Greenies

Chapter 5

Don Mitchell, son-in-law of Director Clinton, had of course been given the honor of leading the takedown team that would take Laura Whiting into custody. He and his team gathered at the main FLEB office at 0700 that Thursday morning. There were forty of them, including himself, and he divided them up into teams of ten, each of which was assigned a leader. He then briefed them on their mission, an act that did not carry the dramatic punch he had hoped for since every last one of the men had already heard through the grapevine what they were going to be doing that day. Still, those that weren't in the official loop pretended to be surprised when they heard the news so some of it was saved.

He distributed diagrams of the Martian capital building to each of the team leaders, assigning them positions to take up when the time came. "Team B," he said. "You will be guarding the rear of the building in case she tries to flee. Team C, you'll be covering the front. Team D, you will split into two elements and cover the side entrances of the building in case she tries to come out that way. Team A, which I will be personally leading, will enter the building itself for the takedown. You outside teams, in addition to sealing the building from her premature exit, you will also be keeping the streets clear of greenies. I don't expect any resistance from the MPG troops that guard Whiting since we have a federal warrant, but I would expect resistance from any greenies that happen to see us leading her away. So keep a sharp eye out for that."

"How sure are you that the MPG troops won't resist?" one of the men asked at that point.

"The MPG are technically part of the WestHem armed services," Mitchell responded. "They won't be happy that we've come for her, but I seriously doubt that they would disregard a federal warrant for her arrest. If any of them does resist in any way, he or she is to be immediately placed under arrest for obstructing a federal officer."

Everyone seemed satisfied with this and the subject was dropped. The briefing went on for another twenty minutes and then the men were dismissed to go suit up. They retired to the locker room and donned their raid gear. Heavy Kevlar armor vests were put over their torsos and black helmets with FLEB stenciled in white were put upon their heads. They strapped on their weapons belts, which contained their 4mm pistols as well as extra rifle ammunition and handcuffs. Steel-toed combat boots were put on their feet. The picture was completed by the addition of M-24 assault rifles loaded with sixty round magazines. Because it had never been thought necessary in the environment within which they operated, they had no combat goggles. Aiming would have to be by the old-fashioned method if a battle occurred and tactical displays and mapping software would have to be looked at on their PCs.

Once suited up they walked out to the building's parking area and boarded four of the black panel vans. The vans all had multiple dents and scratches from rocks and bottles thrown by angry Martians over the past several months. There were places where the paint had been scraped off and reapplied to cover anti-fed and anti-Earthling graffiti. And of course, since the incident of the Molotov cocktail a few weeks before, all of them now had metal bars across the windshields to keep a repeat of that incident from happening.

With Mitchell and his team in the lead van, they pulled out of the parking area and onto the busy street that was teeming with Martians on their way to work. They turned right and started heading for the capital building thirty blocks away. The Martians, as always, were deliberately slow getting out of their way and many of them raised their middle fingers or grabbed their crotches in contempt. Spit flew whenever the van passed close enough for someone to hit it and several times there were thumps as cans or bottles slammed into the sides.

Most of the people on the street had no idea where the federal vans were going or what they were doing. But a few people did and they were on their PCs to other people before the vans were even out of sight of the office.

General Jackson was waiting in Laura's office with her when his PC buzzed, indicating a high priority message. He unclipped it from his belt and flipped the screen up, seeing the face of Major Sprinkle, head of intelligence. "Talk to me, Tim," he said.

"Four vans just left the FLEB office five minutes ago," he said. "They're heading your way. We didn't get a good look but it's probably safe to assume that they're coming in platoon strength."

"Any chance that they're just heading out for their normal raids?" Jackson asked.

"There's always that chance," Sprinkle replied. "But they don't typically head out to normal raids with that many troops. Even the biggest takedowns they do usually only require half that much. Also, this deployment fits with the information we received yesterday. My guess is that this is it."

"That's my guess as well," Jackson said, feeling his heartbeat pick up a few notches. "Keep your assets in place until we know for sure. If it is them, things are gonna get real busy in a hurry on this planet. If it's not, we'll just have to wait some more."

"Right," he said. "Continuing to observe. Keep me updated."

"You'll be one of the first to know," Jackson promised. He signed off and put his PC on the desk.

"They're on their way?" asked Laura, who was looking a little haggard this morning due to the fact that she was living on less than an hour's worth of sleep.

"It looks like it," he told her, picking up a combat computer and fitting the microphone and earpiece into place. "And we're ready for them. They won't get anywhere near you."

She nodded, chewing her lip a little nervously. She had always known that Martian resentment towards their corporate masters was something that would not need much fuel to whip into a frenzy. That frenzy had been achieved. But now, in order for them to support an open revolt against those masters, they needed a single, outrageous act to rally behind. The various massacres and mass arrests that had been taking place all over the planet were outrageous of course but, strangely enough, they could not provide quite enough impetus to compel them to act. Something else was needed, something that would unite everyone behind the cause and the corporate Earthlings, in their glorious predictability, were now providing that something. They were attempting to forcibly remove her from office with trumped-up charges, charges that most of the Martian people, with their cultural intelligence and common sense, would recognize for what they were. The moment was now at hand. Everything, her entire career, her entire life, had all come down to this day. It was time for the most dangerous game to begin.

Jackson realized what the stakes were as well. The plan for the next twenty-four hours was something he had come up with years before in its base form and had been modified and re-modified dozens of times since. It was now time to see if it was going to work. He instructed the combat computer to patch him in with Lieutenant Warren Whiting's security detail. The computer complied, taking less than a second to do so.

"Warren here, General," he said, his voice calm and professional.

"It looks like they're on their way, Mike," Jackson told him. "Intelligence reports four vans moving in, probable platoon strength. More than likely they will not all come inside."

"Both the inside and the outside teams are in place and ready," Warren said. "We should be able to handle them easily."

"Remember," Jackson warned, "get a look at the warrant and the indictment before you do anything. If they don't have it with them, don't let them in."

"Understood," he said.

Laura listened to all this with interest, part of her knowing the her security platoon was one of the best in the business, but part of her worrying that the FLEB agents might get in anyway. "How many men do we have around the building?" She asked Jackson once he signed off the transmission.

"One hundred and twenty," he told her. "Warren and his regular platoon are covering the lobby and they'll take the agents that come inside. We also have two platoons of the regular infantry that we quietly called up last night along with the special forces guys. They were briefed in on what was happening early this morning and they've been placed under Warren's command for the duration of this operation. They're hidden in the adjacent planetary office buildings. They'll take the FLEB guys that deploy to guard the exits."

"Did any of them have a problem with their orders?" she wanted to know.

"Not a single one," he said. "In fact, they all seemed rather enthusiastic about them. You're in good hands. This is what I've been training these guys for all these years." He turned Laura's computer terminal towards him. "May I?" he asked her.

"By all means," she said.

"Computer," he said to it, "get me building operations."

"Building operations coming on line," it said.

The screen cleared and a moment later a scruffy, unshaven face appeared. A look of annoyance at being interrupted was upon this face until he got a good look at the person calling. "General Jackson," he said, surprised. "What can I do for you?"

"You can shut down the blast doors on all floors except the lobby level," Jackson told him. "Do it immediately and shut down the elevators as well. Let anyone who is on them get off at the next floor — as long as that floor is not the lobby — and then don't let them go anywhere else."

The maintenance supervisor looked a little taken aback with this request. That was understandable since it was a very unusual one. "Sir?" he asked. "Are you sure that you..."

"I'm positive," Jackson cut in. "Do it now. I want all the workers in this building to stay right where they are. No one is to leave their floors or their immediate area until further notice."

He swallowed a little, trying to process this information. "May I ask why, sir?" he finally blurted. A legitimate question.

"A security threat against the governor," Jackson told him. "There may be some action down in the lobby and I don't want any bystanders blundering into it. I don't have time to explain any further. Now get it done, man before its too late."

"Right away, General," he said, signing off.

Less than a minute later the blast door warning alarm sounded from out in the hallway and the solid steel doors, which were spaced every twenty meters on every floor and were designed to hold in air pressure and everything else, came clanging down. The 6400 planetary government employees, including the legislature and the lieutenant governor, were now trapped in their offices.

The four black FLEB vans pulled up in front of the main entrance to the capital building three minutes later, parking in a neat line. Their doors slid open and the armed agents jumped out, their weapons in their hands. Quickly they spread out. One of the teams took up position directly across the street, pushing their way through the throng of curious Martians that had stopped along their way to see what was going on. Three of the pedestrians were shoved with gun butts before the rest decided that this was not a particularly healthy place to be at the moment. They moved off down the street, most shouting angry and profane words at the FLEB agents as they went. Two of the other teams moved off in different directions. One began trotting around the block to take up position in the rear, the other split up and headed for the side entrances. All forty of them were in contact with tactical radio sets.

"Remember," said Mitchell to everyone on the radio frequency, "she gets taken alive and unharmed at all costs."

No one answered him but all heard him.

Once everyone was deployed that left only Mitchell and his nine team members standing before the entrance to the building. They pulled together into a tight bunch and, following behind their leader, headed for the doorway.

The main entrance to the capital building featured two heavy duty sliding doors that were capable of withstanding a direct hit from a heavy machinegun bullet or a close explosion of significant magnitude. An MPG guard dressed in full armor and with an M-24 slung over his shoulder was manning the security booth right between the two doors. He was protected by a layer of the same glass from both the lobby side and the street side and was able to talk to people only through a series of tiny holes in this glass at face level.

Mitchell walked towards him. He noted that the guard was a lieutenant — a rather higher rank than you would expect to see manning the booth — but he dismissed this as an irrelevancy, figuring that the MPG guard detail was probably short staffed. After all, what kind of moron would want to guard that greenie bitch in the first place? He also noted that he was dressed in full battle gear, something that he never recalled seeing in his past visits to this place. Usually they were dressed in shorts and a T-shirt with nothing more than a sidearm strapped to their sides. Was there any meaning to this? He thought about it for about a tenth of a second and finally concluded that there wasn't. The greenie — whose name stencil on his armor identified him as WARREN — probably didn't get to wear his armor very often and was taking his stint on booth duty as an excuse to do so.

Warren looked at him expressionlessly as Mitchell stopped in front of the voice holes. "Can I help you?" he asked politely, as if he were a normal citizen asking about tours of the building or an appointment with a legislature representative and not a fully armed FLEB agent holding an assault rifle and leading a team of nine others.

This, at the very least, should have put Mitchell on edge. It didn't. "FLEB," he said simply, with a certain amount of arrogance in his voice. He flipped open a leather case that displayed his federal credentials. "We need immediate access to Governor Whiting's office."

"Oh?" said Warren, raising his eyebrows a tad, only glancing at the shiny badge being shown to him. "I'm afraid that's not possible at the moment."

"Make it possible," Mitchell told him, removing the indictment and the arrest warrant. They were printed in large script on the finest hemp paper available. "I have a federal indictment and an arrest warrant ordering me to take her into custody."

"An indictment and an arrest warrant huh?" Warren asked, still with no hint of surprise or alarm in his voice. "This sounds rather serious. May I take a look at them?"

Mitchell considered threatening him with obstruction for a moment but finally decided it would be easier to just do as he was asked. Besides, that way the greenie would get to see the official proof of the downfall of his governor. Maybe that would put the expression of fear that he craved upon his face. He slid them through the small slot at the bottom of the glass.

