Greenies

Chapter 23

Eden main line of defense

September 14, 2146

0445 hours

The 17^th, 9^th, and 14^th ACRs, the battered veterans of two Jutfield Gap battles, made their way into the rear areas, passing through the main line of defense and assembling in staging areas west of the city but east of the artillery positions. Eden defense doctrine dictated that these three regiments were to be resupplied and refueled and then utilized as tactical reserve units for the 2^nd Infantry Division where their rapid mobility capabilities would allow them to be rushed — either piecemeal or fully intact — to portions of the main line that required immediate reinforcement. It was plain from the moment they came limping in that doctrine was not exactly being followed in this instance.

The first thing noticed was that all of their tanks and the support vehicles that supplied and fueled them were not in the staging area.

"Where the fuck are the tanks?" Jeff asked Drogan as the dismounted wearily from their APC. He was looking around almost frantically, seeing nothing but other APCs, armored supply vehicles, and, strangely, dozens of the tracked agricultural trucks that the 2^nd Infantry soldiers had recently used to remove the WestHem dead from the battlefield between phases.

"I don't see them," Drogan replied, taking only a cursory look around. "Have you heard from Xenia? Maybe she can tell you."

"I haven't heard from her in more than an hour. She sent me a text after the last withdrawal so I know she was all right then."

"Nothing since?"

He shook his head. "The tanks aren't even showing up on the forces screen anymore," he said. "It's like they were never there in the first place."

"That is kinda strange," Drogan said. "I'm sure there's a good reason for it."

"Yeah," Jeff said worriedly. "I'm sure there is." First Hicks was killed and now Xenia was missing — vanished without a trace. What else could happen?

He soon found out. Colonel Martin himself — commander of the 17^th ACR — arrived on a support APC. He was dressed in a brand new model 459 military biosuit but he carried no weapons on him. He stood atop the turret of one of the APCs and commandeered the main dispatch channel so he could address the entire regiment (except the tanks, which had disappeared).

"Men and women of the 17^th," he said, his gravelly voice transmitted in clear digital audio. "We don't have much time before things start hopping around here again so I'll spare you the blathering bullshit about the last battle. We were hit hard and fast in all sectors and we took some heavy casualties — unacceptably heavy casualties. We weren't able to fulfill our primary mission of slowing down the WestHem marines at the gap and the defensive lines behind the gap. We were not able to inflict significant casualties on the enemy. This failure was not the fault of any of you out there — you people fought hard and you fought well and I'm proud of each and every one of you. Nor was this failure my fault, or General Jackson's fault, or General Zoloft's fault, or Governor Whiting's fault. It was simply the fortunes of war acting against us. The enemy got one in on us with their air strike and were able to prevent us from neutralizing their artillery. They came at us with overwhelming numbers before reinforcements could be fully deployed. In short, they kicked our asses in this particular battle. That is war and the Martian way is not to try to find someone to blame but to try as hard as we can to learn from what happened and to prevent it from happening again.

"That is what we're trying to do now. Our reinforcements from the 12^th and the 5^th ACRs out of Proctor have now all arrived and are being deployed to the main line. Most of the 4^th Infantry Division from Proctor are on their way here right now and should start arriving early this evening. So please take assurance in the fact that help is here and more is on the way."

He took a few breaths and looked around at the sea of faces staring back at him from behind their helmets. "People," he said, "I fully understand why some of you are doing this but desertion is starting to become a serious problem out here. I know that right now many of you are contemplating leaving before the next phase of this battle begins, particularly those of you in the anti-tank platoons. It was you folks, after all, who were hit the hardest out there in the gap and in the blue line positions. But before any more of you leave please let me explain a few things to you. All I ask is that you listen to me and trust me as you've trusted me in the past. I made a vow long ago that I would never lie to my troops and I'm not about to start now."

He paused to let that sink in. When he felt it had, he went on. "Okay, the first point I want to make is that the defensive positions you'll be manning here on the main line are much more formidable then the positions in the gap. The main line has always been regarded as the place to make our final stand and it was constructed with that in mind. Those positions are solid, reinforced concrete bunkers with concrete overhead protection that will stand up a lot longer to artillery bombardment before crumbling.

"Now I understand the basic theory of defensive positions. No matter how strong your defenses are, a determined concentration of firepower will eventually break it. We haven't neutralized the WestHem artillery and, if we don't, it is possible that they might be able to inflict significant, even lethal damage upon these positions. I don't like telling you that, I know it isn't helping my pleas to stem the flow of desertions, but it's the truth. If we don't do something about the WestHem arty, we may have a repeat of the Jutfield Gap and the Blue Line casualties. It will just take a little longer.

"So... on that note, I have been authorized to tell you that General Jackson and General Zoloft are working on a way to reduce or neutralize that artillery in this theater of action. I can't tell you what their plan is — although I have been briefed on the rudimentaries of it — but I can assure you that there is a plan in effect and it stands a very good chance of being effective. Now if this were WestHem and I was a WestHem marine colonel telling you this, I would expect you all to think it was a bunch of bullshit. However, I'm not a WestHem marine colonel, I'm a Martian colonel and I've told you this same thing before during the first phase of the battle. I was telling you the truth then, wasn't I? I am not lying to you now. I hope you will all consider my record before making any decisions.

"And there is something else I'd like you to consider as well. I have been told by General Jackson and General Zoloft that our forces here in Eden will not be subjected to that volume of fire again even if their plan should fail. If we cannot knock out or neutralize the WestHem artillery and they began to bring shells down with impunity as they did before, you will all be pulled back and the city will be surrendered to the WestHems before we even have a chance to experience the sort of losses we suffered in the gap and at the Blue Line.

"So please, have faith in your leadership a little bit longer. We need every man and woman with a gun, with an AT weapon, with an APC or a tank to stand between our city and those forces of corporate WestHem that are trying to take it away from us. We can do this, people, if we only stay united. We're fighting for our very freedom. Don't let us lose it after everything we've gone through to get this far. If we lose, then all those who have fallen will have fallen in vain. That is all I have to say on that subject. Now then... I have reserve assignments for those who will be staying."

He tried to go onto his reserve assignments but he was interrupted by the sound of applause. He wouldn't have thought he could hear something like that out in the thin atmosphere, with everyone wearing gloves on his or her hands, with his own head covered with an insulated helmet, but sixteen hundred people doing it at once made a noise no matter where you were — as long as there was any air to carry the sound.

"Thank you," Martin said when it finally died out. "As I said, I'm proud of each and every one of you and when we beat those fucks back into orbit you will all know that you played a major part in it. Now, on that note... those assignments.

"As you might have noticed, the tanks and their support units are not here. They have already been reassigned and redeployed to the 2^nd Infantry to help shore up certain positions on the line where a particularly thick barrier is needed. Many of the tanks from the 2^nd Infantry have joined them. Unfortunately this has left some armor gaps in other places along the line and our APCs, minus their mounted infantry crews, will be used to augment these gaps."

"What the fuck?" Jeff heard Tim Locker — the driver of their APC — mutter over the tactical channel. "Augment the tanks?"

"I know this is a departure from MPG doctrine," Martin was saying. "Trust me when I say it is a necessity. And, like the AT positions in the bunker complexes, our fixed armor positions are a bit more considerable than the gap positions. They are all hull-down depressions surrounded by concrete and reinforced with titanium shielding on the front and sides. The APCs will not be placed in any position where they are not augmented by at least one 2^nd Infantry main battle tank."

"How are we supposed to reinforce anyone if they're taking our APCs?" Drogan asked. "Are we supposed to walk to where they need us?"

"No," Jeff replied, pointing to a group of the tracked agricultural trucks. "I think they've developed alternate transport for us."

It turned out he was entirely correct as Colonel Martin explained just seconds later.

"Great," said Walker, who, though he had applauded as loud as anyone a few minutes ago, seemed less than thrilled with all the change in basic doctrine. "We'll be riding in the back of trucks, completely exposed. One proximity shell from one artillery gun or even a mortar will shred us all."

They all pondered that unpleasant image in silence.

