it is felt," said Browning, "that since New Pittsburgh is both more strategically located and easier to isolate, and, that since it is the source of most of the weaponry these Martian terrorists are using to attack our brave troops in the field, and, most importantly, it is the focus of much of the insurgent activity on Mars and home to the leaders of this insurgency — namely Laura Whiting and Kevin Jackson — that it should be the target of the coming operations."

"New Pittsburgh?" Jackson asked, surprised. "They're going after NP now?"

"That's what they're saying, General," Sprinkle confirmed. "Listen."

He listened.

"Our plans are to re-direct the strike we were planning against Eden to New Pittsburgh, isolating that city from reinforcement and taking out it's armament capabilities all in one stroke." Browning pointed at a graphic map of the New Pittsburgh area on the screen behind him. "This is the Alexander Industries ammunition plant which has been taken over by Martian insurgents and is supplying them with bullets, bombs, and booby-trap material. As before, the number one priority is to put this plant out of operation. At the same time, however, we will also be able to hit the main loading platforms of the Martian rail system and then destroy a number of bridges and tunnels on this rail system, effectively isolating the city. Our information is that the Martians have somewhere in the vicinity of twenty thousand poorly trained and equipped separatist terrorists holding the city. We will land all four hundred thousand of our marines outside this city and march inward, plowing through their meager defenses and taking the city under occupation. We will capture Laura Whiting, Kevin Jackson, and as many of the other high-ranking insurgents that are controlling this occupation of Mars' capitol and we will send them back to Earth for trial and conviction. It is felt that once this task has been accomplished the rest of the insurgency will simply collapse under its own weight and Mars will be returned to WestHem control by default."

A question and answer period began after this but neither man listened to it.

"Well what do you know about that?" Jackson asked, smiling. "It's a good thing I didn't shift all my troops to Eden now, isn't it?"

Sprinkle was smiling as well, this despite the fact that he'd been one of the strongest voices for moving the troops as soon as Eden was announced as the target. "You called it, sir," he said. "Standard Steel influence?"

"Undoubtedly," Jackson said. "They've probably been hounding the Executive Council for the last twenty-four hours. Standard Steel is one of the most powerful non-agricultural or non-media related corporations in existence. It's really not my psychic abilities that allowed me to predict this, it's simply common sense. I know how that system operates. I witnessed it in the Jupiter War." He shook his head. "Hell, I even participated in it to some degree. Remind me to tell you the story about that some day."

"Yes, General," Sprinkle said. "What now? Should we start moving our troops and armor towards New Pittsburgh?"

"No," Jackson said without hesitation. "Not yet."

"No?" Sprinkle asked. "But they just said NP is the new target."

"That was a decision made by accountants in suits back in Denver," Jackson said. "Those accountants are our greatest allies in this conflict."

"Yes, sir... but..."

"Everyone holds in place for now," Jackson said. "I know its not a popular decision and I know its making my own troops antsy, but I don't think those accountants in Denver are done making stupid decisions for us just yet."

"Yes, General," Sprinkle said. "We'll hold everything in place for now."