Lieutenant Warren picked them up and looked at them, reading through each document carefully, word for word. Neither Mitchell nor any of his men saw him keying the transmission button on his radio pack three times, sending out a pre-arranged, encrypted signal to the other members of the platoon and General Jackson upstairs. It took him more than two minutes to get through everything. Once he was finished he looked up, his expression still carefully polite and neutral. "Well Agent uh..."

"Mitchell," he provided, more than a little testily.

"Agent Mitchell. Things do seem to be in order here. This is an official indictment and an official arrest warrant for Governor Whiting."

"I'm glad you agree," he said. "Now are you going to buzz us into the building or are we going to have to force our way in?"

"No need for threats," Warren told him. He placed his hands upon a panel on his computer screen and the glass doors slid open. "Come on in. I'll call for the elevator for you."

Mitchell had the vague thought that things were going just a little too easily. It was a thought that he should have listened to. Instead, excited at the thought of getting this over quickly, he dismissed it. He took a quick glance behind him, seeing that the media vans from the big three, responding to the tip that had been given to them less than an hour ago, were pulling up and positioning themselves across the street. That was good. Soon they would film him leading that troublemaking bitch out in handcuffs. He waved his men forward and into the lobby of the capital building, moving past Warren's security booth and onto the simple Martian red carpet that covered the lobby floor.

The lobby was a huge area, stretching from one end of the building to the other. It was decorated as one might expect a seat of government's lobby to be. Ornate sculptures were located in many places along the walls. Decorative planters and even a working wishing well with benches around it were in the center. It was actually quite a nice place and one that workers in the building and tourists enjoyed lounging about in to eat their lunch or rest their feet. At the moment however, the entire area was completely deserted except for Lieutenant Warren. Or at least that was how it seemed to the FLEB agents as they trooped inside.

Mitchell had never been a soldier before and he wasn't even really a cop with a cop's instincts. He noted the lack of people in the lobby and it did strike him as a bit odd for the beginning of a workday but this failed to trigger any danger signals within him. He never considered for a moment that all of the planters and sculptures, all of the benches and information booths, were ideal places to hide security troops that did not wish to be seen.

The glass doors slid shut behind them, latching with a clank of steel mechanisms coming together.

Mitchell turned to Warren. "Keep those doors open," he told him. He wanted his men outside to be able to enter the building in a hurry if it became necessary. He didn't know that it was already necessary.

"I'm afraid not, Agent Mitchell," Warren said, smiling now. "You are now sealed into the lobby. Your men outside will be shortly taken into custody. You and all of your men will put your rifles down on the floor and then throw your sidearms down there with them."

"What?" Mitchell said, his face scrunching into an expression of annoyance. "Listen to me, greenie. I don't know what you think you're trying to pull here, but I'll advise you that attempting to interfere with a federal arrest is a crime punishable..."

"I'm not attempting to interfere," Warren told him. "I have interfered. You will not be taking Governor Whiting anywhere. You are surrounded on all sides by my security forces, all of whom are veterans of the special forces division. You will put your weapons on the ground and prepare to be taken into custody or you will be fired upon."

Mitchell took a moment to digest these words and then keyed up his radio. "All teams," he said into his microphone. "We need some assistance in here! We're getting resistance from..."

"Your radios are being jammed," Warren said matter-of-factly. "We have dampers set up all around the edges of the lobby and set to your frequency."

Mitchell wanted to disbelieve his words but the lack of response on the channel kept him from doing so. He looked around, seeing the stunned, nervous faces of his men. He didn't know what to do. He had never been faced with a situation such as this before. He was a federal agent! People feared him. They didn't attempt to take him hostage. The very idea was absurd!

"There is no need for this to come to violence," Warren told him. "Drop your weapons and surrender. You will be held here in the capital for the duration of this little crisis and you will be treated well. If you don't, however, my men will be forced to take you down by force. Go the easy way, Mitchell. Let's keep this thing civilized."

It might have ended peacefully. Mitchell was just about to order his men to do as they were told, knowing that the guard would probably not be bluffing about what he was saying. After all, he had looked into Whiting's security force himself when he'd been examining the possibilities of arranging an assassination. But special agent Brackford, the youngest member of the team, had other thoughts on the matter. At only twenty-eight years of age and an appointee to the FLEB by virtue of family connections instead of ability, Brackford was known for his short temper and impulsive actions. These were traits which had earned him reprimands in the past and that would now cost him much more than a black mark on his file. Outraged that the greenies would actually threaten federal agents carrying out their duties, he took matters into his own hands.

"Fuck you, greenie!" he yelled arrogantly. Before Mitchell could stop him he raised his M-24 and pointed it at the guard booth. It is doubtful that the shots would have penetrated the glass, but they never got a chance to find out.

Flashes appeared from four different directions followed by the harsh popping of M-24s. Brackford's head rocked back and forth as two of the rounds slammed into his helmet, drilling through into his skull. The other two slammed into his chest, penetrating with ease through the Kevlar of his armor vest. He dropped to the carpeted lobby without even firing a shot.

The reaction from the rest of the agents was ill advised but instinctive. They raised their weapons and turned towards the flashes they'd seen, opening fire. From all around the lobby, from behind plants, behind staircases, behind counters, gunfire and bright flashes erupted. Bullets streaked across the lobby in both directions, the ones fired from FLEB guns striking the walls and the windows and the solid objects that the MPG troops were using as cover, the ones fired by the security force finding chests and heads and legs. Agents screamed and thumped to the ground as the supersonic rounds ripped into them. Warren had planned his takedown well. There was nowhere for the agents to find cover, nowhere for them to run. Mitchell himself managed to trigger off a single burst towards the staircase before he felt his chest peppered with hammer blows and his feet were suddenly refusing to hold him up. He dropped to the ground, blood now running from his mouth, his eyes looking at the carpet against his face, his mind wondering just what the hell had happened.

"Goddamn it!" Warren yelled, opening his booth door and stepping out into the lobby. His orders had been to take the FLEB agents without gunfire if possible. The young hotheaded agent had made this impossible. Now all ten of them were laid out on the carpet, only two of them showing any signs of life whatsoever. The Martian red carpet beneath them was soaking up the blood and turning a darker shade.

"Second and third platoon," he said into his radio link as he walked carefully towards the pile of FLEB agents, "we've made contact. Move in and secure the outside forces." Both of the platoon commanders acknowledged his orders. He then asked for a status report on his own men. "Anyone hurt?" he asked the group at large.

None of them answered up, which meant that either all of them were dead or none of them had been hit. Logic favored the latter. "Get down here and secure these idiots," he ordered. "Medics, start sorting through them."

From all around the room his platoon emerged, all of them dressed in battle gear, all of them pointing their weapons at the FLEB agents.

"Get those weapons secured," he ordered. "Move the dead off towards the back of the room, move the living towards the doors so we can get some dip-hoes in here to pick them up."

"Warren," came Jackson's voice over the link. "What the hell's going on down there? Give me a status report!"

"The lobby is secure, General," Warren told him, watching as his men went to work disarming and securing. "They went the hard way. All ten are down and we're sorting through them right now. All of my people are uninjured. The outside forces should be moving in as we speak."

"Copy that, Warren," Jackson responded, a hint of regret in his voice. "I'm sure it was unavoidable."

"It was," he confirmed.

"Mark this moment, son," he said. "Your platoon has just fired the first shots of the revolution. Let's make sure that they weren't in vain, shall we?"

"Yes sir."

The FLEB agents standing by outside heard the gunfire from the lobby of course. More than forty M-24 assault rifles firing on full automatic made a considerable amount of noise. They also heard the silence on the airwaves when they tried to contact their companions. Instinctively the four groups of them rushed to whatever entrance they were guarding to try and lend assistance. In each case the entrance in question was closed and locked, inaccessible to anyone without a cutting torch or some primacord.

The Internet camera crews, who had set up shop across the street, had heard the gunfire as well and had actually transmitted the entire gun battle live on the air as it unfolded with the assistance of digital zoom and infrared enhancement. Perversely enough, the camera crews and the few people on Mars that were actually watching the big three at the moment (less than three percent of the Martian viewers, the computers would later reveal) knew the fate of the FLEB agents inside the building long before their companions.

It was while the FLEB agents were peering through the thick glass, trying to get a look inside to see what the situation was that the two MPG platoons swarmed out of their hiding places, weapons ready for action. Each platoon had split into two elements, which gave twenty soldiers to cover each side of the building. The FLEB agents never even heard them coming until it was far too late.

"MPG! Everyone freeze!" yelled the leaders of each element as they positioned themselves behind what cover they could find.

Most of the agents took one look at what they were facing and complied with the order, knowing that to do otherwise would be futile. A few hotheads of the Brackford variety however, did make the mistake of trying to resist capture. On the south side of the building, against the side entrance, a five-year member of the FLEB made what he thought was a quick spin towards the enemy behind him. He made it less than halfway around before five rifles cracked out three-round bursts of high velocity bullets at him. All fifteen shots hit within a half a second of each other, ripping through every major organ in his chest. He collapsed to the ground, a bloody, twisted mess. On the west side, next to the main entrance, another agent, this one a twelve-year veteran, tried diving down to the ground to make himself a smaller target. This he was able to accomplish but before he could bring his weapon to bear nine bullets smashed into his face, exploding his skull into three separate pieces. On the east side of the building an agent that had once been a corporal in the WestHem army actually managed to turn and get a single shot off. His bullet passed neatly between two MPG members and buried itself in the steel of the building across the street. The unfortunate agent was then plastered by more than sixty rounds as the entire line of infantry troops fired at him.

Any cute ideas that the rest of the agents might have had about resistance or escape disappeared at this point. They threw their weapons to the ground and allowed themselves to be restrained with their own handcuffs. Before their radios were removed however, most of them managed to squeak out pleas for assistance from the main office.

Once disarmed and secured they were marched inside the nearest entrance where they got a good look at what had become of their fellow agents that had gone in to make the arrest. Seething with hatred, rage, and fear, they were led down a stairway and into the building's basement where they would be placed under guard.

With the outside threat taken care of, the two platoons of infantry pulled inside the building, leaving the street to the astonished crowd of reporters and bystanders.

"The capital is secure," Jackson told Whiting once the status reports had all come in. "Most of the FLEB guys out front surrendered without a fight."

"Most of them?" she asked, sipping from a cup of coffee.

"Most of them," he said. "Three were killed trying to resist. We have no reports of civilian casualties. Of the agents that came inside, seven of them are dead, three quite badly wounded. We've asked for some dip-hoes to pick them up out front of the main doors but the police aren't letting them through."

"I see," she said wearily. "Are there police out front right now?"

"You know it," he said. "A lot of the FLEB agents outside were able to call for assistance on their radios. Plus the entire thing was captured on Internet cameras. It would seem that the FLEB tipped the big three to what was going on here. The camera crews arrived at about the same time as the agents themselves."

"Imagine that," she said cynically.

"Yes, big surprise huh? In any case, the FLEB office called the New Pittsburgh Police Department for assistance with a hostage situation. They've deployed most of the downtown patrol units around the building and they have the SWAT teams on the way. I also have reports from intelligence that forty more FLEB agents in full gear have left their main office and are heading this way."

