Greenies

Chapter 6

There were no Internet terminals set up in the abandoned hanger the special forces soldiers were being housed in at the Triad MPG base and, though every last one of them had a PC that was capable of monitoring Internet channels, the signals had all been damped for security reasons. So it came to pass that the 640 men who were slated to strike the first real blow to the Earthlings were the least informed about events on the planet.

They had been fed well during their stay there. Dinner the previous night had consisted of steak and baked potatoes cooked in the base mess hall. Breakfast that morning had been scrambled eggs and pancakes prepared by the morning shift mess staff. All had eaten voraciously despite the nagging knowledge that some unspecified, possibly dangerous mission was awaiting them.

"When the hell are they going to tell us something?" Horishito demanded of Lon about an hour after breakfast. Lon's squad was leaning against the far wall of the hanger, very near the front doorway, their weapons and packs resting beside them.

"When they have something to tell," Lon replied automatically, though he too was growing impatient and bored.

Several of his men had brought decks of cards along with them and an impromptu poker game was being waged. In the absence of Internet access to facilitate betting they were forced to revert to the old fashioned technique of using poker chips to represent money. In this case the chips were actually paper clips that had been bent in specific formations to represent different denominations.

Lon was just about to go get himself dealt in for a few hands when the door to the opposing hanger suddenly slid open and Colonel Bright entered the room. Even at the age of 56, Bright was still an imposing presence, able to outrun and outgun a good number of his younger soldiers in the training fields. He was a stickler for training standards and quite a hard-ass when it came to admission to his elite corps. It was well known that he personally gave final approval on all inductees into the cadre.

Nobody stood up or came to attention when Bright entered the room of course — it just wasn't done in the MPG — but everyone immediately stopped what they were doing and looked up at him as he walked to the front of the room and took up position near a podium that had been set up earlier. A microphone sat on the podium and he tapped it a few times, confirming that it was live. He then began to speak, his voice gruff and self-assured.

"Good morning, men," he told them. "I know it sounds very cliché to say so, but I know you've all been wondering just what you've been brought here for. For security reasons I've been forced to be very vague with you in regards to the call-up and your deployment. The time for being vague is now over however. Let me begin by explaining to you all what has been happening on the surface over the last few hours and from there I'll get to the mission that I'm going to ask you to perform." He paused, his eyes tracking over the collection of soldiers. "Last night, in Denver, a federal grand jury consisting entirely of WestHem civilians and hearing evidence presented only by the federal attorney general's office, voted to indict Governor Whiting on charges of corruption and misuse of office and several other things."

Some angry uproar erupted from the crowd. Lon heard several utterings of profanity echoing off the hanger walls.

Bright waited patiently for them to quiet down and then continued. "This morning, in New Pittsburgh, a group of forty FLEB agents, all of them armed with automatic weapons, attempted to serve this warrant at the capital building and take Governor Whiting into custody. Their intent was to extradite her to Earth for trial and imprisonment, therefore leaving the Lieutenant Governor in control of the executive branch of our planetary government." He gazed out, seeming to lock eyes with everyone at once. "The capital security team — which, as I'm sure you are all aware, is made up of MPG special forces soldiers — fired upon the FLEB agents and prevented them from completing their mission."

Now there was shocked silence in the room as every man tried to contemplate the ramifications of Bright's words. Fired on federal agents? Prevented them from completing their mission?

"The attempt to take our governor into custody on these trumped up charges was unsuccessful," Bright told them. "All of the FLEB agents participating in the raid were killed or captured. The New Pittsburgh police department has been ordered to stay out of the situation by their chief. When the second wave of FLEB agents showed up at the capital, they too were taken into custody by regular infantry troops from the New Pittsburgh area division. At this moment the capital building and two blocks around it is secured and being guarded by MPG soldiers. Governor Whiting has issued an order for the rest of the MPG to mobilize for deployment. As we speak, several platoons of our soldiers are fighting a battle with WestHem marines at the main gates to the Eden marine barracks. Their intent is to keep the WestHem soldiers from exiting the base and impeding MPG operations on the surface."

He let that sink in for a moment and then went on. "Gentlemen, you're all Martians. You have all grown up on this planet under the rule of WestHem and you know what their system has done to us. We are second class citizens on our own planet. I won't try to duplicate the speeches of Governor Whiting here today because I'm just not up to the task. But I know that all of you have been listening to her words and that most of you agree with what she has been saying. It is time for us to break free of WestHem by whatever means necessary. I want none of you to make any mistake about the gravity of the situation that I have just described to you down on the surface. Our troops have fired upon federal officers, killing several of them. We have defied federal orders to hand over Governor Whiting to them. Our planetary guard troops have initiated firefights with WestHem marines and are using armored vehicles to keep them in check. What has happened today is nothing more nor less than the opening move in an armed revolt by the Planet Mars against the Western Hemispheric Alliance. It is a bid for independence from WestHem by force of arms. A revolution. And I'm about to ask you men here to play a part in it."

Without giving them time to think too deeply, he continued. "Now I've been your commanding officer for a long time now. I like to think that I'm the type of CO that makes himself available to his troops. I visit all of the commands regularly and I know most of you by name and by face. I've heard you talk to each other around the dorms and out on the training field. I've seen you all enraptured by Governor Whiting's words when she speaks on Internet. I've heard you rant about those 'fucking Earthlings' and about how Mars needs to be free. I've heard you cuss the name of WestHem and the bastard capitalist corporations that rule our lives."

He stared at his crowd, his expression now challenging. "Well, gentlemen, guess what? The vehicle for that change you all want has arrived and you have the opportunity to be it. A plan has been in place for this day for several years now and the day has come to put it into action. If you really want Mars to be free, if you really want to break the bonds of WestHem rule, the time has come to shit or get off the pot. I'm about to ask you men to go into combat against WestHem soldiers, against the institution that rules us. I'm about to ask you to commit high treason, the penalty for which is life imprisonment on Earth."

"If any or even all of you does not wish to do this you are free to stand and leave the room right now. I have orders direct from Governor Whiting herself that I am not to compel a single soldier to do my bidding. This is a voluntary assignment from this point on and that means more than one thing. If you commit to my plan, you will be doing so of your own free will and you will not have the excuse that you were simply following orders. If we lose, you will most likely suffer the fate I just explained. If we win, you will be heroes for the rest of Martian history.

"If any of you chooses not to be a part of this, I will be disappointed, I will label you as a hypocrite, unwilling to put his money where his mouth is, but you will be allowed to leave this room and go about your lives. You will of course be held until the operation is complete but you have my word and the word of Governor Whiting that you will not be persecuted in any way.

"So..." He looked at his men, wondering if any would fold. A large part of him feared that all 640 would stand as one and move to the door. "Those that do not wish to participate, please stand and exit the room at the back right now."

Not a single soldier stood up. The chant started somewhere in the middle of the room and quickly spread. "Free Mars, free Mars, free Mars!"

Before long the entire room, Colonel Bright included, was shouting it at the top of their lungs.

The Mermaid had docked at Triad Naval base two hours before after its long deployment to the Jupiter system. Though the majority of the crew had been released for three days of shore duty at Triad, Spacer first class Brett Ingram was not among them. He was in charge of a work detail tasked with unloading the unused food supplies left over from the deployment and returning them to the main Owl supply area. It was somewhat insulting work for a skilled computer technician but after nine years in the WestHem navy he was quite used to insulting behavior from his superiors. When Lieutenant Commander Braxton had been faced with the task of forming an unload detail he'd picked the six Martians out of the entire crew to form it, seeming to pick at random but, out of forty-eight enlisted men it was quite a large coincidence that only those of Martian heritage had been chosen.

This was all status quo on the good old Mermaid of the good old WestHem Navy but today it was particularly irritating because Jeff and the members of his detail were burning to monitor the news broadcasts regarding the situation on the surface. Could what they were hearing possibly be true? Had they really indicted Laura Whiting? Had her forces really fired on federal agents? And now new reports were coming in as well, reports about some sort of battle at the entrance to the WestHem marine base. Were MPG troops engaging the marines? What kind of madness was going on down there?

