Greenies

Chapter 21

Aboard the WSS Nebraska, Mars orbit

September 11, 2146

Major Wilde was once again observing the final flight briefing less than two hours from the scheduled launch time. Admiral Haybecker was explaining to the AA-71 pilots and gunners for the tenth time that no matter what else they blew up in or around New Pittsburgh on the coming strike they were not to touch so much as a hair on the head of the Alexander Industries ammunition plant.

"That plant is a vital part of the WestHem military supply apparatus and its destruction or damage would be catastrophic for us after we liberate this planet."

None of the flight crews questioned this reversal of their previous orders. They hadn't questioned it even when they'd been advised for the first time that the plant was now off limits. They were too used to abrupt and contradictory changes in their orders by this point. Most, in fact, were starting to wonder if they were ever going to go anywhere or blow anything up.

The scrubbing of the Alexander Industries plant from the frag list had come six hours before, this time not as an order from the Executive Council (although they had not opposed the order) but as an order from Admiral Wesley Brooke, supreme commander of the WestHem navy and, by default, supreme commander of the WestHem marines as well since the marines were technically part of the navy. The official reason for the scrub was the bullshit Haybecker had just spouted about the plant being vital to the military supply apparatus. Though the plant was important it was certainly not vital since there were other Alexander Industries plants on Earth that were capable of picking up the slack — those other plants had, in fact, supplied all of the shells and bullets for Operation Martian Hammer to this point since, of course, their Martian plant was now in Martian hands. No, the real reason had to be more political interference from lobbyists, accountants, and, undoubtedly, Robert Allen Trump II, Alexander Industries' CEO. Though he wasn't powerful enough to directly threaten the Executive Council as the other CEOs had, he did hold most of the joint chiefs of staff and WestHem's top military commanders in his pocket since his corporation was the only one capable of supplying all of the bullets, bombs, and shells the army, navy, and marines required in the numbers that they required. And Trump would want his New Pittsburgh plant to be still standing and operational once the marines liberated that city. If it were operational then it could produce the ordinance needed for the liberation of the rest of Mars without having to worry about shipping it across the solar system. Another military decision made in the name of politics and profit margins.

I should just go join the damn greenies, Wilde thought sourly as Haybecker told his crews that two of the New Pittsburgh rail junctions had been scrubbed as well. This, though he didn't mention it, was because they were within ten kilometers of the Alexander Industries plant and he didn't want to risk that a stray laser shot would accidentally hit it.

Wilde's PC began to buzz. He sighed, completely unsurprised. Neither, apparently, were the pilots or their commanders. The briefing came to a halt as they saw him pull it out and flip it open. Everyone in the room stared in his direction.

"Yes, General?" Wilde said. "Has there been another change in plans?"

"Why yes," Browning replied. "How did you know?"

"It just came to me," Wilde said.

"I see," Browning said, looking a little confused. He seemed to shrug it off after a moment. "Anyway, there has been another minor adjustment to the attack plan. Come to my office right away so I can brief you on it and you can start preparing a new press release for me."

"Are we standing down the space launches again?" Wilde asked.

"I would rather discuss that in person, Major. We'll go over it when you get to my office."

"Sir, I've got more than two hundred flight crews in here receiving their final briefing. Should Admiral Haybecker continue this briefing or will the crews need to stand down for a new frag list again?"

Browning pouted a little but answered the question. "They'll be stood down," he said. "The target list will need to be modified again."

The groan of disgust started near Wilde, by those flight crewmen who could hear his conversation. Within a few seconds it spread throughout the entire room, occasionally interspersed with some rather colorful profanity. Wilde simply muttered a "yes sir" and flipped his PC shut.

"We're standing down?" Haybecker asked him.

"Yes, sir," Wilde told him. "I'll go see what's been modified this time."

"What's been fucked up you mean," one of the nearer crewmen said.

"Yeah," Wilde agreed. "That about sums it up."

He left the briefing room a moment later, mumbling to himself about joining the fucking greenies again. At least they let their military leaders make the goddamn military decisions.

"Okay," he said when he entered Browning's office. "What kind of atrocity did the suits in Denver lay on us this time?"

Browning was not amused. "You're getting awfully mouthy with me lately, Wilde," he said. "I'll thank you to remember some semblance of military courtesy when addressing me. I am your commanding general after all."

"Forgive me, sir," Wilde said without the slightest trace of sincerity. "So tell me, sir, what are the good folks back in Denver requesting we modify now?"

Browning continued to glare at him for a few moments and then mellowed. "Well," he said, "it seems that Steve Carlson, CEO of AgriCorp, was a bit upset when we changed our targeted city from Eden to New Pittsburgh."

"Oh no," Wilde said, shaking his head and looking up at the ceiling.

"Well you can certainly understand his position, can't you?" Browning asked. "More than thirty percent of AgriCorp's crops are grown in Eden and more than forty percent of their prepared food products are manufactured and packaged in Eden. The price of AgriCorp stock has fallen by more than a third since the greenies seized Mars and there are people going hungry in WestHem because AgriCorp can't get their food there anymore. It's vital that we get those assets and that production and shipping capability back in Carlson's hands. It's for the good of all WestHem."

"Of course it is," Wilde said. "So we're shifting the focus of our attack back to Eden then?"

"Well... yes and no."

Wilde chewed his upper lip a few times. "What exactly does that mean, General?"

"The Standard Steel and Corrigan Industries point of view is quite valid as well. The ability to re-take a large portion of our mining and manufacturing base — as well as capturing the terrorist leaders — is deemed to be too important to disregard."

"So which city are we going to take?" Wilde asked.

"Both," Browning said with a smirk.

Wilde had thought they couldn't screw up his plan any further than they'd already screwed it. He was wrong about that it seemed. "Both?" he asked. "You mean divide up our forces and make two separate landings?"

"Yes," Browning said. "It's a stroke of genius really. I'm surprised you didn't think of this initially."

Wilde knew that the decision was already made, that his pleas and angry outbursts would not change anything. But he had to try! "General," he said, "that is not a brilliant idea. It's a very unwise idea."

"What's wrong with it? I suggested this compromise myself and the Executive Council heartily agreed with it."

"Well... instead of an eight to one advantage against a single city we'll have two four to one advantages. That negates the overwhelming numerical superiority that made my initial plan a sure success."

"So?" Browning said with a shrug. "It's still a four to one advantage on each front. Have you forgotten that it only takes a three to one advantage to overtake a position?"

"That's not an absolute, sir. It's only a guideline and it only applies to equally matched and equipped forces with all things being equal. Just because you have a three to one advantage or a four to one advantage doesn't mean you will take your objective. We started out with an almost four to one advantage on the first stage at all fronts, remember? And look what happened there."

"That was because of that incompetent boob Wrath," Browning scoffed. "Now those four to one ratios will be under my command and you can bet that little leaf on your shoulder I will plan this campaign to win and we will sweep into those cities quickly and painlessly."

Jesus, thought Wilde, he's spouting off to me like he's talking to the press. He really believes that just because he says it it's true. God help us. "Sir," he said, "the only way we're going to sweep into anything down there is by maintaining the highest attack to defender ratio as possible. The Martians have air superiority and have denied us the use of our artillery guns. Our companies, platoons, and squads are disjointed from the first phase, with poor morale, inexperienced leaders, and lots of green troops who used to be cooks and maintenance men and computer programmers — guys who haven't held a gun since basic training. The Martians we'll be facing are now battle-hardened veterans with high morale and a lot to fight for. With the situation as it is the only way we're sure to take our objective is with that eight to one ratio. With four to one... well... things aren't all that certain anymore. There's a good chance we could be repelled again on one or both fronts."

"Look, Wilde," Browning said condescendingly, "I know it's your job to try to anticipate the worse that can happen and to be conservative in your military recommendations but I think you're carrying that a bit too far here — almost to the point of being overdramatic. Give us some credit here. We know the mistakes that were made by General Wrath. We know how the greenies fight now. Between the two of us we should be able to come up with a lightening-fast landing ship to city campaign that will take the targets with minimal casualties."

"We can come up with a plan, yes," Wilde said, "but as for a plan that guarantees success in our objectives..." He shook his head. "No, we can't do that. Not with the numbers we have against an enemy as well-trained, disciplined, and, most of all, motivated as the Martians."

"Guarantee?" Browning scoffed. "Who can guarantee anything in this life? Now why don't you go let Admiral Spears and Admiral Haybecker know that they'll need to start planning to isolate New Pittsburgh and Eden by rail now. That will mean two separate alpha strikes, I'm sure, so I'll give them another eighteen hours to develop a plan and get the crew to launch."

"They're not going to like that, sir," Wilde said. "It they can't take out the Martian recon-sats it's possible they won't have enough spacecraft to pull off two missions."

"They're not paid to like their orders," Browning said. "They're paid to carry them out and you're paid to deliver them. Once you get done with that you can compose this latest press release. After that, get to my office and we'll start planning our two campaigns."

Wilde sighed. "Yes, sir," he said.

Six hours later the big three were still going on about this latest modification of the Martian attack plan. All three were of the opinion that it was a bold endeavor, showing the aggressive nature of General Browning in his task.