"I see," she said. "So what is our next step?"

"Now the rest of the infantry that we called up last night will secure the entire area. They were staging at the MPG base and I just gave the order to have them move in. They should be here in less than an hour. We need to get those cops out of there before they arrive."

"I'll talk to Chief Sandoza," she said. "Hopefully it won't be a problem. He's a bureaucrat in every sense of the word but he's also a Martian. He's supported the reforms that we've initiated so far."

"Do it quick," Jackson said. "The worst thing that could happen to us right now is for there to be gunfire between the MPG and the police. And it's also time to put out the general call up of forces. We'll need everyone suited up and ready to go as quickly as possible. Those marines at the Eden barracks need to be secured before someone has the bright idea of using them."

"I'll do that right now," she said, putting her coffee down and turning her computer terminal towards her. "Computer," she told it. "Initiate order 74-1." 74-1 was the section of the Martian constitution that allowed the governor to call up all Martian Planetary Guard units to active duty to repel an imminent invasion of the planet. It authorized the planetary government to take over the MarsTrans public transportation system to facilitate the movement of soldiers to the MPG base and ordered all employers, under penalty of treason, to release the MPG members from their regular jobs. It was an order that had never been initiated before, not even as a training exercise.

"Order 74-1 is pending," the computer told her, flashing a text of the call up notice upon her screen. "Voice recognition of Whiting, Laura E, Governor of Planet Mars, is confirmed. Please give the authorization code."

Laura rattled off a nine-digit number that she had long since memorized.

"Authorization code is correct," the computer replied. "Please sign the order."

She placed her right index finger on the screen, signing it.

"The order will be initiated," the computer told her.

Within ten seconds the main MPG database was contacted and the names and PC addresses of every single member were called with a pre-recorded message. At the same time the MarsTrans office was contacted and given some very unpleasant news. They would have to surrender use of their trains for the next twenty-four hours.

"Okay," Jackson said after watching all of this. "Now get those cops out of here. While you're doing that, I'll get the guys up on Triad moving." With that he left the room for the office next door, where he had his own terminal set up now.

"Computer," Laura said, "get me Chief Sandoza of the New Pittsburgh Police Department. Highest priority."

"You have forty-three callers attempting to reach you at the moment," the computer told her. "Would you like me to list them?"

"No," she said, knowing that most of them were people like Corban Hayes or William Smith. "For the time being accept no incoming calls."

"Accepting no incoming calls. Contacting Chief Sandoza."

"Thank you," she said, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes for a moment. Things were moving fast now. Soon they would move even faster.

It took about three minutes before Sandoza came on the line. Laura understood. He probably had a lot on his mind at the moment. His handsome, aristocratic face appeared before her, his eyes stern but confused. "Governor Whiting?" he said. "What the hell is going on over there?"

"Nice to hear from you too, Nick," she said lightly. "I suppose you've caught a small glint of the proceedings here?"

"Governor, to tell you the truth, I simply can't believe what I'm hearing. The FLEB director himself called me up to ask me to mobilize my force and move in on the capital building because your security troops are holding his men and all of the workers inside of the building hostage, including the lieutenant governor and the legislature." He shook his head. "Hostages? Surely there is a mistake going on here. He also said that an indictment has been handed down on you and that you are to be taken into custody. Is this true?"

"It's true, Nick. A federal grand jury in Denver..." — she emphasized the name of that city, knowing that most Martians hated the very sound of it — "... has indicted me on corruption charges. FLEB agents came to the capital to arrest me for extradition to Earth. My security team prevented them from doing that."

"Jesus Christ!" he said, shocked.

"Unfortunately, some of the FLEB agents did not surrender peacefully. Ten of them are dead, three badly wounded. The rest of them are in the basement being held under guard. As for the lieutenant governor and the rest of the workers, they are not hostages but they are being kept in their offices to keep them out of harm's way. They'll be allowed to leave as soon as this situation is under control."

"Laura, what in the hell do you think you're doing over there? You've killed federal agents! You've resisted arrest! You'll be given the death penalty!"

"Nick," she said quietly. "I know exactly what I'm doing. I know that right now your cops are surrounding the capital building at the request of the FLEB, initiating a hostage response. I've known you for a long time and I know that you're a Martian, not an Earthling. I need to ask you something and I want you to answer me honestly. Do you believe that the indictment against me represents real corruption charges or is it simply a result of WestHem trying to remove a troublesome governor from office?"

He stared back at her, though he was actually staring at a screen in his own office twelve blocks away. "Of course they're not real charges, Laura," he said. "Everyone knows that. But it's a federal indictment. The place to fight it is in court, not in the lobby of the capital. The corruption charges are going to be secondary to..."

"Nick," she interrupted. "I don't think you understand where I'm going with this."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not going to be removed from this building. Events are bigger than a simple hostage situation. This is the opening move in a revolution. I need you to pull your cops out of here."

"I can't do that!" he exclaimed. "We're not talking about refusing to cooperate with a questionable raid on Martian citizens here. We're talking about the illegal seizure of a government building in which deaths have occurred. The deaths of federal law enforcement officers! The law..."

"It's WestHem law you're talking about," she interrupted again. "I'm telling you, Nick, I will not be removed from this building. MPG troops are already on the way to secure it and they will follow my orders, at least for the time being. Your cops are all Martians and I don't want them to get hurt. Pull them back. This is not between them and me, it's between the feds and me. Don't let the feds involve your people in this. Your cops are not equipped to deal with army troops and they are not the enemy my people need to be fighting. Pull them back and withdraw your cooperation with the FLEB. You are under planetary control, not federal. I'll take the heat and I'll tell everyone I ordered it."

He stared some more, his brain obviously on overload. Laura knew she had struck several chords with her words, something she had a knack for, something that had brought her as far as she'd come. "What exactly are you planning?" he finally said.

"I can't discuss it right now," she told him. "Like I said, things will be clear in another day and you'll have the opportunity to evaluate my actions along with all of the other Martian citizens. But for now you're just going to have to trust me. Pull back your people. Keep them on the right side of this thing and let them decide for themselves in the next two days. If you keep them in place here, some of them are going to be killed and that's the last thing in the world I want. Pull them back. I know you're recording this conversation and I take full responsibility for this action. If you have red blood flowing in your veins, you'll do as I ask and give no more assistance to the FLEB."

He bit his lip nervously as he stared at her, a simple Martian politician who had just had the most important decision of his life dumped into his lap. But he was not a dumb man by any means. He was a former street cop who had risen through the ranks to achieve the position he now held. He knew Laura Whiting and he knew what she stood for. "They'll be pulled back," he finally said. "And God help you, Laura."

"God help us all." Laura replied with a grateful smile.

Officers John Williams and Zifford Resinman of the New Pittsburgh PD had been on scene less than ten minutes. They were sixty meters from the main entrance of the capital building, covering behind their police cart. Their M-24 rifles were in their hands, pointing at the doors, the selector switches set on full automatic fire. Their helmets were firmly in place and their combat goggles showed only a glare of the dim Martian sunlight reflecting off of the glass and a strained view of an empty lobby beyond it. Their radios crackled out a hundred different orders and inquiries, adding to the general feeling of confusion that was pervading the scene. All around them were other NPPD police officers deployed in a similar matter. The elite SWAT team had just arrived and was taking up position against the walls of the capital building itself. They had primacord and anti-tank lasers with them for breaching the doors if that became necessary. About a hundred yards down the street, well out of the line of sight of the capital, the FLEB troops had arrived and were milling about behind their vans, talking to Lieutenant Bongwater, who was in charge of the police aspects of the operation.

"Zif?" asked John over their private tactical link. "What the hell is going on here? Do you really believe that the governor's security troops fired on FLEB agents?"

"Do you really think that they were trying to arrest the governor?" Zifford asked. "If they were, I'm glad they did. Fuck those federal assholes. You know that whatever the charges are, they're bullshit."

"Yep," John agreed. "It'd be just like those pricks to try and indict her on some bogus charge to get rid of her."

Zifford nodded. "Yeah. And if we're hearing right, those are MPG guys inside there. For God's sake, we're part of the MPG. I don't want to shoot any of my own people." This was true. Both men were members of the MPG New Pittsburgh division. Zifford was a tanker. John was a Hummingbird pilot.

"I know the feeling," John said. "Hell, I probably know some of the guys in there. I transport the special forces out to their staging areas every weekend. That's where all the fucking VIP security guys come from." He shook his head. "It can't end this way. I hope they don't force us to stand here and help them take her away."

"I don't think I could be a part of that," Zifford said. "I really don't."

At that moment their PCs both began to vibrate, indicating incoming calls. They both reached for them, taking care to keep their rifles aimed at the building with one hand as they did so. Around them, a few of the other cops that were deployed were doing the same thing, thus clueing them in to what they were going to see when they answered. Both flipped open their screens and saw that the MPG main headquarters was the calling party.

"They're calling us up," Zifford said slowly, a hint of fear in his voice.

John looked at him and looked around at the others. "Answer," he told his PC.

The face of General Jackson himself appeared before him. "This is General Jackson and this message is for all active members of the Martian Planetary Guard," his image said. "This is a general call up of forces for an imminent threat to the planet. MarsTrans trains are being cleared as we speak. Make your way as quickly as possible to your duty stations and you will be given a briefing and deployment orders at that time. This is not, I repeat, this is not a drill."

"Holy shit," John said.

"Is this because of the feds?" Zifford asked softly. "Is it the feds, or is it an EastHem attack?"

John looked over at the gathering of FLEB officers. They were standing in a large group, their apparent leader apart from them and talking to Bongwater. He seemed upset about something. "I think it's the feds," he said softly. "Coming right now, while they're trying to take Governor Whiting away? What else could it be?"

"Whiting is going to ask us to fight for her," Zifford said. "She's going to ask us to fight against WestHem."

John nodded. "I think you're right."

They contemplated that thought for a moment, both of them letting their attention lapse from the section of the building they were supposed to be watching.

"Will you do it?" Zifford finally asked.

He nodded. "If it means making us free... I'll do it."

"So will I," Zifford said.

All around them similar conversations were going on. The consensus seemed to be the same in every instance.

Lieutenant Glory Bongwater was as confused as the rest of them, though her information was a little bit better. She stood before an Internet screen at the command post, a block away from the main entrance to the capital. Beside her was Special Agent Waxford, the highest-ranking FLEB agent left from the field office besides Corban Hayes himself. Waxford knew exactly what he wanted done but otherwise didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. Bongwater detested him immensely and longed to slam the butt of her pistol across his mouth.

"When can your people rush the building?" he demanded of Bongwater. "I have agents in there, some of them wounded."

"I know that," she said for the fifth time. "We're following our standard hostage situation procedures. We've made contact with General Jackson inside and we'll work to try to end this thing peacefully. We only rush the building when we're given no other option."

"My wounded might die in there while we're waiting!" Waxford yelled. "Don't you understand that?"

"Jackson offered to let the dip-hoes take the wounded away," she reminded him. "It's you who ordered that that not be done, remember?"

"I don't want to give them more hostages!" he said. "You can't let a bunch of dip-hoes go running up to the door to take people away. They'll be shot down!"

"It would be our SWAT team that approached the doorway," Bongwater said. "And I believe they would be safe. Those are MPG troops in there holding that building, not criminals. They wouldn't fire on them."