Of course every compartment on the ship had an Internet terminal in it and, since they were docked, they were patched into the base Internet system. They didn't dare turn any of these screens onto anything other than a music station however, nor did they dare monitor things on their PCs. There were security personnel on board the Mermaid too and, as Martians, it would be unwise to show much interest in the goings on down on the surface.

"Do you really think that Whiting is holding the capital building hostage?" asked Spacer third class Fairfield, a young black man in his first year of naval service. He was still young enough and dumb enough to take visible offense at his treatment by his Earthling shipmates. If he didn't get it under control right quick, he would find himself tossed out of the Navy and virtually unemployable before too much longer. Brett had already had a few talks with him about this.

"It sounds pretty wild, doesn't it?" Brett replied, careful to keep his voice down. They were descending the ladder from the galley area, carrying the last of the eggs from the supply room, which was connected to the spaceport dock by it's own airlock door. Since they were docked the Mermaid was connected to the base gravity generators and therefore under normal gravitation.

"It's sounds fuckin' crazy." Fairfield told him. "Can you believe those Earthling motherfuckers? Arresting Whiting? Just because..."

"Hush, Fairfield," Brett barked sharply, looking around nervously at the supply room which thankfully only contained one security person at the moment, and he was on the other corner watching two men pack up milk and powdered juice packages. "Remember where we are. Remember the talk we had. Be static."

"Yes sir," Ingram, his face scowling, nodded. "It's just that..."

"Shhhh," Jeff reiterated. "We'll talk later, once we get out of this ship. We'll go get ourselves a drink, okay?"

"Yes sir," he repeated, handing over a carton of eggs, which Jeff carried silently over to the pile by the airlock.

They continued to work, unaware that they would not be going to any bars for quite some time.

The Triad Primary control building was near the center of the city, in the worst neighborhood. It rose thirty stories above the street level and was surrounded on all sides by high-rise, low income housing complexes. The street level here was a dangerous place full of intoxicant shops, pawnshops, and massage parlors. The walls and even the ceilings were covered with graffiti of all sizes, colors, and sentiments, most of it illiterate, much of it anti-Earthling in nature. Each housing entrance lobby was a gathering place of the residents here. Most of them were unemployed and living off of the meager allowances of the welfare system. They sat out in front of their buildings hour after hour, day after day, smoking cigarettes of tobacco and marijuana and drinking Fruity. Crime was high in the neighborhood and, before the Whiting reforms of the past few months, there had been multiple incidents of control personnel being assaulted or robbed of valuables, enough incidents so that the Triad Police made a habit of hanging around the building at shift change time and escorting the workers to the tram station two blocks over.

The entrance to the building was much like the capital. Two guards armed with body armor and sidearms controlled access from behind a bulletproof layer of glass. The guards were watching an Internet screen and keeping half an eye on the pedestrian traffic walking back and forth in front of them. Currently the lobby was empty and there was not much going on. Shift change would not be for another three hours.

The channel they were watching was a MarsGroup channel of course. A live news broadcast was in progress from in front of the capital building. Nothing had changed there in the last hour. MPG troops could be seen in force out front and patrolling the perimeter. Pedestrians stayed well away from the goings on. Every once in a while they would clip to other shots; the FLEB building in New Pittsburgh, which was now under a similar guard, and the city jail, where it was believed that the FLEB agents had been taken. In Eden, news teams were reported to be heading for the entrance to the WestHem marine barracks where it was said that some sort of battle was going on.

"Governor Whiting," said a pretty female reporter of Asian descent, "has yet to make a statement of any kind in regards to the startling chain of events that has occurred today. It is unknown just where this will all lead. Speculation remains high that the only course of action that Whiting will be able to use is to give herself up to the WestHem authorities on a variety of charges, which now include murder. Like all Martians I find myself..."

"This shit is getting way out of hand," said Roger Ire, the first guard, to his partner. Like most Martians watching the events unfold he was in a state of shock and disbelief. "What's gonna happen to Whiting? They're gonna execute her when they finally get their hands on her."

"I'm not sure that they're going to get their hands on her," Julie Woo replied nervously. "This is starting to look more and more like... well..."

"What?" he asked.

"Like a rebellion," she said, saying the words that she had been thinking for the past hour. They sounded strange on her lips.

"A rebellion?" he asked, astounded and scared. "What kind of shit are you talking?"

"Think about it," she said softly. "The feds come to take Whiting into custody and the MPG fires on them. A few minutes later a whole group of MPG just appears out of the woodwork and secures the entire capital. There's a general call up of forces and now there are more MPG troops shooting it out with marines at the barracks. What does that all spell to you?"

Hearing her logic spoken out loud he had a hard time coming up with another explanation. "Damn," he said slowly. "Can we do that?"

"You mean legally?" she asked, looking at him as if he were a dumbass. "I'm pretty sure that WestHem considers it illegal to rebel against them."

"No," he said, pushing at her with his hand, "I mean physically. Do we have the manpower and the weapons to take this planet for ourselves?"

"I don't know," she said. "What if they ask you to fight?"

He thought about that for a minute. "I'd do it," he said. "Just give me a gun and I'm out there with them."

"Me too," she said.

Their chance to participate in the revolution came sooner than they thought. Their Internet screen changed from the news broadcast to the face of their supervisor. His expression was strange, a mixture of shock and excitement. "Julie, Roger," he barked at them, much too loudly. "There is a platoon of MPG troops heading your way. They are accompanying a Colonel. Let them into the building when they get here."

Julie and Roger looked at each other silently for a moment. What the hell was this about? MPG troops on Triad?

"Do you understand?" their supervisor asked.

"Yes," Roger finally replied. "What is this about? What are..."

"I don't have time to explain right now," he answered, which they correctly interpreted as 'I don't know'. "It's orders direct from Sanchez herself. Let them in when they get there and direct them to the VIP elevator."

"Right," Julie nodded.

"And let me know when they're on the way up."

They emerged out of the train platform and marched down the stairway. The stairwell was crowded with dangerous looking thugs hanging out, some of them undoubtedly waiting for fresh robbery victims. The thugs exited quickly as they saw forty MPG soldiers wearing tactical helmets and carrying M-24s out before them. Whatever was going on, they were certainly not going to mess with a platoon of soldiers in any way.

The troops formed a loose diamond formation after leaving the stairwell and began marching down the street towards the control building. A Triad Police officer who was talking to a young gang member about some outstanding warrants for theft saw them approaching and stared in disbelief. She had never seen anything like this before on the streets of Triad. What did it mean? She let the young man go about his business and walked up to the soldier on the point. The platoon halted before her and all eyes turned to her.

"What's going on here?" she asked a little nervously. Events at the capital and at the marine barracks had not escaped her attention and she could not help but draw the conclusion that they were related to this.

The soldier on point said nothing. Instead, a tall man, unarmed but wearing the rank of colonel approached her from the center of the formation. He stared at her, looking at her nametag on her right breast. "Officer Smith," he addressed her, "I'm Colonel Bright of the Martian Planetary Guard. We have been mobilized at the command of Governor Whiting and we are on our way to secure the control building."

"The control building?" she asked incredulously.

"The control building," he said levelly. "We have a mission to accomplish there. Is it your intention to try and stop us?"

"No, of course not, Colonel, but..."

"We are in haste, Officer Smith." Bright told her. "Things will become clear to you very quickly. Free Mars," he hailed using a greeting that had become commonplace since Whiting's inauguration.

"Free Mars," she replied back, smiling.

The soldier on point gave a signal and the platoon moved out again. Smith stepped aside, allowing them unimpeded passage. Bright stood until the center of the formation caught up with him and then he began to march once again.

Three minutes later they were at the entrance of the control building. Lieutenant Nguyen, the platoon commander approached the two glass encased guards and identified himself. The guards opened the doors without question, just as he'd been assured they would. He began barking orders.