"At the completion of this two-pronged strike," said one of the more popular military analysts on InfoServe, "WestHem forces will hold the two most important cities on the surface. After that, the terrorist insurgency will most likely collapse for lack of leadership, therefore allowing the Martian populace being held hostage in the other cities to simply resume rudimentary control from the state of lawlessness and despair that currently exists. Though a second force of marines will still have to be sent out to Mars — it is quite obvious, after all, that the Martian people need a stabilizing force to oversee them — it is quite possible these marines will not have to do much other than occupation duties and restoration of basic infrastructure."

Wilde wasn't amused by the analyst's statement. He wished Browning, who was working at another desk across the room, would just shut the damn screen off so he could concentrate on formulating this fabled "two-pronged attack" in a manner that would allow success on both fronts. This was something that could be done, he instinctively knew. And he suspected that if it were done right it could even be done without horrible losses. The trick would be to examine the failures of the first attempt with a realistic eye, learn from them, and try to correct them. He looked at what he had put on his screen so far, reviewing it, hoping for some sort of inspiration.

Problem 1 — LZ's are too far out from target. This gives enemy special forces units, mortar teams, and, most significantly, air crews, far too much time to cause attrition of our armor and men which, in turn, causes degradation of morale, breakdown of command/control at small unit level due to deliberate targeting of officers and NCOs. Solution: Land closer in?? This does violate doctrine but why twice the distance of nearest artillery range? Why not just outside nearest artillery range? True, this puts units in range of enemy tanks if they choose to advance on the LZ but the Martians don't have that many tanks, certainly not enough to challenge a well-defended LZ as long as we get our own tanks out as quick as possible and stationed on the perimeter.

Problem 2 — Martian special forces units attempt to draw us outside our LZ perimeter so they can engage us, slowing us down further, causing further attrition and further degradation of morale. Solution: tight perimeter manned primarily by tanks dug into hull-down positions. Keep these positions within 500 meters of the landing ships, keep exposed troops to a minimum. Do NOT go beyond this perimeter no matter what the provocation.

Problem 3 — Martian air superiority. Solution: None. Not in this conflict. Hovers cannot stand up to fast-moving fixed wing aircraft with the ability to hug the ground and pop out at will. Any attacks made by hovers must be fast, short, and able to withdraw back to the perimeter before Martian aircraft can respond.

Wilde stared at this last paragraph for a few minutes, feeling like there was something significant there but not quite able to grasp what it was. "Fast, short, and able to withdraw..." he said to himself. "Hmmm."

His eyes flitted back up to Problem 1, to the line that read, Solution: Land closer in?? He then looked down at the bottom of the screen, to Problem 4, which read: Martian heavy guns have the ability to neutralize our 150mm mobile guns, therefore eliminating our ability to support ground forces with artillery — a staple of any ground campaign. Solution: Must find a way to take out these Martian fixed 250s. They are too small of targets for AA-71s to hit with accuracy and accuracy is mandatory to destroy large guns in thick, concrete bunkers. Hovers are the ideal attack platform for this task as they can close and make a direct shot with their high intensity lasers but the Martian air superiority precludes this.

"Or does it?" he whispered, looking back up to the solution for Problem 1. Land closer in?? The Martians had ripped through their hovers as they'd tried to move them up to the forward refuel point so they could undertake the mission against the heavy guns. But what if there were no forward refuel point?

He quickly opened another window in the planning software, this one a map of the Eden vicinity. He began to look at the terrain, his eyes searching for the perfect place. It wasn't long until he found it. He made a few notations and then looked up at Browning, who was reviewing something on is own computer screen.

"General," he called, "would you mind coming over here for a minute?"

Browning frowned but trudged his way over. "Yes? Did you come up with something?"

"I think I have," Wilde said. "I think maybe I've found a way to negate some of the problems we encountered in phase one."

"Good," Browning said. "Write them up and we'll go with them."

"Uh... but, sir," he said carefully. "Don't you want a preliminary review?"

"I'm sure whatever you come up with is fine," he said. "We have the numerical advantage after all. There is one other minor thing that has just cropped up."

Wilde winced at these words — he'd heard them far too many times now. "And what might that be?"

Browning told him. Wilde shouldn't have been surprised at this point, but he was. "Sir... Jesus. In light of this... minor change, we're going to need to get our people down on the surface as soon as possible if this is going to work."

"How soon are we talking?" Browning asked.

"Yesterday if we could," Wilde said, still trying to come to grips with what he'd just been told. "It's imperative we get our landing ships down before the Martians have a chance to start reinforcing."

"But you don't even have a plan for deployment yet."

"I know," Wilde groaned in frustration. "I was counting on at least a week after the space strikes isolated those cities, but now..." He shook his head. "Jesus Christ, sir. I need to get to work and go into hyperdrive. If I stay up all night I might be able to have preliminary landing and targeting areas complete. That will at least give us a starting point."

"I like the way you think, Major. You're showing some good old-fashioned WestHem gumption."

"Thank you, sir. Now I'd better get cracking on this thing."

"Of course," Browning said. "Right after you prepare a press briefing for me on this latest development."

"Press briefing? Sir, time is of the essence here. Can you get one of the other staff aides to put together the briefing?"

"Nobody does them as well as you do, Major," Browning told him. "You have a certain flair for that sort of thing. You know how to put military terminology into terms the ignorant civilians can understand. Besides, what's another couple of hours anyway?"

Wilde sighed, said his "yes, sir" and then went to work on the press briefing. As soon as it was complete General Browning delivered the "good news" to the big three.

General Jackson and Major Sprinkle watched General Browning's briefing live on the main terminal in Jackson's office. Like Major Wilde both men were simply beyond astonishment at the stupidity of the decisions being made by their adversaries and by the fact that they were announcing them in advance. This one, however, was quite possibly the stupidest of them all. They had just stood down the space strikes indefinitely.

"And so it is felt," Browning's image explained, "that since the liberation and occupation of both Eden and New Pittsburgh are now imminent, there is little point in destroying the vital rail linkages that provide access and commerce to those two cities. These rail lines, after all, are what will allow us to move our own troops and equipment to other Martian cities and to quickly resume commerce and transportation as soon as they are secure. In particular we will need to move military supplies, steel, and manufactured products from New Pittsburgh to Eden and we will need to move food and other agricultural products from Eden to New Pittsburgh. These intact rail lines will also help alleviate the starvation and famine that has been rampant on Mars since the terrorist elements seized control of it four months ago."

"So what do you think?" Sprinkle asked. "Trans-Continental behind this one?" Trans-Continental Railways was the largest rail conglomerate in WestHem with an incredible forty-four percent market share of all passengers and freight that traveled by train. They were also the parent company of MarsTrans, the company who held an absolute monopoly on all Martian rail travel, be it passengers or freight, intra-city or inter-city. MarsTrans was, in fact, Trans-Continental's most profitable division — or at least it had been until the Martians had seized it.

"Undoubtedly," Jackson replied. "The same story as the rest of the corporations. They don't want their property destroyed in the name of liberating the planet — some other corporation's property is fine, but not ours."

"It's what you said would defeat them," Sprinkle said, sorry for all the bad-mouthing he'd done of Jackson since his decision not to engage retreating troops and his decision to hold all MPG units in place despite the threat of concentrated attack on Eden. "You called it, General. You called it just like it is."

"I used my common sense," Jackson said. "And now it's telling me that our WestHem friends can't possibly screw up their plan anymore than they already have. It's time to start shifting forces around. We'll move all combat units from Libby to New Pittsburgh and all combat units from Proctor to Eden. All space units up on Triad can stand down from general alert for now but they must remain on the base. Let's see if we can arrange for some booze and smokes up there for them — although it will have to be in shifts — they deserve it."

"That sounds good, General," Sprinkle said. He hesitated a few seconds and then said, "What happens if the information the WestHems are putting out on the big three is merely disinformation? Suppose they land outside Libby or Proctor instead? Or suppose they send everything after Eden or NP as they originally intended?"

"Then we would lose whatever city they went after," he said simply. "There is no way around that. I don't believe, however, that what Mr. Browning is spouting up there is disinformation. They're not really capable of deception on that level."

"We hope," Sprinkle said.

"We hope," Jackson agreed. "I know it's not militarily wise to rely on hope in a campaign, but it's gotten us this far, hasn't it? We'll just have to hope a little longer and if we succeed, we'll make sure we never have to hope again."

Sprinkle nodded. "Well put," he said.

"I'm going to the war room to issue the movement orders," Jackson said. "Why don't you start working your sources and trying to figure out if the WestHems are planning any surprises for us?"

"Yes, sir," Sprinkle said. And though it wasn't customary in the MPG, he gave Jackson a smart salute before he left the room.

Jack Strough of the cargo handler's union gave his usual dose of trouble when the order came down. He called Jackson personally and complained that "his people" at Libby and Proctor were being forced to unload several trains filled with agricultural supplies and food products and to move in dozens upon dozens of flatcars in order to make way for the stream of tanks, APCs, and soldiers that would be coming in the next morning.

"They're going to have to work all night long in order to get everything ready," Strough's image told Jackson. "We have strict union regulations against forcing employees to work before 0700 or after 1700. I'm telling you, my people may very well refuse to do it."

"Your people are operating under emergency wartime conditions," Jackson said. "Under the existing planetary constitution a state of planetary emergency allows certain union regulations — particularly of the transportation industry — to be disregarded. One such regulation is the work hours your people are subject to."

"That allows their employer to order them to work extra hours and night shifts," Strough said. "And it simply suspends the grievance process if they refuse. Their employer is MarsTrans and I hardly think MarsTrans wants them to stay up all night loading your military equipment."