"They fired on our agents didn't they?" he countered.

Bongwater took a deep breath, fighting to control herself. "Perhaps that is because they figured that your men represented a danger to Governor Whiting," she said. "Perhaps they felt that your warrant and your indictment were fabricated."

"Ridiculous," he spat. "You don't actually believe that, do you?"

She held his gaze. "What I believe doesn't really matter now, does it? My point is that we can safely remove your wounded and get them assistance if you'll allow it. I was once a member of the MPG myself. They won't fire on us for doing that."

"Request denied," he said icily. "You just start formulating a plan to charge that building. I want this situation brought under control within the hour."

"And I want there to be peace in the solar system," Bongwater said. "But we don't usually get what we want now, do we? If your agents want to rush the building, that's fine. Go rushing in. We'll even lend you the primacord and the AT lasers. But as long as my people are involved in this thing, we do it my way. And my way is to negotiate with the people in the building to try to end this peacefully."

"Maybe I should talk to your superior about this," he said in a threatening tone.

Bongwater knew an empty threat when she heard one. "Maybe you should," she returned.

Waxford muttered something under his breath and then stormed away, back to the crowd of agents that were standing around in their armor, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

"Goddamn FLEB fucks," Bongwater said to herself.

She looked down at her command computer, which had been set up on the hood of her cart. It showed a schematic of the building and the location of all the friendly forces. There were more than eighty police officers, not including the SWAT team, now deployed around the building. That was still somewhat less than the 120 to 150 MPG troops that were rumored to be inside the capital. And the MPG were better trained and better equipped as well. No, even if she did feel that a crime of some type had been committed, something that she had serious doubts about, she never would have ordered her forces to go head to head with those kind of numbers.

"Priority communication from Deputy Chief Winston," her terminal suddenly spoke up. "Would you like to answer?"

"On screen," she told it.

The screen flashed briefly over to the communications software main screen and then was just as quickly replaced by the middle-aged face of Winston, a twenty-two year veteran and, until the Laura Whiting reforms had taken place, one of the brownest nosed people that the department employed. "Bongwater," he said. "Are you with any FLEB people right now?"

"No," she told her. "My friend Waxford has gone off to stew somewhere. What's up? Any news?"

"Big news," Winston told her. "Direct from Chief Sandoza himself."

He began to speak, giving a series of orders. Bongwater smiled in satisfaction as she heard them. "I'm happy to comply," she said. "Thanks, chief."

"My pleasure," Winston said and signed off.

Duran looked over to the crowd of FLEB agents and got Waxford's attention. He came trotting over.

"What is it?" he asked, seeing the smile on her face and assuming it was good news for his team. "Did Jackson decide to give up?"

"No, even better news than that," she said. "We're pulling out. You're now on your own."

He looked at her, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I've just received orders to cease cooperation with the FLEB. I'm pulling my cops out of here and breaking down the perimeter."

"You can't do that!" he yelled loud enough for everyone within thirty meters to hear.

"I can and I will," she said. "Direct orders from Chief Sandoza. Pull back and resume routine duties. Do not interfere with operations at the capital and do not respond to any calls for assistance from FLEB personnel. You're gonna have to take this building by yourself."

Veins began to poke out on Waxford's head as he heard this. "What kind of shit is..."

"It's the kind of shit that's a direct order from the Chief," Bongwater told him calmly. "And it's an order I'm happy to obey. Have fun fighting your way in, Waxford."

"I have federal authority," he told her. "I demand you follow my orders! If you don't, you'll stand trial in federal court for..."

"You have no authority over me or my people," she said. "This is a federal matter and we're local law enforcement. Cooperation with the feds is simply a courtesy and it's just been revoked." She turned to her Internet terminal. "Command channel."

"Command channel activated." The computer replied.

"This is Lieutenant Bongwater," she said. "All New Pittsburgh Police Department personnel on the capital building perimeter will immediately demobilize on orders from Chief Sandoza. Return to previous patrol assignments. SWAT personnel return to training stations. No further assistance will be given to federal personnel including calls for assistance in the future. All members of the force that are MPG members are hereby released from duty to respond to their military assignments. I repeat, all New Pittsburgh Police Department personnel...

In the governor's office Jackson turned to Laura. "All NPPD personnel have pulled back and returned to their routine duties. All we have out front now in terms of opposition are about forty FLEB people, damn near the entire compliment for New Pittsburgh"

Laura sighed in relief. "Thank you Chief Sandoza," she proclaimed. "That certainly makes this next step a little easier, doesn't it?"

"Indeed," he replied, raising his pocket computer to his face. "Get me Major Dealerman."

The 2^nd Battalion of the 8^th armored infantry regiment had been called up as part of the initial preliminary forces the day before. Major Dealerman had been initially very confused by the "special training" order that had brought him and the 836 troops under his command to the base in the middle of a weekday, both because he knew that special training of that sort was unheard of and because only his battalion had been requested. Upon arrival at the base however, he had been briefed in by General Jackson himself over a secure Internet line and told the real reason for the call-up.

"The feds have a warrant for Governor Whiting's arrest," he'd been told. "They're going to try to take her into custody tomorrow morning."

Dealerman had of course been shocked by this news and more than a little outraged as well, but he'd still had no idea what that had to do with he and his battalion. He'd said as much and Jackson had then laid the biggest shock of his life upon him.

"We're going to fight them," Jackson said. "The security force at the capital building is going to capture the agents that arrive to arrest her. They're capable of securing the building itself and preventing her arrest, but we're going to need additional troops to secure the outside and the surrounding blocks."

"You're ordering me to do this?" he'd asked, just for clarity. "To engage WestHem federal officers?"

"I'm asking you to do this," Jackson had corrected. "The MPG is a volunteer outfit. If you don't want to do it, we'll find someone else. The same applies to your men. If you accept this assignment, I expect you to brief your command in advance and give all of them the opportunity to decline."

"I understand," he'd said.

"Then you'll do it?"

"I'll do it," he'd said without hesitation. "Tell me the plan."

The plan had started the night before with the briefing by Dealerman. He had been honest with his men about the ramifications of their actions and, unsurprisingly, not a single member of the 1^st of the 6^th had elected to forgo participation. They were ready to do or die for Mars.

Charlie company had been separated out the night before for a couple of different tasks that had to do with the capital itself. Two of the platoons had been moved to the capital in the early morning hours and placed under Warren's command. It was they that had hidden in adjoining buildings and taken the outside FLEB agents. The other half of this company was performing its mission now. Since 0700 the eighty men that consisted of third and fourth platoon had been mounted in their APCs awaiting their movement orders. These orders had come and the movement was now under way.

The column of eight APCs clunked noisily through the streets of Eden, working their way towards downtown, their treads riding over a surface that they were never meant to be upon. Pedestrians, many of whom had no idea what was going on, scrambled to make way for the monstrous machines as they passed, staring in confused awe at the heavy weapons and the helmeted, goggled heads of the commanders. The ground rumbled beneath and long after the armor had passed the vibration and noise could still be heard and felt.

Lieutenant Presley, a ten-year member of the MPG infantry, was sitting in the commander's seat in the third APC from the front, far enough forward that he could see what was going on, but far enough back so he wouldn't be easily identified and taken out by the opposition. Not that the opposition in this case had much of a chance at that. He kept his hand resting upon the butt of the 4mm machine gun mounted just outside of his port and his eyes upon the tactical display that showing through his combat goggles.

"Presley," a voice said in his earpiece, which was tuned to the command channel. "Dealerman here. Do you copy?"

"Go ahead, Major," Presley replied.

"I just got word from Jackson," Dealerman told him. "The New Pittsburgh Police Department have pulled back. Opposition is now only about forty feds equipped with light weapons. Move in and secure a perimeter for two blocks around the capital building, including the two tram stations. Hold until relieved or ordered to withdraw. Weapons free but a little tight. Don't smoke them unless they ask for it."

"Yes sir," Presley told him without hesitation. He was a building maintenance technician in his civilian life and had spent his entire working career being looked down upon by rich corporate Earthlings in the Kendall-Brackely building. He was ready and willing to take the planet away from such people and proud to be involved in the first conflict. He switched to the tactical channel he used to command his men. "All right, guys," he told them. "NPPD has pulled back. All we have opposing us at the objective are about forty feds with light weapons. We're going to secure a radius of two blocks centered on the capital. Fourth platoon, break off at 23^rd street and maneuver around to the south side. Come back down to 5^th at 18^th street. We'll hold back over here and then box them in when you're in position. ROE is weapons free but a little tight."

"Copy that," said Lieutenant Carmichael, commander of that platoon. "Let's go kick some fed ass."

The FLEB agents had redeployed their vans to the corners of the building and were using it as cover to watch the building from. Others were crouched behind the decorative planters that lined the middle of the street, their faces scared, their weapons trembling in their hands. Waxford, hiding behind the furthest van from the front of the building, was on the communications channel talking to a shocked and horrified Corban Hayes back at the main FLEB building. He had just given a report on the unbelievable events and they were still trying to figure out what there next move should be.

"We only have twenty more sworn agents in New Pittsburgh," Hayes told him. "That's not even enough to provide security for our own building, let alone take the capital building and free our captured men."

"How about the other cities?" Waxford asked. "We almost a hundred agents up on Triad. How soon can you get them on a surface to orbit and get them down here?"

"Not for at least three hours," Hayes replied. "I'll get them started though and I'll have fifty from Eden and Proctor get on one of the inter-city trains."

"Jesus, what a fuck-up," Waxford almost cried. "I knew we should have sent more agents for this arrest."

"They'll regret this sorely," Hayes assured him. "Have your men hold the perimeter until reinforcements arrive. Shoot anyone who tries to come out of that building. I'll try to call that prick Sandoza back and threaten him with some more federal statutes. Maybe I can get him to send those greenie cops back to help end this thing. If we shut off power and utilities to that building we can flush them out in a matter of hours."

"What about the MPG call up?" he asked. "What's the deal with that?"

"We've been hearing that over here as well," Hayes said. "I don't know what that's all about or if it's related. I've got Benson over at the Eden office looking into that one. It's probably just some sort of false alarm or a training mission."

At that moment the clanking of treads reached Waxford's ears for the first time. It swelled up from the north and the south simultaneously and grew louder by the second. The agents in their position all began to look around, searching out the source.

"Waxford," Hayes said, noticing that his underling seemed suddenly preoccupied. "What's going on? Are they trying to break out?"

"We have armored vehicles moving our way," he said softly, feeling fear gripping him.

"What?"

"A lot of them," he said. "Coming from both directions."

"Armored vehicles?" Hayes demanded. "What kind of armored vehicles? Tanks, APCs, what? Those things can't move inside of the city!""

"You might want to tell them that," Waxford said as the first of them came into view from around the corner three blocks away. Three others followed it. From the other direction, behind him, four more appeared. He recognized them as WestHem ET-40 armored personnel carriers. They were painted in the shades of red camouflage scheme and the Martian flag flew proudly from the communications antennas of each one. They spread out of their formation almost as soon as they became visible and took up positions on adjacent corners, hiding the bulk of their bodies behind the corner of buildings, their sixty-millimeter guns as well as their twenty millimeters pointing directly at the FLEB positions.

"Waxford!" Hayes yelled. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't think that the MPG call-up was a coincidence," Waxford said softly.