"First squad, accompany Colonel Bright upstairs. Second and third squads, secure the outside of the building, fourth squad, come with me for inside security. Weapons tight people until told otherwise. Under no circumstances are you to fire on any Martians and that includes cops. If the feds show up, normal rules of engagement apply, self defense only unless they try to breach the building."

His four squad sergeants affirmed his orders and the soldiers began moving quickly to their destinations.

"Will the elevators take us where we need to go?" Colonel Bright asked Julie.

She seemed awed at his presence but answered quickly, "Yes, Colonel. We have orders to let you immediately up."

"Thank you." He began walking towards the elevators. His squad followed behind him

The elevator doors opened before them and the eleven men crowded inside. The elevator, like all of Triad, was under the influence of the artificial gravity system and the inertial damper. The elevator shot upwards towards the thirtieth floor of the building, the only indication that they were rising the changing numbers on the display. When it reached 30 the doors slid open to a small foyer tastefully decorated with modern art and couches. The carpet on the floor was threadbare but presentable. A uniformed guard stood before them.

"Colonel Bright?" he asked politely.

"That's me," Bright said, stepping forward and out of the elevator.

"Follow me, sir," the guard replied. "I have orders to take you to Mr. Sanchez and the main control room."

They were led down a long hallway and around two corners before coming to a steel security door. A computer terminal with a fingerprint analyzer was installed in the door. It was supposed to only allow access to authorized personnel. The guard placed his hand on the pad and the door slid open, revealing the large control room.

The control room was a crowded, busy place. Forty people were sitting at computer terminals monitoring all aspects of the orbiting city. They looked up as the doors opened, almost to a person. A tall Hispanic man walked over to Colonel Bright as his escorts crowded into the room and took up positions near the walls and windows. The two men appraised each other silently for a moment. Frank Sanchez, the watch commander of this shift, had been recruited for his part in the mission back in the planning stages. His counterparts on the other shifts had likewise been recruited. In this building, in this very room, was the key to success of their mission.

"Colonel Bright," Sanchez said loudly, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Welcome to the main control room. It is my honor to turn this facility over to the MPG in the interests of a free Mars."

There was a gasp from the assembled controllers, none of whom knew why Bright and his men were here. It was a shocked gasp but not an unhappy one.

"Thank you Mr. Sanchez," Bright replied. He turned to the controllers. When he'd recruited Sanchez he'd made sure that Sanchez would never allow anything other than a second generation Martian to work in this room. He didn't figure he would have any trouble with these people. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I am Colonel Bright of the Martian Planetary Guard. You have all heard of the events at the capital building and in Eden I'm sure so I will spare you the details of that. Let me say to you now that Mars is in the midst of a rebellion against WestHem rule. As I speak the MPG troops that Governor Whiting called up earlier today are making motions to secure the planet from WestHem forces. They will be successful as long as we can keep the WestHem marines trapped on their base. However the entire thing will be useless without a single key element that involves this room."

He peered at their faces, wondering how they would react to what he next had to say. "You're all Martians in here. Mr. Sanchez saw to that a long time ago. You know what WestHem rule has done to this planet. The time has come to put a stop to it. I need your help, people. You are the operators that control this orbiting city and the future of our rebellion now depends on the next two hours. I will ask you to act in the interest of Mars and Martian freedom. If you do not wish to participate you may stand up and be counted. You will be removed from the room and held until the forthcoming operation is complete and then you will be released. You will not be persecuted in any way for failing to assist and you will have the same opportunity to evaluate Governor Whiting's actions tomorrow. We will not compel a single person to participate. This is a voluntary revolution, people. So what do you say? Does anyone wish to stand?"

There was some murmuring but everyone remained in his or her seats. Colonel Bright smiled.

"I thank you," he announced. "Shortly we will begin." He turned his head to Sanchez. "Fred, have all voice and text communications from this building been halted?"

"They have, Colonel," Sanchez said with a nod. It had been done in fact, before the MPG had even entered the building. Secrecy was now paramount and they could not take the chance of word about what they were doing leaking out to the wrong ears.

"Good," Bright answered. He keyed up his communications link. "Get me Major Shaw."

"Shaw here," replied his second-in-command, who was with the bulk of the special forces battalion and who would lead the attack.

"We are in position," Bright told him simply. "Are you ready to execute?"

"We are," Shaw replied. "Standing by for go signal."

"Copy," Bright nodded. "Initiating now. Have the men stand to."

"Standing to," Shaw said, signing off.

Bright turned to Sanchez once more. For security reasons Sanchez, though a part of the conspiracy, did not know what Bright intended to do in the control building. He had simply supplied schematics, access, and promised to assist in any way possible once the time came to enact the plan. Bright sat before an empty Internet screen and called up the schematics he was looking for. "Mr. Sanchez, will you have your people shut down electric power and the trams in section 48-63, 64, and 65?"

Sanchez turned to controller in charge of electric service for those sectors. He ordered the shutdown and then did the same for the master tram controller. He saw immediately what Bright was doing and wondered how he had never managed to guess it before.

Triad Naval Base was not actually a part of Triad. It orbited two kilometers away from the edge of the city, far enough away so that the risk of the main city being accidentally struck by off-course naval vessels was at a minimum. But TNB and Triad were not completely independent of each other. When viewed from above, the two large structures seemed to be connected by three tiny hairs that stretched out from the west side of Triad to the east side of TNB. These hairs were actually steel tunnels through which freight trams and passenger trams carried people and supplies back and forth. They were the only way to move back and forth between the two places without boarding a space ship.

The sections that Bright had just ordered powered down were the ones that adjoined the connectors for Triad Naval Base. Although the trams that ran from Triad to the naval base were security controlled and separate from the rest of the city's system, and although TNB had it's own internal power supply that could not be controlled from Triad's control building, the power that ran the trams themselves came from Triad's power grid. With a simple command the trams came to a halt at the Triad end of the station. The interiors went dark as night, darker even, and the plan was under way.

"Shaw," Bright spoke into communication link.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"Everything's ready. Execute immediately."

"Executing."

He turned back to his screen and consulted the diagrams for a moment. "Sanchez, please open access hatches 3127 through 3150."

"Access hatches?" Sanchez asked, surprised. These were manholes in the street level that allowed access to the tunnels below the street. The tunnels carried sewage pipes, fresh water pipes, electrical and Internet lines. Were Bright's men down in the tunnels? It was absolutely brilliant.

"Yes, Mr. Sanchez. Open them now please."

"Carla," Sanchez said to the proper technician. "Open access hatches 3127 through 3150."

"Yes sir," Carla said, speaking to her terminal. "Hatches are open."

"And now," Bright said, "please cut power and Internet to section 29-50."

"The FLEB office," Sanchez said, repeating the command to another tech.

When this was done the waiting began.

They had marched for nearly six kilometers through the musty, smelly underworld of Triad. It was a dark, damp, crowded place, narrow and confined. Rats lived down there as well as entire species of bugs and spiders. Their combat goggles allowed them to see in what otherwise would have been complete darkness. Each member of each squad had a map of the complex as well as a map of Triad Naval Base and of their individual objectives programmed into their combat computers. The maps could be superimposed into their goggles allowing the image to seemingly float in the air before them. Each platoon of forty men was equipped with six hundred meters of primacord and the detonation equipment. They fanned out in the tunnels when they reached the staging point, every platoon going to a certain ladder beneath a certain access hatch.

Lon and his squad, who were assigned to second platoon, bravo company, took up position beneath hatch number 3140, which was directly below the southern passenger tram entrance to the naval base. "Okay, guys," he told his men as they waited, "we're gonna be less than sixty meters from the guard positions when we come up. The lights will be out and there will be a lot of confused civilians on the platform, so be careful. If we have to shoot be sure you have a positive ID on your target and be cognizant of where your stray rounds are going to be heading."

They were given the execute command and fifteen seconds later the access hatches slid open, directed to do so by the control room five kilometers away. Men began to climb as fast as they could, hefting themselves up the steel ladders in a controlled manner, separated from each other by a space of only two rungs. From twenty-three hatches, armored and armed men began pouring into the streets of Triad near the tram station that led to the Naval base.