"Okay, folks," Martin wrapped up. "The WestHems are currently performing a textbook assault on the Purple Line, which they don't realize is completely empty. After that, it is anticipated they'll do the same for the Red Line. After that, we expect they'll have to refuel and rearm before they can move on the main line. That will take most of the day to accomplish and our arty, special forces teams, and aircraft intend to make that process as slow and painful for them as possible.

"In the meantime, we ourselves need to refuel and re-arm too. Let's get that done and then start moving to our new assignments." He paused for a second or two. "Free Mars, people. Free Mars. We're not just saying it, we're fucking doing it!"

AgriCorp Greenhouse 02.13223 — 05.66542, 14 kilometers northwest of Eden

0645 hours

This particular greenhouse was full of tomato plants that had been days from being harvested. Now it looked like most of the yield would have to be written off since 253 main battle tanks had entered the sanctity of their growing area and smashed most of them flat with their treads — enough agricultural destruction to make an AgriCorp executive cry had any of them known about it.

The tanks were spread out in staggered lines all across the fields, their ranks closing like a funnel into four distinct lines near the north end where four fueling and resupply cars were waiting to service each of them. At the head of each line the tanks would be pumped full of hydrogen for fuel, oxygen for oxidizer, and would have any shells or bullets they'd shot off in the first engagements replaced. They would then move onto the access tunnel that led to the next greenhouse to the north where a final assembly for... for something was taking place.

Out the west side of the greenhouse the first foothills of the Sierra Madres mountain range could be seen. Beyond that, the higher peaks of the range were poking up above the horizon, dust devils and plumes of red being blown from their summits. This section of agricultural land was among the oldest on Mars, the first to be cultivated in Eden's earlier days. It was also the furthest west the greenhouse complexes stretched — most of them were off to the north and the east of the city on the vast flatlands known as The Plains of Eden. The two greenhouses the tanks were assembling in were the very last ones built in the westerly direction before the land began to rise into the foothills.

Xenia sat atop the turret of her tank, her legs dangling down into the commander's hatchway. Since they were in a pressurized environment she, like most of the rest of the tank crews, had removed her helmet, unzipped the top of her biosuit, and pushed it down into a bunch around her stomach. Her braless breasts jiggling beneath her tight and sweaty MPG t-shirt had become a point of distraction for most of the males — and many of the females — within visual range of her. She pretended not to notice as she munched on a tomato she'd picked from one of the surviving plants and chatted with Belinda who was poking out of the driver's hatch, also unprotected to the waist and also eating a tomato. Belinda's large breasts created some distractions as well, although not quite as much since they were firmly encased in a cotton sport bra beneath her t-shirt.

"So what do you think?" Belinda suddenly asked, breaking a lull in conversation that had gone on for the past fifteen minutes.

"What do I think?" Xenia responded, looking at her with a sparkle in her eyes. "I think I'd love to come down there right now and lick that tomato juice off your pouty lips."

Belinda flushed with arousal at these words but she refused to take the bait. "I mean what do you think about all this?" she asked, pointing at the formation of tanks all around them. "What in the hell are we doing out here, fifteen kilometers away from where the action's gonna be? What are they gonna do with us?"

"I liked my thought better," Xenia grumbled. She sighed and tried to take her mind off how fucking horny she was right now. She was ordinarily quite amorous in her pursuits of pleasure but combat seemed to wrench this up by a factor of four or so. She wasn't able to completely banish the erotic thoughts from her head but she was at least able to push them back to their own red line. "I heard a few rumors when I was out picking these tomatoes."

"Yeah?" Belinda asked. "What are they saying?"

"They're just rumors," she qualified. "Probably based on nothing but speculation, but the consensus seems to be that we're going to be used for some kind of surprise flank attack."

"A surprise flank attack?"

"That's what they're saying," she confirmed. "They pulled 250 or so main battle tanks off the line where we're desperately needed and moved us up here to the north, well beyond where any fighting could conceivably take place. They cut all outgoing communications from our combat computers and our tank computers — Jeff must be worried sick about me by now."

Belinda frowned at the mention of Jeff Creek, a stab of black jealousy piercing straight into her heart. "Uh huh," she said, just barely maintaining a civil tone. "What else?"

"I was talking to one of the 2^nd Infantry guys out there. He said his battalion was split in two when they sent out the movement orders. He doesn't know where the other half got sent — they cut off the com link before he could talk to one of his butt-buddies assigned to the other half — but he saw them heading south from the main line. He seemed to think there's another group of tanks teaming up somewhere south of the city."

"Hmmm," Belinda said thoughtfully. "What the hell kind of flanking maneuver do they think we're gonna be able to do? The marines have more than six thousand tanks out there. They're stretching them all across the valley from the Sierra Madres to the Overlook Mountains. How can you flank anything if you can't get around it?"

"I don't know," Xenia said. "As I said, it's just a rumor."

"What if that's not what they're planning?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if they mean to have us blast straight through their line?" Belinda asked. "That would be suicide."

"Yes," Xenia said, nibbling on her bottom lip a little. "The strength of our tank forces is our fixed positions. If we go mobile we lose our advantage and they outnumber us twenty to one — or at least ten to one if there's another 250 of us assembling to the south."

"That's still nowhere near enough for a head-on confrontation," Belinda said. "I'm sorry, but if that's what our orders are they can count me out. I'm willing to risk my ass out here but I'm not gonna throw my life away for nothing."

"Me either," Xenia agreed.

The four tanks in front of them finished up their loading and moved off, heading for the tunnel. The loading bosses waved the next four forward.

"About fucking time," Belinda mumbled. She dropped back into her hatch and disappeared. A moment later the tank's engine started up with its distinctive turbine whine. Xenia held onto the barrel of the commander's machine gun as they moved forward nine meters and stopped next to the supply cars. The engine shut down and Belinda popped back up again, climbing completely out. Xenia climbed out as well and waked across the top of the right tread guard where she opened the main hatch to the turret.

The ammo supply technician, a greasy, dangerous looking type of about nineteen or so, walked over to her. He was shirtless, his skin shimmering with sweat in the early morning light, his gang tattoos (he had honorably retired from The Dust Devils of 44^th Avenue) showing prominently.

"Hey there," he said as he unabashedly looked Xenia up and down. "You are one sweet looking piece of ass, darling," he told her.

Xenia smiled at him. There had been a time when she would have been deathly afraid of such a person but that time was now gone forever. Her exposure to Jeff and to the horrors of the battlefield had burned such fears right out of her. Instead, she wondered if there was a way to take advantage of his lustful infatuation for her. "Thank you," she told him, giving a deliberate bounce to make her breasts jiggle.

The loader groaned lasciviously. "Damn, bitch," he told her. "Those are the juiciest fuckin' melons I ever seen. I been scopin' on them titties since you was six tanks back."

"I thought I felt them burning," she said sexily, giving a little shoulder shrug.

"Mmm hmmm," he said. "You gotta let me check them things out, baby," he said. "I won't be able to sleep tonight if I don't."

"Well... we'll see what we can arrange maybe," she said.

"Fuck yeah!" he yelled enthusiastically.

"But first," she said, "business before titties. Aren't you supposed to be laying some ammo on me?"

He sighed in mock consternation and then turned businesslike himself. "The fuckin' war effort must go on," he said. "What you be needing?"

Xenia turned businesslike as well. "Six eighties and a hundred twenties," she said.

"Fuckin' aye," he said. "You good on four millimeter?"

"Haven't fired a round of that yet. We could use some extra food packs and waste packs though."

"Coming right up, sweet tits," he told her. He walked over to his car and disappeared inside.

Meanwhile, a prim and proper woman in her early thirties, wearing a wedding ring with a huge diamond on it on a chain around her neck, had attached a fueling hose to the inlets at the front of the tank.

"What do you need?" she asked Belinda.

"Eighteen K hydro, twenty-one K O2," she replied.

"Fuckin' aye," the woman said. "It's loading."

"You look very familiar," Belinda said. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

The woman smiled. "Everyone says that," she said. "But no one can ever figure it out when they see me dressed like this and pumping fuel into their tanks. I'm Callie Hashbar."