As the terrified FLEB agents watched in horror, the ramps of the APCs swung open and out climbed heavily armed troops who immediately fanned out and took up firing positions, each squad of ten equipped with a light machine gun, three grenade launchers, and ten rifles. Weapons were trained upon them and they felt themselves start to sweat, could almost feel the targeting recticles from the MPG combat computers resting upon their foreheads.

Waxford, as leader of the FLEB agents, was perhaps the most horrified. He did not know what to do. In all of his training and experience he'd never been faced with a problem like this before. He'd never even conceived of such a thing. He was a federal officer! People were supposed to fear and respect him! There weren't supposed to surround him with armored vehicles and automatic weapons!

His Internet screen lit up before him, showing him the face of a greenie in combat goggles and a helmet. "Agent Waxford," the greenie addressed him politely. "I am Lieutenant Presley of the Martian Planetary Guard. Can you hear me?"

Waxford stared at the screen, wondering how the greenies had gotten access to his terminal. The communications frequency that they were using was supposed to be secure. It occurred to him for the first time that maybe they had been underestimating the greenies a little bit. "Yes," he finally replied.

"You are surrounded by two platoons of MPG troops with light and heavy weapons. You do not have a chance of defeating them. You will order your men to disable all of their weapons and then walk to the center of the street and drop them in a pile. They will then lie down and await being taken into custody. This is your first and final offer. If you do not do as I say in the next sixty seconds, our troops will open fire upon you and move in. I will reiterate the fact that you do not have a chance of defeating them. Do you understand me, Agent Waxford?"

He licked his lips nervously, his body trembling with adrenaline as he surveyed the massive firepower that was arrayed against him and his men.

"Agent Waxford," Presley said firmly. "Do you understand my conditions?"

"I do," Waxford said, near tears. "We will do as you ask."

"You have fifty seconds."

Waxford issued the order. "All FLEB agents. We have been betrayed and we are in the face of overwhelming opposition. Disable your weapons immediately and take them to the middle of the street. Drop them there and then lie down. Do this now or we will be fired upon. We will be taken into custody by the greenies. God help us all but there will be a reckoning for them and there will be justice."

One by one the agents did as they were told. Waxford waited until all of them were prone on the street and then he too disabled his weapons and joined them. He was crying with humiliation and rage as he lay on his stomach.

Since very few Martians were actually watching the big three channels, most of them missed the live shots of the capture of the first elements. But word and rumor traveled fast and within twenty minutes of the first shots being fired nearly everyone on the planet had tuned in and was watching the subsequent events unfold live and in surround sound. MarsGroup quickly sent its own reporters to the scene and by the time that the New Pittsburgh Police Department members pulled out of the perimeter the Martians were able to switch to those channels and therefore not have to listen to the syrupy commentary about the poor FLEB agents and the evil acts that had been committed by the rogue governor.

For the most part the emotion the Martians displayed was one of shock and anger at what was going on. They were shocked that the feds and the WestHem corporations would attempt such a blatantly obvious scheme to rid themselves of Whiting and angry that they thought they would be allowed to get away with it quietly. Most Martians cheered when the final confrontation took place between the newly activated MPG units and the handful of feds that had been left to guard the building on their own. Once the feds were led away in handcuffs, hustled inside the buildings to join their companions, the big three reporters began focusing on how the "hostage crisis" (as they called it) was going to be resolved. Some suggested that the marines from the Eden barracks would be activated and used to liberate the building, others suggested a mass gathering of the remaining federal agents on the planet. None of them entertained the thought that Laura Whiting would not be eventually taken into custody for her crimes. The very idea was inconceivable to them. The big three completely ignored the activation of the MPG and only mentioned the take-over of the public transportation system as an aside. On the MarsGroup channels however, speculation immediately turned to the obvious connection of the general call up of MPG forces.

"There has never been a general call up in the entire history of the MPG," one MarsGroup commentator pointed out soberly. "This is only supposed to happen when there is an imminent threat to the security of the planet, such as an EastHem invasion. Now since we see no signs of an EastHem invasion and there have been no reports of such a thing occurring, I'm forced to conclude that the deployment is in response to the attempted forcible removal of Governor Whiting from the capital building. As to just what Governor Whiting and General Jackson are going to utilize these troops for, well, only time will tell."

Neither she nor any other MarsGroup reporter bothered speculating as to what the future mission of the MPG might be. As a general rule the MarsGroup stations did not present unconfirmed speculations as news even though the big three had no moral problems doing so.

One thing that nobody needed to speculate about was the fact that the call-up was quickly in high gear. In every city on the planet the part-time soldiers of the MPG left their jobs and made their way to the nearest public transportation station where they found MarsTrans trains waiting for them, each one full of other MPG members on their way to their bases. Most of those summoned were following the news closely on their PCs and strongly suspected that the reason for their activation had nothing to do with EastHem and everything to do with WestHem. They went anyway, many of them excited at the thought of defending their governor from being kidnapped and whisked away, anxious to fight for Mars and all it stood for.

Corban Hayes was frantic as he watched the live feed on his Internet terminal and listened to reports coming over his communications terminal. He still could not believe that the MPG had actually interfered in the arrest of Whiting and that they had captured the majority of his agents. And now the entire compliment of MPG members was being called to active duty. They were even now making their way to their bases all across the planet for God knew what purpose. What in the hell was Jackson going to do with them? He wasn't actually going to try something so mad as to take control of the planet, was he? To do so would be beyond asinine.

Whatever they were going to be doing, it was his job to get things back under control. He was the ranking federal officer on the planet and since communications with superiors back on Earth took more than three hours to accomplish, he was the man on the spot. His first step was to call Greg Jones, CEO of MarsTrans, to see if could slow down the deployment of troops.

"I can't," Jones told him, his face pale and scared.

"What the hell do you mean you can't?" Hayes nearly yelled at him. "Those commuter trains are yours aren't they? Shut them down! Stop them in place! Do whatever you have to but don't let them carry those men to the MPG bases where they'll pick up arms against us!"

"You don't understand," he replied, sounding somewhat indignant at the thought of a mere civil servant talking to him like this. "Once Whiting gave order 74-1, our command and control computers for the system were rendered useless and control was passed to the capital building. It's part of the plan for war deployment."

"What?" Hayes said. "What freakin' moron came up with that?"

"It's been in place ever since the inception of the MPG," he explained. "Part of the War Powers Act. There's nothing that I or my people can do, short of actually sabotaging the hardware of the train system, that will stop them from running."

"Christ," Hayes said, shaking his head in disgust. "You'd better get your programmers working on this thing. Do whatever you can without actually damaging the system, but get those trains shut down."

"I'll try," he said doubtfully, "but there is one little problem with that."

"What's that?"

"Almost all of my engineers and programmers are greenies," he said. "And the greenies all support what's going on. How helpful do you think they're likely to be stopping this deployment?"

Hayes hadn't thought about that. "Just do what you can," he said and then broke the communications leak. He buried his head in his hands for a moment, reluctantly concluding that he would probably not be able to stop the MPG deployments the easy way. "Get me General Jackson of the MPG online," he told the computer next. "Highest priority."

"Attempting," the computer told him.

He smoked a cigarette and continued to watch the Internet coverage while he waited. Everything was still quiet at the capital building. Armored MPG troops could be seen setting up barricades and clearing out all of the pedestrians within the perimeter that they had set up. Dip-hoe carts were being allowed through to bring out his wounded agents but as of yet none had emerged. He spared a moment to wonder if any of those shot would live and then put it out of his mind as an irrelevancy.

"General Jackson is not taking calls right now," his computer told him. "Priority push attempts were ignored. Would you like to access his vid mail system to leave a message?"

"No I would not like to access his vid mail system and leave a message," he returned sarcastically. He then remembered that he was talking to a computer and took a deep breath. "Just keep trying to access him," he said. "In the meantime get me the general in charge of the marine barracks. What the hell is his name?"

"General Norman Sega is currently the commander of the WestHem marine expeditionary unit on Planet Mars," the computer replied. "Is that who you wish to speak to?"

"Yes," he said. "Get him online. Highest priority."

General Sega, unlike many of his peers in the higher ranks of the corps, was actually assigned to his position because of his military knowledge and experience and not because of family or political connections. That was how it had always been with the commander of the fast reaction division since the powers that be recognized that this division, more so than any other in the corps, needed to be ably led since it would more than likely be the first to make contact with the enemy in the event of war. That and the fact that no one who had any political or family connections wanted to be assigned for an extended stint on Mars guaranteed the efficiency of command.

Fifty-six years old and as fit as he had been at twenty, Sega had served numerous tours in Argentina, Cuba, and other trouble spots around Earth before being placed in charge of a battalion during the Jupiter War. Though his battalion, like all others in that troubled conflict, had been thrown forcibly off Callisto by the dug-in EastHem marines, it had suffered the least amount of casualties of any comparable unit in the conflict and had inflicted the most damage on the defending EastHem forces. Sega's career had been a slow climb uphill ever since. Not politically savvy, he had always been kept out of high profile assignments for fear of offending sponsors or the public and placed in commands where actual work and training needed to be done. As a colonel he had commanded the unpopular Northern Argentina brigade, the unit that had, for the past fifteen years, seen more combat than any other unit in the corps. From there he had received his first star and done a tour in charge of the troops on Cuba, which saw the second highest level of action. His second star had led to his current assignment and the promise of virtual banishment on Mars. He had gone as far as his connection-less status would allow him.

He, like most of the other inhabitants of the red planet, had been watching the events on the Internet channels as they unfolded. At first he had been pleasantly amused by the resistance the MPG troops had offered at the capital, chuckling as they took the feds into custody. As a professional soldier of the highest caliber, he had little respect for the part-time soldiers of the MPG or the man who led them. It had been his opinion that the hostage crisis would be over by dinnertime with Whiting either on a ship to Earth or dead, all of her supporters in the MPG under arrest and awaiting trial on federal charges. But when the news that a general call-up of MPG forces had been issued reached him through his intelligence chief, his opinion quickly changed to one of excitement. This excitement grew when he saw the camera shots of the MPG soldiers deploying around the capital building in their APCs. The excitement came not because he had any ill-will towards the federal officers that had been killed or captured — on the contrary, he had the greatest sympathy for them (at least that's what he would say in public) — but because the problem on Mars was no longer something that the federal officers would be able to take care of by themselves. In short, it would take real soldiers with real guns to take back the capital and enforce the federal warrant against that traitor Whiting. And that meant his marines would finally get to see some action. Granted it would probably be brief action, over in a matter of hours, a day at the most, but action was action and something that any soldier longed for. Here would be a chance to get some much-needed publicity for his forgotten division.

While the MPG platoons around the capital building were still securing the area, Sega had already been on his office terminal, telling his colonels to tell their majors to tell their captains to start arming up and getting ready for deployment. It had of course already occurred to him that the quickest, easiest way to diffuse the situation would be to have his marines march on the MPG base itself and capture it, cutting the incoming Eden reservists off from their weapon and ammunition supply. That would not prevent them from deploying in the other three principal cities of Mars but it would deny them of their most powerful division and sap the morale from those that were left.

"How much longer until your men are ready to move?" he asked Colonel Westley, the commander of his best brigade.