The streets above were in chaos. People were huddled everywhere in corners and on the streets in fear of the pitch blackness that had suddenly engulfed them. Power outages were not unheard of in Triad but they never lasted more than five seconds or so, the amount of time it took for some computer to route a supply around whatever damaged area had caused the failure. In the buildings around them, elevators would be stopped, electric doors would be jammed shut, people would be in panic. It was a pity to do this to fellow Martians but it was needed.

The troops pouring from the access hatch formed into their squads and platoons as they emerged and handed up their heavier weaponry and their equipment packs. They began to move to their first objectives; the entrances to the tram tunnels that led to Triad Naval Base.

The main force, which consisted of two companies, headed for the primary personnel tunnel, since it would lead them to the main foyer of the base and drop them close to the vital control room. Another single company headed for the northern tunnel, which was a secondary entrance for ship crews and dock personnel. The last company of the battalion took the south tunnel, which was a freight tunnel though which fuel, supplies, and other staples entered the base after being shipped from the Triad civilian docks. It was this entrance where the first contact between MPG and Navy military police took place.

The freight loading platform was large and was staffed with a squad of MPs whose job it was to check each incoming train for infiltrators, bombs, or anything else. The MPs were no less confused than the civilians. They had no combat goggles so they were as blind as everyone else in this section of Triad. Their Internet screens had gone dark and they were trying to reach someone on the base over their back-up radio frequency, which did not rely on Internet cables, when the sounds of many feet and clanking armor appeared all around them.

"WestHem MPs!" boomed a voice from an amplifier. "You are surrounded by MPG troops! Surrender immediately or you will be fired upon. Drop your weapons to the ground, walk to the center of the platform, and lay down!"

Sergeant Broker was the twenty-three year old MP in charge of the five-man squad. He heard the voice just as he'd succeeded in getting through to the Naval Base MP barracks inside the main gate. He had heard the number of feet clomping around on the platform and knew that he held a useless position. His people were blind and horribly outnumbered. The greenies would have combat goggles on and probably had beads drawn on all five of them.

"Do what they say, guys," he commanded, his voice shaky with fear. "Do it now."

"Broker!" A voice replied from his radio channel. "What is going on there? Did you say the lights were out? I have reports from the main gate and the secondary of the same thing."

"This is Broker," he said. "My position is under attack from a large number of greenie troops. I am surrendering to them."

"Broker!" the voice yelled. "What did you say?"

He had time for no more. He left the link open so that they would at least be able to hear what was going on. He then walked to the center of the street with his hands in the air, moving gingerly in the darkness. His men did the same. They were quickly handcuffed with plastic ties and left lying on their bellies for the moment. The south gate had fallen without a shot being fired.

At the main gate platform things went a little differently. The MPs were more numerous and more confused by the unheard of darkness. There were also many more civilian and military people standing by the security checkpoints awaiting access to a train that was now stopped in the tunnel. When the MPG troops rushed onto the platform their commander yelled through the intercom for everyone to get down immediately.

The commanding MP was talking on his radio at that very moment.

"Lieutenant Beal," barked the confused voice of Lieutenant Smack back at the barracks. "I've just received a report that the main freight access platform is under attack by greenie troops. Expect trouble at your position, take up defensive positions."

"Greenie troops? But..." It was then that the announcement to get down boomed across them.

Beal was young and inexperienced at his job, only recently having been promoted to officer. He had no idea how many troops the MPG was throwing at him and did not consider the fact that they would have the advantage of sight on their side.

"We're under attack by the greenies," he yelled at his men. "Defensive positions, now!"

His men scrambled in the darkness, training their M-24s outward, unable to see a thing but able to hear the stomp of steel-toed boots and the clank of raising weapons. There were screams from the civilians trapped on the platform, the cries of children.

"MPs!" The voice boomed once more. "You're surrounded and your position is hopeless. Drop your weapons and move to the center..."

It happened fast and was over in seconds. One of the MPs unleashed a blast from his M-24 at the general direction of the voice. The bullets arced out and hit several civilians, putting them on the ground. Fortunately most of the civilians had taken the first piece of advice and gotten down. The other MPs opened fire also, Beal included. The darkness was filled with the thunder of automatic weapons and the nightmare strobe-light effect of the flashes.

The point platoon of the MPG reacted in less than half a second. Through their goggles they saw each MP and the flashes emitting from their weapons. They saw the white streaks of the hot shells flying at them. Thirty-six M-24s and four SAWs opened up as one, drowning out the roar of the MPs weapons. The Martian soldiers were trained well, each knowing what their field of fire encompassed. Eight of the fifteen MPs went down with the first bursts. Of the remaining seven, four of them tried to return fire and were cut down with the second burst. The remaining three, one of whom was wounded, threw down their weapons and cried surrender.

"Hold your fire," the platoon lieutenant barked over his command channel. The Martian guns fell silent at once, their thunder replaced by the hysterical cries of the civilian and military personnel that had been caught on the platform between the two groups of soldiers. He flipped on his intercom system again. "Civilians on the platform, remain where you are and do not move. MPs, walk unarmed to the center of the platform and lie down. NOW!"

The remaining MPs stood and, with hands raised, walked towards the center.

"Objective Green is secure," came the voice of Captain Evers, the commander of that section, over the command channel. "We had contact with the MPs and there are wounded enemy and civilians on the platform."

"Copy that," Shaw replied. He was a kilometer away, at the south tunnel with bravo company. "Are any of your men wounded?"

"Negative, sir."

"Get your medics in action once everyone is in the tunnel."

"Yes sir."

He then addressed all of his company commanders. "Okay Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and Delta companies," he said. "All tunnel entrances are secured. Move forward now and quickly. Heads up on the other side, the WestHems have been alerted. Weapons free but use your discretion. There are a lot of civilian and non-combatants in that base."

He received four acknowledgements and the next phase was begun.

At each of the three tunnels leading to Triad Naval Base the primacord was placed on the security doors that guarded the entrances that the trains used. The explosive material formed half ovals two meters wide by three meters high and detonators were attached. The troops stood back as safe distance from the doorways and the detonators were fired, exploding the cord and blasting neatly through the three-centimeter steel. In all three tunnels, at virtually the same instant, sections of doorway clanged to the ground, allowing entry to the MPG.

The commands to move came and, at each of the three tunnels, nearly two hundred troops rushed forward and through the newly created holes in the doors. A squad of infantry stayed behind at each platform for security and prisoner guarding. At the main entrance a squad of medics went to work on the wounded civilians and MPs.

The tunnels were two kilometers in length and thirty meters in diameter, each of them with two side-by-side magna tracks. The MPG special forces troops moved rapidly forward at not quite a double-time pace, weapons ready, infra-red enhanced eyes peering forward. Though complete surprise had been hoped for it had not been achieved. The WestHems knew they were coming and were probably scrambling troops to try and stop them. When they reached the other end of the tunnels, the fun would really start.

Commander Gravely was in command of the Triad Naval Base MPs. He was at his desk in front of his Internet terminal, supposed to be going over some budgetary figures but actually watching the Internet coverage of the events in New Pittsburgh with growing rage. What the hell did those greenies think they were doing? Firing on federal officers. Refusing to honor a valid arrest warrant. Holding all of the workers in the Martian Capital building hostage. There were even rumors that they were engaging WestHem marines down at the barracks entrance. The green bastards had gone too far this time and he relished the thought that the WestHem federal system was soon going to land on them with both feet. And about damn time too.

Things had gotten very bad since that bitch Whiting had been sworn in. What had once been simple animosity between Martians and WestHem had turned into vicious hatred that was often punctuated with violence. The naval personnel on the base were afraid to even go into Triad or down to the Martian surface for fear of being attacked by angry Martians. And now Whiting actually had MPG troops, which were under federal control for Christ's sakes, firing upon FLEB agents and holding hostages. He hoped that when this was all over they lined every one of those traitorous bastards up against a wall and...

His Internet terminal cleared, showing the face of Lieutenant Smack, the dispatch CO. "Commander," he yelled frantically, his faced flushed. He was obviously excited about something. "We need you in here right now. A serious situation is developing."