"Callie Hashbar?" Belinda said in surprise. "No shit?" Callie Hashbar was a longtime news anchor for one of the primary MarsGroup video channels. She was married to one of the upper echelon executives for MarsGroup.

"No shit," she said. "Back when the war started I figured I could serve Mars better by signing up for service instead of reading off a teleprompter in front of a camera. I asked for combat duty but... well, I wasn't in good enough shape so they put me in a support position." She shrugged. "I don't mind though. If it wasn't for people like me you folks wouldn't have any fuel to fight those fucks, would you?"

"Fuckin' aye," Belinda agreed.

The fueling took about five minutes. By the time it was done the greasy former gang member emerged from his car with an electric cart full of eighty-millimeter shells, a case of twenty-millimeter shells, and stacks of food and waste packs. He drove it over to the side of the tank.

"Your supplies are ready, sweet tits," he told Xenia.

"Right," she said. They began the loading process, which consisted of the loader handing the shells one by one to Belinda who, in turn, handed them to Xenia inside the tank. Xenia would then put them in the ammo slots that loaded the main gun. After the eighties they loaded the twenty millimeters in. After that they loaded up the waste packs and the food packs and handed out their used packs.

"You're all loaded," the gang member said with a grin. "Now how about flashin' me a quick shot of them titties to keep my morale up?"

Xenia looked at him, as if considering. "Well..." she said, "you don't get somethin' for nothin' in this world, you know what I mean?"

"I just loaded you up with fresh ammo," he said. "Ain't that somethin'?"

"That was your fuckin' job," Xenia told him. "I'm looking for service above and beyond the call."

"Like what?"

"I smell cigarettes all over you," she told him. "How about you break down with some for me and my friend here."

"You show me them titties first and I'll break down with something."

"Dust Devils honor?" she asked.

He laughed. "Someone been talkin' to you, baby," he said. "Yeah, Dust Devils honor." He tapped the side of his tattoo two times to confirm this.

Xenia smiled and then slowly pulled her t-shirt up, revealing her alluring bare breasts to his gaze. The nipples were hard and the loader's eyes widened in arousal, his tongue licking at his lips.

"Damn, baby," he said. "They even nicer than I thought."

"Thank you," she said, letting her shirt fall back down. "Now pay up."

He smiled, removing half a pack of premium West Virginia smokes from his pocket and pulling one out. He handed it across to Xenia. "And there's your payment," he told her.

"One fuckin' cigarette?" she said, outraged.

The loader shrugged. "That's the goin' rate here in the north end of the godforsaken greenhouse."

"But you got to see two tits," Xenia countered. "That oughtta be worth at least two smokes."

"You shoulda negotiated your terms beforehand," the loader told her. "Hell, I only got a eighth grade education and even I know that shit."

"Hmmph," Xenia pouted. "If I show 'em to you again will you give me another smoke?"

"Fuck no! I already seen 'em. You want another smoke you gotta up the ante a little."

"Like what?"

"I wanna touch 'em," he told her, nearly drooling over the very thought.

"One lousy smoke for a touch of these?" she asked. "You must be dusted. Gimmee what's left of that pack and you got a deal."

He shook his head, though only after a moment's hesitation. "No way, baby. This is my last fuckin' pack. I'll give you three of them."

"I want 'em all," Xenia told him. "Take it or leave it."

"I guess I'll have to leave it then," he said with visible regret.

"Are you sure?" Xenia asked in her sexiest voice. She cupped the breasts in question through her t-shirt, squeezing them together. "I bet you never touched a pair like these before, have you? Did you see how hard my nipples were? They want to be touched, baby. They're begging for it."

"Five smokes," the loader said, his eyes wide, his voice cracking.

"All of them," she insisted. "Final offer. Going once... going twice..."

"All right, all right!" he said. "You fuckin' win. Now bust 'em out."

"Hold on a sec," she said, continuing to push them together. "Dust Devil's honor?"

"Yeah, baby," he said, making two quick taps of his tattoo. "Dust Devil's honor. Now bring it on!"

She let go of her breasts and slid down to the tread guard, sitting on the edge of it, her feet dangling down toward the ground. The loader stripped off his work gloves and dropped them indifferently onto the compacted Martian soil. He walked over and stood between her legs, his eyes wide, a prominent bulge pushing out the front of his MPG shorts. Xenia pulled up her shirt, baring her breasts once again. His hands attacked them, squeezing them roughly, twisting them, tweaking the nipples to the point it was almost painful. It was so arousing she almost had an orgasm right there on the tread guard.

It went on for about fifteen seconds before she made him stop. She knew if she didn't she would lose control of herself, would put her hands on that bulge and start doing some squeezing of her own. After that, who knew what could happen?

The loader was speechless as he backed away from her, looking at her in lustful awe.

"The smokes?" Xenia asked with a voice that wasn't quite steady.

"Uh... sure, right," he said, pulling them from his pocket and docilely handing them over.

"Thanks," she said. "I... uh... guess we oughtta get moving now."

"Sure," he replied. "I guess you'd better. Uh... listen, after this thing is over maybe you and I could kinda... you know... hook up?"

"We'll see," she said. "If you see me in the Troop Club some time, don't be afraid to come and talk to me."

"I won't," he said as she climbed back up to her position on the turret.

"Free Mars," she told him.

"Free Mars," he replied, blowing her a kiss.

Belinda was sitting back in the driver's hatch. She shook her head in amusement. "Xenia, you're such a cheap slut," she said.

"I know," Xenia said dreamily. On Mars being called a cheap slut was not exactly an insult.

Belinda dropped back into the driver's seat, not bothering to shut the hatch or put on her restrain harness. She pushed the ignition button and the engine started. She was gratified to see that both hydrogen tanks and both oxygen tanks were now reading full. She put the tank in gear and began to move forward, creeping along at five kilometers per hour, following the flattened soil of those that had come before her and entering the access tunnel.

She was not the least bit jealous or upset about what she'd just witnessed Xenia, the woman she loved more than life itself, doing. She would not have been upset if Xenia had fucked the loader right in front of her, in fact, she might have been inclined to tear off a piece of him herself — the entire episode had aroused her greatly. The loader was nobody to Xenia. She didn't even know his name. And sexual petting or other contact with a casual acquaintance — just for the sheer pleasure of the contact — was something that Martian culture did not frown upon, even when one or both of the participants was married or in a long-term relationship. It was just one of those things that happened and the Martians had concluded long ago — even before most of them had left Earth — that there was no point in trying to regulate or control such behavior, that you should just go with it and accept it as a given. However if it had been Jeff Creek she had been touching, flirting with, allowing to touch her... the very thought made her see red. The difference was that Xenia had feelings for Jeff and when feelings were added to the mix, the jealousy began.

The staging greenhouse was one that had been growing strawberries. Like the tomato greenhouse they'd just left, most of the harvest had already been smashed flat by marauding tank treads. The armor formations were a little more organized over here and Belinda was directed to the northeastern portion, right behind two other tanks from her company. She brought the tank to a halt and then shut down the engine. By the time she made it back out of the hatch Xenia had left her perch and was half in and half out of the main hatch.

"B, can you come in here for a second," she asked her. "There's a jam in the eighty feeder and I need a little help clearing it."

"Yeah, sure," Belinda said, sliding under the main gun and slipping through the hatch into the cramped compartment. Xenia slammed the door and latched it the moment she was inside. "What the..." was all Belinda had time to mutter before Xenia's soft body was crushed against hers, her mouth fastened to hers, her tongue trying to press between her lips.

"Oh my fucking god," Xenia whispered, licking at Belinda's lips, her hands groping at her breasts, running up and down her back. "I'm so fuckin' horny, B! Fuck me! Fuck me right now! Right here!"

"Xenia..." Belinda started but was cut off by Xenia's tongue sliding into her mouth again. She enjoyed the kiss for a few moments, returning it with swipes of her own tongue — God Xenia was a good kisser! — but then she mustered the strength to push her away.

Xenia fell backwards onto the commander's seat. She was undaunted in this rejection. "Come on, baby," she pleaded. "Do it to me! Let me pull my bottoms down!"

"Keep your bottoms up," Belinda said. "If you take your piss-catcher and your anal vac off it'll take you twenty minutes to put them back on."