"Strough, you know as well as I do that under wartime regulations control of the Martian transportation system is handed over to the MPG and the Martian government. That would made myself and Governor Whiting the employer and I'm using that authority to order all available cargo handlers to work for the duration of this transfer of forces. I want your people working twelve-hour shifts with twelve off in between. Those train yards will run day and night until this move is complete. Any employee refusing to work without good cause will be fired."

"There are those who would say that since this is technically an illegal seizure of the planet under strict rule of law, that you do not, in fact, have the authority to assume control of the rail system and that MarsTrans remains the true employer. Therefore our union regulations are still fully in place and enforceable."

Jackson clenched and unclenched his fists a few times. He was very tired and had many more pressing things to worry about right now. He needed this shit like he needed a leak in his water bong. "Look," he said, "I'm not going to argue semantics and legalities with you. I believe Governor Whiting has already been over this ground with you and your people several times. Those train yards need to run until this move has been made. Workers refusing to do their jobs will be fired. That is final."

"It's also unenforceable," Strough said. "Even if my workers do agree to show up for these shifts you order, there's no guarantee that a work slow-down of some sort would not occur. In fact, I would think something like that would be very likely."

Jackson really hated this man but he kept his face neutral. "All right, Strough," he said. "A strike or a work slow-down at the rail yards would be a very bad thing right now. We need that armor loaded up as quickly as possible and sent to Eden and New Pittsburgh or we're going to lose those two cities to the WestHems. So how about we cut through all the bullshit here and you just tell me what you're after?"

"Well," said Strough, "it's not like my people want to hinder your shift of troops. Though it is the union's position that you and Governor Whiting have undertaken an illegal severance of political ties to WestHem and that Martian independence, even if it were legal, is untenable, many of the workers do seem to support what is going on here. They are concerned, however, about the amount of monetary compensation they would be receiving for this coming assignment."

"Money," Jackson grunted. "I kind of figured that's what this was about. So how much do you want, Strough?"

"There are many things my people are dealing with here, General," Strough said. "They're working in a hazardous area under threat of bombardment, they'll be working to unload things they've already loaded, they'll be working with dangerous military equipment and explosives, they'll be working during non-traditional hours, they'll..."

"I get the idea," Jackson said. "How much?"

"We think that three and a half times their base hourly rate would be reasonable compensation during this state of emergency."

"Triple time and a half?" Jackson said, raising his eyebrows.

"That's for normal working hours, of course," Strough said. "After hours would continue to compensated by an additional half of the base total after the three and half has been factored in. And, naturally, anything over forty hours per week would continue to be compensated at an additional half of the higher rate as well."

"Naturally," Jackson said, shaking his head. "So what you're saying is that some of your people, working at night and over forty hours, would be making somewhere in the vicinity of six times their normal hourly rate?"

"Yes," Strough said with a straight face. "It does work out to be something like that. Remember, they are performing a vital function for you."

"Yeah," Jackson said, "and since the amount of union dues your organization takes in is a straight percentage of each member's gross pay for the period, they're performing a vital function for you as well, aren't they?"

"I'm shocked you would even suggest that I'm doing this for financial gain," Strough said. "I don't even believe in the validity of those so-called credits you're paying my people in. My concern is and always will be for the health and well-being of the workers who belong to this union."

"Of course," Jackson said. "In any case, I agree to your demands. Your union members will be compensated as requested for the duration of this crisis."

Strough seemed a little shocked. "Really?" he asked.

"Really," Jackson said. "You're profiteering quite shamelessly here and pleading the welfare of your workers to justify it but I need those forces moved as quickly and efficiently as possible and I've got a lot of other things I should be doing besides spending all afternoon arguing with you. As long as you stay within two hours of the time schedule estimates for loading and unloading period, I agree to your terms. Write all this up on a document with the salary upgrades plainly spelled out. Make it clear that this is for the duration of this crisis only, that you must maintain the timeline, and don't try to slip something funny in. I'll be sending it to Governor Whiting for approval and she's a lawyer. She'll catch it and she'll be rankin' pissed off if you try to screw us in some way."

"I would never do such a thing," Strough said huffily. "I'm offended that you would even think that of me."

"Uh huh," Jackson said. "I'll be expecting that document within the hour, Strough."

"What if Whiting disapproves it?"

"She won't," he said. "In the meantime, please make sure your people are working as hard as they can. The future of this planet kind of depends on them."

Proctor, Mars

September 13, 2146, 0600 hours

The 12^th Armored Cavalry Regiment of the Martian Planetary Guard — one of the two ACRs that had stopped the WestHem marines cold at the first line of defense during the first phase of the battle — were the first slated for movement to Eden. Their infantry soldiers put on their biosuits and took their weapons and climbed into their armored personnel carriers at the Proctor MPG base, which, like all MPG bases, had been deliberately built in close proximity to the main rail yard just for such occasions. The APCs left the staging area outside the base and drove overland for two and a half kilometers, arriving at the south side of the yard.

The Proctor primary rail yard was not the largest on the planet — that distinction belonged to the Eden primary facility — but it was still a pretty big place. It was not artificially gravitated and it was not pressurized or oxygenated so all who worked on loading or unloading freight had to wear biosuits in order to do his or her job. The facility was surrounded by a one hundred meter concrete wall and had a ceiling of plexiglass reinforced with steel support beams above. This was to keep out the wind and the Martian dust — the two of which occasionally combined in such a way that blinding, planetwide dust storms sometimes developed. The inside of this large building contained more that ten square kilometers of ground, most of which was covered with a system of magna-tracks where trains were assembled, loaded, unloaded, and maintained, where spare boxcars and flatcars and fuel carrying cars were stored. In all there was more than three hundred kilometers of track in the facility stretching out like an intricate spider's web and then narrowing down to the two elevated tracks that left from the north end and then split into two, either curving west toward Eden or continuing north toward Ore City. Cranes and cargo lifters were attached to the ceiling supports and traveled on their own overhead tracks to where they were needed. The facility employed two thousand people during peacetime and had hired six hundred more since the revolt.

The first 180 APCs of the 12^th ACR entered the facility through a door on the south side that had been installed there long ago just for this purpose but that had never been used (it, in fact, had taken a maintenance team almost two hours just to get it open). Biosuited cargo handlers directed them one by one toward a section of tracking on the east side of the yard where three separate trains — each to carry sixty APCs — were being assembled. In each of the three assembly and loading areas a massive freight locomotive was attached to the first of twenty-one flatcars. The other twenty flatcars were off on adjacent sections of tracking.

Most of the men and women working in the facility (some of whom were getting paid an incredible thirty-five credits per hour thanks to Jack Strough) had loaded and unloaded armored vehicles before. After all, the vehicles arrived in the facility all the time from New Pittsburgh, where they were manufactured, and had to be shipped back on occasion for major repairs. Special equipment had even been developed by the MPG to facilitate this process. However they had never been asked to load up armor on the scale they were now being asked to. Though plans had been formulated for the mass movement of equipment and personnel ever since the inception of the MPG, and though these plans were complete with timetables and specific instructions on how to accomplish it, they had never been rehearsed before. General Jackson had often asked and even begged for a few dress rehearsals of the process over the last fifteen years but had been consistently shot down by MarsTrans management on the grounds that they couldn't suspend normal operations for the two to three day period required.

Still, the cargo handlers did their best to work with efficiency. Most were patriotic Martians despite the self-interest of their union and all knew that if they lagged too far beyond the timetable that had been established they would lose the lucrative hazard and overtime pay and be reverted back to normal hourly rate. A loader — as it was called — had been mated to the first of the flatcars. The loader was a steel structure that was basically a ramp that allowed an APC or a tank to drive up onto the flatcar while it was on the track without running over the track itself. The first APC pulled up and crawled on its treads up the ramp portion, which curved to the right onto the back of the flatcar. A cargo handler directed it forward, to the very front, and then had the driver stop at a pre-determined point. The second APC followed and then the third. Once all were aboard, the loader's ramp portion folded up hydraulically and was moved backward, out of the way. The loader was disengaged from the flatcar and the entire thing was picked up by one of the cranes and moved backwards. The next flatcar was then moved into place by a yard locomotive that connected to it from behind and pushed it along the tracking until it was coupled. While the loader went about the process of being attached to the second flatcar six cargo handlers threaded steel straps through ports on the three already loaded APCs and cinched them down to the side of the car. By this time, the flatcar behind was ready to receive the next three APCs.

This process continued at all three train assembly sites, on average taking about twenty minutes per flatcar. When they reached the eleventh flatcar two mobile surface-to-air laser vehicles were loaded instead of the APCs. This was MPG doctrine. The two SALs would have their passive systems operating, their active systems on stand-by, and their lasers charged for the entire trip, ready to shoot down any enemy hovers that tried to attack their train. Though there were currently no enemy forces on the ground this was expected to change at any time.

By the end of the process of loading the first train the time per flatcar had been cut down to only twelve minutes by sheer repetition. When the last flatcar was loaded and the last APC secured, the loader and the cranes all withdrew allowing another huge locomotive to move in and couple with the last car. Thus this first train was complete.