He almost asked for information right then, would have if not for the petrified expression on the Lieutenant's face. He acknowledged the request and stood, leaving his office and entering the dispatch center less than thirty seconds later. Five dispatchers sat at computer terminals, Smack included. Normally their jobs were to take calls from base personnel regarding matters that required an MP response and to route those calls to their available MP units. They weren't doing that now however. On all of their faces were expressions of disbelief mixed with fear.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"Sir," Smack reported, "five minutes ago we received radio reports from the access tunnel stations on the Triad side. All three reported that the lights and Internet had gone out and not come back on. Shortly after that, the main freight squad leader reported that he was under attack by greenie troops and surrendering his position. We then..."

"What?" Gravely yelled loudly enough to make everyone in the room jump. "Greenie troops? Attacking our MPs? And they surrendered?"

"Yes sir," Smack nodded rapidly. "And that's not all. A minute or so later the main gate on the Triad side reported they were under fire by the MPG. We haven't heard from them since. The north gate then reported they were overwhelmed and surrendering too. While we were trying to figure this out we received breach alarms on all three Triad to TNB tunnel doors."

"The cameras," Gravely barked. "In the tunnels. What do they show?"

"Nothing sir," Smack answered. "The power is out in them. The power supply for the tunnels comes from Triad, not from TNB."

"Those green sons-of-bitches," Gravely proclaimed, now beginning to feel fear himself. He thought for a second, wondering how bad this situation was. Greenie troops were moving through the access tunnels towards the main base. Why? What could they possibly do if they got there? A terrorist attack of some sort? How many of them were there? There couldn't be that many, could there? Where could you hide a large number of troops on Triad after all?

"What should we do, sir?" Smack asked.

"Move all available MPs to the three tunnel access points. Give them weapons free status and tell them that Martian infiltrators may try to break through. Send the bulk of them to the main personnel tunnel. That's right outside here and is the best access to the rest of the base. Alert TIRT and have them deploy with all of the heavy weapons they have." TIRT was the terrorist incident response team, a platoon of specially trained and equipped MPs kept on hand for just such an incident. Well, maybe not this sort of incident. No one had ever considered the possibility of an armed number of infiltrators attacking the base through the access tunnels.

"Yes sir," Smack replied, calmer now that someone else was calling the shots. He went to work.

Gravely sat down at an Internet terminal and activated it, giving his authorization code. "This is Commander Gravely," he told the computer. "On my authority set base to condition red zebra. All personnel to GQ stations."

"Order confirmed," the terminal replied. "Initiating condition red zebra."

Red zebra was the code for occupation of the city of Triad by enemy forces. Even during the Jupiter War it had not been initiated. All over the base doors between sections buzzed and slammed shut, latching securely and trapping people in their work areas or hallways between doors. Only MP personnel would be able to get through them and only after their IDs were confirmed both by the security computer and by visualization by command staff. The base was locked down tight as a drum.

"Get me Admiral Rosewood," Gravely told the computer next, referring to the commander of the naval base.

Rosewood was on the screen almost immediately. Obviously, when his door had slammed shut on him, trapping him with his secretary in his office and when the announcement came over his screen letting him know that his base was now on the highest level of alert it had ever experienced, he became a bit curious as to what was going on. A quick check revealed the source of the order. He could have instantly revoked it, and figured that someone had made a career-ending mistake, but he decided to see what the situation was first.

"Commander Gravely," he said, staring from the screen. "Did you order a condition red zebra?"

"Yes sir," Gravely answered. "I did." He then quickly explained the chain of events that led him to do this.

"That's absolutely insane!" Rosewood said after hearing the story. "Are you sure about this?"

"As sure as I can be, sir. I already saw the alarm displays on my screen. Sir, our tunnels have been breached and I have every reason to believe that MPG troops, unknown in number, are in those tunnels for unknown intentions. They do seem to have the ability to breach the doors when they wish however." He then explained the steps he had taken so far.

Rosewood seemed deep in a troubled thought. "Gravely," he asked, "what the hell would greenie troops want to attack this base for? Why would they risk the casualties it would produce?"

"I don't know, sir," Gravely answered. "I only responded to the information that..."

"Holy shit," Rosewood interrupted. "The ships in dock!"

"Excuse me, sir?" Gravely didn't see what that had to do with anything.

"Jesus. Mars and Earth are now nearly as far apart as they can get. Whenever that happens we move a large portion of our ships to Triad in case of trouble with the EastHems during this time. We have fifteen Owls and nine Californias in dock right now in addition to the pre-positioned container ships and all of the escorts. All of the personnel that man those ships are on this base right now. If they can take the base, they can deny us nearly a third of our naval forces. A third!"

Gravely stared blankly. "You don't really think..." he started.

"Why the hell else would they be attacking us?" Rosewood asked. "Your precautions should be enough to stop them, I hope, but send the TIRT to the dock entrances in case the Martians break out. I'm gonna have the crews report to their ships and scramble the fuck off of this base until this thing is settled. But you need to give me some time to do that and you need to allow ship personnel through the check points. Can you instruct the computers to do that?"

"Yes sir," he replied. "But it'll take a couple of minutes."

"Get moving on it. And call up all off duty MPs and have them report to either the docks or the gates."

"Yes sir. Should I..."

Alarms blared in the room, making everyone peer at their terminals.

"What the hell was that?" Rosewood asked.

Gravely looked at his screen and paled. "Sir," he told the admiral, "the tunnel doors into the base have just been breached."

"Which one?"

"All of them," he answered, fighting back panic. "At almost the same instant."

"Are your men in place?" Rosewood demanded, catching a little of the panic.

He consulted his screen briefly. "No sir. Most of them are still trying to get through the checkpoints. I have fifty men spread around the three tunnels with the heaviest concentration at the main."

"Shit," Rosewood said. "I hope that's enough."

Like before, most of the action took place at the main entrance. The primacord was detonated and a large hole was blown in the door. The MPG troops were deployed well back from the entrance, backs against the tunnel wall, bodies against the floor. The minute that the door was breached, automatic weapons fire began pouring in from the MPs stationed outside. Most of the shots simply ricocheted harmlessly off of the walls but some of them found their marks in the crowded tunnel. It was inevitable. Cries of "Medic!" began echoing over the tactical net.

The MPG machine gunners opened up, pouring fire through the hole as did the troops who's M-24s were equipped with grenade launchers. Their fire was marginal at best since they couldn't really see their targets too well, but some of the bullets found their marks and some of the grenades caused injury or death by exploding luckily near a deployed MP. Still the MPGs knew the same thing that the WestHem marines down in Eden had found out the hard way. They were vulnerable in the tunnel since they were pinned into a narrow corridor. Here the difference that kept them from being routed out and pushed back to the loading platform was the fact that the doors were not completely missing. There was still solid steel to either side of the hole that had been blasted, allowing cover and a firing position for a limited amount of soldiers. Using this small place of safety to best advantage, men were stationed there to keep the approaches clear of MPs. But still, it quickly became clear that an easy break out was simply not in the cards. There were too many MPs out there and, though they didn't have combat goggles or combat computer support, they were able to lay down a field of fire that was accurate and concentrated enough to make a casualty out of anyone who tried to push out. The invasion of the base would not take place as planned right here.

At the south freight tunnel things were going easier. Once the door was breached the fire was sporadic and light from the opposition on the other side. They had not had a chance to deploy in any significant numbers. The special forces platoons that made up bravo company pushed forward to the entrance and poured machine gun fire and grenades out into the deployed MPs with much greater accuracy and effect. Squads began to pour through the hole into the freight storage and unloading platform beyond it. Here the training that they had been engaging in on the inside of the MPG base — training that they had not understood while they were undertaking it — began to make sense and show its effectiveness in the fight. Like a well-oiled machine, man after man passed through the doorway and rolled either to the left or the right, their eyes searching to acquire targets, their hands and arms adjusting their rifles and than firing at muzzle-flashes and moving figures. There were some casualties taken of course but the sheer speed with which they exited the tunnel kept them to a minimum.

