Greenies

Chapter 22

Aboard the WSS Nebraska, Mars orbit

September 13, 2146

1718 hours

Major Wilde sat at his desk, watching the InfoServe main news channel that was being beamed over from Earth. It was the top of the hour news summary, although, since it had taken it eighteen minutes to travel to Mars it was no longer the top of the hour. He was shaking his head in disgust and disbelief with every word the grinning newscaster spoke.

"At precisely 1300 hours, Eden and New Pittsburgh time, today, WestHem marines kicked off the second phase of Operation Martian Hammer by launching a massive air strike at military installations controlled by the rogue terrorist members of the Martian Planetary Guard that have been holding the planet hostage. This strike involved upwards of two hundred VTOL extra-terrestrial hovers armed with high-intensity lasers. The name given to this two-pronged strike was 'Operation Hammer Down' according to General Browning in his latest press release."

Wilde made a particularly sour face at the mention of the name. Yes, it was a hammer down operation all right, he thought. Only it was us who got hammered. One hundred percent losses! The worst disaster in extra-terrestrial aviation since... well, since phase one of Martian Hammer. Once again they took a foolproof plan and fucked it all up.

"As we reported earlier," the news anchor went on, "things did not look like they were getting off to a good start on the surface for this second phase. At both cities the landing ships launched from orbit were forced to land at alternate sites, closer in to their targets than doctrine dictates and than was reported yesterday to us. The reason for this was because of reports to marine intelligence that the Martian terrorists had planted powerful improvised mines in the selected landing areas."

"Mines," Wilde muttered. Does anyone really believe that crap? I mean back on Earth, in the ghettos, in the factories, in the upper-end housing buildings? Do they really?

"Now however," the anchor said brightly, "it seems that General Browning has managed to make the best of a bad situation with Operation Hammer Down. Taking advantage of the relatively short distance to target from the alternate landing sites, these two hundred hovers flew directly into the teeth of the most heavily defended Martian terrorist positions, destroying artillery sites, surface-to-air laser sites, portions of the Martian bases themselves, and many of the reinforced defensive positions that the suicide teams staged from in the first phase of the operation.

"General Browning, in a statement issued just twenty minutes ago, tells us that several of the hovers did go down during the engagement and that several pilots and gunners were forced to eject. As to whether these aircraft were shot down or brought down by friendly fire or collision is unknown. The fate of these crews are also unknown at this time although General Browning states there is a good possibility they might be recovered alive before the Martians can capture them."

They cut to a scene from Browning's press conference after the operation. "The crews that participated in this strike have only just returned to base," he told the solar system, "and we have not had a chance to debrief them just yet. We do have search and rescue hovers out at this minute heading for the areas where the aircraft went down. When we know more we'll release it immediately."

Wilde yelled at the computer to change over to a music station. He was unable to stand another second of having their own propaganda thrown back in his face. He actually felt physically ill. His illness was made worse when Major Falon, head of the personnel department for the operation, commed him and told him the real news.

"The Martians worked pretty fast this time," he told Wilde. "They sent over four lists of names. Two were the captured list from Eden and New Pittsburgh. They've captured seventy-six crewmembers from Eden, nine of whom are injured; and sixty-four from New Pittsburgh, eleven of whom are injured. The other two were lists of KIAs from the raid. They've scanned and recovered twenty-six dead in Eden and thirty-eight in New Pittsburgh. The rest of the men from each city are unaccounted for but they put in a note that multiple aircraft near each target area were completely destroyed by the fixed SAL sites and that body identification is impossible without DNA sampling. They will do that after a cease fire is in place one way or the other."

Wilde nodded. "You gotta hand it to those greenies," he said. "At least they let us know."

"Rubbing it in is more like it," Falon said bitterly. He had, after all, received a lot of lists from the Martians over the past week.

"Call it what you want," Wilde said. "Send off the numbers and the names to command like usual and they'll bury it like usual."

"They have to do that, Wilde," Falon said. "The public simply wouldn't understand if we told them how bad the losses have really been."

"Yeah," Wilde said, not bothering to argue. It would be pointless. "I'll catch you later, Falon. Hopefully we won't have to talk that much in the future."

"We won't, ' Falon said righteously. "That new plan of General Browning's is going to bring those murdering terrorists to their knees."

"I certainly hope so," Wilde said. He signed off. He then put in a call to General Browning. He was put on hold for the better part of ten minutes before Browning's image graced his screen. The general looked upset, a state he confirmed with his first words.

"Those goddamned media reps are still calling every five minutes to bitch at me," he yelled at Wilde. "I told you this would happen if you changed one iota of that plan we submitted! Several of them are even threatening to do an expose on me!"

Wilde knew exactly what he was talking about. The big three reps, both here and on Earth, were very upset that the landing ships had come down more than two hundred kilometers closer to their respective cities than had been outlined in the briefing documents they'd been given. Though it was only a minor change, one made at the last minute so the air strikes could be launched without a refuel point and so the march time to engagement would be minimized, the media didn't like things to deviate from what they had reported as "the plan". They felt it made the public lose respect for their investigative powers. They had been in full-blown outrage mode in the first hours after the landings, some going so far as to call for Browning's resignation for using them as a disinformation vehicle. It was only after Browning fed them the bullshit about the Martians laying mines in the primary landing sites that they began to ease off a bit. True, they all knew the story was bullshit but at least it gave them something plausible (if not entirely realistic) to tell the public.

"It was a necessary operational change," Wilde told Browning for perhaps the twentieth time.

"Yes, yes," Browning said. "So you say. It's what let us launch those air strikes... and by the way, they're pretty pissed off about the air strikes as well. They want to know why they weren't informed in advance and why they weren't allowed to video the hovers launching and returning."

"Sir, it was a secret air strike. That means you don't tell anyone about it. And even without them knowing about it you managed to screw it up anyway. We took one hundred percent losses on that strike, sir. One hundred percent. We have only three attack hovers left in our entire Martian inventory now. Sixty-five percent of our pilots and gunners are now either dead or captured."

"Surely you're not suggesting that is my fault," Browning said huffily. "You are the one who planned those air strikes. You told me they would decimate their targets with minimal losses."

"Sir, I planned those air strikes to be launched simultaneously the moment all of the landing ships were on the ground. You delayed the launch for more than two hours just so you could give the operation a catchy name and say that it was launched precisely at 1300."

"It is somewhat traditional to have a nice, round starting time for any major military mission," Browning said. "You know that, Wilde."

"And at what point did that start to take precedence over the element of surprise, General?" Wilde asked. "Those hovers were supposed to launch and be on their targets before the Martians even knew they were in the air. Instead, you delayed the launch until 1300. That gave the Martians enough time to get some of their special forces teams on our perimeter to report the launch."

Again Browning refused to take any sort of responsibility for this. "You said those flat areas we landed in would prevent the greenies from sending special forces teams after us."