The magna-track itself was basically a huge electro-magnet, charged positively by means of power supplied by two fusion plants in the Proctor industrial section. The trains were charged positively as well on the bottom by fusion reactors within the locomotives. The powerful repelling nature of the two charges allowed the locomotives and all of the cars attached to them to float half a meter above the track, able to move with minimal propulsion because the only friction they had to overcome was from the air resistance and the slight drag caused by the magnets themselves. The propulsion was provided by alternating positive and negative fluctuations generated by the locomotive engines acting against the magnetized rail of the track.

Clearance for departure was granted and the traffic control computer made sure that the path before the train was clear. The commander of the train — a member of the MarsTrans Transportation Engineer's union whose leader had negotiated them a hefty hazard pay rate of four and three quarters standard hourly rate — pushed his throttle level forward slightly and the two locomotives began to pull from the front and push from behind. Slowly the massive train began to move forward. It crept through a serious of switches and junctions until it was on one of the outgoing tracks, moving at a soft, sedate ten kilometers per hour. At the end of the yard an access door had already been opened. The train passed through it to the unguarded outside and sped up a bit to forty kilometers per hour. When it passed the last switch and turned west, towards Eden, the commander upped the speed to maximum, a blistering 124 kilometers per hour. The train moved along the elevated tracks, passing between two sets of greenhouse complexes, moving over a few bridges, through a tunnel, and finally, after clearing the last of the greenhouses, into the Casa de Gatos mountain range. Inside the APCs the infantry soldiers sat in their cramped conditions, already bored with the trip, already fearing what was to come. The other two trains bulled out ten and twenty minutes behind the first.

It was 1168 kilometers to Eden, a trip that would take a little over nine hours to complete. Before they'd even cleared the greenhouses the next three trains were already being assembled. After they were done, the tanks, ammunition carriers, fuel carriers, and the rest of the support vehicles would be loaded up — their personnel riding in them as well. And after that, they would begin moving the equipment from the 4^th Infantry Division over as well. In all, nearly twenty-eight thousand troops and everything needed to support them would make the trip. It would take more than forty-eight hours of non-stop work to accomplish this. But before the first three trains even entered the mountains the WestHem Panamas up in orbit began to launch their landing ships for their own trip to the battle area.

General Jackson was going over status reports on the troop movements when Major Sprinkle called. "It's on," he told him. "Recon birds are showing multiple landing ship separations."

Jackson looked at the time display on his monitor. "They're earlier than I thought," he said. "Much earlier."

"Yeah," said Sprinkle. "At least we can be pretty much assured that they weren't laying disinformation on us about the landing sites. Most of the troops are still in Libby and Proctor, aren't they?"

"Most of them," Jackson said. "The first trains just left, although the bulk of the 12^th and the 16^th's APCs are on them. There's not really a way to turn a train around in transit unless it stops and backs up all the way, which would cut the speed down to an eighth or so."

"What if they're going after Ore City," Sprinkle said, "or maybe Viscal?"

"Those are secondary cities, only connected by rail to one other city. Though they'd be easy pickings there's not much value in taking them. They're too isolated from the other cities and all we'd have to do to keep them pinned there indefinitely is to cut our own rail line. That's why we never stationed any significant MPG units there. The four principal cities and Triad are what we've always had to worry about."

"I suppose that makes sense," Sprinkle said.

"What I'm more worried about is that they're not really going to attack Eden and New Pittsburgh, that they're just going to pick one or the other. If they were distributing disinformation for the purpose of rooking us that would have been the best ploy. They get us to divide up their forces and then they slam us on a single target."

"Doesn't their early departure somewhat preclude that option as well?" Sprinkle asked. "As you've pointed out, the bulk of the troops being shifted are still in their home cities."

"It does tend to preclude it," Jackson agreed. "But then nothing is absolute in warfare, is it? I'll feel a lot better when I see that those landing ships are going exactly where we expect them."

This took another hour to determine. The ships formed up into two distinct lines and then, one by one, they moved off into a departure corridor and began their deceleration burns. Once the first four were on their way down it was fairly easy to plot their destination. Half were on a path that would take them in over Eden, the other half were on a path for New Pittsburgh.

"Okay then," Jackson said, relieved. "I'll call Strough and tell him to keep the movement going full throttle ahead. Is MarsGroup still down their photographing the loading process?"

"They are," Sprinkle confirmed. "And they've promised not to broadcast any information about the movements until either the landing ships are all on the ground or the movement is completed. So far they're keeping their word."

"Good for them," Jackson said.

"Although it doesn't really matter that much," Sprinkle said. "You do realize that don't you?"

"Yes, of course," Jackson said. "I'm aware that Mars is rife with WestHem spies and that WestHem marine intelligence has probably been informed about the troop and equipment movements already. But at least we're not actually broadcasting the information and making it official. There's always a little bit of doubt with information from spies."

"That is true," Sprinkle agreed.

"Now that we know where they're going, I need to start mobilizing the ACRs and the artillery forces. I also need to get Colonel Bright's special forces teams ready to launch out there as soon as they touch down. Keep me updated on developments. I want to know exactly when and where they touch down."

"Fuckin' aye, General."

Jackson raised his eyebrows a little at this last statement.

Sprinkle flushed a little bit. "Sorry," he said. "I've been talking to a lot of the new recruits lately and I guess their sayings are starting to brush off on me."

"No worries," Jackson said. "I actually kind of like the way that sounds."

They ended the call and Jackson immediately began contacting the various commanders in each city under threat, ordering them to initiate their plans. "Remember," he told Bright, "if they keep in our range, I want it done just like before. I want your forces on the ground within an hour of them touching down and I want mortars falling on any exposed troops an hour after that. Let's remind them that they are not welcome here."

"My teams are already assembling, General," Bright said. "They'll be in the air as soon as we get information on the landing site."

"You'll get it as soon as I have it," Jackson promised.

Another hour ticked by. Jackson spent much of it reviewing maps and satellite views of the Eden and New Pittsburgh area and checking on the status of the loading of his reinforcements. Finally Sprinkle called him back. He looked worried.

"What is it?" Jackson asked him.

"Both landing forces are approaching the optimum zones according to their doctrine. Both are still over ten thousand meters above the ground, moving fast."

"They're coming in closer?" Jackson said. Browning's initial briefing on the second phase had said they were going to land further out. Though Browning hadn't explained himself to Jackson it was clear that he'd wanted to put his forces beyond the range of the Hummingbirds and Mosquitoes, thus allowing them to secure their area and assemble in peace.

"That's what it looks like, General," Sprinkle said. "If they keep to their current rate of descent they're going to come down awfully close to the range of the 250s, not to mention our tanks."

"They couldn't possibly be that stupid, could they?" Jackson asked. "If they land in gun range those 250s will take their landing ships apart piece by piece."

It turned out they weren't that stupid. The ships began to make their landings, one by one. At the Eden site they touched down directly in the middle of Knoxville Bed — a large, flat area that had once been a shallow lake back in the days when Mars had featured surface water. Located only seventy-five kilometers west of the Jutfield Gap, it was only about twenty kilometers out of range of the MPG heavy guns. At New Pittsburgh they began to land in another large, flat area — this one a wide valley surrounded by tall mountains. Again, they were less than twenty kilometers out of range of the 250s.

"Get this information to special forces command and to air command at both cities," Jackson said. "They have my orders to start planning their deployments as soon as they get it."

"Shipping it now," Sprinkle said. "What do you think they're planning? It's completely against their doctrine to land that close."

"Give me a second to look this over," Jackson said as he flipped back to his map page. It had now been updated with the red dots that indicated confirmed landings. As he watched, two more appeared as two more landing craft settled in. He nodded his head in surprised respect. "Someone up there is doing some thinking," he told Sprinkle.

"How's that, General?"

"Look at these areas they landed in. They're as flat as anything on the surface of Mars and have no hills for our special forces teams to use to get in close. One's a former river valley and one's a former lake. They landed right in the middle of each of them."

"So our special forces teams won't be able to land?"

"They will," Jackson said. "It will just have to be a little further out, maybe fifteen klicks or so. And they won't be able to get as close in either." He sighed. "I hope they don't actually have someone up there who knows what he's doing. That could really complicate things."

"Keep spread out," Lon told his squad. "Stick close to the boulders when you can and for God's sake, keep your eyes peeled for hovers. We have no idea what they're doing at that LZ."

No one answered him but everyone took his words to heart and kept trudging onward.

They were on the Knoxville Bed, less than two kilometers from where the Hummingbird had dropped them off with more than eight kilometers left to march, all of it through disconcertingly flat terrain in which the only cover was the boulders and rocks that had settled into this area millions of years before. Ahead, they could make out the outlines of the landing ships poking up above the surface and could see the bright flare to the west of two more — the last two they were told — coming in for their own landings. They were the first recon unit scheduled to get a look at what was going on with the WestHems. Though the recon satellites had tracked the ships all the way down to the surface, they lacked the sophistication to see what was happening now that they were on the ground.

"What's the word on them sending some of our tanks out here?" Lisa asked, shifting her anti-aircraft laser from one shoulder to the next. When told that the WestHems were landing just outside the city that was the first rumor that has started flying around — the Martian armor — with its ability to suck oxygen in from the atmosphere — had an un-refueled range that put it well within range of driving out here. If armored forces could arrive in time and in great enough numbers they could easily pin the WestHem armor inside of their landing ships forever. That was exactly why extraterrestrial invasion doctrine dictated that forces landed so far out.