Lon and his men were part of the second group through the door. They spit up into two elements, half moving to the left, half to the right. Lon and the four men with him concentrated their fire on a group of three MPs that were hiding behind an electric forklift and sniping at the men emerging from the tunnel. Lon sent three of his men further right to flank them as he and private Matza on the SAW provided covering fire. The flanking maneuver worked admirably and soon the three MPs were gunned efficiently down with a combination of grenades and automatic weapons fire. From that point on the tunnel exit was clear and Lon's squad moved off to the right flank to help silence the rest of the opposition. The remaining MPs that they encountered began to throw down their weapons and surrender. Each of them were handcuffed with the plastic ties and put down on the ground.

In all, it took less than ten minutes before the loading platform was secure and a beachhead of sorts was established. Medics were brought forward to care for the wounded Martians and, when the time was found, the wounded MPs as well. Major Shaw, who had been lingering in the rear of the column during the firefight, came forward and surveyed the first section of the Triad Naval Base to come under MPG occupation.

"Good job," he told the men. "Now let's push onward. You know your objectives so let's go secure them before they have a chance to gear up to a real defensive posture."

They spit into two elements and headed for the two large corridors at the far end of the platform, corridors that led further into the bowels of the base. The doors guarding them had slammed shut and locked in response to the red zebra condition. Teams went to work putting primacord on them.

Before they had a chance to blow the doors however, Shaw got a vital update on the other elements of the battle. The north freight tunnel, which alpha company was assigned to, had been breached and its entrance station captured with only three killed and four wounded. At Shaw's direction they too began preparing to move further into the base towards their own objective: the docking complexes and the ships that were at anchor there.

But Charlie and Delta companies, in charge of breaching the main gate in the center, had a different story to tell.

"We're pinned down in the tunnel," Captain Evers, the commander in charge of this force told Shaw over the radio net. In the background he could hear the chatter of weapons fire and the hollow booms of explosions. "We won't be able to break out without taking heavy casualties. And every minute we wait, more MPs show up."

"How bad are casualties so far?" Shaw asked him.

"Twelve wounded, six dead."

"Hang tight for a few," Shaw ordered. "I'm gonna send you some help. Wait for my order and then initiate the breakout."

"Copy," Evers replied.

Though the situation Evers found himself in was bad, it was not something that had been unanticipated. "Armand!" Shaw barked into the air, not bothering to use the radio since the object of his yell was standing less then ten meters away.

"Sir?" responded Armand, the commander of Bravo company, as he trotted over.

"Break loose a squad with a hundred meters of primacord and one SAW. We need to flank the MPs on the main entrance before Charlie and Delta can break out. Have them go weapons free by the quickest route and stand by. I'm gonna send a squad from Alpha over to hit the north flank too. Who would be squad leader you're sending?"

Armand thought for a moment. "I'll send the third squad from second platoon," he said. "Sergeant Fargo."

"Good," Shaw said, nodding in approval. He knew Lon personally and was impressed with him. "Get them moving. Fargo will probably be the senior NCO so he'll be in charge of this makeshift platoon under the direct orders of Captain Evers."

"Yes sir," Armand replied.

"Send the rest of your company to their objective but leave another squad here with two SAWs for beachhead security. If this base isn't secured in the next hour, it's never going to be."

"Yes sir," Armand said, switching his radio frequency.

Lon and his squad were called over and given their new orders. He absorbed the information quickly and then consulted his map of the base to find out the best means of getting to the main pedestrian platform. It took him only a minute or so of study to lock in on a course of action. "Let's go people," he told his men. "The sooner we get there, the less Earthlings we'll have to fight."

They made their way across the loading platform to the north side of it, where a small access corridor — its door sealed shut of course — led along the perimeter of the base. Horishito, one of the two men carrying the large coils of primacord, placed a length of it on this door and then set a detonator in it.

"Third squad, breaching side door now," he announced over the command net. There were quite possibly MPs waiting on the other side of the door and his men pointed their weapons in preparation. Part of the security squad that had already been in position trained theirs too.

"Go ahead, Hoary," Lon told him once everyone was in position.

Horishito blew the door, sending it crashing to the floor. No fire came through hole that had been made and his men advanced slowly and carefully to the sides. They took quick glances through the hole finding no MPs but about ten civilian personnel already lying peacefully on the floor, their hands behind their heads, begging the men that they assumed to be heartless terrorists not to shoot them. Lon and the others dashed into the room and secured it, ordering the civilians through the hole and into the main loading area where they joined those already taken prisoner. They then began to move towards the main tunnel entrance nearly a kilometer away.

Admiral Rosewood had moved to the command post in the main TNB control room. This room was a much larger version of the main control room for Triad since it also was responsible for controlling docking, power, gravitation, and traffic control of the naval vessels in port. Sixty-four controllers worked at computer terminals and monitored security camera displays. They watched in disbelief at the events unfolding around them. Rosewood understood.

He now had a better idea of what he was up against and, as such, he feared for his safety and the security of his base now. Thanks to digital camera images that had been taken before the cameras had been shot out, he knew that he had enemy troops in company strength fanning out from two directions, from two different tunnels into vital parts of the base. The blast doors were presenting no problems for them; they were simply blasting them open with primacord. A third company — at least he assumed it was a company — he had yet to get an image of it — was still pinned down in the main tunnel by the MPs. That wouldn't last long he feared. He could see squad strength concentrations moving in on the main gate through other tunnels, obviously to reinforce and flank. He had no MPs to spare to try and stop them, he couldn't even offer more than token resistance to the companies that were moving deeper into the base by the minute. One of them was heading, as he'd initially suspected, directly toward the space docks where access to the 43 docked ships could be had. The TIRT team as well as about twenty regular MPs, were in position there but, even with the heavy weapons, they would not be able to stand up to a company for very long. His attempt to get the crews to their ships to scramble them had been inspired but useless. It had taken too long and their access was now cut off by the advancing MPG.

He had never felt so out of his element in his life. He was a naval admiral, not a ground combat soldier and he was ill equipped to deal with this situation. He had sent off a report to Earth but the length of communications meant that he could expect no reply for nearly three hours. By then the base and all of its ships, all of its highly trained naval personnel, could very well be in Martian hands. And the pre-positioned container ships with the marine division's equipment on board! If they got their hands on those ships, it would nearly double the MPG's inventory of tanks, artillery, and other heavy weaponry! That simply could not be allowed!

It was the thought of these container ships and the marines they were meant for that gave him a glimmer of hope. There were twelve thousand marines down on the surface of Mars! Twelve thousand marines with M-24s, SAWs, and hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition. And there were lifter craft capable of bringing those marines directly to the naval base in a short amount of time.

He turned to the terminal that he was using for communications. "Get me General Sega down at EMB," he said. "Highest priority!"

A few seconds went by and the computer told him, "General Sega is not taking calls at the moment. Would you like his mail server or would you like to..."

"I'd like you to get him on line," Rosewood interrupted. "Go through whoever you have to and tell them that this is a matter of federal security that supercedes whatever he is dealing with down there."

"Attempting to recontact," the computer dutifully told him.

Another minute went by before Sega's face came on the screen, impatience clearly showing. "John," he said, "I hope this is important because we've just been hit by the MPG. I've got a bunch of dead marines over here and a bunch of greenie ass that I'm getting ready to kick. And I'm not gonna take any fuckin names either."

"It's important," Rosewood assured him, dismissing the startling news about the marine base for the moment in light of his own problems. "I'm having some greenie trouble of my own up here. My base is under attack."

This put a sobering expression on Sega's face. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly.

"They hit the access tunnels about fifteen minutes ago," he explained. "Uniformed and armed MPG soldiers, complete with M-24s, squad automatic weapons, combat goggles and combat computers. It looks like they're in battalion strength."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Sega said, paling as he heard this. "How are you holding?"

"Not too well," Rosewood admitted with a certain amount of shame. "They've breached all three of the tunnels on the base side and two of their elements are now moving through the base. We have another element pinned down in the main tunnel but the greenies have reinforcements enroute to flank my men. I need some help up here. My MPs and my TIRT team are not going to be able to hold for very long."