"I said no such thing," Wilde replied, no longer caring about the insubordination. "I said the flat area would force them to drop their teams further out and prevent them from moving in too close. I never said their teams would be blinded to what we were doing. That's why I had the APCs shuttle crewmen to the tanks, remember? That's why I had the landing ships form a big perimeter of their own, so the armor could assemble in the center. We've known all along that the Martian special forces teams would get to within operation and observational range."

Browning was shaking his head sadly. "It sounds like you're backpedaling to me, Wilde," he said. "A marine is supposed to know when he's made a mistake."

Wilde actually had to bite his lip to keep from screaming out an angry, blasphemous reply to this. He drew blood but the trick worked — just barely. After a moment he was able to compose himself. "Listen, General," he said. "What's done is done. That won't be much comfort to those flight crews that are now in Martian POW holding or the families of those who were killed, but we have to put that behind us and move on to the next phase of the operation."

"Well of course," Browning said. "My feelings exactly."

"Very good," Wilde said. "Now the reason I commed is to make sure something similar doesn't happen to our ground forces. They're down there unloading their APCs and tanks and mobile guns as fast as they can. It is vital that the marches begin the moment enough armor and arty is ready to move. We have to reach the Martian first lines of defense before their reinforcements arrive in strength. As it stands now, that is going to be very close."

"How close?"

"According to intel the first trains pulled out of Proctor and Libby at 1120 and 1150 this morning. That means the first train will arrive in Eden two and a half hours from now and in New Pittsburgh four hours from now. Eden is the critical one. The Martians could conceivably have reinforcements start trickling into the Jutfield Gap positions by 2200."

"2200? We won't be in position to attack by then."

"No," Wilde agreed. "The best we can hope for is to have everything we need unloaded by 2130 and to start our march at 2200. That's if we break all speed records but, fortunately, at the pace they're going down there we might just do it."

"That's good news indeed," Browning said. "But it still puts us behind the greenie reinforcements."

"Just barely, sir," Wilde said. "And remember, that's a worst case estimate for Martian reinforcement arrival and even if its correct, they will just be trickling in little by little as they are unloaded. They won't be able to field the entire compliment that was loaded on those three trains until at least 0300 for Eden and 0530 for New Pittsburgh. I want our troops to be through the Jutfield Gap in Eden and through the Crossland Gap in New Pittsburgh before that happens. We need to take advantage of our numerical superiority while we still have it and seize the initiative."

"I understand," Browning said.

"So... with that in mind," Wilde said gingerly, "can you make sure that the march is not delayed for any reason?"

"Of course. Why would we delay it?"

"Oh... to think up catchy names for the operation, to launch precisely at on a given hour — any number of things our friends at the big three so enjoy but that hinder us militarily."

"I'll make sure," Browning promised.

"Very good, General. I'll get our units moving the second they are capable of it."

Eden Landing Zone

2200 hours

Callahan sat in he commander's seat of one of the APCs assembled in the center of the formation of landing ships. It had been almost two weeks since he had been in one of these deathtraps. In that time his back wound had healed, he had rested up, fed himself enough to put back two of the five kilos he'd lost, and had been field promoted to full captain officially in charge of Charlie Company. Despite all that he felt the same sense of apprehension and fear as the last time.

The memories of the horrors he had witnessed since arriving on this shitty red rock were still quite fresh in his mind — losing all of his friends, watching them shot down and blown up from the LZ perimeter to the final futile push to the main line of defense, seeing bullets and shrapnel zipping by his own body, missing him by centimeters, and finally, the humiliating retreat back to the landing ships, forced to leave their dead and even some of the wounded behind, the tattered survivors clinging desperately to tanks and APCs like refugees. And somehow, the most humiliating thing of all was the abject refusal of the Martians to strike at them during that retreat, as if they were saying, we kicked your asses so good its not even worth the time or the fuel or the ammo to chase after you.

For the first time in his career Callahan felt the icy hands of irrational panic tightening around his throat.

Get ahold of yourself, Callahan, the rational part of his brain tried to tell him. The odds are different this time. We're hitting their positions with better than four to one advantage and we only have a short march before contact. No refueling, no rearming, no pausing for anything. We'll knock them out of the gap in no time and take the momentum for the next battle.

Yes, the plan they'd been briefed on was a good one, or at least the best that could be hoped for after the clusterfuck of the last few days when the real plan was slowly picked apart and modified again and again. Callahan was still appalled and disgusted by that. He had watched the morale of his men change from an all time low as they were blasted back to orbit after the retreat to an all time high when the plan to overwhelm and capture Eden was first announced. The men knew an eight to one advantage over the Martians would most likely force a bloodless surrender of the city. The Martians were not dumb. They knew defeat when they saw it and they pulled back. Victory seemed assured.

That high morale, however, had started downward on a slippery, ever-increasing slope as the changes to the plan — obviously fomented by corporate minds working through their political lapdogs — were announced one by one. And now as his newly reinforced company was loaded up into their APCs and about to begin a brief three-hour march back into the Jutfield Gap — the vice of death it was called by those who had been there the first time — that morale was almost back to the level it had been at its worst. Nobody cared how much they outnumbered the Martians or how close to their targets they were this time. Nobody cared that they hadn't even been attacked from the air or from a Martian anti-tank laser in the hands of a special forces squad. None of the good that had happened today could override all of the bad that had already taken place. His experienced troops were almost superstitiously afraid of the Martians and his inexperienced troops — those maintenance men, janitors, cooks, and dishwashers that had been given M-24s and biosuits and told that a marine is a rifleman first and foremost — had naturally picked up on that fear, expanded upon it, exaggerating it until it had turned to a deep, pervasive dread somewhat akin to that felt for eternal damnation in the fires of hell.

Callahan himself was certainly not immune to such feelings as his panic attack was showing him. So many things have gone wrong, his mind insisted on telling him. And there is so much more that could go wrong. Our advantage has been cut in half from what the original plan called for. The Martians still have the use of their navigation and communications satellites. We don't know if the air strike sent out after the Martian heavy guns actually hit any of them.

This last worry was particularly worrisome. Their commanders and the media had proclaimed the surprise air strikes a rousing success, stating that all targets had been destroyed and that most of the aircrews had returned safely and triumphantly. However the rumor mill — which Callahan and most of the others knew was typically a more accurate source of information — claimed that every last one of the hovers sent out had failed to return, the fates of the crews unknown. If that was the case it was possible the strike had not hit anything at all, that the Martian 250s would once again deny the marines the use of their own artillery. Without artillery support the coming battle stood a good chance of turning into the same sort of meat grinder as the first battle.

And even if they did, through some miracle, take out those 250s and we do get arty support, we haven't trained enough to be even moderately efficient out here. If we'd only had the additional two weeks they'd promised us!