"I don't care, baby," she said. "I need you."

Belinda smiled. "You know what the magic words are, don't you?"

"I love you!" Xenia said. "I love you, I love you, I love you! Now show me how much you love me!"

Belinda shook her head, fighting for her resolve with everything she had. "You're speaking out of lust right now," she told her. "In fact you're making quite a spectacle of yourself. I can't accept those words under these circumstances."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Xenia screamed. "B, I just told you I love you."

"I don't believe you're sincere," she said. "Not yet anyway."

"Oh Jesus God," Xenia said, almost crying in frustration. "What does it take to get laid around this place?"

"It takes sincerity," she said. "And I'm not getting that right now. So how about we stop before this turns into something that will lead to hard feelings?"

Xenia's face went through a struggle but finally softened. "Okay," she said. "I'm sorry. I guess I just got a little out of control."

"That's okay," Belinda said. "And don't think for a minute I wasn't tempted to take advantage of you."

Xenia nodded, sitting up a little straighter in the chair and composing herself. "How about a little suck on my titties?" she asked. "And then I'll suck on yours? That's not really going too far, is it?"

Belinda chuckled. "I'm gonna go pick some strawberries," she said, opening the main hatch. "You want some?"

"Yeah," Xenia. "I guess I could suck on some of those instead."

Belinda went out into the fields, winding between the tanks and working her way over to some of the undamaged plants. She was not the only one with this idea. Dozens of other tank crewmembers were out there as well, all of them with their biosuits down to the waist. She shared stories and rumors with them as she gathered the fruit she could find and stored them in the plastic wrapper that had been around a case of food packs. By the time she made it back to the tank — with more than a hundred strawberries in her bag and more than a dozen in her stomach — Zen had returned and was sitting on the tread guard next to Xenia.

She gave them the strawberries and both immediately began munching on them, making grunting noises of ecstasy as they chewed.

"Goddamn we grow good shit here," Zen proclaimed as strawberry drool ran down his chin.

"Fuckin' aye," Xenia agreed. "It's almost as good as..." She gave a meaningful look at Belinda. "Well... you know what its almost as good as."

"Uh huh," Belinda said. "Just don't eat too many or we might use up all of our waste packs... if you know what I mean."

"It would be worth it," Zen replied.

"So what's the word?" Belinda asked. "Did they tell you what we're out here for?"

"Yeah," he said. "They told me. We're gonna try to flank the WestHems and circle around into their rear."

"Flank them?" Belinda asked. "How? The only way into their rear is to blast through their lines and drive there. And that's flat out impossible."

"We're not going to blast through anything," Zen said. "They came up with another way for us to do it. Something the WestHems won't be expecting."

"Like what?

"Well... I can tell you one thing. If we try this, things are gonna be a little bumpy for a while."

"Bumpy?" Belinda asked.

"Yeah," he said. He told her the plan.

"Holy shit," she said. "Can that work?"

"They seem to think it can," Zen said. "We'll have to be precise and not deviate from the path even a little bit. If we do... well... you can imagine what will happen."

"Yeah," she said nervously. After all, it would be her that would be driving the tank. "And when do we move out?"

"In one hour," he said. "Just as soon as the rest of the tanks are refueled and re-armed."

Aboard the WSS Nebraska, Mars orbit

0900 hours

Major Wild watched General Browning deliver the latest briefing to the big three media reps. For once there were actually some elements of truth in the briefing, at least as it concerned the attack on Eden, which he was talking about now.

"As the sun rose over the Martian surface outside of Eden," Browning told them, "our forces had already smashed through their first line of defense with only a few casualties taken. The marines found thousands of dead Martian terrorists in the trenches when they cleared them, terrorists killed by our superior firepower in artillery and tank gunnery. We then hit the second line of defense — the so-called 'Blue Line'. There we pushed them out in less than fifteen minutes, sending them reeling in disarray, forcing them to leave thousands more of their dead and wounded behind.

"This brought us to the 'Purple Line'. We attacked in force once again and met no resistance at all. The reason for this was that the Martians had never bothered to occupy this line of defense at all. We found the same at the 'Red Line', which is the last obstacle before their final defensive positions outside Eden itself.

"We do not know if the terrorists are still holding this line or not. We are unable to determine that. If they are, they will be killed or driven off in a similar manner and it is my believe we will be standing in the city of Eden by the time the sun goes down tonight."

"Why so long?" asked an InfoServe reporter. "The Red Line is only ten kilometers from the main line. Is there some reason for the delay in attack?"

"Yes," Browning responded, reading from his teleprompter at the pre-written answer to this staged question. "There is a very good reason. Our tanks, APCs, and artillery platforms have just marched across more than a hundred kilometers of Martian wasteland and fired off most of their shells. They need to refuel and re-arm before they can move onto the final battle — assuming the Martians still have the stomach for it. These vehicles are being refueled and re-armed as we speak by the supply train units that have followed behind the advance the entire way. As soon as this process is complete — and our estimates have that occurring at around 1430 today — we will begin the final march towards the liberation of Mars' largest city."

There was a round of staged, though seemingly spontaneous applause from the reporters, camerapersons, and sound technicians recording the broadcast. General Browning smiled shyly, as if he hadn't been expecting such an honor. And then, the unexpected happened.

"What about New Pittsburgh?" asked a pretty young reporter from ICS. "How are things going there?"

There was a mute gasp from all in attendance, including General Browning. That question was not on the official agenda! Why in the hell had that young, ditzy girl asked it? Who had authorized that? Browning actually blanched a little. This was a live briefing and he had no pre-written answer to such an enquiry. But now that it was out there, he had to give some kind of answer.

"Son of a bitch," Wild said, burying his head in his hands.

"Well... uh... you see," Browning said. "The fact of the matter is that... uh... the operations at New Pittsburgh are going... you know... pretty much the same as the operations at Eden. We've broken through their first line and are working on clearing the lines behind them. We're not moving as fast there as we are at Eden but we are closing in on the terrorist main line."

The reporter asked no more. A curt, angry voice in her earpiece had already chewed her out for straying from the agenda.

"So, if there are no more questions," Browning said, his eyes telling them that there would be no more, "I have the liberation of Eden to monitor. Either myself or a member of my staff will update you on any further developments as they... uh... develop."

He practically ran out of the briefing room, his face red, his fists clenching with anger. He stormed into his office, where Major Wild was waiting for him.

"That went well, sir," Wild told him. "Despite the unauthorized question at the end."

"Where in the hell did that stupid twit get off asking that?" Browning demanded. "Who authorized it?"

"No one authorized it," Wild said. "I just talked to the head ICS rep for Martian operations. She's some inexperienced file researcher that one of the anchors has been banging. It sounds as if he promised her she could attend one of the briefings as a first step towards getting a junior anchor position. She wasn't supposed to ask anything at all but apparently she thought she'd show some initiative."

"Some initiative? They're not supposed to be asking anything about the New Pittsburgh operations until we start to turn things around down there. I trust she's being disciplined in some way?"

"So they say," Wild said with a shrug. "I wouldn't worry too much about it, sir. You did fine up there for having to shoot from the hip like that."

"You think so?" Browning asked.

"Absolutely," Wild said. Actually, Wild thought he'd looked like what he was: a blithering idiot with no idea what he was actually doing, but sometimes discretion really was the better part of valor. "Now, since we're talking about New Pittsburgh..."

"How are things going there? Are we at the main line yet?"

"No, sir," Wild told him. "We're still engaged at the Red Line there, slowly pushing our way up the hills. Casualties continue to be heavy. Losses of APCs and tanks to the Martian AT fire continue to mount. It's just like the first time in New Pittsburgh. Our failure to neutralize the Martian heavy guns is taking its toll."

"They need to keep pushing!" Browning said forcefully. "We'll have Eden in our hands by the end of the day and that will be good for a day or so worth of media coverage. But as soon as they get tired of showing a bunch of grateful greenies kissing our marines after the liberation, they're gonna start asking about New Pittsburgh again. I want to make sure we're knocking at their back door when that happens."