"Our equipment ships are up there," Sega said. "If the greenies get their hands on those..."

"I have forty-eight front-line naval vessels up here as well," Rosewood interjected. "As well as the crews that operate them. That's nearly a third of the WestHem navy. I would say that this problem is one that requires immediate attention. How soon can you get me some marines up here?"

Sega considered for a moment. "I can load a battalion into two C-12s and get them launched in about twenty minutes if I put a rush on the pilots," he said. "Once in flight, it'll take them about ninety minutes to dock with you. Can you hold that long?"

Rosewood looked at his display doubtfully. "I don't know," he said. "We're outnumbered and outgunned by the greenies. I don't even know where the hell they came from or how they got up to Triad without anyone noticing, but there a shitload of them up here."

Sega now looked a little embarrassed. "Well," he said slowly, "there were reports last night of a large number of MPG troops transporting up to Triad in C-10s."

"What?" Rosewood said, a glare developing on his face. "And nobody thought to mention this to me?"

"It was assumed that it was just one of those bizarre training missions that the greenies are always doing," Sega said. "How the hell were we supposed to know they were going to attack TNB?"

"Jesus," Rosewood said, shaking his head. "What a clusterfuck." He didn't dwell on the how of the problem and the assignment of blame for the time being. "Norm," he said, "I'll try to keep those greenies contained but I really don't know if I'm going to be able to hold until your marines get here. If that company we have pinned in the main tunnel manages to break out, they'll head directly for this command post. If they take it, I won't be able to initiate docking for your transports."

Sega paused, seeming to think for a second. Finally, gingerly, he said, "John, with all due respect, would you mind downloading me a situation schematic? I know that you're above reproach as a naval officer but what you're dealing with now is more along the lines of my profession. Maybe I can..."

"Norm, the download is on the way. I'll do more than take advice from you, I'll put the defense of this base directly under your control."

"I think that's a good idea. I'm assuming control of TNB defense as of now." He paused again while Rosewood instructed his computer to send a copy of his schematics across. Once it arrived he spent a few minutes staring at it intently. "John," he said when he came to a decision, "I need you to pull your men out of the dock area and move them to guarding your command post."

"But the ships..." Rosewood started.

"The ships can't leave or do anything without commands from where you sit. The MPG won't be able to do anything with them until they have the command post secured. Trust me. You must keep them from taking that command post at all costs until my marines can dock. That means you put every available man with a weapon in front of and inside of the building. I'll upload a deployment schematic for you as soon as I have it."

"Okay, it'll be done."

Sega's office looked out over the troop assembly area adjacent to the airlock complexes. From his desk he was able to see the huge, cavernous room that contained the flight area, where his C-12s were sitting idle, and the outside assembly staging. There were ten outdated tanks down there that had nothing but training ammunition to fire as well as twenty-five outdated APCs with the same problem. The vehicles were being ignored as the brigade he had tasked to take the MPG base - those that were left of it anyway - came out of the locker room one by one in their bulky biosuits. They assembled in their pre-determined positions, exactly one arm length apart, their weapons slung over their right shoulders. Soon they would exit through the airlocks and move overland to the main city, where they would breach a hole in the wall, causing the loss of pressure in that particular section. The blast doors surrounding the section would slam down and the marines would enter. They would then seal the hole that they had entered through, thus retaining the integrity of the section, and re-flood it with air by drilling holes through into the undamaged portions of the city. Once the pressure was equalized, they would blast through another wall and start heading for the base. This was the textbook manner of assaulting a pressurized city or structure, something that had been practiced many times but that had never actually been attempted in real combat positions, neither by WestHem or EastHem.

Satisfied that the Martian portion of his plans was going forth as scheduled, Sega instructed his computer to get Colonel Summers, commander of his third brigade, on the screen. Summers and his men were currently gearing up in the locker rooms so that they could move out through the interior gates once they were liberated from the greenies.

"Summers here, General," he said once he came on line.

"Summers," Sega said, "there's a bit of a situation going on up at the naval base. I'll need you to break loose one of your battalions to deal with it."

"A situation, sir?"

"Greenies are attacking TNB," Sega said. He then explained the details as quickly as he could.

"Those motherfuckers," Summers said, outraged. "We'll kill them. We'll absolutely murder them, General!"

"I'll be satisfied if you just prevent them from gaining control of the base," Sega told him. "Scrounge up two of our flight crews and start loading your best battalion into those lifters. I want you launching within thirty minutes."

"Yes sir," Summers said, signing off.

Sega gave a quick call to Rosewood to tell him that help would be leaving shortly. Nothing had changed up there - the greenies that had already broken out were still moving through the base, the ones that were pinned down were still stationary, and the ones who were attempting to flank the gate were moving into position.

"Thanks, John," Rosewood told him gratefully. "The shifting of troops from the docks to the control room is underway now. If we can keep those greenies contained in the tunnel for a few more minutes, we might be able to keep them in there indefinitely."

"Yes," Sega said sourly, thinking of the hundreds of casualties he had just suffered under such circumstances. "It's not that hard to do."

He had no sooner signed off from this transmission than two flight crews for the C-12s came rushing out of their ready shack to begin firing up their spacecraft. Ground crewmen followed them out and immediately started the process of hooking starter carts up so that the pre-flight checks could begin. Sega watched in satisfaction as they went about their work. The sooner his marines got up to Triad, the better chance they would have of safeguarding the pre-positioned equipment. And if they were able to do that, he thought, maybe it would become necessary to bring a few tanks and APCs down for his marines to use in retaking the planet. After all, the MPG were using such things in their defense of Eden. It would probably be prudent to fight fire with fire as it were.

Optimism flooding through him, Sega's state of mind shifted almost without his realizing it. Instead of worrying if he was going to be able to safeguard his equipment, he began speculating just what to do with it when it was secured. Surely he wouldn't need an entire division worth of tanks and APCs would he? Probably a brigade's worth would be sufficient. That way he could divide them up into four company-sized units and send one to each of the MPG occupied cities. And as for artillery, well, he wouldn't be needing any of that at all. This would strictly be an indoor conflict, wouldn't it?

As the 640 armed troops slated to head to Mars came marching out of the locker room, their weapons ready, their ammunition and supply backs upon their backs, Sega called up some planning software on his computer and began to formulate just how he was going to retake Eden and the other three cities. As the marines marched up the ramp and crowded into the two surface to orbit craft for the ninety minute trip to Triad, he had the bare beginnings of his plan already formulated.

"General Sega," came Summer's voice over the terminal a few minutes later. "We're loaded up and ready to launch."

Sega glanced at him, giving a little smile. "Very good," he said. "I'm looking at Rosewood's tactical display. The greenies are still moving through the base towards the docks and the housing areas but the main force of them are still pinned in the tunnel. I've ordered all defenders to cover the base control building. There's a good chance the main force of greenies will have broken out of the tunnel by the time you get there, but Rosewood's MPs should hopefully be able to hold them from actually taking control of the place. In any case, it is absolutely vital that you secure that building as quickly as possible. The entire base, not to mention all of the ships at anchor, are controlled from there."

"Understood, General," Summer said. "Can you keep updated schematics of the situation at TNB flowing to me and my men? That would be very useful in letting us know exactly where to land and in what direction to move once we clear the C-12s."

"I'll see to it," he promised. "Now have your pilots get moving. Time's wasting."

"Yes sir," Summer told him, offering a salute before signing off.

While the main assault brigade preparing to march out across the wastelands was still assembling, the first of the giant C-12 lifters released it's brakes and powered up its maneuvering thrusters, filling the flight deck with the roar of a hydrogen rocket motor. The brakes were released and the 350 passenger craft began to creep across the floor towards the airlock complex on the far side of the room. The first set of steel doors was standing invitingly open. The C-12 made its way inside and the doors slowly slid shut behind it, sealing it from the rest of the room. The airlock then began its cycle, expelling the majority of the air out into the atmosphere.