He understood why they'd been forced down to the surface and on the offensive so soon. MarsTrans didn't want its rail yards and train tracks blown up so they'd put pressure on the right people to get the attacks scrubbed. This wasn't written down anywhere or even suggested on the big three stations, but Callahan knew this was what had happened all the same. It was the way the solar system worked. Since the tracks were to remain intact and capable of carrying fully loaded freight trains from city to city they had to attack now before the Martians had a chance to fully shift their forces. Knowing why such a thing had occurred, however, didn't make the consequences of it any easier to deal with. The simple fact of the matter was he still had a bunch of green troops led by inexperienced squad and platoon leaders and they hadn't been given enough time to develop any sort of unit cohesion. He, as captain, didn't know his platoon leaders' strengths and weaknesses. The platoon leaders didn't know their squad leaders' strengths and weaknesses. The squad leaders had barely had time to learn the names of their men, let alone their strengths and weaknesses.

It's another clusterfuck in the making, his voice of doom whispered to his mind. If anything goes wrong, anything at all, it will be another wholesale slaughter whether we take the city or not. And is my luck going to run out this time? Will I be another dead marine laying out in the Jutfield Gap in four hours?

But still, when the order came to move out five minutes later he put on his commander's face, did his best to push all those fears to the side, and he passed on the order to his platoon leaders.

One by one they moved out, passing through the gaps between the landing ships and forming up into units on the other side. The second march had officially begun.

Jeff Creek, Drogan, and Hicks were back in the same trench network on the same hill looking out at the same landscape. They had been here for about ten hours now, having been rushed out at top speed with full load-out as soon as the landing ships were on the surface. They'd watched the sun sink over the horizon and the stars appear in all their brilliance. And then, just after 2200, just as the first of the APCs of their reinforcements from Proctor began to arrive somewhere to the south of them, the word had come from command: Enemy units on the way, moving east from the LZ at twenty-five klicks an hour. Multi-divisional strength, supported by up to 600 mobile artillery guns.

It was this last part that caused more fear than the sheer numbers of APCs and tanks heading for them could ever hope to. Six hundred mobile artillery guns! And now there was little hope of countering them.

All of them knew that an air strike had taken place. They had been settling into their positions when the alert had gone out to all forces in the area. They had seen the Mosquitoes chasing after the hovers come streaking over their hill, clearing it by less than a hundred meters and two of the hovers returning after the strike had been shot down right in front of them, their crews ejecting and floating down half a kilometer to the west. Jeff and Drogan had been part of the hastily assembled squad that had gone out to capture them. Three had surrendered peacefully. One — a gunner — had gone the hard way and tried to shoot it out with the M-24 from his survival pack. The gunner's rounds had hit nothing. Drogan, Mears, and Jeff himself had put their rounds directly on target, blowing the gunner's chest open and exploding the compressed air tank in his biosuit. His rather messy remains had been scanned by a medic and then left where they were. The other three were marched back to the APCs and shuttled back to Eden to be interrogated and placed in a POW holding area.

What the infantry forces had not known until about four hours ago was the damage the air strike had done. Finally, right around sunset, Sergeant Walker passed down the grim news. "We weren't told this before," he said, "not to put one over on anyone but to keep MarsGroup or any of the WestHem spies from getting the information. The marine air strike earlier today was successful in taking out fifteen of our twenty 250 millimeter guns."

The troops had been pondering this news ever since, all of them becoming more worried about it by the minute. Five guns would not be enough to neutralize the WestHem artillery, at least not as quickly and efficiently as they had done it during the first battle. They would now have to endure a constant shelling when the WestHem marines came into range and during the battle itself. This news was enough to make more than two dozen soldiers in the gap walk off the line, throwing down their guns and heading for the support APCs they knew would take them home. The rest of the troops wavered on the verge of doing the same but mass desertion was nipped in the bud when General Zoloft himself commandeered a radio link and personally assured every man and woman out there that if the heat got too hot they would be pulled back.

"I will adhere to MPG doctrine even if it means we lose Eden," he told them. "If our position becomes untenable, if the casualties start to mount, if the arty is too much to bear, you will be withdrawn from the gap. That is my promise."

His promise served as the fragile glue that held military cohesion together. At least until now, when the announcement of 600 artillery guns moving their way slowly sank in.

"What do you think, Hicks?" Jeff asked him on the short-range channel as they stared out into the empty Martian wastelands. "Ready to call it a war?"

"I was ready to call it a war two weeks ago," Hicks replied. "But I hate to leave in the middle, you know?"

"Yeah," said Drogan. "If you do that, you'll never know how it turns out."

Jeff, who had been secretly hoping that his friends would decide to leave so he could follow them swallowed audibly and nodded. "I guess I'll hang out a little longer," he said. "No way in hell I'm gonna leave while a fuckin' Thruster stays behind."

The three friends looked at each other, their eyes glowing behind their faceplates in the infrared spectrum they were using. All of them looked scared but determined.

"So," said Drogan, "Xenia decide she loves you yet?"

Jeff chuckled. "Shut the fuck up, Drogan," he said. "I'll be in her pussy some day and you know it. Maybe I'll kiss you and give you a little taste of it."

"Maybe I'll get in it first and kiss you," she countered.

They stayed. Two members of their squad did not. Across the line guarding the Jutfield Gap nearly seventy other soldiers left as well — so many of them that a line actually formed to await their turns on the support APCs that would take them back to Eden.

Eden MPG base

2235 hours

Brian was nervous. Part of it was the fact that he had been shot down and forced to eject less than ten hours ago. Part of it was that the Mosquito they'd assigned him to was not the familiar plane he'd flown exclusively for the past three years — that one was a heap of debris scattered across the wastelands west of the Jutfield Gap. Most of it, however, was the sis they'd assigned him to replace the injured Matt Mendez. His name was Xavier Goodhit and he was forty-three years old, a former security guard at the Agricorp Building who had been selected late in the process for the Mosquito systems operator position.

"So you didn't actually finish the course?" Brian asked him as they stood side by side in the locker room, putting on their biosuits in response to a hastily assembled mission.

"All we had left was the practical and the final," he said, his voice trembling just the slightest bit. "I qualified in everything but they couldn't spare any planes to complete the last portion."

"I see," Brain said, looking him up and down. He was moderately overweight and unshaven, his body exuding the odor of one who had not bathed in a few days. Brian had only met him an hour before, when Jorgenson had ordered all possible planes into the air for around the clock strikes at the advancing column of WestHem marines. Up until that order he'd been promised a support position until Mendez returned to active flight status. "So how's your gunnery?"

"I had a lot of problems with it at first," Goodhit admitted. "I was starting to get better though — at least in the sims."

"But in reality?" Brian asked.

"Well... there weren't any spare MPG units for us to practice on. You see, they weren't planning on deploying any of us so soon. We were supposed to be the next generation... you know?"

"Jesus," Brian said. "How's your navigation?"