"I understand, sir," Wild said. "It's just that the Martian's New Pittsburgh reinforcements are not even fully deployed yet and they're still punishing our men quite hard down there. What's going to happen when the 6^th Infantry men arrive from Libby and start adding their guns and their AT weapons to the fight?"

"All the more impetus for the men to take that position immediately and push on to the main line before those reinforcements get there. You send them a message from me that for every minute that goes by as they fight this battle, two more greenies are arriving to oppose them. They need to clear those hills and push on. Quickly!"

Wild knew that such a message would do nothing but piss off every man down there. He said his yes sir but had no intention of actually sending the message. Browning would probably forget about it by the time lunch was served anyway."And how are things in Eden?" Browning said, turning to a brighter subject. "I assume the resupply effort is in full swing?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it full swing, sir," Wild said, "but it is in progress."

"Is there a problem with it?"

"The same problem we had in phase one. Now that we're stationary and trying to transfer fuel and ammunition from the trains to the vehicles the Martians are hitting us hard. Their artillery is raining down non-stop all over the formation. We had no idea they even had that many shells to throw at us. Those traitors at the Alexander Industries plant must have been working night and day ever since the beginning for them to stockpile so many. And the air attacks from the Mosquitoes are continuing as well, although they're not hitting our APCs."

"They're still trying to destroy our mobile guns?"

"They're trying," Wild said, "but it seems they're still having trouble differentiating a tank from an artillery platform when they make their runs. I've had them keep the guns interspersed throughout the tank formations just for this reason. We are taking some losses in tanks because of this — and the morale among the tank crews is taking a nose-dive as you can imagine — but the bulk of our guns are staying intact. The losses we are recording are coming from their special forces teams. There are at least six different anti-armor teams out on our perimeter somewhere and about every ten minutes one of them snipes at a few of the guns and usually hits them. There is attrition there, but its not enough that we have to worry about it during the next assault. We will have enough mobile guns left to pound their main positions during the attack."

"Good, glad to hear it," Browning said. "So we're on schedule to have that city liberated by 1800 tonight?"

"Well... I don't think I can promise that, General, but..."

"You said that everything was going according to plan," Browning said. "We've pushed them off their first lines and hardly broke a sweat. We're getting re-armed now and our artillery will still be functional. Why wouldn't we punch through by 1800?"

"I don't know, sir," Wild said. "I'm not saying we won't punch through, I'm just saying that this is war and that things go wrong sometimes and things you don't expect happen. I don't like to lay down timelines for major operations like this."

"Is it possible that we'll be standing in Eden by 1800?" Browning said.

"Yes, sir," Wild said, "it is certainly possible. Likely even. It's just that I can't guarantee that. I'd feel better about laying down a time frame if I just had some recon shots of the area. I have no idea what those Martians are up to down there."

"What could they possibly be up to?" Browning asked. "We've beaten them. There's nothing they can do now but run away like the cowards they are."

"I suppose," Wild said. "I still wish I could see what they're doing down there."

Sierra Madres Mountain Range, 60 kilometers northwest of Eden

1220 hours

Belinda Maxely could feel nervous sweat running down the back of her neck, pooling in the junction of her helmet and the top of her biosuit. Her hands gripped the T-bar of the tank tightly, her feet rested gingerly on the control pedals — one on the accelerator, one on the brake. They were climbing again, traversing a bumpy, rocky, uneven rise between two mountains at a slope of more than thirty-five degrees. The turbine engine was whining with power as the treads slowly pulled them upward at about five kilometers per hour. In her view screen she could see the rear of the tank in front of her, the slope of the ground she was traveling on, the pink Martian sky, and the jagged peaks she was passing through rising high above on each side. To her left, unseen but she knew it was there, was a drop into a canyon that lay less than two meters away. And the ground they were on was sloping in that direction by more than twelve percent.

Xenia couldn't take the tension of not knowing what was going on any more. She unclipped her harness and popped the hatch over her head open. "I need some fresh air," she told Zen who dutifully chuckled at her weak joke.

She stood up, pushing her head through the hatch and immediately regretted it the second she looked to the left. She saw a steep cliff dropping more than two hundred meters into a rocky gorge. From her perspective it seemed mere centimeters away from their left tread. "Oh my fucking God," she whispered, feeling suddenly dizzy and sick to her stomach — a sensation worse that what she experienced during lightening.

"What's wrong?" Zen asked, having heard her transmission.

"Nothing," she said, tearing her eyes away from the sight. She quickly ducked back down and slammed her hatch shut, vowing not to look outside anymore.

They were the forty-third tank in a single-file line of 253 of them. As Zen had told them, their mission was to perform a flanking maneuver to get into the WestHem rear area. And, as Belinda had pointed out, there was no way to do that in a conventional manner without passing through the impenetrable WestHem line. So they were going with the unconventional, a plan that was considered impossible for tracked vehicles of any kind and especially tanks, to accomplish. They had entered the nearer peaks of the Sierra Madres Mountains and were slowly working their way westward by climbing and then descending, turning and then turning back, passing over ground that had never been trod upon by humans let alone driven upon by vehicles.

"Coming up to the top," Belinda said, watching as the tank in front of her disappeared from view. She checked her map display and saw that immediately after starting back down she would have to turn right to a heading of two-eight-four, which would keep her on an even narrower and steeper sloped stretch of the mountain instead of sending her over a cliff.

"I don't remember them telling us we would have to climb fucking mountains when I signed up for the tank corps," Xenia said, sitting back in her seat and keeping her eyes tightly shut.

"I know what you mean, X," Zen replied. "I mean, getting fried by a WestHem laser is one thing. At least it's over quick. Falling off a cliff and tumbling five hundred meters down... well... that's something else."

"Can you guys shut your asses?" Belinda barked at them. "I really need to concentrate for this next part."

They shut their asses. Belinda gave them a little bit of acceleration as the slope before her momentarily increased to forty-three percent. The front of the tank rose up, so all she could see was sky for a second, and then it suddenly nosed downward as she went over the rise and started downward. She saw immediately why she needed to make the right turn. There was nothing but a sheer drop-off directly in front of her. Her own stomach did a few flip-flops but she forced herself to wait until the navigation carrot on her screen swung to the right. When it did, she pushed the T-bar to the left, slowing up the right tread enough so the left tread could push her through the turn. She felt the entire tank slide a little to the left, towards the drop-off, and she goosed the accelerator just a bit, pulling them through it. The slide stopped but the tank, now traveling downhill on a thirty-eight degree slope, started to pick up an alarming amount of speed. She braked as harshly as she dared, slowing them before they could run into the tank in front of them. She only hoped the tank behind them would do the same.

It did and they slowly worked their way down a twisting, turning area of drivability until they were in the narrow gorge below.

"Okay," Belinda said, "we've scraped through that one. We're gonna drive four klicks through this gorge and then we got one more climb and one more descent before we get back into the foothills."

"So you're saying we might actually make it there in one piece?" Xenia asked.

"We might," she said. "This last one looks like the toughest of all though."

"I'm surprised we made it this far," Zen said. "I thought they were fuckin' dusted when they told us we would drive through the mountains. I guess the mapping software we got from Air Ops was pretty good shit after all."

The mapping software he was talking about was the same software the Mosquitoes and the Hummingbirds used to wind their way through these same mountains. It had been developed over the past twenty years and even beyond and was based on countless surveys by laser and radar equipped satellites that had mapped every square centimeter of the mountain ranges with every point measured for exact altitude and slope. This information had been meant to assist pilots and systems operators to plan their flight routes through the area without hitting the large, immovable object known as the ground. It had never been intended to assist ground vehicles in traversing those same mountains but, when turned to the task, and with the assistance of several super-computers in the possession of the MPG, it had done just that, plotting a continuous route in which the slope, width, and rate of climb or descent was within the parameters in which a main battle tank could operate. That route was a twisting, turning snake and some of the passes — such as the one they'd just traversed — were right on the margin of passable and impassable, but it had been deemed possible and the mission had been given the green light.