"Fifteen more minutes, General," Westley told him over the Internet terminal. "The boys are suited up in their indoor armor and their loading their weapons up right now."

"Good enough," Sega said. "I want that base captured as soon as possible. The more greenies that are allowed to reach it, the more problems we're going to have if they decide to fight us."

"Will they fight, sir?" Westley asked hesitantly. "They have an awful lot of armor over at that base. And until our boys can get some of our equipment down from TNB we won't have anything to battle armor with."

"We won't be bringing anything down from TNB," Sega said, as if speaking to a six year old. "And don't worry about those greenies hitting us with their armor. Chances are they'll surrender as soon as they see us heading their way. And even if they don't, they haven't had enough time to deploy any of their APCs or tanks yet. It takes time to gear those things up."

"Yes, General," Westley said.

"Incoming communication from Director Corban Hayes of the Federal Law Enforcement Bureau," his computer terminal suddenly spoke up. "Would you like to accept?"

Sega smiled. Here was the communication he had been waiting for, the one that would give him the authority to unleash his men upon the greenies. "On screen," he said.

Hayes appeared on the terminal, his hair somewhat in disarray, his eyes showing a great deal of strain. "General Sega," he said, nodding respectfully. "Thank you for receiving my call."

"Of course, Director," Sega said graciously. He had never actually met Hayes before either in person or online. Federal agents and military commanders did not usually run in the same circles. "What can I do for you? I assume this has something to do with the events at the capital building?"

"That's correct," Hayes said. "As I'm sure you're aware, elements of the MPG have fired upon my men as they attempted to served an arrest warrant on Laura Whiting."

"I've been watching on Internet," Sega said. "My sympathies for your men."

Hayes waved his hand dismissively at the mention of his men. "The perpetrators will be brought to justice, I can assure you of that," he said. "But at the moment I'm reading some alarming intelligence about the remainder of the MPG."

"You mean the call-up?" Sega said. "Yes, we've been monitoring that from here as well."

"Then you know that greenies are streaming onto those bases from all over the planet," he said. "They're hopping onto MarsTrans trains and being taken there and they'll be loading their guns and firing up their tanks pretty soon. I fear that they may have reacted a little strongly to the arrest warrant for their governor and that they might be... well... contemplating serious action."

"A revolt," Sega said, not mincing words. "You're afraid they're planning to attempt a capture of the planet or something equally foolish."

"That's correct," he said. "And while the FLEB has the investigative authority in this instance, this unfortunate turn of events has left us woefully short of firepower to prevent such a thing. We need to stop these greenies before they hurt someone or before they cut into productivity of the various businesses that operate on this planet. Hell, I wouldn't put it past them to attempt some act of terrorism against the agricultural fields or something like that. They need to be stopped from deploying."

"I've already anticipated your request," Sega told him. "I have my entire division gearing up for duty as we speak. I'll deploy an entire brigade to the Eden MPG base within thirty minutes."

"I see," Hayes said, a little confused. "And a brigade is?"

Sega gave him a look of contempt. "I take it you've never served in the armed forces before?"

"Well... no," he said with a shrug.

"A brigade is four battalions of combat troops," he explained. "About 2500 men."

"That's a lot," Hayes said uneasily.

"Better too much than too little," Sega responded. "My guess is that the greenies will give it up as soon as they see us marching on them. In any case, once the MPG base and Eden itself is secured I'll get the rest of my men to the other three cities where the MPG is deploying. I'll send a brigade to New Pittsburgh, one to Libby, and one to Proctor."

"How will you do that?"

"We'll load them on our C-12 transports and put them into orbit," Sega said. "We have enough lifter craft to move the entire division up to our ships in less than twenty-four hours. Instead of putting them on the ships though, I'll just have them de-orbit and land at the other three cities. We can capture the spaceports and use them as operations bases from there. My guess is we'll have this entire planet, including the Capital Building, secure and under control in forty-eight hours."

Hayes nodded wisely, obviously pleased with the efficient self-confidence of the general. "It sounds good, General," he said. "You do whatever needs to be done. There is one concern I have about your men however. You have a number of greenies in your division, do you not?"

"About one thousand total," he confirmed. "Most of them are in support positions. I've already ordered my MPs to remove them from their units and place them under house arrest."

"Very good," Hayes said, smiling for the first time. "Once that base is secured I'd like them all turned over to the FLEB so they can be held until this crisis is over."

"It will be done," Sega assured him. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a base to capture. I'll get back to you once it's in our hands." He looked at his watch. "Should be less than an hour I'd imagine."

"Thank you general," he said. "And good luck."

"We don't need any luck," he scoffed. "We're WestHem marines."

General Jackson was still at his command post in the capital building, monitoring the various operations that were taking place around the planet. The entire operation was at its most vulnerable right now since the bulk of the MPG members were still in transit to the bases. His greatest worry was of course the security of the Eden MPG base, which stood less than two kilometers from ten thousand WestHem marines. His worry was increased by a call from Sprinkle.

"What's up, Jack?" he asked, seeing the intelligence chief's face on his computer screen.

"The marines are moving a little faster than we'd thought," Sprinkle told him. "I just got a call from a few of my contacts that are part of the fast reaction division. They say that all of the Martians have been rounded up and are being held in their dorms but that the rest of the troops are gearing up for deployment. Estimates are that they'll be on the move within fifteen minutes or so."

"Great," Jackson said with a sigh. He looked at his tactical display and switched the view to a map of the military corner of Eden. Macarthur Avenue was the street that gave access to both the MPG base and the marine barracks. The barracks had two pedestrian entrances, which were located two blocks apart, and a wider, delivery truck entrance in between. He only had one single platoon of infantry troops to cover all three of those entrances. Forty men with small arms, light machine guns, and a few grenade launchers to hold back God knew how many marines who would be trying to egress from those doorways. They would be able to hold them for a little while by virtue of the fact that the marines would have to exit from a narrow corridor. Eventually however, the MPG would be as overwhelmed as the fabled Snoqualmie defenders back in World War III, that single American battalion that had tried to keep an entire Chinese army from descending out of the Cascade Mountains onto the plains of Washington. The Snoqualmie defenders had ultimately failed in their task, more than three-quarters of their number killed while buying the WestHem alliance no more than eighteen hours of time. Jackson had no intention of allowing the Macarthur Avenue defenders to share this same fate. He needed more troops there and he needed them now.

"Get me Colonel Cargill," he told his communications terminal.

Cargill was the commander of the Eden division. Like all of the high commanders of the MPG, Cargill had been briefed in on the plot to eventually seize the planet from WestHem some years before. He was an outstanding leader and an enthusiastic supporter of the plot. He came online within seconds of his hail. "Cargill here, General," he said.

"How many troops do we have on the base, not including those in Dealerman's command?" Jackson asked him.

Cargill consulted another screen for a moment. "About two hundred have arrived," he said. "Not all of them are combat troops however. Probably about half are admin and support people."

"Get them armed up and moving towards the marine barracks entrances," Jackson told him. "The marines are going to be trying a breakout any minute now."

"You mean the combat troops only?" he asked.

"Negative," Jackson replied. "I mean everyone. Get them guns, form them up into squads, and send them out there."

"But, General," Cargill protested, "a lot of those troops are women. Surely you don't mean to..."

"They've been through basic training haven't they?" Jackson interrupted. "Get them armed and on the move. Right now."

"Yes sir," Cargill said.

"Be sure to let them know what they're up against and that they will be in fact rebelling against WestHem, but get those that will go out there. And we'll need some armor on those entrances as well. As soon as you get some APC crews ready, get their vehicles moving. Send them out through the main entrance like we did Dealerman's people that went to the capital. Those entrances have got to be covered."

"Working on it now, General," Cargill said, signing off.

Lisa Wong was one of the female soldiers that were hastily assembled into a makeshift squad of infantry. Since the downtown area where she worked as a police officer was fairly close geographically to the MPG base, she and her partner Brian had been among the first to arrive. She had quickly suited up in the spare shorts and T-shirt that she carried in her locker and had been on her way to report to her duty station — the main administration office where she worked as a materials supply clerk — when her PC had gone off with an emergency tone.

"All available MPG personnel," announced Colonel Cargill, the base commander, "report immediately at best possible speed to the armory for combat load out. This means all personnel, regardless of sex or assignment. We need you over here, people, so let's move it!"

He repeated the message but by the time he was three words into it, Lisa had disconnected from the transmission and was sprinting through the hallways of the base towards the armory. His message had sounded urgent and the fact that he was asking for non-combat volunteers spoke volumes about the desperation of the situation. The materials allotment unit would just have to do without her for a while.

As she ran, others kept pace with her. Men, other women, some people still in civilian clothing, all trekked along, pushing through doors and making their way to a single destination. When they arrived there, huffing and puffing from the exertion, a group of supply personnel were hastily handing out weapons and equipment while an infantry lieutenant was forming them up into groups.

Lisa made her way to the front and was handed a helmet, a set of combat goggles, a radio pack, an M-24 rifle and five 100 round magazines. "You're C squad, part of Sergeant Jan's platoon over there," the lieutenant told her.

"Where are we going?" she asked, fumbling with all of the gear.

"Your sergeant will explain it in a moment," he said impatiently, his tone telling her that there was no time for questions. "Get outfitted and loaded up."

"What about armor?" she asked.

"No time for it," he told her, turning and grabbing another set of equipment for the man behind her.

She carried her equipment over to where a tough looking sergeant was standing with about twenty other people. There was a mix of men and women, a few of whom she recognized as being admin personnel, most she had never seen before. Sergeant Jan was dividing them up into squads and placing those few people he had that were part of the combat arm as the leaders.

"You," he said, pointing at Lisa and reading her name from her shirt, "Corporal Wong. Get that weapon loaded and those extra mags stowed. You'll be in second squad under private Zink's command. Your radio frequency for squad operations is 7-C. Got it?"

"Got it," she replied, feeling overwhelmed and more than a little confused. Just what the hell was going on here anyway? Nevertheless she put her helmet on her head and attached her throat microphone just above her shirt. The radio pack — a small plastic transmitter about half the size of her PC — she tuned to bank 7, channel C and attached to her waist. Though her entire career with the MPG had been spent as an office worker, she knew how to run the radio as well as any of the most hardened combat troops. Likewise she was familiar with her weapon, combat goggles, and other gear as well, and not just because of her job with the Eden Police Department. Ever since the earliest days of the MPG, General Jackson had made it a part of the training requirements that every member, no matter what their rank or assignment, qualify as expert with the combat gear at least twice a year. Though he had been derided many times in the Earthling media for this alleged waste of money, had had stuck to his guns and now, at what seemed a critical moment, all of that training and expense seemed to be paying off. She, as well as the other non-combat soldiers in her understrength platoon, were ready for action in less than five minutes, with weapons loaded and calibrated to the goggles.

"All right, folks," Jan said, looking them over. "Looks like we're ready to roll. I don't have time for any inspirational speeches or extended briefings so I'll give it to you straight. The MPG is in the process of capturing Eden and the entire planet of Mars from WestHem control. What we are doing is an act of treason. Right now we have some combat troops that are trying to pen the WestHem marines inside of their base to keep them from opposing our capture. They're going to need help badly in a few minutes. We'll probably be forced to fire on some of those marines in order to prevent them from breaking out. This will be seen as pre-meditated murder by WestHem authorities. Anyone who does not wish to participate in this action, put your weapons down and step to the rear."