"They weren't able to concentrate on that as much as they wanted to," he said. "Look, sir, I can see that you're a little uncomfortable with this and, to tell you the truth, I'm really scared to go out there. I mean... you got shot down today, didn't you? Five or six other planes got shot down too. They told us that the WestHems couldn't hit us out there!"

Brian opened his mouth to suggest that maybe they should go have a little talk with Jorgenson about all of this, that maybe he'd been put out a little prematurely. Before he could do so, however, a familiar figure stepped around the corner.

"Hey, fuckhead," the figure said to Goodhit. "You're in my biosuit. Take it off!"

It was Matt, looking considerably worse for wear and dressed in the same bloody shorts and T-shirt he'd been wearing when the medics had spirited him off to Saint John Paul's Hospital after the Hummingbird had landed.

"Matt," Brian said, stepping forward and grabbing his hand. He gave it an enthusiastic shake. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm here to do my fuckin' job, boss," Matt said. "That's all." He turned back to Goodhit. "Get out of that suit, fatty. You ain't getting my pilot that easy."

Goodhit was simply speechless, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide.

"Come on!" Matt barked. "There's a mission to run, isn't there? You ain't ready to run it, I am. So give me the fuckin' suit!"

"Sir..." Goodhit started. "This is most... unusual, isn't it? I mean... I mean... we haven't got any orders to..."

Brian ignored him. "Did they fuse your ass back together, kid?" he asked.

"Yeah, they fused it," he said. "Hurt like a motherfucker too. I'm all ready for some action."

"Did they clear you for flight status?" Brian asked.

Matt grinned. "I always hated going through the official computerwork, you know what I mean? Let's just say I made my way back here so I could go back to work."

"Let me see your ass," Brian demanded.

"Hey," Matt said. "I'm not that kinda guy. I told you that shit."

Brian didn't grin. "Let's see it," he said. "Turn around and drop 'em."

Matt sighed and turned around. He pushed his shorts down, revealing his bare ass. There was a bloody bandage on the left cheek. Brian reached forward and lifted the bandage, causing Matt to wince and tense up. Underneath was a ragged pulp of bloody flesh that was still oozing blood in several places.

"They didn't fuse shit," Brian said. "They just sprayed some gel in it and put the bandage on."

"Uh... well... yeah," Matt said. "They said since the skin was actually shot off I'd just have to keep it covered until it grew back."

"You can't fly like this," Brian said.

"Sure I can," Matt said. "Just but the bandage back on. I'll be fine."

"How long did they tell you not to fly?"

Matt sighed. "Six weeks," he said. "But them motherfuckers are always worried about lawsuits and shit. It ain't that bad, boss. I can fly."

Brian shook his head. "No can do, kid," he said. "You're not on flight status."

"I'll be fine, Brian," Matt said. "I'm not gonna sit out the most critical fuckin' part of this war just because of some skin off my ass. Now you can put the bandage back on and go up with me, or I'll go find some other poor slob who got assigned one of these under-trained newbies and offer my services to him instead. Your choice. But one way or another, I'm going up there."

Brian grinned. "Well... since you put it that way," he said. He put the bandage back on, tightening it the best he could. "Goodhit, give Mendez your biosuit. I've just relieved you of flight duties."

"But... but... is that legal?" asked Goodhit, who was actually looking something like hopeful at the prospect.

"Legal is as legal does," Brian said. "Give it to Mendez. I'll clear everything with Jorgenson before we go out."

"Well... if it's an order," Goodhit said.

"It's an order," Brian confirmed. "Hand it over."

He handed it over. Matt quickly began to put it on while Goodhit quickly made a relieved retreat. It was far from the right size, hanging loosely on his hips and stretching a little too much on his legs.

"That thing gonna work for you?" Brian said, looking at it dubiously.

"I'll make it work," he said, tugging at the leg portion. "What's the mission?"

"We're going after the arty."

"The arty?"

"The air strike took out fifteen of our heavy guns. The rest won't be able to suppress the WestHem arty enough to force them out of range. The ground pounders need us out there to start settling the score."

"What about the APCs?" Matt asked. "Killing their ground troops is our primary mission."

"I know," Brian said. "It's bad news no matter which way you look at it. We're being forced to react to something the WestHems did instead of the other way around."

"And that's not good," Matt said.

"Fuckin' aye," Brian agreed. "That's how you lose wars. Now come on. Get that thing on. They got a brand new plane for us, right off the assembly line. We get to bust its cherry."

Matt, Brian, and their cohorts did their very best to even that score. They weren't terribly successful in their endeavor. Major Wilde up in orbit had anticipated the possibility that the Martian aircraft would start targeting the mobile artillery as it marched and had made sure that the tracked guns did not travel in a formation. Instead, he interspersed it throughout the rest of the formation, putting it particularly heavy in the middle of the tanks. Looking through infrared enhancement and traveling faster than sound while trying to identify tiny vehicles that looked very similar to tanks proved to be a little more difficult than most of the Mosquito gunners could handle. Though none of them were shot down and all of them combined scored an average of 1.3 hits per pass, they simply couldn't positively ID their targets in the time they had on each pass. They ended up killing a lot of tanks — four for every one artillery gun they hit. By the time the lead elements of the WestHem divisions passed into the range of the 250s, the Martian air force had only managed to kill twenty-four of them.

The special forces squads faired a little better in their mission. With more time to identify their targets they scored hits pretty much every time they fired. But the formation was moving steadily along at twenty-five kilometers per hour. They did not stop to engage enemy forces that fired upon them. They did not stop to check on their comrades that had been hit. They just marched steadily forward, moving inexorably towards the Jutfield Gap and the coming battle. By the time of engagement the special forces teams, operating from both sides of the valley, had chalked only forty-two kills of the mobile artillery guns.

The formation marched forward until they got within thirty kilometers of the Jutfield Gap. At this point the artillery guns separated from the main column and began to set up into firing positions. They still had their targeting data from the first battle and they put it to use. In a complex ballet of shooting and scooting they began to fire, raining shells down upon the first Martian line of defense. The air crews continued to pound on them as much as they could and the special forces teams moved forward and began to do the same and the remaining five guns, guided by two circling peepers, did their own part to send heavy shells into the guns.

The WestHem's lost many guns to this onslaught but the rate of attrition was simply too slow. The Martians could not, no matter how hard they tried, neutrilize the artillery. And while all the airpower and the special forces teams concentrated on this task, they were unable to fulfill their primary mission: that of killing the APCs and the enemy soldiers within them. Those APCs arrived at the Jutfield Gap just before 0130 on the morning of September 14. They had lost less than ten of their number on the way — four of those from simple mechanical breakdowns instead of enemy fire. The entire compliment of 180,000 ground troops slated to push on Eden had reached the first line of defense intact.

The tanks formed up around them and they began to move in.