It would have been easier, of course, to simply travel through the smaller foothills at the base of the mountains. There would have been more room to maneuver, the paths wider and less steep, the ultimate distance much shorter, which would have left a much wider safety margin of fuel and oxygen remaining for their actual mission. But the foothill approach was quickly ruled out due to detection concerns. There was simply too many places where the WestHem marines in the field might have spotted the column of tanks as they'd passed by, too much possibility that the dust they raised with their treads — even though it was being minimized by their slow speed — could have billowed up enough to be spotted.

They reached the end of the gorge and turned to the south, following a cut where a Martian stream had once drained. They began to climb, bumping over rocks, occasionally sending little landslides downward to clatter on the tanks below. Halfway up they turned back to the east, following a tributary of that former stream for half a kilometer before turning back to the south again up a steep slope to a ledge that overlooked the gorge on the other side. The pace here was particularly slow, less than two kilometers per hour but slowly, softly, they made it up and over — the clearance between the path and the drop-off less than a meter now.

The column went down the other side, winding and twisting back and forth until they reached a raised plateau that would have been a meadow had it been on an earthly mountain range. The tanks began to assemble into columns and rows once again. When the assembly was complete, the shut their engines off and powered everything but their communications gear down. Ahead of them was a gap between two of the Sierra Madres foothills. Beyond that was the Valley of Death, as the WestHem marines had come to call it.

Zen looked at his mapping software one last time before powering it down. They were two kilometers from the valley, sixteen kilometers west of the Martian main line of defense. As far as he could tell, they had arrived here completely undetected. On his enemy forces screen — which was constantly updated by encrypted satellite transmissions sent out from MPG headquarters in New Pittsburgh, he could see that the main thrust of the marine's forces were gathered just beyond the Red Line. That would soon change.

"What now?" Belinda asked, unstrapping her restraints and opening the hatch above her head.

"Now," Zen said, "we maintain strict radio silence except for inter-tank communications, and... we wait."

"That is what we do best," Xenia said.

"I have a question?" Belinda asked.

"What's that?" Zen replied.

"General Jackson never gives names to operations, right?"

"Right," Xenia said.

"So why did he decide to name this one 'Operation Hannibal'?"

Ten kilometers east of the Eden main line of defense

1500 hours

Captain Callahan was feeling the familiar nervousness he remembered so well from the first phase of the war. He was sitting in the command seat of his APC and the booming of artillery fire from the Martian positions went on and on outside, sometimes far away, sometimes close enough to rock the APC on its springs and send a pattering of shrapnel against the armor. It was relentless and had been for the past six hours, making him wonder just how many 150mm shells those Martians had. But it wasn't the artillery that was bothering him, it was the Mosquitoes and the special forces teams hiding in the hills.

Two hours ago they had suddenly lost interest in killing the artillery guns and had gone back to their normal tactic of targeting the APCs. Since then, every five minutes or so, three or four would be exploded by laser shots from these platforms, killing everyone inside. There was nothing that could be done about this. The troops could not dismount because of the artillery fire and the APCs could not move around even if that would have done any good. They were stuck here, sitting and waiting, hoping that the specter of random death would not fall upon the vehicle they were currently sitting in.

Callahan was confident that his APC would not be specifically targeted for destruction because it was one of the command APCs. Strict orders that were said to have originated from General Browning himself stated that absolutely no communication that was not urgent in nature would be transmitted from any APC. This would keep the special forces teams from zeroing in on the officers. But that random chance — that possibility that one of those aircraft or one of those hidden, ghostly AT holders would happen to pick his APC — worried him greatly.

Oh well, he was forced to conclude. If it's my time, it's my time. Nothing I can do about that. At least we made it through the refuel and re-arm process.

That had been a bit hairy in and of itself. The Martian artillery had been deliberately targeting the refuel points all day long, sometimes doing tremendous damage, causing nasty, messy death. It was during this process that troops were exposed, that fueling hoses were exposed, that live ammunition was out in the open just waiting to be prematurely detonated by a close explosion. But again, someone up above — General Browning it was said — had come up with a procedure that had minimized the attrition during the process. The APCs, tanks, and artillery platforms would pull up as close as physically possible to the supply car and the supplies would be tossed across from one hatch to the other. Though tossing eighty-millimeter shells over a distance of a meter and a half was dangerous, it had proved to be not as dangerous as keeping the four meters of seperation that protocol dictated. This closer distance had also reduced the amount of fueling hoses damaged by shrapnel and had kept the amount of troops out in the open as few as possible too. When it had been the turn of Callahan's APC to go through the process a few pieces of shrapnel had come pinging in, causing a slight injury to their driver, but that had been it. They had pulled away and sat in wait ever since.

The minutes ticked by and Callahan watched the time display carefully. They had been scheduled to pull out and begin their assault on the main line by 1430 at the latest. The measures taken to protect the armor crews had slowed that down considerably.

An explosion rocked the APC, the concussion so violent that Callahan knew it wasn't merely another arty shell going off. "Who got it?" he asked the driver, who was looking out through his camera.

"Third squad of second platoon just bought it," the driver told him. "They were two APCs over from us in the line. Blew them to bits."

Callahan nodded, feeling his anxiety to get on with it pushing at him. He wondered again why the Martians had abandoned their attempt to take out the artillery guns. Was it because they realized they wouldn't be able to kill enough of them to neutralize the weapons in the coming battle? Was it because they realized they'd better start taking out some of the ground troops instead? Or was it... was it something else? Something more sinister?

He didn't know, couldn't know, but the question itself made him uneasy. The Martians were clever bastards, led by a man who had proven himself to be a military genius. Was it possible he had a few tricks left up his sleeve?

While he was still pondering that thought the last of the APCs finished the fueling process and the fueling trains began their long, slow turn that would take them back towards the Jutfield Gap where they would stage — hopefully not to be needed again. The word came over the command net, transmitted from the ship instead of from one of the APCs.

"All units," the voice said. "Prepare to start moving in. The time has come to liberate Eden once and for all."

Engines began to start one by one and, after less than twenty minutes, the next order came and the tanks and APCs began to move forward, heading for the main line and the final battle.

Meanwhile the mobile artillery guns separated from the camouflage they'd enjoyed amid the tanks and began to assemble into their own formations. Their loaders and gunners prepared to begin firing on pre-determined points, their goal to destroy the concrete reinforced anti-tank bunkers of the main line. A battalion of tanks remained behind to guard them. This was not because any trouble was expected — after all, what kind of trouble could there be? — but because it was standard doctrine.

And from high above a group of peepers under the control of the MPG noted all of this movement and tracked it, the take being sent to the highest levels of MPG command.

General Jackson sat in his office, an open link to General Zoloft appearing on one of his computer screens. Another was showing live shots from the peepers. Yet another was showing a composite view of the entire Eden theater of operations, including the tanks that were now sequestered just beyond the foothills.

"Lead elements are moving in," Jackson said. "What's their speed?"

"Twenty-five klicks," Zoloft told him. "Arty is setting up in position and will start firing soon. Supply trains are moving west at twelve klicks."

Jackson nodded, smiling predatorily. "It would seem the time is right. Get the Hannibal tanks moving on their targets, full speed ahead. They have the telemetry and they have their orders."

"Yes, sir," Zoloft said smartly. "The order is going out now."

"I'm going to address the troops," he said. "Computer, open a link on the main dispatch channel for Eden operations."

Jeff and Drogan were sitting against the backside of the agricultural truck their squad had been assigned, facing the city. They could see the high rises before them, the city buildings they were fighting to protect. Their topic of conversation, as always, was the uncomfortable and unresolved love triangle between Jeff, Xenia, and Belinda.

"Just wait until the fighting is over," Drogan was telling him. "You're not gonna be able to sort anything out with anyone until then. In that, Xenia is completely on the fuckin' money, you know? How can you make plans in the middle of this mess? How can you commit yourself to anyone or anything when any of us could be dead at any minute."

"I can't change how I feel, Drogan," he replied. "I know I'm stupid for imagining a life beyond this thing. I can't even imagine what Mars is gonna be like if we win, but..."

"All units in the Eden theater of operation," a familiar voice suddenly cut in. "This is General Jackson, talking to you from MPG operations in New Pittsburgh."

"What the fuck is this shit?" Drogan asked, actually grateful for the interruption. She was getting a little weary of hearing Creek drone on and on about Xenia all the time. Sure, she was a hot piece of quim, but was anyone worth all the fuss?