"That's part of what we're coming out here to find out," Lon said. "If they haven't unloaded any tanks yet and if they haven't even started to, General Jackson might give the order. He'd be an idiot not to." Lon shrugged. "Of course I'm not convinced yet that he's not an idiot."

"You have to admit," Horishito said, lugging the SAW across his back, "he was right about holding back on the shift of forces. He waited until WestHem committed to hitting Eden and New Pittsburgh and then he started moving them. If he hadn't done that one or the other of us would have been virtually defenseless."

"True," said Lon, who was willing to admit when a position he'd held in the past had been proven wrong. "I still say he fucked up big with that not firing on retreating forces bullshit. If he hadn't done that there'd be a fuck of a lot less of them fight out here."

The conversation petered out — partially because of a lack of new topics, partially because they were getting closer to the WestHem positions and they didn't want to take the chance that a patrol had been sent out that could pick up on their radio emissions. Forty minutes went by and the landing ships grew nearer — near enough that they could now make out details of what was going on.

Lon motioned them to spread out further and take cover. Spreading out was easy enough but taking cover was a little more difficult. The rock cover was pretty sparse out here.

"Switch transmission power down to half," Lon whispered. "I know the ships are still out of range but we're looking at direct line of sight here. You don't get better transmission conditions than this."

Everyone did as was asked.

Lon hunkered behind the largest boulder he could find, which was only about a meter and a half in diameter. The others all did the same, stretching in a line across fifty meters.

"You know something, sarge," said Jefferson, "if they send troops out here in APCs looking for us, there's really nowhere to hide. Effective camouflage range might be cut all the way down to two hundred meters or so."

"I know, Jeffy," Lon said, adjusting his combat goggles. "Whoever is making the decisions for these pukes these days is either really smart or really stupid, depending on what their tanks are doing."

He trained his goggle-enhanced eyes out toward the landing ships. He sighed as he saw what was going on over there. "It looks like maybe we're dealing with really smart," he announced.

There were no exposed troops visible around any of the landing ships. There was, however, at least a battalion worth of main battle tanks, two dozen armored bulldozers, and more than fifty APCs moving around. The tanks were taking up positions on the perimeter, pulling into hull-down positions that had been dug by the bulldozers. The APCs mission was a mystery at first but as they watched them it became hideously clear what they were doing. They would travel over to one of the landing ships — one that they identified as a personnel carrier — and park just under the egress ramp. Ten biosuited soldiers would then quickly emerge, go down the ramp (with a few stumbling and tumbling their way down) and then climb into the APC. The APC would then drive half a kilometer across the open ground and disgorge the soldiers next to the personnel entrance to one of the armor carrying ships.

"They're shuttling," Lon said. "The APCs are taking the tank crews from the personnel ship to the armor ship so they won't be exposed to mortar fire."

"They've learned from the first time," Lisa said, looking through her own combat goggles at the same sight.

"Yeah," Lon said. "I think we might not be as effective here as we were in the first LZ."

"So attacking them with our tanks is out?" Horishito asked.

"Yes," Lon said. "At the rate they're deploying their armor they'll have a couple of battalions dug in on their perimeter in two hours. It will take almost three hours to get our armor out here and they'll be facing prepared positions." He shook his head. "Nope, I think we're going to have to go traditional here."

"Damn," Horishito said. "I was hoping their stupidity was perpetual."

"No such luck," Lon said. "Jeffy, get this out to command and get some pictures if you can. We need to let them know to abandon the tank attack and start preparing for a traditional military engagement. Let them know that special forces attacks, sniper attacks, and mortar attacks are all going to be of minimal or negative effectiveness while they're still at the LZ. Air attacks on the armor might be possible but they're dug in and the range will be at the extreme end of effectiveness."

"Sending it out," Jefferson said.

"All air units moving in on the Eden LZ," the voice spoke in Matt Mendez's ear. "Pull out to staging pre-arranged staging positions and circle. Await further instructions there. Return when fuel levels dictate."

"You hear that, boss?" Matt said with a sigh.

"Yeah," Brian told him. "I hear it. You got a plot for me?"

"Gimmee a minute to come up with one. Shouldn't be too hard."

Brian gave him a minute, continuing to scream low through the mountains to the west of Eden. They had not been given any specific target destination when they'd left but had been assured that special forces teams were approaching the LZ from three sides and would be able to provide them with some kind of targets by the time they got there. Well... apparently that was not the case. Such was war.

"Course is laid in," Matt told him. "Continue forward to the next mountain and then turn right to three-five-four. We'll wind through there for six minutes and then come out in a the Carcinas Valley."

"Got it," Brian said.

As they and their wingman made their way in that direction, more information came in on Matt's side-net.

"No targets at the LZ right now," he told Brian. "They have tanks digging in and bulldozers digging trenches for the tanks. There are a few APCs but they're shuttling tank crews from one ship to the other. Range is outside of eleven klicks from the nearest hillside. No hovers have been launched."

Brian nodded, letting loose a frustrated sigh. "Could it be they're getting smart?" he asked. "I was hoping they'd do something stupid like not put any tanks out. Our tanks could have killed them."

"We'll get ours," Matt said. "We've kicked some serious ass so far."

"Yeah," Brian said. "And how many of those tanks and APCs they're using are ones we would have killed if Jackson had let us during the retreat?"

Matt said nothing, concentrating instead on the course on his screen and the calling out of course changes. After about ten minutes of flight they emerged into another flat valley — known as the Carcinas Valley on maps. Brian put them into a slow, lazy, fuel-efficient circle, six hundred meters above the ground.

They circled in silence for about ten minutes, Brian keeping an eye on his instruments and watching the terrain, Matt taking the opportunity to re-calibrate a few of his mapping software screens and update known enemy positions. Soon boredom began to set in.

"Hey, boss," Matt asked a little timidly, checking to make sure the radio link was not being broadcast to their wing.

"Yeah?"

"How come you ain't never gotten married again?"

Haggerty tensed up a little. His personal life — especially when it related to what had happened to his pregnant wife at the hands of vermin — had always been something that had been silently yet mutually agreed to be a forbidden topic between them. "Why do you ask?"

"Well... I'm not tryin' to offend you or no shit like that," Matt said. "I mean, I heard what happened to your wife and all. But I been with you for a couple months now and I know you get your share of bitches back at the Troop Club. You ever thought about... you know... making it official with one of 'em?"

"No," Brian said tersely. "I never have."

This was a clear signal to Matt that he should drop the conversation. He wasn't quite ready to let it go just yet. In the time he'd been with Brian he'd come to respect him very much — almost worship him — which was remarkable considering the man was a cop. "Like I said, boss, I ain't tryin' to offend you. I just wanted your advice on something. If you don't wanna talk about it, that's static."

Brian sighed. Though he didn't often show it, he too had developed considerable respect for his crewmate, this despite the fact that he was — had been — vermin and a gang member — the very sort of person that had killed his wife. "What kind of advice are you talking about?"

"It's like this," Matt said. "In the ghetto, when you're vermin, you're kind of conditioned to marry early, you know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean," he said. "I've been to a thousand domestic argument calls for eighteen year olds who just got married to someone they couldn't stand so they could get their own apartment. I think that was half of what was wrong with our fucking planet under the WestHems."

"Exactly," Matt said. "And I know that you guys that were not vermin — you know, people with jobs and shit — you weren't quite as bad as us, but that you still seemed to get married pretty early too."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Most of us do. Mandy and I were kind of the exception. I was twenty-nine and she was twenty-seven."

"That's pretty fuckin' old all right," Matt said. "Was it because you waited until you found the one bitch you really loved?"

"No," Brian said reluctantly. "That's not really the reason at all." He looked around, checking his instruments again and then making a minor adjustment to his circle. "Look, kid," he said. "If you tell anyone else what I'm about to tell you, I'll personally twist your head off and shove it up your ass."

"Hey, Thrusters honor," Matt said, tapping the portion of the arm of his biosuit that covered his tattoo.

"Jesus Christ," Brian said, shaking his head. "Anyway, when Mandy and I met and started banging each other it was nothing but infatuation. I thought she was a pretentious little nerd — she'd been to college and was a fuckin' teacher. She thought I was a macho asshole who liked to beat up on vermin. There wasn't no click or anything with us but... well... she was... she was really hot, you know. She was the hottest bitch I'd ever been with. I'd never gotten married earlier because I used to just fuck anything I could get my dick into and then never call them the next day. That's the Martian way, isn't it?"

"Fuckin' aye," Matt agreed.

"The problem was, I enjoyed the Martian way so much I never really wanted to settle down with anyone, I'd never felt the urge. But there's all this pressure on us to get married and pump out that kid. My parents were always nagging at me, my co-workers were always wondering if maybe I was just a rump-ranger trying to compensate who was afraid to admit it."

"They thought that about you?" Matt asked. "What the hell? Who gives a shit if someone likes to slide into some ass? This ain't fuckin' Earth."

"I know," Brian said. "It sounds strange but there are some strange points of view in the police department. We're law enforcement officers, after all, and being a rump ranger is technically against the law — although I'm here to tell you there are a lot of rump rangers on the force."

"No shit?"

"No shit," Brian said. "They keep low-pro but we all know who they are. My friends were starting to figure I was just in the closet because I was afraid of the ramifications." He shook his head. "I didn't really care about all that. To tell you the truth, I've actually tried the whole rump-ranging thing back in my high school and vocational training days. I've sucked a few schlongs, even let some hairy motherfucker stick his boner up my ass. I didn't care for it much so I never tried it again. I mean, that's the Martian way too, right?"