The artillery barrage had been going on for ten minutes now, the 150mm shells dropping atop their hill, exploding and shaking everything. It did not match the ferocity of the barrage they'd endured during the first phase but all knew there would be no let-up this time.

"Tanks moving in!" said a voice over the net. "Battalion strength. Our tanks and the AT teams are engaging."

Jeff was huddled against the back of the trench, his head down low, the SAW curled up against his chest. He didn't get up to look at the tanks. He wasn't putting his head in one of the firing holes until he absolutely had to.

More explosions began to rock the hillside as the tanks opened up on the anti-tank positions above them, raking them with a terrifying volume of eighty-millimeter fire. It sounded like they were blowing the entire top of the hill off. He felt fear unlike anything he'd experienced to this point. Soon those guns would be shooting at his position, supporting the advance of the ground troops. He felt fear for Xenia as well. She was down in her tank with Valentine and Belinda Maxely facing twice as many tanks as they ever had before. She could be dead already, her beautiful body fried to a pulp by a WestHem tank laser. That was a thought he tried to push out of his mind but it refused to go.

"APCs moving in," said another voice. "A whole fucking shitload of them!"

"I got 'em," said Sergeant Walker, who was peering through one of the periscope cameras. "Too many to count. If they're fully loaded with dismounts we're looking at multi-battalion strength coming after our position."

"Fuck me," said Hicks, his eyes wide and terrified.

"Where the fuck are those reinforcements?" asked Drogan. "We only have two platoons on this hill. We can't hold off that many marines!"

"No, we can't," Walker said. "The LT says it's the same situation up and down the line. We're gonna be pulling back real quick."

"How quick?" Jeff wanted to know. "I vote for fuckin' now!"

"We need to bloody them up a bit first," Walker said. "AT teams and the tanks are engaging the APCs now. They've knocked out about ten of them."

"Any word on friendly tank losses?" Jeff asked.

"No," Walker said. "No word. Okay, everyone. This is it! APCs are stopping about two hundred meters short of the hill. Get in position and open fire as soon as they start to dismount. Remember, stick to your zones!"

Jeff stood up and put the barrel of the SAW through the firing hole. He looked out into a sea of muzzle flashes from tanks, smoke and explosions from return fire, and laser flashes from anti-tank fire. The APCs were in a broad line stretching from one side of the hill to another. Walker was right. There were too many of them to count.

An artillery shell landed just down the hill from him. The flash overwhelmed his visual mode. The concussion hammered into him hard enough to drive some of the air from his lungs. Several pieces of smoking shrapnel came flying into his firing hole, one of them pinging off the side of his helmet.

"Jesus," he mumbled, just as another one exploded a little further up.

Mortar shells, fired from behind them, began to drop in the midst of the APCs, their proximity fuses causing them to explode about ten meters up. And then the marines began to dismount, appearing from around the back of the APCs. The mortar rounds felled some; most began to move forward, toward the base of the hill.

Jeff put his targeting recticle on a concentration of them and opened fire, taking three of them down with one burst. He then shifted and fired at another group that had come out from one of the other APCs. The rest of the squad opened up as well, popping at them with their rifles. Many marines went down but within thirty seconds there were hundreds of them still up and they were moving in.

The APCs began to fire to cover them, sending sixty millimeter shells and twenty millimeter cannon fire at the infantry positions. Riggins, one of the newer members of Jeff's squad, was killed almost immediately as a twenty millimeter round went right through his head. Two of the shells exploded directly in front of Jeff's hole, sending more shrapnel into the trench. A piece of it ripped through the top of Jeff's shoulder but missed the skin beneath.

"Creek, displacing," he called, letting them know that the SAW would be out of action for a few seconds. He moved to the hole to his right and put it back out there. In the time this took the marines down below had advanced another fifty meters. They were moving in as fast as they could, not shooting back, not crawling, not stopping to help those that had fallen. He opened up on a group of them, raking down six of them but had to stop and pull back inside as a furious barrage of sixty millimeter and twenty millimeter fire began to slam into his position. Sandbags exploded and dust flew. Shrapnel sprayed everywhere. He bent down low and moved back to his original hole. This time he only got three marines before the APCs below started plastering him.

"They're at the base of the hill," Walker said, unleashing a three round burst from his own weapon. "They now have defilade from the mortar fire."

"They're not stopping to regroup, sarge," Drogan said. "They're moving up fast, all at once. Not using covering fire."

"They learned from the last time," Walker said. "Keep the fire on them as long as you can, but get ready to pull back. The AT teams have already disengaged."

The artillery continued to slam into the hill and the marines below continued to climb. Jeff moved from hole to hole, firing the SAW down at them, mowing down two or three at a time and then quickly displacing before the APCs could zero in on him. The other squad members continued to fire their own weapons, most using single shots at individual soldiers. Drogan had a grenade launcher on her M-24 and when they got into range she began to use it. Their shooting was true and the marines fell in considerable numbers but there were simply too many of them over too great an area. Their advance was relentless and terrifying.

When the artillery suddenly stopped, indicating that the marines were close enough that they might get hit with it, the order finally came down. "Okay, everyone," Walker said. "It's time to get the hell out of here. Withdraw to the rear as quickly as you can. Creek, you and I will keep some fire on those marines until everyone is headed down."

"Right, sarge," he said, moving in towards the center of the trench and putting his barrel through.

The rest of the squad grabbed all the ammunition, food packs, and waste packs they could carry and started working their way through the trench. Jeff and Walker put bursts of fire down on the advancing marines for about two minutes and then Walker decided that was enough time.

"Let's hit it, Creek," he said. "The sooner we get down and in the APC, the sooner your girlfriend down in the tank will be able to pull out too."

"Fuckin' aye," Jeff said, firing one last burst down and taking out two more marines. He pulled the SAW back inside and slung it over his back. He followed Walker down to the access trench and they began to work their way down to the bottom.

The APC's were waiting down there and they climbed inside. The doors shut and they began to rumble across the wastelands, heading for the Blue Line to the east. All up and down the line the same thing was occurring. The Jutfield Gap — Eden's most formidable chokepoint on the western approach, the chokepoint responsible for more than seventy percent of the enemy infantry and armor casualties in the first phase of the battle — had fallen to the marines in less than thirty minutes.

Captain Callahan sat halfway up Hill 778, his back against a large boulder, his M-24 resting on his lap. Twenty meters further up the hill was the opening of the trench the Martian infantry troops who had recently vacated this hill had operated from. One of his platoons was carefully approaching it, their weapons ready, peering inside to make sure the former occupants had really left.

"Remember," Callahan told newly promoted Lieutenant Skag, who was in charge of that particular platoon, "keep your men well clear of that trench. Those Martians love their booby traps."

"Yes, sir," Skag replied. "We're not going closer than five meters."