There was a stunned silence for a moment as everyone comprehended what they were being told. Lisa had to run it through her circuits a few times to get it to clear. Capturing Eden? Capturing the entire planet Mars? Firing on WestHem marines? She waited for the punch line, concluding that it had to be a joke of some sort. No punch line came however. Jan was apparently serious. "Holy shit," she muttered, feeling a strange surge of fear and determination running through her. If there was going to be a fight to free Mars, she was going to be a part of it. She did not drop her weapon. Neither did anyone else.

"All right then," Jan said, smiling. "1^st reserve platoon. Let's move it out! Triple time!" With that he turned and began jogging towards the door. His platoon of twenty-five men and women fell in behind him.

Lieutenant Rod Espinoza, a four-year member of the MPG, had been given the dubious honor of leading the Macarthur Avenue defenders. A simple platoon leader whose civilian job was head of security at a small office building, he rose to the occasion quite nicely despite his lack of previous combat experience and his usual reliance on his company commander for guidance. He had divided his forty troops into three sections. One squad was covering the south pedestrian entrance, one was covering the north, and two were covering the larger truck terminal in between. On the orders of Major Dealerman, these squads had held back, out of sight of the marine MP positions that guarded each entrance platform. Though they had aroused the curiosity of many a pedestrian walking by their shadowed forms - and more than one off-duty marine - the guards in their booths remained oblivious to their presence. That was about to change.

"Espinoza," Major Dealerman's voice told him over the command link, "move your people in and secure the platforms. Take those guards out without gunfire if possible. Disarm them and send them back into the base."

"Copy," he said simply.

"Information is that the marines are going to try a breakout within a few minutes. Once the platforms are secure, pull back to covering positions and get ready to drive them back in. Weapons are free, wartime rules of engagement are in effect."

"I understand, Major," he said assuredly, hiding the worry he felt. "What about reinforcements?" he asked. "We're pretty heavy on ammo but we're not gonna last long if they're determined."

"Reinforcements are on the way," Dealerman told him. "We've scrapped together some mixed units of combatants and non-combatants. Put them to use as you see fit, but use them. They're all trained in weapons and tactics."

"Yes sir," he said a little dubiously.

"We'll get you some armor out there as soon as it's available. Don't let those marines out of that base. The entire operation depends on keeping them penned."

"I understand," he said.

As soon as the transmission ended he began giving orders to his squad leaders. Less than thirty seconds later, his men began to move in.

The pedestrian stations were not terribly busy at this time of the day but still, there were upwards of fifty people, most of them working their way through the security checkpoints, at each one. At the truck entrance things were a little better. Since delivery trucks were a phenomenon of the night on Mars, this platform was virtually deserted. Each one of the stations was guarded by a four-man team of military police, each of whom was armed with a sidearm and an M-24 without combat goggle enhancement. Their command posts were glass-encased booths equipped with computer terminals and communications gear.

When the MPG troops stormed the stations, the squad leaders shouting at everyone to get down, one of the MPs at the north station reached for his rifle out of instinct. He was pummeled by rifle fire and dropped like a rock. The rest of the guards at that particular station, seeing this, immediately threw their hands up in surrender. At the other stations, all of the guards surrendered peacefully once they saw what they were up against.

"Civilians and non-uniformed personnel," shouted the squad leaders at each place, "off the platform and out of the area, right now! Move it!"

They moved it, rushing in a near panic down Macarthur Avenue and disappearing out of sight. The MPs were quickly disarmed and pointed in the direction of the base. "Get in there and stay in there," they were told. "Tell your commanders that we have the entrances guarded and that anyone trying to get out will be fired upon."

The MPs wasted no time in sprinting through the gates and down the entrance corridor. All three groups of them reached the main avenue of the base at approximately the same time. It was only the three that had guarded the north entrance, the entrance closest to the MPG base, that encountered marines massing for a march.

Colonel Frank Forrest was the commander in charge of the brigade that Sega had tasked with capturing the MPG base. He and most of his men were assembled on the exercise lawn undergoing final weapons checks and radio calibration prior to marching out. The men were in neat, precise military rows on the green grass, lined up by platoon and squad. Sergeants and lieutenants circulated among them, making last minute inspections and giving inspirational speeches. When the three MPs, stripped of their weapons and red-faced with terror, came bursting into the columns, they were very nearly shot by more than one startled soldier.

"What the fuck is going on here?" an angry sergeant screamed at the three men. "Corporal," he told the highest ranking of them, "you'd better have a goddamn good explanation for this!"

"Sir," he said breathlessly, coming to a partial state of attention, "greenies just stormed our checkpoint! They took our guns and sent us back in here!"

"Greenies?" the sergeant yelled. "What the fuck are you talking about, boy?"

He managed to spit out the story in a coherent fashion, coherent enough that the sergeant immediately brought him to his lieutenant where the story was repeated. From there they went to the captain of that particular company and from there, to the Major that commanded the battalion. Ten minutes after the storming of the guard posts, the three MPs were finally led before Colonel Forrest himself, by which point they had calmed enough to tell their tale without stuttering or repeating themselves.

"How many of them were there?" Forrest asked, only a little worried at the thought of armed greenies at his point of egress.

"Twenty or thirty," they all agreed, their minds wildly exaggerating their memories.

Forrest nodded. "And they were armed with M-24s?"

"Yes sir," the corporal told him, unaware that the troops with the SAWs had held back in cover positions during the charge.

"And they shot one of your men?"

"Yes sir," he said. "They blew Bill damn near in half for no reason."

Forrest's face scrunched into an expression of anger. "Goddamn greenies," he spat. "They're nothing more than terrorists!" He turned to his majors and captains, who were gathered near him. "Get on the com link and find out about the other checkpoints," he told them. "If they captured one they probably captured them all."

It took less than five minutes to confirm that all three checkpoints had in fact fallen to MPG troops. In the other two instances the estimations of the troop strength were the same as that offered by the first: about twenty troops armed with M-24s.

"We need to push out of here right now," Forrest told his subordinates, "before they are able to move enough troops in to really be an annoyance to us." He looked at Major Starr, commander of his first battalion. "Starr," he told him, "get your recon elements moving and recapture the checkpoint that our young corporal and his friends came from. Once its secure we'll move the rest of the brigade out to our main objective and send the rest of your battalion to go capture the other two positions."

"Yes sir," Starr said, hiding the dejection in his voice. He had wanted to be a part of the main thrust into the MPG base. But orders were orders. He trotted off towards his men, talking on his command link as he went. Within five minutes they were moving towards the exit corridor, his recon platoon breaking trail.

Meanwhile, back at the checkpoint in question, the MPG squad that was guarding it had pulled back to positions of cover on Macarthur Avenue. They kneeled behind the cement planter that lined the middle of the street, their weapons trained on the entrance, their combat goggles down and set for infrared enhancement. The young private that operated the squad automatic weapon was in the center of the formation, his field of fire such that he could sweep the entire corridor from one side to the other. Four extra drums of ammunition, each containing 600 rounds, were stacked neatly next to his leg.

The marine recon platoon, its members among the most highly trained in the corps, didn't make it within one hundred meters of the Macarthur side of the access corridor. Though they were moving along the walls, making themselves as small of targets as possible, there was simply nothing to use for cover or concealment and they were spotted almost as soon as they started heading for their objective.

Espinoza ordered the SAW gunner to fire a few bursts down the middle of the corridor on the theory that this would drive them back without having to kill any of them. It was a hopeful thought but one that didn't quite pan out. The private unleashed twenty rounds, the gun barking loudly, the rounds flying at high velocity right between the two elements of the platoon. Instead of retreating however, they began firing back, simultaneously pushing forward.

"Fucking idiots," Espinoza said in disgust as rounds began to slam into the concrete around them and whiz over their head. "Open fire," he told his men. "Take them out."

It was far too easy, sickeningly so. The private on the SAW swept it back and forth, moving his recticle across the figures of the marines while firing controlled bursts. The other squad members opened up with their M-24s, putting their own bursts on the men who were diving to get out of the way of the automatic weapons fire. The forty marines were pummeled with bullets, their bodies twisting and turning and dropping to the ground, every last one of them dead or dying in the space of twenty seconds. Not a single MPG soldier was hit during the exchange.

"Good job, guys," Espinoza told them as the last echoes of the gunfire faded away. The fact that they had just killed WestHem soldiers, that they had just actively partaken in a revolution, seemed to hang in the air.

Nobody said anything in reply.

"Let's do an ammo check," Espinoza said. "They'll be back soon and there'll be a lot more of them."

Starr, waiting safely back on the base, had watched the entire thing through his combat goggles by patching into the platoon commander's goggles. Never having been in actual combat before, he was horrified at the speed and violence with which forty of his men had just perished. He had in fact been holding his breath throughout the entire episode.

"Starr, report!" screamed the voice of Colonel Forrest in his radio link. "What the hell was all of that shooting?"

"Sir," he said slowly, his voice strangely calm despite the adrenaline surging through him, "the greenies fired on the recon platoon. They're down."

"All of them?" Forrest said in disbelief.

"All of them," he confirmed.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Forrest said. "How many guns do they got out there now?"

"It looked like no more than fifteen to me," Starr told him. "They're behind the planter on Macarthur Avenue, situated directly across from the entrance."

There was silence on the link for a moment. Finally Forrest came back on. "We need to take that position immediately," he said. "You had an eyeball on it. Suggestions?"

Starr put the thought of his dead men as far back in his mind as he could and thought through the problem for a moment. "Let me throw a company-strength assault at them," he suggested. "I'll put all of the men with grenade launchers on their 24s up front and have them blast that greenie position as soon as they're in range. It's simply a question of throwing enough men at them to overwhelm their defenses."

"Do it," Forrest told him after only a moment's thought. "And do it quickly. If they reinforce that position they'll be able to keep us from exiting this way. If they do that, we'll have to put on our biosuits and take that base from the wasteland side. I don't have to tell you that that would be a damn sight more difficult."

"I'll have them moving within five minutes, sir," Starr promised.

Unfortunately for the marines, five minutes was just a little too long. While they were still regrouping and getting the grenadiers adjusted to the front ranks, the makeshift platoon that had been formed back at the MPG base trotted up Macarthur Avenue and reported for duty. Espinoza put them to immediate use.

"Send five of your people to the north pedestrian entrance to reinforce them," he told Sergeant Jan. "The rest of you, take up position behind this planter with us. Spread out as much as you can but keep the guns massed on that corridor. ROE is weapons free. They're probably going to hit us with at least company-strength on the next assault and we need to engage them as soon as they come into view."

Lisa, carrying her M-24 and feeling naked without any armor on her chest, took up position about two thirds of the way to the right of center. She gazed down the long corridor, seeing the bodies of those marines that had died in the first breakout attempt. The sight of those corpses, of the blood running slowly towards the drains along the walls, brought home to her the reality of what she was getting herself involved in. "Jesus," she muttered, shuddering a little. She was participating in a rebellion against WestHem, a rebellion in which men had been shot and killed.

"You all right, Wong?" a young private from the armor maintenance section asked her. His eyes looked terrified but determined.

"Fine," she said, giving him a shaky smile. "Let's kick some Earthling ass, shall we?"