"Right," Matt agreed. Although he'd never actually tried it himself he certainly didn't begrudge Brian for having given it a shot.

"So it wasn't the rump-ranger rumors that got to me," Brian said. "What was mostly bothering me was the fact that people were thinking that something was wrong with me because I wasn't married because everyone gets married before twenty-five unless there is something wrong with them, right? That's just the way people think."

"Exactly," Matt said. "Except in the ghetto they start thinking that about you at around nineteen. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"I see," Brian said. "Well, to make a long, probably best-untold story short, Mandy was kind of the same way. She liked diving into some muff every once in a while but mostly she just liked to get it on." He smiled a little. "She was really good at it too, better even than most Martians — and that's saying something. She'd never felt the urge to settle down with one person either. But her family and her co-workers and everyone else around her was starting to wonder the same things about her. So when we met and when we both figured out we were both as obsessed about sex as the other, that made us commiserate with each other in just the right way. So we stayed together."

"Just because you liked to fuck each other?" Matt asked.

"That was virtually the only thing we had in common with each other," Brian confirmed. "After about three or four months of boffing each other in every way three times a day, people started to see us as a couple. After awhile, we started to feel like a couple. And before you know it... well, we were standing in the marriage chapel saying those vows." He shrugged. "It made our families very happy and stopped all the rumors."

"So it wasn't a happy marriage?" Matt asked, surprised considering the hatred the man had of the vermin as a result of what happened.

"It was a marriage based on sex so, in a way, it wasn't all that bad. We learned to tolerate each other and we even became something like friends after a few months, although we still fought like EastHems and WestHems. But every time we fought, no matter what we fought about or how serious it was, we could always make it better with sex. It was that kind of a marriage."

"And is that the kind of marriage you would recommend?" Matt asked.

"No," he said immediately. "We had our reproductive blocks turned off right away because that's another thing we're expected to do in this society. She got knocked up within two weeks. If she hadn't of been killed... well... I'm honest enough with myself to realize that we wouldn't have lasted five years. A marriage based on sexual infatuation can't last forever."

"Wow," Matt said, in awe, as if these were the wisest words ever muttered since Jesus Christ had spoken at the Temple on the Mount. "That's fuckin' deep, boss."

"It's common sense, kid," Brian said. "Common fucking sense. And that's what we're out here fighting for, isn't it? So I've told you my sad story. I've all but admitted that the hatred I feel for the people who did this to me is because they took away a static sex toy and put me back in the situation of people wondering why I'm not getting married again. So what's your question? You wondering if you should find some bitch you can tolerate just so you can say you're married and stop having people think you're different?"

"How'd you know that?" Matt asked, wide-eyed.

"It was apparent for the past three weeks. I see the way you act around that loader you've been banging. She's what — twenty-two? Never been married? She starting to put the old pressure on?"

"A little bit," Matt said. "And... like... you know... I kind of like Surrender and she's hot in bed and all and she's fuckin' educated. I mean, I ain't never had me no bitch that's even graduated high school before and she's got a fuckin' masters degree and she's kind of hinted that she might be interested in putting her finger on the pad with me. She's never been married because she's spent all of her life workin' on her education."

"So you're flattered by her attentions and impressed by her accomplishments?"

"Well... yeah," Matt said. "And she's really good at sex too. I ain't never done some of the shit she showed me before. I didn't even think people really did that shit."

"Oh yeah?" Brian asked. "Like what?"

Matt actually found himself blushing. "She gave me a rim job," he said. "And then she had me do the same thing to her. And then... well... she did this thing with her feet."

"I get the point," Brian said.

"But she's also goin' on and on about how much she wants to have her kid and start raising it. And she talks about how nice it would be to have a two-bedroom apartment."

"Do you love her?" Brian asked.

"Well... I'm not sure," he said. "We've only known each other for..."

"If you're not sure, you don't love her," Brian told him. "I've never been in love myself, but I've talked to enough people who really were to know that's the God-fucking truth, kid. If you don't know for sure, you don't love her. And if you don't love her, you don't want to marry her."

"But what if I never find anyone I love?"

Brian shrugged. "I learned from my first experience," he said. "I'm not going to get married again until I know I'm in love and I know she's in love with me. If that never happens then it never happens. I'll just go on fucking everything with a pussy that will let me in and I'll still die happy. Fuck what other people think about that. I mean, what do I care?"

Matt thought that over for a few seconds. "Damn," he said. "That's really fuckin' radical, boss."

"Ain't it though?"

They'd been watching for almost an hour now. APCs continued to shuttle tank crewmen from one landing ship to another and tanks continued to come down the ramp where they would drive to a staging position and await assignment to a prepared position on the perimeter. Meanwhile the bulldozers continued to work like mad, preparing those hull-down positions.

"No way in hell anything is gonna get in that perimeter," Lisa observed. "We could throw every tank in Eden at them and they'd throw them all back in ten minutes."

"Yep," agreed Lon. "And there's too many of them for us to start sniping with our own ATs. We'd hit three or four of them — maybe — and then they'd rake us with eighty-millimeter fire. There's not enough cover or even concealment out here to protect us and the nearest place we can bring down a Hummingbird without having it plastered is six klicks back."

"We'll have to pound them on the march," Horishito said.

"But we won't have as much time to do it in," Jefferson pointed out. "They're only a hundred and twenty klicks from the city and only seventy-five from the gap."

"We're gonna have to work twice as hard," Lisa said. "So will the Mosquito crews."

"You got that shit right," Lon said. "If we don't slow them down somehow they're gonna get to the gap before our reinforcements get there. If the gap falls without the ACRs inflicting heavy casualties on them the 2^nd Infantry might not be able to hold — especially if the reinforcements aren't there yet either."

They all pondered that thought worriedly, none liking this sudden debut of what appeared to be sensible thinking on the part of the WestHems.

"Our whole doctrine depends on slowing them down," Jefferson said. "There has to be a way to do it."

"Nothing that we're gonna be able to do," Lon said. "We're stuck out here observing and reporting. And what we're observing and reporting is bad news."

The news became worse a few minutes later. It was Lisa — whose sector of responsibility included the middle portion of the landing zone — who spotted it first. She saw flares of heat from one of the ships. Her trained eyes grew wide as she saw that the ship in question was a hover-carrier and that the flares of heat were caused by excess interior atmosphere being vented out due to the opening of many doors on the side of the ship.

"Shit on me," she said. "Sarge, take a look at ship two-seven — the hover carrier. They just opened every goddamn door on the side."

"The launch doors?" Lon asked, alarmed. He quickly reduced the zoom on his goggles and began panning in the direction where the ship designated as twenty-seven was located.

"The launch doors," Lisa confirmed. "And now I'm getting heat flare from inside almost all of them. They're sending hovers out! An assload of them."

The discipline instilled in the special forces members prevented the rest of the team from abandoning their areas of observational responsibility to take a look at what Lisa was reporting. For this reason Corporal Spunkmaster — one of the recent replacements for the two casualties from phase one — was the next to make an observation.

"I'm getting the same thing from landing ship one-eight," he said. "That's the other hover-carrier. Multiple doors opening and heat flare of engines from inside."

"Jesus Christ, sarge," Jefferson said. "You think they picked up a transmission from us or from one of the other teams?"

"If they know where we're at we're fuckin' toast," said Horishito, a hint of fear in his voice. "There ain't nowhere for us to hide out here!"

"Everyone chill," Lon said as he finally managed to zoom in and see what Lisa had reported. "If they knew we were out here they'd hit us with their arty first. This looks like... like an air strike."

"An air strike?" Horishito said. "But they haven't set up a forward refuel point. How are they gonna... oh shit," he said, as the ramifications of his words suddenly struck him.

"Holy shit," Lon said. "Now we know why they landed so far forward. They won't need a fucking forward refuel point from here. Eden is within their range!"

"The 250s," Lisa said. "That has to be what they're going after! The 250s and maybe the air launch facilities for the Mosquitoes and the Hummingbirds!"

"Shit," Lon said. "Why the fuck didn't someone think of this?"

The hovers began to emerge from their ship, easing out on flares of bright heat and then rising into the air and drifting outward. In only twenty seconds more than thirty of them had launched from each ship. They began to form up some two hundred meters above their ships.

"Jefferson," Lon said, "send off a priority report about this. Hovers assembling above the LZ in large numbers. Prepare for air strike. Will report more when they move out."

"Right, sarge," he said, turning on his communications gear and quickly setting up the message. Before he was even done transcribing it the entire compliment of hovers had launched and assembled.

"What's our count?" Lon asked.

"Sixty-three of them," Horishito said.

"That's my count too," Lisa confirmed. "All of them attack hovers."

As a unit, the formation of hovers turned and began to move to the east, accelerating as they went, but descending and staying less than one hundred meters above the ground. Before they were out of sight it was clear that they'd accelerated to their top Martian speed of one hundred and seventy kilometers per hour.

"Send the next message," Lon told Jefferson. "Six-three attack hovers moving east from the LZ at one-seven-zero, altitude one-zero-zero."

"Sending it," Jefferson reported. "I hope there's someone up there to hit them."

There was someone up there — three different flights of Mosquitoes circling and awaiting further instructions — but all of them were running low on fuel. Brian and Matt's flight of two were the closest and they'd just sent off an encrypted message to flight command letting them know they would need to head in for refuel in the next ten minutes. They had been awaiting their reply when the emergency action message came over the radio frequency.