Callahan's company had been one of five that had gone after this particular hill, which had been held by a single company of MPG reinforced with an anti-tank platoon. The hill had fallen with an ease that was almost absurd in light of the heavy price they'd paid during phase one. The anti-tank fire as they'd approached had been very light, with only one or two weapons flashing. They'd lost more APCs to the Martian tanks than from the AT weapons — a stark reversal of the first time. Callahan had lost fourteen of his men on the advance, ten when their APC was hit by one of the tanks, two to the Martian mortar fire as they'd dismounted, the other two to small arms fire from within the trenches as they'd mounted the hill. The other companies involved in the attack were reporting similar casualty rates. Apparently the new plan of moving quickly in overwhelming numbers was having the desired effect.

"Callahan," said the voice of Captain Boothe on the command channel. "Why don't you stroll on up the hill for a minute. There's something up here I think you might want to see."

"On my way," Callahan said. He stood and began to climb, walking around the edge of the lower trench opening and onto the steeper slope of the hill. The going was a little tough but he relished the fact that he was doing it without being shot at. In about five minutes he made it up, finding Boothe standing near a collapsed heap of sandbags.

"I think we know why the AT fire was so sparse from this position," Boothe told him after they switched down to a short-range channel.

"Oh?" Callahan asked.

"Take a look," he said, pointing beyond the sandbags.

Callahan took a few steps closer and looked inside. A large portion of this trench had collapsed, its concrete barricades smashed open, its sandbags blown to pieces. There were more than a dozen dead Martians visible in the rubble, some with limbs blown off, some with heads blown off, most with their protective biosuits shredded by shrapnel. The remains of their AT weapons lay with most of them.

"The arty," Callahan said.

"Exactly," Boothe confirmed. "These trenches are well-designed and well-built but they can't stand up to a sustained artillery barrage with penetrating shells. I talked to Colonel West while you were climbing up here and he confirmed that all up and down the gap we're finding the same thing. We didn't get all of the AT trenches but we got a lot of them. That kept them from blasting us while we moved in and let the APCs and the tanks concentrate fire on the infantry trenches. Coupled with our greater numbers we were able to walk up these hills with minimal opposition."

"So that air strike we launched did some good after all?"

"It would seem so," Boothe said. "We didn't get all of their heavy guns. I saw some of those big-ass shells passing overhead as we moved in, but it was nothing like the first phase. If we can keep our artillery firing and supporting us we're gonna take that fucking city, Callahan."

"What about when their reinforcements are all in the fight?" Callahan asked. "We hit them here before they were able to get in on it. What about the Blue Line?"

"We're going after the Blue Line as soon as all of the hills are cleared," Boothe said. "That should be in less than an hour."

"Nice," Callahan said, looking at the dead Martians with relish. It was nice to see that they were capable of being killed after all. "I'm gonna head back down and tell my men what I've seen up here."

"You do that," Boothe said. "It's good for morale."

"You know it," Callahan said. His panic and anxiety were now gone. It seemed that maybe an end to this nightmare was now in sight.

The Blue Line

September 14, 2146

0332 hours

The trenches in the Blue Line had not been repaired after the first phase of the war. All of the efforts had instead gone into fixing the main Jutfield Gap positions on the theory that the gap was where they would inflict the most damage. As a result the position Jeff and the rest of his platoon were occupying was tattered and blasted, with many of the sandbags destroyed, much of the concrete already crumbled open, and large holes around most of the firing positions.

"If they bring that arty down on us we're fucked," Hicks said as they repaired what they could and set up their equipment.

"I heard we lost a lot of the AT guys," said Drogan. "Is that true, sarge?"

"It's true," he confirmed. "Casualties were heavy among the hilltop positions in the gap."

"How heavy?" asked Jeff.

"I don't have exact numbers," Walker told him, "but we're losing a lot to desertion now too. You all saw the desertion line out there, didn't you?"

They had. As they'd climbed up this hill to occupy this trench greater than a hundred soldiers had been awaiting evacuation by the support APCs. And that was just in this section.

"If we lose all the AT teams there won't be anyone to keep their numbers down when they move in," Drogan said.

"Can you fuckin' blame them?" Hicks asked.

"You're looking at it the wrong way," Walker said. "Most of the AT teams are staying."

"Huh?" asked Drogan.

"They got the shit kicked out of them in the last battle and took heavy losses. They're fighting in an army that allows you to leave without consequences at any time. And yet, despite all that, only a couple hundred are choosing to call it a war. Most of them are willing to climb back up those hills and give it another go. What does that tell you?"

"That they're a bunch of fucking idiots?" Hicks suggested.

"No," Walker said. "That they believe in what we're fighting for out here. That they're willing to put their fuckin' lives on the line for it."

"Exactly," Jeff said. "That's why I'm staying."

"Me too," said Drogan.

Hicks hesitated for a moment but finally added his "me too" too.

"Incoming!" a voice yelled over the net.

Jeff looked up long enough to see the streaks of incoming artillery shells heading in their direction. There were a lot of them. He dove down into the trench and shoved himself under the overhang, trying to make himself as small as possible.

Concussions began to slam into them a few seconds later, rocking the trench, sending more sandbags down, filling the air with dust. They hammered in every few seconds, some far away, most close. The barrage went on and on without letup.

"They're hitting up above!" Drogan said after a particularly fierce series of explosions. "They're going after the AT teams."

"And they got them," Walker reported, his voice sounding a little shocked. "Two direct hits on the upper trench. Heavy casualties are reported and the trench is out of action."

"Fuck," said Jeff, his fear becoming palpable now.

The tanks rolled in a few minutes later and started plastering the entire hillside with eighty-millimeter shells. The APCs followed soon after, disgorging hundreds of ground troops and adding their own sixty and twenty millimeters to the fray. Jeff manned the SAW and the other squad members started putting rifle rounds down on the marines but this time the return fire was even more intensive. In addition, someone down below had noted the absence of anti-tank fire from the upper trenches and had directed the artillery fire onto the lower trenches. Huge explosions began to rip into the ground above and below. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before a lucky shot hit in just the right place.

Everyone was right. There was a bright flash of light and an explosion that blew in an entire section of their trench, obscuring even the infrared mode with dust and debris. Several screams echoed over the net, one them cut lethally short. Jeff felt shrapnel lance into his side and his legs, felt the sting of penetrating steel into his body. He was thrown down, gasping for breath, the SAW twisted and distorted from the blast.

His ears were ringing and his mind was not quite sure where he was and what he was doing. Slowly both of these problems faded to the point that he could hear frantic conversation over the continuing blast of explosions. He lifted his head up, remembering that he was in the middle of a battle. He checked his status screen and saw that his biosuit had been penetrated in two places but had sealed.

"Goddammit, Creek!" Walker's voice yelled, cutting through the fog. "I asked if you're okay! Give me some status!"

"I'm hit," he said, his voice weak. "I don't know how bad."

"Try to stand up!" Walker said. "If you can walk we need you to. We're pulling the fuck out of here right now!"

"Right now?" he asked.