"I don't know," Jeff replied. "I think maybe the shit's about to hit the fan."

"For those of you who are monitoring the enemy positions on your command screen," Jackson said, "you already know what I'm about to tell you. For those who aren't, let me break the news. The WestHem marine units have completed their resupply operation and, as of ten minutes ago, they have begun to move in on the main line of defense. They are moving east at two-five klicks per hour in standard assault formation. The final battle for the fate of Eden is about to begin.

"Desertions have been high over the past few hours, mostly due to the pounding that the WestHem artillery inflicted upon our Jutfield Gap and Blue Line positions last night. I understand and I hold no ill will towards those who left. They simply decided the price of our freedom was a little higher then they expected. For those of you who have stayed behind, I salute you and I thank you for your faith in me and the other commanders who are leading this struggle. Allow me now to ease your mind a little bit about what is to follow.

"The WestHem mobile artillery guns are forming up as we speak. I expect they will begin firing on your positions soon. I wish I could tell you that you won't have to endure any artillery fire at all, but I can now tell you that we initiated a plan that will deal with those guns quickly and efficiently. We will neutralize the artillery threat in this battle and we will neutralize it swiftly. I cannot promise zero casualties before this neutralization takes place — after all, this is war and one cannot always predict everything when so many unknown variables are floating around — but it is my belief that we will silence those guns before they are able to compromise the integrity of most of the main line infantry and anti-tank positions.

"That is all I have to say for now," Jackson concluded. "I don't want to take up communication time that is best left to your field commanders. But I wanted to let all you know that when those shells start to fall on you that it will not last for long. Free Mars, people. You're fighting a just war."

Drogan and Jeff looked at each other.

"What do you think?" Jeff asked her. "Feel good bullshit?"

"He hasn't laid any of that on us yet, has he?" she replied.

"That's true," Jeff admitted.

"Did you hear how he termed that? He didn't say 'we're trying to neutralize the artillery', he said we will neutralize it."

"I sure the fuck hope he's right about that," Jeff said. "Because we're sitting out here in the open."

Lon and his squad were lying across two hills on the north side of the valley, directly across from where the WestHem resupply operation had been carried out. They had been out here all day, long enough to be resupplied twice with fresh charging batteries for the three anti-tank lasers they carried. Their orders had changed several times, seemingly against military logic, with no explanation of why.

When they'd first been dropped they had been tasked with going after the mobile artillery guns. For three hours they'd sifted through the massive collection of armored vehicles deployed from horizon to horizon, picking out individual guns and then targeting them, having to displace each time they fired in order to avoid the inevitable return fire from the marine mortar squads. And then, after the first supply drop they'd been told to ignore the mobile guns and to start hitting the APCs again. They had puzzled over this — there were still almost five hundred mobile guns out there, enough to cause the infantry troops at the main line quite a headache — but they'd obeyed. And then, just an hour before, after their last supply drop, their orders had changed yet again, and this time it was almost too much to take.

"Hold in place," they were told. "Do not engage any enemy units for any reason until further orders. Even if engaged, retreat without firing if possible. Repeat: Hold all fire until further notice."

"Are we surrendering?" Lisa asked. "Is there a cease-fire in place?"

"I don't think so," Lon said. "A cease-fire order would've gone out to all troops in the field at once. This came from Colonel Bright's office so it only applies to us."

They'd watched helplessly and angrily as the tanks and APCs started their engines and began to form up in lines for their march to Eden. They had a total of sixty charging batteries with them, enough to take out six hundred marines by themselves. Instead, they were letting them stroll out of here unmolested — or almost unmolested. The Mosquitoes kept making regular appearances and popping off two to four at a time.

And now, as the rear elements of the main army disappeared over the eastern horizon and as the artillery units began to form up into firing positions Lon suddenly wondered if the plan was for them to start engaging the artillery now. After all, it was all out in the open, right in front of them, with only a scattered battalion of tanks interspersed around the perimeter to defend it. Even the mortar squads were gone. But the minutes ticked by and no such order came.

"Goddammit," complained Horishito, "what the hell are those rear-echelon motherfuckers doing back at command? How the hell can they expect us to just sit here and watch the enemy start pounding on our forces without doing anything about it?"

"I agree, sarge," Lisa said, stroking the side of her AT laser nervously. "Maybe there's some kind of communications breakdown going on. Maybe we oughtta just engage anyway. If we don't start hitting them soon we aren't gonna knock enough of them out to make a difference."

"Wong's right, sarge," said Jefferson. "We been sitting here too fucking long. Let's start lighting up some guns."

"No," Lon said, looking at his time display. It had been ten minutes now since the last elements had disappeared. Even the dust cloud was slowly dissipating. "They gave us very clear and very precise orders. I'm not going to start acting on my own. Not yet anyway."

That pretty much ended the talk of dissension from their instructions. They grumbled a little more but no one else suggested opening up on the guns. Five more minutes ticked by, during which time the guns below finished their complex dance and seemed ready to unleash a barrage of 150mm shells any second.

"Message coming in, sarge," Jefferson suddenly reported. "It's decoding now."

"Finally," Lon grumbled. "AT teams, get your weapons charged up."

"It says... what the fuck?" Jefferson said.

"Jeffy, I seriously doubt that message reads 'what the fuck'. So what the fuck does it actually say?"

"Sorry, sarge," he said. "It says: 'Engage all main battle tanks within your zone immediately. Do not engage mobile guns. Primary targets are the MBTs."

"What the fuck?" Lon said.

"It must be a mistake," Horishito said. "It must be for Delta squad over on the avenue of advance."

"No," Jefferson said, "it is specifically made out to our squad and the other three squads on this perimeter."

Lon shook his head. "I hope they know what they're doing," he said. "All AT's, open up on the main battle tanks. Let's get it on."

They started with the closest tanks first since they would be the ones to put down the most accurate return fire. Three weapons flashed and three tanks exploded. At the same time, further away, three more tanks exploded as another squad two kilometers to their east opened up as well. The remaining tanks, alerted to the position of their tormentors by the flashes of the weapons, turned their turrets in their direction. They got off one more shot apiece before the eighty-millimeter shells came screaming in, showering the hillside with lethal shrapnel.

"Displace," Lon said calmly. "Move to position three."

They rolled down the hill just as the fire reached a furious intensity. Once at the bottom they trotted further into the hills and then worked their way westward, towards another two hills. They climbed them as quickly as possible and lay down on their stomachs.

"The guns are firing now," Lisa reported as she waited for her weapon to charge.

And indeed they were. All across the valley the long barrels were flashing, sending white streaks downrange toward the main line positions.

"Hope they got their heads down back at the line," Lon said. "Keep the fire up, guys. Two shots and then displace."

"Sarge," Horishito suddenly said. "Look to the west!"

Lon looked in that direction and saw a large dust cloud billowing up — the mark of a shitload of armored vehicles on the move. "Who in the hell is that?" he asked.

"There's another one!" Jefferson said. "From the other side of the valley!"

Lon looked and sure enough, more clouds of red dust were rising into the air from the other side.

"Reinforcements from the LZ?" Horishito asked.

"I don't know," Lon said. "I didn't think they had anything left to reinforce with. Jeffy, as soon as we displace after this next shot, send off a report on this to command."

"Right, sarge."

Lisa and the other two AT holders fired their shots, destroying three more WestHem tanks. They reloaded and then destroyed three more, displacing from the hill and moving to the next position. As they were climbing up Jefferson reported that a new message had come in.

"What is it?" Lon asked.

"'Martian main battle tanks in multi-battalion strength moving in on your position from the west and from the southwest to engage WestHem mobile guns. Continue to engage WestHem MBTs until Martian tanks get in range and then cease fire to avoid friendly casualties'."

"Martian MBTs?" Lisa asked. "That's what's making all that dust?"

"How in the fuck did they get out there?" Horishito asked.

"Son of a bitch," Lon said, suddenly understanding the strange progression of orders now. "Don't worry about how they got there. They're here. Get some fire on those WestHem tanks so they can do their job!"