"Fuck me," Matt said as he listened to the message. "Boss, did you hear that shit?"

"I caught some of it," Brian said. "Repeat it."

"Six-three attack hovers have just launched from the Eden LZ. They're heading east at one-zero-zero meters AGL, moving maximum speed. All units move to intercept if possible."

"Sixty-three of them?" Brian said. "Shit. I was hoping I'd heard wrong." He looked down at his fuel gauge and clicked his lips a few times.

"They gotta be going after the 250s," Matt said. "If they get through they'll kill them!"

"Get us an intercept course right now!" Brian told him. "We need to drop as many as we can!"

"Boss, we got the fuel to do that? If we go turnin' and burnin' while we're on low we might not make it back to the base."

"We need to try," Brian said. "If we have to ditch before we get back then we have to ditch. Now get me that fucking course and then open up a channel to our wing."

Matt didn't hesitate for an instant. "Right, boss," he said, flipping over to the navigation screen. "Plotting it now."

"If we find them fast, hit hard, and identify their path for the rest of the Mosquitoes we should be able to pull back and make it to base." He shook his head a little. "Should be."

"Right," Matt said, his fingers flying over his screen, trying to intersect their current position with an imaginary line where sixty-three hovers moving one hundred and seventy klicks an hour would be at the time they got in the vicinity. "Broad fuckin' daylight," he said. "It'll be harder to pin them down from a distance. And if we get too high they'll be able to engage us."

"We need to find them," Brian said. "That's the most important thing. Get me some kind of a course so I can get moving!"

Matt's course plotting was far from complete but he knew at least the basics. "Turn to one-seven-two. Prelim look has an intersection of them and us in about six minutes."

"Doing it," Brian said. "And get the wing on the line. Fuck radio silence. This is an emergency."

That was a simple flip of a switch. "You're hot," Matt told him and then bent over his plot again, barely noticing the sharp turn of the aircraft to the right.

Their wing had already followed them through the turn and accelerated to maximum right alongside them. Brian keyed his mic and told them what they were doing.

"Brian, the fuel's gonna be awfully fuckin' tight here," said Collins, one of the recently trained pilots.

"No shit," Brian told him. "You head back to base if you don't wanna risk it. You're well within doctrine and I won't think any less of you. But I'm going after those fuckers and if we have to ditch on the way back that's the breaks."

There was a slight hesitation and then Collins said, "I'm with you. Lead the way."

"My sis is working on it now," Brian told him.

They flew on in silence for another fifty-two seconds. Finally Matt came up with an official estimated plot. He found it wasn't all that different than his instinctive guess. "Turn left to one-seven-four," he said. "If they follow their course and speed from the LZ as reported and if the time is right that will put us out over the valley right in front of them."

"Got it," Brian said, making the adjustment. "And ship it to the wing and to air command."

"Already done, boss," Matt said. "They're reporting all of the other flights are moving in as well. Their positions and courses are coming up on our screen now."

"Fuckin' aye," Brian said. "Get those cannons charged up. I want us to hit fast when we find them. Hit any of them you can."

"Right," Matt said.

They reached the intercept point exactly on time. The two aircraft shot out over the valley and then turned sharply to the west. They saw nothing but emptiness below them.

"Where the fuck are they?" Brian asked, his enhanced eyes looking for something, anything that resembled heat in the infrared spectrum.

"They're not exactly here," Matt said. "They're either in front of us or behind us. So they're either going faster or slower than we thought."

"Which is it though?" Brian asked. "Are they in front of us or behind?"

"How about we split up?" Matt suggested. "We go east and Collins goes west? That way one of us should come up on them."

"With only half the firepower," Brian said. "And they might be winding their way through the mountains instead of following the valley. If they're doing that neither one of us will find them."

"So what do we do?" Matt asked.

"We don't have much time. We need to climb and look down from above."

"Climb? Are you crazy, boss? If we go up high and they spot us they'll pot us out of the sky!"

"I want to do it," Brian said. "I think it's important enough to risk our asses for. If you object, tell me now and we'll keep searching low."

"Fuck," Matt muttered. "You're determined to kill my ass, ain't you?"

Brian grinned. "You want to live forever or something?"

"Naw," Matt said. "It would be boring. Let's do it."

"I knew I liked you for a reason," Brian said. He flipped over to the wing channel again. "Collins," he said. "We're going high and we're gonna find these fuckers. Circle right here and we'll vector you in."

"Brian, you can't do that!" Collins shot back. "They'll shoot you down if you're caught up high!"

"We'll spot and drop," Brian said. "We made our decision in here. You just do what you're told."

"Brian, this is against standing orders!" Collins said. "You know that!"

"I must've been absent the day they told us that order," Brian said. "Start circling and get ready to move in."

"Brian..." Collins started.

"Do it!" Brian said. "We're going up." He pushed forward on his throttle and pulled back on the stick. The aircraft began to climb, streaking into the pink Martian sky, the hillsides and the valleys dwindling quickly below them, the altimeter blurring with altitude it rarely showed.

"Nothing yet," Matt said, terrified as he watched them pass through a thousand meters and continue upward. Even if they did manage to not get shot down they had just burned up a good portion of their precious fuel climbing up here. The chances of making it back to the base were looking slimmer and slimmer.

"They're out there somewhere," Brian said. "The instant you see them, get a position and we're diving back down."

"Right, boss," Matt said, looking out in all directions, his head swiveling like a radar dish.

It was when they got to thirty-two hundred meters above the ground that he spotted something. "I got a heat blur!" he said. "Moving fast. Now two, now three! It's them! The rear elements of the strike. They're in the mountains north of the valley. Locking position now."

"Hurry it up!" Brian said, leveling off and preparing to dive. "If we can see them they can see us. Out of sixty-three of them one of them must be looking!"

Matt quickly marked the position on the map, got their speed and course, and then told the computer to coordinate it and give him a longitude and latitude. This only took three seconds to accomplish. It took another two for him to broadcast the position of the hovers to command so it could be forwarded to every other unit in the field. It was only five seconds but it was too much.

They never saw it coming. Eight of the hover gunners below had spotted their heat signature and six of them locked on and fired their anti-aircraft lasers. Five of them hit right on the hottest spot — just forward of the rocket outlets. The laser energy burned into their engine, searing through the hydrogen and oxygen delivery system and the main combustion chamber. A tremendous explosion resulted, blowing the aircraft into pieces. The computer controlled ejection system sensed the fatal injury to the aircraft the instant the first laser hit and automatically ejected the two crew members in less than a tenth of a second but even this was not quite fast enough. The aircraft had not been designed to absorb so much damage at one time.

For Matt it all happened in an instant. There was a bright flash, a loud noise, and he felt himself jolted harshly and spun backwards through flame and smoke. He felt a sharp, agonizing pain lance into his backside, right where his buttocks rested against his seat. There was a brief loss of consciousness and then he was looking at the ground far below and feeling a thrum of rocket power from beneath. Ahead of him he saw their aircraft falling to the ground in pieces, falling faster than he was. It took him a moment to realize where he was and what had happened. It was the pain that brought him back, the pain in his left ass cheek. It felt like he was on fire.

"Fuck!" he yelled, wanting to reach down and touch his injured portion, not quite daring. As he realized he'd been ejected from the aircraft he reverted to his training and tucked his arms against his chest.

Somewhere off to the right of him he saw the flare of another rocket engine slowly descending at about the same altitude as he. That would be Brian, his fuzzy brain told him. He had been kicked out as well, at least in good enough shape that his ejection seat was operating.

Another flare streaked below him, though how far below he was unable to judge. It was the flare of a semi-rocket engine on full thrust. After squinting his eyes a little Matt was able to make out the distinctive flying wing shape of a Mosquito. That would be Collins and Taylor, their wing, streaking after the formation of hovers but also checking to make sure he and Brian had ejected safely. As if to confirm this Collins flashed the landing lights three times and then waggled his wings. An instant later the aircraft disappeared into a pass in the mountains.

"Matt, you there?" Brian's voice suddenly spoke in his ear.

Oh yes, his still reeling brain remembered. Upon ejection the two crewmembers' suit radios were automatically tuned to a tactical channel with each other. The selection of this channel was part of the pre-flight checklist. Well now he knew why.

"Matt?" Brian repeated. "Talk to me, kid. Tell me you're okay."

"Sorry, boss," Matt said. "I got a little rattled when they hit us. Are you okay?"

"I got a little whiplash from the ejection but I'll live. How about you?"

"I got hit with something," he told him. "It hurts."

"Where?" Brian asked, alarmed.

"Right in my fuckin' ass cheek," he said.

"How bad is it?"

"Don't know, it just hurts like a motherfucker. I guess I'll find out when we get down."

"Stay put after we set down," Brian told him. "Don't even un-strap from your chair unless it falls over or looks like it's about to blow up. I'll come over and check you out."

"Right," Matt replied.

The ejection seat sat him down just as it was supposed to, easing him to a soft landing on the flattest piece of ground below. A large dust cloud was blown outward as the rocket beneath him blasted the surface. When the rocket cut off he was sitting neatly on the surface like a man in a lawn chair. About half a kilometer in front of him he could see the remains of two WestHem APCs from the first phase of the battle. The sight warmed him. It was entirely possible that he and Brian might have been the ones to kill those two.