"Right fucking now!" Walker confirmed. "If we don't the fucking marines are gonna cut off our retreat!"

He pulled himself to his feet, feeling sharp pain in his left leg, duller pain in his left side and his right leg. Still, his appendages supported him. He looked down and observed that the SAW he'd been assigned to was beyond help. He groped for his M-24 in his back holder and pulled it out. "I'm okay, sarge," he said. "I'll be able to walk out, I think."

Another series of explosions rocked them, sending more debris cascading through the trench, sending another section of sandbags down in an avalanche. Jeff ducked down, waiting for it to be over.

"Check on Hicks, Creek," Walker told him. "I've lost signal on his suit!"

"Hicks?" Jeff asked, that cutting through more than anything else. "Is he hit?"

"I don't know," Walker said. "He was next to you when the shell hit. Try to find him."

Jeff looked frantically at the section of collapsed trench and saw a piece of warmth in the shape of a leg protruding. He quickly bent down and began pulling debris free, unmindful of the pain in his side with each motion. Drogan, having heard the conversation rushed over to help. It only took thirty seconds or so to uncover him — what was left of him.

"Oh God... no," Drogan said.

Jeff didn't have the voice to even echo her sentiment. Hicks' eyes were open, unseeing, staring upward. His arms were limp at his side. His chest had been blown open by shrapnel, ripping a twenty to thirty centimeter hole in the torso of his suit. Boiling blood vapor began to rise from this hole the moment they uncovered it.

"What's his status?" Walker demanded.

"He's dead," Jeff said. "Took it in the chest."

Walker didn't have time for sentimentalities. "Okay," he said. "Colinhead is injured. Pick her up and carry her down. We need to clear this trench now! The fucking marines are already halfway up!"

Jeff and Drogan each took one last look at their friend, at the man who had been with them since the start. They then went and grabbed Private Colinhead — who had suffered from a nasty stomach wound — and began to haul her to the rear of the hill.

The Blue Line had fallen in less than fifteen minutes.

"All units from the Blue Line are retreating at best possible speed to the Purple Line," General Zoloft, commander of Eden forces, told General Jackson. "They hit us hard, Kevin, and they hit us fast. We had to pull out so fast some of the troops had to leave the wounded behind to keep from getting encircled by the WestHem tanks."

"How bad are the casualties?" Jackson asked, having to fight to keep his fear from showing.

"The AT platoons got it the hardest," Zoloft said. "The WestHem arty plastered their positions with sustained, penetrating shell fire. The trenches just couldn't hold up, particularly since most of them were already damaged from the first engagement. Preliminary reports are more than four hundred dead, five hundred wounded, more than three hundred unaccounted for."

Jackson sighed, having trouble looking into the eyes of his subordinate's image on the screen. "And the WestHems?" he asked.

"They're still clearing the Blue Line but their tanks and APCs are already forming up on the other side to start the next advance."

"And their arty?"

"We've been pounding on those mobile guns, just like you ordered, but are efforts are not very effective. The only time we can hit them with the remaining heavy guns are when they are actually setting up to fire. When they're advancing to the next position they keep constantly in motion, zigzagging back and forth in unpredictable patterns. The Mosquitoes and the special forces teams are scoring some kills but not enough to make much of a difference."

"All because of that damn air strike," Jackson said, shaking his head in disgust. "I can't believe I didn't anticipate that in advance."

"That isn't your fault, Kevin," Zoloft told him. "Nobody thought about them launching something like that until after they'd done it."

"I should have," Jackson insisted. "I committed the same error that they've been committing this whole time. I underestimated them. I started to feel that their entire staff and their entire planning process was corrupted so I started to think they couldn't possibly do anything clever or original." He shook his head again. "My lack of insight into this latest landing may very well cost us Eden."

Zoloft didn't seem to know what to say to this. Instead, he changed the subject. "How are things in New Pittsburgh? Are they holding there?"

Jackson nodded. "They're holding. The WestHem artillery moved in and the 250s engaged it, just like before. They were forced to pull their mobile guns back out of range again. When the tanks and the APCs rolled on the Crossland Gap our AT teams hit them hard. Casualties have been light and as of five minutes ago we still held the gap, although the dismounts are moving up the base of the hill under heavy fire. We'll more than likely start pulling back to the NP Blue Line in the next thirty minutes."

Zoloft nodded. "That's good," he said. "It's fortunate that the air strike in NP was launched fifteen minutes after the Eden strike."

"Yes, that seems to be the deciding factor."

The two men stared at each other's image for a few seconds.

"Look, Kevin," Zoloft said. "We're getting killed out here. I'm taking heavy casualties among the AT crews and I'm losing a lot of the others to desertion. I don't think my forces can hold the Purple Line. I'm not sure they're going to be able to hold the main line. Not if the WestHems keep their arty intact."

"I see," Jackson said.

"You see?" Zoloft said, allowing some of the strain he was under to show through. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean, General? Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

"I think so," Jackson said. "But suppose you tell me just so we know we're on the same page here."

"Our defense is untenable," Zoloft said. "We're outnumbered, our reinforcements are arriving too slowly, and the WestHem artillery is massacring the most important part of our defenses. We're not inflicting significant casualties on the enemy with our ACRs." He took a deep breath. "I'm afraid that unless things change I'll be forced to pull all of the units out of the field under MPG doctrine. We're not out here to be kamikazes. If we can't hold them back we must surrender Eden to keep people from being needlessly killed."

Jackson nodded. "I understand," he said. "And I completely agree with you as well."

Zoloft looked solemn, scared. "So... you think its come to that?"

"If things go on as they are... yes," he said. "We'll be forced to surrender Eden to them."

"If we surrender Eden, we'll lose this planet eventually," Zoloft said.

"I know," Jackson said. "We'll hold on for a few years but if they hold Eden they hold a base from which to launch attacks from. They'll hold our rail hub and our largest agricultural base."

"I don't want to do this, Kevin," Zoloft said. "I've been with you from the beginning. You know that. You know I wouldn't even suggest this unless it was the only option."

"I know," Jackson said. "But quite frankly, I don't see any other way at the moment."

"Me either." He sighed. "Listen... do you think that maybe we should contact Browning and ask for a cease fire in the Eden theater?"

"He'd never go for it," Jackson said. "Not unless we agreed to a cease fire in New Pittsburgh as well. And the way things are going down there it looks like we're going to hold New Pittsburgh."

"Is there any point in holding it though?" Zoloft asked. "I mean, sure, we can probably hold onto it and the rest of the cities for a few years but eventually..."

"I see what you're saying," Jackson said. He shook his head violently. "Goddammit! I can't just accept that after everything we've gone through that we'll be defeated just because of one instance of bad luck!"

"So... so... what are you saying?" Zoloft asked.