Xenia stared intently at her gunnery screen, her hands on the twin laser cannon controls, her eyes looking at the terrain ahead, waiting for the first of the mobile guns to appear. They were moving at top speed for the terrain, more than ninety kilometers per hour and they were bouncing violently, their engine roaring. Both of her cannons were fully charged and ready to fire.

"Targets will be in range anytime," said Zen, who was monitoring the telemetry screen that was updated from the peepers circling overhead. "Special forces teams on the perimeter have been hitting the escort tanks and have taken out about half of them. They will disengage when we come into view. Xenia, hit the guns in our sector as soon as you see them but tanks will remain the primary target until they are all gone. Remember, the guns can't hurt us but the tanks can."

"Right, Zen," she said.

"Belinda, we drive full speed until we're right on top of them and then slow to a crawl. When they start to scatter we stick to our zone. Don't go chasing after the escapees. Someone else will get them. We stay put in our zone until its clear and then we go to whatever zone they assign us next."

"Right, Zen," she said.

"How's our fuel?" he asked.

"We're down to a third on hydrogen, a little more on O2."

"Okay, don't spare the fuel. Remember, they'll arrange for a way to get some out to us once the mission is over."

"Right."

They crested over a small rise in the land and suddenly the targets were there in front of them, hundreds of self-propelled artillery guns stretching from one end of the valley to the other, gather around in groups of four and eight.

"In range!" Zen yelled. "Light 'em up, X!"

"Fuckin' aye," she said, placing her targeting recticle on the first and squeezing the button. The gun exploded spectacularly, which much more force than a mere tank due to the higher volume of explosive shells contained within. She quickly panned to the right, covered another one, and sent it into oblivion.

"Nice shooting, X," Zen said. "Fire at will. Remember, get the tanks when you see them."

All around them the explosions began to flare as the other tanks opened fire as well. A tank suddenly appeared before them. It's laser flashed and there was an explosion somewhere behind them as a friendly tank went up.

"Target, tank," Zen yelled. "Ten o'clock! Six hundred meters."

"Got it," Xenia said, putting her recticle on it. Before she could fire, however, two other lasers from other tanks hit it at once, blowing its turret off.

"Never mind," Zen said. "Pop some more guns. I'm counting eleven of them in our sector."

She put her recticle on another target and fired. She then did it again.

By this time all artillery fire had stopped as the crews manning the guns and their commanders realized — perhaps a little belatedly — that somehow, some way, Martian tanks in overwhelming force were slamming into their formation and slaughtering them. They quickly folded up their guns and tried to make a run for it, scattering like ants whose anthill has been kicked over. There was no hope in running however. The guns could not hope to get away from front line tanks. They simply didn't have the speed.

The remaining WestHem tanks that had been assigned to guard duty were caught as off-guard as everyone else. They drove around in confusion for a few minutes, firing wildly at anything they could see, killing some of the Martian tanks — and their crews — but not nearly as many as they would have had they been organized in even the most rudimentary manner. They were blown up one by one and within three minutes they were all dead, leaving the rest of the mobile guns completely unprotected.

General Dakota Dickenson — commander of the WestHem forces in the Eden area of operation — at first thought the message his aide passed onto him was a particularly poor joke, that or some of the Martians hacking into their communications set and playing games.

"That's impossible!" he said. "There's no way the Martians could have gotten tanks into our rear area!"

"Sir," said Major Horshell, "I listened in on the transmission myself. Colonel Dallas of artillery command is out there in the middle of it in his APC. He sounded panicked, sir and he reports better than three hundred Martian tanks swept down on them from the west and are 'blowing the shit out of my guns'. He is requesting immediate tank support from the main advance."

"Get him on the com," Dickenson ordered. "And get Colonel Fowler in here too."

"Yes, sir," Horshell said, turning quickly to his computer screen.

While he waited Dickenson quickly panned the telemetry screen he had been viewing the advance on westward, to the area where the artillery guns were deployed. His breath caught in his throat when he saw that all of the escort tanks and more than a third of the guns were no longer transmitting position reports. The only reason for this would be a catastrophic vehicle failure of some sort — like being blown to shit. He began to get very worried.

"Colonel Dallas on screen, General," Horshell told him.

He switched the view and found himself looking into the terrified eyes of the artillery commander. "Steve," he said. "What the hell is going on out there?"

"We're under attack, General!" Dallas said. "Hundreds of Martian tanks came out of nowhere and start blasting us to shit! They killed all the escort tanks and now they're chasing down all the guns and slaughtering them."

"Hundreds of tanks?" Dickenson asked. "How is that possible? Where in the hell did they come from?"

"I have no fucking idea, sir!" he said. "But they're sure as shit here! You need to get me some tanks out here right now!"

"They'll be on the way in a few minutes," Dickenson said. "Try to save as many of your guns as you can."

Dallas didn't answer. He simply signed off. At that moment Colonel Fowler — commander of the 27^th and the 29^th armored divisions (the two battered units had been combined after the bloody first phase) entered the room. "You called, General?"

"I need you to break free two regiments of tanks from the advance and turn them around. They need to get back to the refuel point at best possible speed."

"Sir?" he asked. "Why would I do that?"

"Martian tanks have somehow gotten into our rear," he said. "We don't have exact numbers but there could be as many as six hundred of them. They're slaughtering the mobile guns as we speak."

"What?" Fowler said. "Martian tanks in our rear? That's impossible! They would have had to have gone through our lines in order to get there!"

Dickenson flipped his screen back to the telemetry view. "Look at this, Fowler," he said, pointing to the conspicuous absence of more than one hundred and fifty of the blue dots that should have been there. "Does that look like a figment of my imagination? Now get that goddamn regiment turned around right now!"

"Yes, sir," Fowler said, paling.

"How long until they can get back there?"

"At least twenty minutes, sir."

Dickenson shook his head. "I don't think that's enough time," he said. "Not at the rate those blue dots are disappearing. Get on it though. We need to engage those tanks and wipe them out."

"Yes, sir," Fowler said, grabbing the nearest computer screen and going to work.

The mobile guns continued to scatter about in a panic, some zigzagging about, some trying to straight out run for it, some going in circles, a few trying to head for the foothills. It made no difference. They were much slower than the tanks pursuing them, much less maneuverable, and completely defenseless. They were chased down one by one, in groups, and they were dispatched with shots from the laser cannons. Soon some of the crews began to realize the hopelessness of their situation and brought their machines to a halt. They then jumped out through their hatches, got as far away as they possibly could, and held up their hands in surrender. Most thought the Martians would simply shoot them down but this only happened once, when a crew jumped out with M-24s in their hands. A single shot from an eighty-millimeter main gun mowed them down.

The tanks continued to blast away at the unoccupied guns and to chase down the few remaining ones that were still moving. It was when there was less than twenty of them left that the message came across the net.

APPROX ONE THOUSAND (1000) MBT'S HAVE BROKEN LOOSE FROM MAIN WESTHEM ADVANCE AND ARE HEADING AT HIGH SPEED IN YOUR DIRECTION. ETA APPROX 15 MINUTES.

"That's not good," Zen said when he read the message.

"What's not good?" Xenia asked as she sighted in on one of the immobile guns and blasted it.

"A thousand WestHem tanks just broke loose from the main column and are heading back this way. ETA fifteen minutes."

"Jeez," Belinda said. "You blow up a few of their arty guns and they get all pissed off at us."

"Yes, they do have quite the temper," Xenia agreed. She was tingling with an excitement that was almost sexual in nature.

"So what now?" Belinda asked. "It doesn't sound like we really want to hang out here, does it?"

"No, you wouldn't think so," Zen said. "Let me check with command."

He did and he was told to stand by. He stood by for another three minutes, during which time Belinda managed to chase down another straggler and Xenia managed to kill it.

"Okay, new orders coming in," Zen said. "We're to disengage from the mobile guns immediately and head west at full throttle."

"We're going after the secondary target?" Xenia asked.

"Fuckin' aye," Zen said with a grin.

In less than five minutes the entire group of tanks turned around and formed up into a loose line stretching across more than two kilometers of the valley. They rumbled to the west, moving once again at more than ninety kilometers per hour.