"Fuckin aye," he replied, gripping his weapon a little tighter.

The attack began a few moments later. From far down the corridor the figures of twenty, then thirty, then fifty men suddenly swarmed forward, keeping low and moving fast, the outlines of their weapons clearly visible.

"Enemy to the front," Espinoza's voice barked over the command channel. "Open fire!"

Guns began to crack from all around her and, from the center of the column, the SAW barked to life, sending streaks of bullets into the marines. They began to drop but more of them surged forward. Lisa put her targeting recticle on a figure, centering it over his chest, and pulled the trigger. The weapon jerked in her hand, exploding three rounds out of its barrel, and the figure fell forward, his weapon dropping beneath him. Without pausing to reflect that she had just killed a man, she put her recticle on another and repeated the motion.

Suddenly, all along the line of marines there were bright flashes, much brighter than the individual weapons signatures, and what appeared in the infrared spectrum to be large red blobs streaked at high speed towards them.

"Grenades," a voice barked on the radio frequency. "Cover!"

Lisa, along with everyone else, ducked quickly down behind the planter, hiding her head from view. Less than a second later the grenades exploded in the air directly above them, directed to do so by the combat computers of the marines that had fired them. The noise was tremendous, a series of harsh cracks that overwhelmed the eardrums and made the ears ring. The concussion from the displaced air slammed into them, driving the air out of their lungs. Shrapnel rained down, chipping off the cement of the planter, shredding into trees that grew from it, and striking several people. Lisa felt a piece gouge through her lower leg, stitching a burning across her calf. As her ears cleared a little from the concussions, she heard several people yelling that they were hit and calling for a medic. She moved her leg, found that it still worked, and did not add her voice to the chorus. Instead she put her head back up and found another target.

The firing from the line of MPG troops picked up again and the marines rushing down the tunnel began to fall once more. By now many of the marines were firing back, sending a hail of high velocity bullets towards them and trying to force their heads down so they could advance. The tree trunks were peppered with bullets, most flying right through and exiting out the other side. More slammed into the concrete barrier, breaking large chunks of it off and hurling them over the top of their heads. A few of these bullets found their marks. The young private next to Lisa was struck directly in the head, the bullet drilling a neat hole through the front of his helmet and exploding out the back of it in a spray of shattered Kevlar, blood, and brains. He slumped forward lifelessly, his rifle falling from his hands. Lisa ignored this the best she could and continued firing, dropping any marine that she saw moving.

Another volley of grenades came flying at them and this time not everyone ducked in time. The detonations slammed into the line and the private operating the SAW had his face and neck shredded to pieces by the shrapnel. He flew backwards, spraying blood out of his wounds, dragging his weapon down with him. From around them, more screams of "I'm hit" sounded out.

"Resume firing!" Espinoza yelled frantically, spraying an extended burst with his own weapon. "They're moving in!"

Lisa popped back up, switching her M-24 to full automatic fire. She put her recticle on a group of four marines that were rushing forward and squeezed the trigger, raking it over them. They spun and fell, crashing to the ground.

"Shimmy," Espinoza yelled to Corporal Shimamato, one of his regular men, "take over the SAW and start putting some fire on these fucks!"

Shimamato pried the squad automatic weapon from the private's dead hands and put it on its tripod atop the planter. Not wasting the time it would take to calibrate his combat goggles to it, he simply began to fire, aiming by sight and ripping into the advancing marines once again.

This, combined with the supporting fire from the riflemen and the absolute horror that they had just endured, finally broke the marines. None of them, not even the most experienced veterans of Argentina or Cuba, had ever encountered or even imagined combat as deadly as this was becoming. Bullets were flying everywhere, pinging off of the walls of the corridor and ripping through their lines like some supernatural force. Men were torn in half by the sustained bursts from the SAW. Their heads were blown to pieces by the shots from the M-24s. Blood was flowing freely on the floor of the corridor, more than an inch thick in some places, it was being splashed all over them, obscuring their combat goggles and making their feet slip. And the bodies absolutely littered the ground, some screaming in pain, some deathly silent. And as they got closer to the exit of the corridor, the fire grew exponentially more intense and accurate. There was no official call to retreat, but as the entire front rank of what remained of the company was mowed down by the renewed vigor of the MPG outside, retreat is what occurred. Men turned tail and ran, heading back for the safety of the base as fast as they could, many leaving their weapons behind them.

"They're retreating," someone told Espinoza as they saw the mad push back towards the far end of the corridor.

"Keep firing," Espinoza ordered. "Keep the pressure on them until they're out of sight.

And so the marines suffered the additional horror of being shot in the back as they ran away, a fact that pushed them even further over the edge of panic. When the battered, terrified survivors rushed out of the far end of the corridor, bullets still chasing after them, only 52 of the original 160 were still on their feet.

"Cease fire, cease fire!" Espinoza commanded once the last of them had disappeared.

The guns fell silent after a few last isolated pops, and the haze of gunsmoke that was hanging over the planter began to slowly dissipate. The ground around them was covered with ejected shell casings, chips of concrete and wood, and rivulets of blood. The moans of several wounded could be heard.

"Ammo check," Espinoza said. "Everyone make sure your weapon has a fresh mag in it. We don't know when they'll be back or with how many. Let's assume they're gonna hit us again in the next five minutes with battalion strength." He looked over at private Stinson, a DPHS employee in civilian life and the only medic in the bunch. "Stinson," he told him. "Start checking these people. I'll see what I can do about getting some dip-hoes in here to take away the wounded."

"Right," Stinson said, immediately heading for the private lying next to Lisa. He took one look at him and shook his head sadly. "Not much to do here," he said, seeing the shattered skull and the dull, dead eyes. He turned towards Lisa, spying the wound on her leg. "You're gonna need that fused back together," he told her, reaching in his pack and pulling out some gauze bandages.

Lisa looked down at her leg for the first time and saw that a five-centimeter chunk of it had been neatly ripped open by the grenade shrapnel. Blood was oozing from the wound and onto the ground.

"Can you move your foot and your toes?" Stinson asked her hurriedly.

She moved them, seeing with gratification that everything still worked. "I'm all right," she told him. "Go work on the others."

He handed her the gauze. "Wrap that up to stop the bleeding," he told her. "We'll get you off the line as soon as we can."

"I don't need to get off the line," she told him. "I'm staying until we're relieved."

He nodded, giving her a smile, and then headed down the line until he reached the next wounded person. In all, the total was three dead and four wounded. Not too bad considering that they'd been fighting a force more than five times their size.

Captain Starr, who had been leading from the rear as any competent company commander, was one of the survivors of the failed assault on Macarthur Avenue. Unfortunately he no longer had much of a company to command since three of his four lieutenants and twelve of his sixteen squad leaders, not to mention a good portion of his enlisted men, were dead on the entrance corridor floor, riddled with MPG bullets. Starr and his remaining men were moved to the rear and a fresh company, this one commanded by Captain Freely, a hardened veteran of the Cuban campaigns, was brought forward.

"Alpha company was hit hard," Freely told his men as they fidgeted in their ranks thirty meters from the front of the corridor entrance. "But we need to go back in there and take that position before the greenies get a chance to reinforce it. We need to do this so we can clear them off of Macarthur Avenue and take that base and so that we can get Alpha company's wounded out of there, understand?"

"Yes sir," they all dutifully replied, though with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. They had all seen the result of the previous attacks.

"I know that nobody wants to do this," Freely said. "It's a very poor tactical situation since we are forced down a narrow path right into the teeth of the enemy. We can't outflank them and we have little or nothing in the way of cover or concealment for our advance. Unfortunately it has to be done and this is the best time that we're going to get to do it, while they're still reeling from our first two attacks and while they're probably low on ammunition. So let's get it done. Those of you with grenade launchers I want you massed in the front. We're going to put sustained grenade fire on that greenie position as we advance. Half of you fire, half of you hold back. While the first half reloads, the second half will then fire. That way there should be minimum time where the greenies are able to put their heads up and oppose us. Once we clear that front entrance, surround those fucks and put them down. No mercy!"

"No mercy!" the marines yelled back, this time with more emotion.

"Let's move it out," Freely said.

They moved it out, not knowing, as Starr hadn't before them, that the situation outside of the corridor had already changed. Two tank crews and one APC crew, all from different units of the division, had gotten their machines fired up and were led through the larger corridors of the base to the main entrance. These three pieces of heavy armor then clanked their way out onto Macarthur Avenue, past the commuter tram station where fresh loads of troops were disembarking the trains, and down to the first of the marine base entrances. Espinoza, nearly gushing in gratitude at the sight of them, quickly commandeered one of the tanks to reinforce his own embattled position. The other tank and the APC he sent further down the avenue to reinforce the other positions in case the marines attempted a break-out through one of them.

There was no place to really conceal the tank since the center planter that the soldiers were kneeling behind was only a meter high, but there were also no working anti-tank weapons available to the marines on their base. All they had were low-yield training weapons, their real equipment safely tucked away inside of the landing ships at Triad Naval Base. This, in effect, made the armored vehicle invulnerable to being destroyed or displaced, able to put impenetrable, horrendous fire upon the enemy with complete impunity.

In a way it was perhaps fortunate for Captain Freely's company that the armor arrived when it did. Like the use of atomic weapons had done at the end of World War II, it was likely that the display of such overwhelming force created an abandonment of aggressive intentions before they could be fully implemented. The moment that the marines entered the corridor and began to set up the first of their grenade launches, the tank crew spotted them on their infrared equipped monitoring equipment. A single 80mm high explosive shell had been loaded into the long gun and aimed down the corridor. The gunner had already calculated the range to the end of the corridor and had adjusted the elevation of the barrel appropriately. As soon as he saw the marines forming up and preparing to fire he put his hand on the firing button.

"Computer," he told the tank's firing computer, "set for airburst at 200 meters."

"Range set," the computer instantly replied.

Before the first volley of grenades could even be launched in their direction, he pushed the fire button and the gun roared, blasting the shell out of the barrel at a speed of more than three kilometers per second. When it reached precisely 200 meters from its point of origin it exploded, spraying razor sharp shrapnel out in an expanding cone. The grenadiers and the other marines entering the corridor behind them never knew what hit them. They were sliced to pieces, their bodies literally torn apart from the force of the blast and the steel of the shell. In an instant more than thirty men died in a spray of blood and shredded body parts.

"They got a fuckin tank down there!" shouted a squad leader in horror as he saw the men erased from existence. He had been just around the corner from the corridor entrance, just about to step through to join the charge when the explosion had hit. He shuddered uncontrollably as he thought of the fate he'd almost shared in.

No further shots were required. Though Captain Freely and Colonel Forrest and General Sega all agreed that to attempt further breaches of the exit corridors were futile, it is unlikely that they would have convinced any of the marines to take another crack at even if they'd ordered them. Marines like to follow orders and will often fling themselves carelessly into overwhelming danger at a superior officer's whim, but they are not suicidal.

"Leave a few platoons near each entrance to keep the greenies from moving onto the base," Sega ordered Colonel Forrest. "We're not going to be able to go out that way."

"Yes sir," Forrest said, fuming at the losses he'd had inflicted upon his men by a relatively small number of greenies.

"Start getting everyone else in biosuits," Sega said. "We'll take the division out through the airlocks and move overland to the MPG base from there."

"I'll get right on it," Forrest said.