Jackson called up a map of the Eden area on the screen next to him. He looked it over for a few moments, looking at the lines of defense his armored cavalry regiments were supposed to be inflicting heavy punishment on. There was the Jutfield Gap and the Blue Line — both of which they'd already been pushed out of. Behind that, in the area where the valley widened out like a funnel, was the Purple Line, where they were heading now, and the Red Line, the last line before the final defensive positions known as the main line.

"All of this planning, all of this sacrifice destroyed because of a goddamned air strike," Jackson said. "Because we can't take out their fucking artillery guns."

Zoloft remained silent, simply watching his boss think this through.

"The Mosquitoes can take out some," Jackson said, "but not enough. The same goes for the special forces teams. They're effective, but we just don't have enough of them."

"It's too bad we couldn't send tanks after those mobile guns," Zoloft said wistfully. "They'd blow them into little pieces."

"Yes," Jackson said, continuing to stare at the map. "And if wishes were blowjobs, perverts would have a job for life. Let's talk realities here, Zoloft. There's no way we could advance our tanks through the WestHem lines and into the rear where..."

"Where what?" Zoloft asked.

Jackson was staring at the screen again, looking at the layout of the valley the WestHems were currently marching through. It was an ever-widening cone surrounded by foothills and mountain ranges — the same foothills and mountain ranges the Mosquitoes used as cover for their attacks.

"General?" Zoloft asked.

"Hold on a second," Jackson said, looking more intently at the screen now.

Zoloft held on, not speaking.

"Computer," Jackson said, "give me a satellite overhead of Eden from 0130 today. Infrared enhanced."

"Overhead loading," the computer said. A moment later the image appeared.

"Son of a bitch," Jackson said, looking at the tiny figures of the WestHem armor spread throughout the wastelands. The imagery was clear enough that he could tell what kind of vehicle was what. "Zoloft," he said. "Pull up overhead 09142146ED0130A on your screen and tell me what you see."

Zoloft did so. "I see an ass-load of WestHem armor moving on the Jutfield Gap and a lot of flashes from artillery firing."

"Exactly," Jackson said. "The artillery is firing from the rear of the formation. And the range on WestHem tanks and APCs is... ?"

"Uh... about one hundred and sixty klicks. What's your point?"

"I think I have an idea," Jackson said.

"What is it?"

"Let me work on it for a few more minutes before I describe it in detail," Jackson said. "In the meantime, let's not go surrendering anyone just yet. I may be full of shit but maybe... maybe I'm not."

"What about my troops?" Zoloft asked. "They're heading for the Purple Line right now and my battalion commanders tell me I can expect a lot of desertions when they get there."

"Tell them to bypass the Purple Line," Jackson said. "Tell them to bypass the Red Line as well. All ACR units are to head directly to the main line of defense and help shore them up."

"You think there's a chance of neutralizing the WestHem artillery?"

"Maybe," Jackson said. "In the meantime, let them know that if their position is indefensible they'll be pulled off the line. Make sure the AT holders in particular are given that message. You can quote me on this: If we cannot suppress the WestHem artillery we will surrender our position. You will not be subjected to marine artillery fire again, no matter what. Hopefully that will stem the flow of the desertions to some degree. If what I'm thinking actually works we're going to need the AT crews."

"Can you honestly make such a promise?" Zoloft asked.

"I don't lie to my troops," Jackson said. "Send that message off and get those orders out. I'll get back to you as soon as I have time to think this through."

"Doing it now, Kevin," Zoloft said, excited to see the excitement in his commander's eyes.

STILL ALIVE, the text message from Jeff read. HEADING FOR THE MAIN LINE. ORDERS JUST CHANGED. REINFORCE 2^ND INF. HICKS BOUGHT IT IN THE LAST ATTACK. YOU STILL OK?

She was still okay. Though two tanks from their platoon had been blown up by the WestHem tanks during the engagements at the gap and at the Blue Line, and though one other had been damaged enough to be left out in the wastelands for all eternity, and though their concrete barrier had been burned through in no less than six places and their hull had been nicked in two, she, Belinda, and Zen were still alive and well. She had killed more than two dozen WestHem tanks and a dozen APCs in the last three hours, killing more than two hundred marines, but she herself was still alive, breathing, and wondering how much longer her luck could possibly hold out. She was also thrilled to find out that Jeff was still alive as well. She had heard some disturbing accounts of the casualties taken in the two battles, had seen the sheer volume of artillery, tank, and APC fire the hill positions had gone through.

"Did I hear a beep from your computer, X?" asked Belinda, who was driving their tank at forty klicks an hour to the east, keeping it in formation with what remained of their company.

"Yes, B," she said, utilizing the nickname she'd bestowed upon her enigmatic companion in response to always being called X. "Your hearing is as good as it always was."

"He's okay?" she asked, her voice without a trace of emotion, leaving Xenia to wonder is she was asking because she was disappointed that he was okay or glad.

"He's alive," Xenia told her. "Hicks isn't though. He got killed in the last engagement."

"Oh..." she said. "I'm sorry for him."

Xenia seemed to sense something like sincerity in her tone. Seemed to. Valentine, on the other hand, was obviously upset by this news.

"Hicks bought it?" he asked. "Jesus fucking Christ. Did he say how?"

"No," she said. "Just that it happened in the last attack."

"So many fucking people dead," Zen said. "And are we doing any good out here? It's starting to look like it's all for nothing."

"Don't say that, Zen," Belinda said. "It's not all for nothing. It can't be!"

"They just told us to abandon the Purple Line and the Red Line, Belinda," he said. "That means they know we don't have a chance in hell of holding it. Does that sound like we're doing any good to you? You saw how much fucking armor those marines had out there, didn't you?"

"I saw it," she said.

"We held the gap for less than half an hour," Zen said. "We held the Blue Line for even less. I'm not sure we're going to hold the main line at all. I think maybe Zoloft and Jackson are about ready to throw in the towel."

Belinda had an argument to counter this point of view. Zen had a counter-argument. Xenia listened to neither one. She tuned them out and called up her holographic keyboard so she could compose her reply.

WE'RE ALIVE TOO, she wrote. SORRY ABOUT HICKS. I LIKED HIM. WE'RE HEADING FOR THE MAIN LINE TOO. MAYBE WE'LL SEE EACH OTHER THERE?

She sent off the text and then leaned back in her seat, stretching her sore back. She had been sitting in this tank for the past fifteen hours now. She yawned and contemplated catching a little sleep. After all, as gunner she had nothing to do while in transit and it was a ninety-minute ride to the main line of defense. She didn't notice that the conversation between Belinda and Zen had come to a halt.

"Motherfucker," Zen's voice said, stirring her out of the semi-doze she'd been slipping into.

"What?" she and Belinda asked in unison.

"New orders," Zen told them. "They just came across from General Zoloft himself."

"What are they?" Xenia asked.

"We're to report to a staging area twelve kilometers north of the main line."

"Just us?" Belinda asked.

"No," he replied. "Not just us."