"I'm down, boss," he said. "Sitting upright and feeling like someone's burning my left cheek off with a cutting laser."

"I'm down too," Brian said. "I got my GPS up. You're two hundred and twelve meters west of me. I'm on my way. Just sit tight."

"Where are we at?" Matt asked him.

"We're in the plains about thirty klicks from the Jutfield Gap. Now shut up until I get there and we can switch down to a lower range channel."

"Right," Matt said.

He didn't spot Brian coming toward him until he was about sixty meters away. He was, after all, wearing a model 459 biosuit and it was broad daylight in the equatorial plain. When he did see him he had to suppress a laugh when he saw his pilot stumble and fall down not just once but twice, both times muttering coarse expletives. Finally he reached him and signaled with his hand that they should switch to channel five. Matt reached down to his suit computer and made the adjustment.

"Someone reach out and trip you?" Matt asked him.

"Very funny, asshole," Brian said sourly. "Wait until you try walking out here. Now I know why the WestHem marines have such a hard time of it." He looked at him carefully. "Will you be able to walk?"

"Don't know," Matt said. "I haven't tried yet."

"Fair enough," Brian said. "I made contact with emergency command back at the base. I let them know we're down and alive but you're injured. They have our position and they'll launch a Hummingbird to come get us as soon as the air strike is resolved."

"Static," Matt said. "You think they'll get through?"

Brian shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "They caught us with our pants down, that's for damn sure. Hopefully we spotted them in time."

"I'd hate to have gone through all this for nothing."

"Let's take a look at how bad you are," Brian said, setting down the large emergency supply pack that was part of his ejection seat. He opened it up and removed a first aid kit. Inside of it was a medical scanner. "Any warning lights on your suit?" he asked.

"I got a diagnostic that its been penetrated in the posterior mid section but I already fuckin' know that. I'm not losing pressure so it must've sealed."

"That's encouraging," Brian said. He went around behind Matt and kneeled down on the ground, craning his head down to look at the back of the seat. "Jesus," he said.

"What?"

"A bunch of shrapnel went right through the bottom of your seat. It punched through the steel plate. If it would've hit just five centimeters to the right and a little further up it would've got the oxygen supply line for your rocket."

Matt felt a shudder go through him at this news. He tried to shake it off. "Well, I would've got down a lot sooner if that would've happened, wouldn't I?"

"Yeah," Brian said. "Let me see what we got here." He ran the scanner over Matt's lower back and then looked at the reading. "Your spine is intact at least down to the curve of the seat. No kidney damage, no internal bleeding."

"So far so good," Matt said. "Can I get off of this thing now?"

"Yeah, let's give it a try. Release the harness and then move forward, onto your stomach. I'll be able to scan your backside that way."

Matt chuckled despite the pain and the knowledge that he'd almost died. "You always did wanna scan my ass, didn't you?" he asked.

Brian chuckled back. "You're funny. Now get the damn harness off and lay down. I know there's no enemy reported in the area but we really need to get under some cover."

Matt did as he was told, blowing the harness release button and stepping carefully forward. He immediately found that his balance was off. He was used to being in reduced gravity but that was only while strapped into an aircraft. He had never had to walk or move around in it in his life. He pushed himself forward too hard and found himself falling forward, but at a very slow speed. He hit the ground and bounced upward, sending a little puff of Martian dust into the air. He bounced one more time and then settled.

"That was graceful," Brian remarked, turning on the scanner and aiming it at its target. The scan took only a few seconds and the results were quite favorable. "You're a lucky motherfucker."

"Yeah?" Matt said.

"Something ripped through your suit, took a big chunk out of your left ass cheek and then exited out the other side. Nothing vital hit. No penetration past the bottom layer of flesh, no vessels hit, both holes sealed up normally, and you're no longer actively bleeding because of the pressure from the suit."

"No shit?" Matt asked. "I'm gonna be okay?"

"You're already okay," Brian said. "I'm sure it hurts like hell but you should be able to walk normally."

"Static," Matt said. He tried to get to his feet. It wasn't an easy task to accomplish. Twice he stumbled and fell, the second time right onto his injured ass cheek, sending a bright flash of pain up and down his body.

"Not all that easy, is it?" Brian said, extending a hand to help him.

"No, I guess it ain't," he agreed, taking the hand.

When they were both standing Matt walked to his ejection seat and removed his own survival pack. They each dug in their own and removed cases which contained broken down M-24 rifles and three magazines of ammunition. They quickly assembled them, loaded them, and mated them to their combat goggles.

"Let's head for that rise over there," Brian said, pointing to a shallow hill two hundred meters to their east.

"Sounds good," Matt agreed.

They headed off, both stumbling and falling again before they learned to walk very slowly.

"I'm sorry about all this," Brian said. "I know it was against orders but I thought that spotting those hovers was more important than orders. I got us shot down and got you injured. I'll take full responsibility when we get back to the base."

Matt simply shrugged. "I agreed to go up with you, remember?" he said. "I'm just as much responsible as you are."

"I feel bad that you got injured," Brian said. "I feel horrible about that."

"Hey," Matt told him. "It ain't no thing. It's just a little skin off my ass, that's all."

And while Matt was getting some skin taken off his ass, the hovers continued on their course, their pilots and gunners elated that they had actually shot down a Martian aircraft — the first such accomplishment of the conflict by a hover. They had borrowed the Martian tactic of hiding in the hills and staying low, hoping to keep concealed until they made their final target run. Their primary targets were — as speculated by Lon and his team and by Brian and Matt — the Martian heavy guns. There were twenty emplacements to be struck, the weapon of choice the high-intensity laser mounted at the front of each hover. In order to conserve fuel none of the eighty-millimeter shells for their main cannons had been loaded.

Collins and Taylor, armed with the position report sent by Brian and Matt, were the first to make contact with the force. They came in from behind them, screaming low and at full throttle, moving so fast they damn near collided with the rearmost hover when they finally rounded a hill and overtook them. Taylor dropped two of them in less than four seconds, sending them spinning into the gully below, only one of the crews safely ejecting. By the time his cannons recharged they were over the front of the formation. He dropped two more and then Collins spun them off into the side hills, getting them out of range. They circled around one more time and shot out perpendicular to the hover formation, cutting it in two and dropping one more hover to the ground. They then egressed back out over the valley right over the Jutfield Gap positions and headed for base, their fuel warning light flashing steadily. Their engine flamed out when they were still ten kilometers from the base. Collins brought them to a bumpy, grinding, crash landing on the surface with only minimal damage to the aircraft.

By this time, two other flights of Mosquitoes had located the hover formation. They swarmed in, lasers flashing, engines screaming. Ten more hovers fell on the first pass and then another six on the second although one of the Mosquitoes was also felled by a lucky shot from a hover gunner. The crew safely ejected but had to scramble to get away from the vengeful hover crews who had also ejected in the area.

By this point the MPG base, alerted to the incoming air strike, had managed to launch six more Mosquitoes into the air and had six more waiting to cycle through the airlocks and get airborne. These six were combined into one large flight and they found the formation twenty-one kilometers from their targets. They ripped into them without regard for their own safety, dropping another twenty-two to the ground but losing two of their own number.

This left twenty-nine intact hovers when they reached their initial point. Their lasers were charged and they rose into the air, seeking their targets. The attack plan of a hover strike at such a target is to rise up, quickly acquire and hit the target, and then drop immediately back down and egress. Unfortunately for the hover crews, the MPG air defense forces had already been alerted to their impending arrival and the fixed surface-to-air laser sites that protected the heavy guns were charged and ready. They locked on to the bright heat sources with pinpoint accuracy and fired. These lasers were fed directly from the Eden power grid and were much more powerful than those mounted on the Mosquitoes. It was, in fact, one of these lasers that had taken down the marine reinforcements back in the beginning. When they opened up, ten of the hovers exploded into oblivion in an instant, scattering debris over half a kilometer and vaporizing their crews. But before these lasers could recharge, the remaining nineteen hovers had reached their firing points. Confusion and fear was rampant among their crews at this point and several of them aimed at the same emplacement and one crew missed its target entirely. But when their lasers were done flashing fifteen of the heavy guns had been hit, the laser energy burning through their concrete housings and searing into the delicate gun mechanisms, fusing them, twisting them, rendering them completely inoperable.

The hovers turned and began heading back towards their LZ, screaming as low as possible. They didn't make it far. The recharged SALs exploded another eight before they could get out of range. The freshly launched Mosquitoes from the MPG base caught the rest before they could even make it back to the Jutfield Gap, dropping them one by one. Not a single hover survived the attack but the damage had been done. The Eden area of operation was left with only five heavy guns to stave off the WestHem artillery in the coming attack.

At New Pittsburgh the damage was not quite as severe. Because of logistical problems the New Pittsburgh strike had launched fifteen minutes after the Eden strike. New Pittsburgh had, by this point, already been alerted to the possibility that they might be attacked from the air. Fully fueled Mosquitoes had been launched in advance and were waiting for them. Though no one in New Pittsburgh had been quite brave or stupid enough to try Brian and Matt's technique of going high to locate them, one of the flights found them when they were still fifty kilometers out. They'd been whittled down and then subsequently massacred by the fixed SAL sites when they reached their target. As a result only four of the New Pittsburgh area heavy guns fell to the air strike but, like at Eden, every single one of the hovers was eventually taken down.