Two kilometers away, a ten-man squad of Major Chin's infantry soldiers were huddled inside of a forward defensive trench. The trench was fifty meters long, a meter and a half deep, and had the entire top lined with heavy sandbags filled with dense industrial shavings. The trench had been built more than ten years before as part of the basic line of defense against EastHem invasion. It was but one of more than a thousand such positions in the Eden vicinity alone. The squad had been in their position since being deployed the night before, their mission to help pin the marines inside of their base. They had been staring at the same view all night long and through much of the morning. All were tired but remained alert, especially since the word of what was happening at the main gate of the base inside the city had reached them.

It was one of the privates of this squad, a twenty-one year old junior member of the MPG, that first spotted something different in their area of responsibility. One of the massive airlock doors that led from the interior of the base to the paved flight tarmac was slowly sliding open along its track. "Movement at the airlocks," he reported, gripping his M-24 tighter against him. "Number three lock is opening."

Around him the other soldiers of his squad stiffened up, peering through the gaps in the sandbags that they were nearest to, readying their own weapons. The SAW gunner racked a round into his chamber and gripped the handles of his weapon. The squad sergeant, a twenty-six year old delivery truck driver for an Agricorp subsidiary company, took a quick look himself just to confirm that what his private had reported was true, and then pointed his own weapon outward.

"Okay, guys," he said, his voice betraying no nervousness. "Looks like the Earthlings are making their move. Get ready to light them up when I give the word. I'll get on the link to command."

As the airlock slowly ground along its track, the sergeant talked to his lieutenant, who was in a trench six hundred meters to the southwest. The lieutenant then talked to his captain, who was in an APC a half a kilometer further west of that. The captain then told the rest of his command and then switched to the artillery channel, telling the three batteries of mobile guns that they had available for their operation to stand by for a mission.

"You know the drill, guys," the captain announced to everyone over the tactical net. "As soon as they start to emerge from the airlock, start putting some fire on them. If they continued to advance, we'll plaster them with arty. If that doesn't drive them back inside, the tanks and the APCs will move up and tear into them."

The Eden MPG forces, for security reasons, had no idea what was going on up on Triad. Therefore they had no reason to think that the airlock was going to be used as it was intended: to launch a spacecraft. Everyone was braced for the rush of marines to come pouring out of the large doorway, probably in at least battalion strength, possibly in regimental strength.

It was the squad sergeant that was first to identify the true nature of their enemy. Instead of the forms of hundreds of biosuited marines, he saw the sleek shape of a modern C-12 surface to orbit lifter when the door finally opened enough to allow a visual. "That's a fuckin C-12," he yelled in bewilderment. "Hold your fire." He keyed up the command net. "There are no troops in that airlock," he reported. "It's a C-12 lifter. I repeat, a charlie-one-two surface to orbit lifter is the only thing in that airlock!"

His report was quickly passed up the chain of command and the order to hold fire was quickly passed back down. This took less than thirty seconds to accomplish, during which time the C-12 utilized its rear maneuvering thrusters and began to edge out of the lock towards the launching area a kilometer away.

Major Chin, who was in the base command post, instinctively wanted his tank crews to move in and blow the living crap out of. But then he had second thoughts. The C-12 was undoubtedly full of hydrogen and liquid oxygen, enough to blast it free of the Martian atmosphere and elevate it up to geosynchronous orbit. If the tank rounds or the lasers were to ignite this mixture in just the right way, the resulting explosion would wipe out a good portion of the airlock complex that the craft had emerged from. MPG doctrine was not to cause needless casualties to the enemy, especially not when the base that they occupied might be useful to your own forces after you took it. He quickly contacted General Jackson for instructions.

"A C-12?" Jackson said, frowning a little. He did not, however, seem particularly surprised by this. "Just one?"

"Yes sir," Chin said, looking at his tactical display. "I have no idea what they're hoping to accomplish by launching spacecraft."

"There's a special forces operation taking place on Triad," Jackson said, figuring it was safe enough to let that particular cat out of the bag since it was well underway now. "They're probably trying to get some marines up to reinforce the navy forces up there. We can't allow them to dock."

Major Chin smiled at the information he had just been given. Special forces up on Triad? Naval forces engaged? That could only mean that the MPG was trying to take the naval base and the ships at anchor there. He silently wished them luck and then returned to business. "My tank crews have a bead on it," he told Jackson. "Should we try to take it out without hitting the fuel tanks? We could probably put a few rounds low and take out the gear."

"No," Jackson said, shaking his head. "Too risky. Let it proceed unmolested to the launch pad and lift off. We'll take care of it once it's in the air."

"Yes General," he said.

The C-12 rolled slowly across the tarmac of the exterior base, its occupants completely unaware that hundreds of Martian eyes were peering at it, that dozens of anti-tank lasers were pointed at it, that a battery of artillery guns were tracking it. It was painted in Martian camouflage colors, patterns of red, like all Mars assigned ships and it was filled to overfull with 340 angry marines packing M-24s, grenade launchers, and SAWs. The marines had been hurriedly briefed on what the situation in Triad was. The greenies were trying to take the base. The greenies! They were outraged by the very thought of this and they were eager to land on the base and kick some green ass. They could also show the navy pukes a thing or two about defense while they were at it.

Five minutes after leaving the airlock, the spacecraft rolled to the launching platform and stopped. The platform latched onto the ship and lifted it to the textbook sixty-degree launch angle. Inside the passenger compartment the marines sat in continued comfort thanks to the inertial damping system. They felt the thrum as the engines slowly cycled up and then dropped back. They waited, gripping their weapons. In ninety minutes they would be docked and deploying. The greenies were going to get a little more than they bargained for.

The Eden area regional command building for the MPG was located six kilometers west of the main base in the unsavory neighborhood of Helvetia Heights. Even in times of absolute peace it was necessary to guard the building with a full platoon of armed MPG soldiers and to escort the workers to and from the tram stations lest they be molested by the gangs that ruled the streets here. On this day however, while the building was rapidly filling with recently called up MPG workers, a full company of infantry had been sent over from the main base and were now deployed around and inside of the building and all the way to the nearest tram station six blocks away. The street thugs were smart enough to keep well clear of the area. The MPG soldiers did not seem to be in a playful mood.

Inside the building the excitement was electric as word was passed about recent events at the capital and the marine barracks. Rumors flew in all directions. On the sixth floor was an office labeled "REGIONAL AIR DEFENSE". Inside this office were fifteen technicians, many of them women, who were monitoring the airspace in a ten thousand square kilometer range around Eden. Orders had already been sent out to the civilian spaceport to halt all flights to or from Eden until further notice. For the first time since the Jupiter War, there was not a single craft in the air or in transit to or from the surface.

The air defense commander, Robert Vendall, had not been briefed in about the events that were now taking place on the planet but he, like most of the people in the building, had long since glimmered that a revolution was now under way. As such, when he received a very powerful order from General Jackson himself, he did not question it and was proud to be the man to carry it out. He in fact had every intention of forcing any man or woman from the room if they hesitated for an instant in following his commands.

"Section four and six," he said into his terminal, speaking to the controllers that manned, or in this case, womanned, the tracking terminals for that particular section of the city. "A C-12 will be launching from EMB in less than five minutes. Charge your lasers and lock onto it as it ascends."

"Yes sir," came the duel reply. The women spoke commands into their screens.

On the northern fringes of Eden, just outside the city perimeter, two fixed anti-aircraft laser sites came to life. Their covers slid open and the stubby barrels of their 150mm cannons pointed upward. The lasers charged up, an operation that took about fifteen seconds, receiving the power from a cable that ran from Eden's main grid. If this supply were to fail, something that could happen in time of war, each laser had a self-contained hydrogen powered generator beneath it. The barrels swung back and forth restlessly as their human controllers, peering through infrared magnifiers that were attached to the top of the laser and down linked to their screen, searched for a target.

The pilot of the C-12 received his launch order. He ran the engines up to one hundred percent thrust and the entire craft began to shake as hydrogen was burned and expelled with great force out the back of the craft. It shot quickly up the launch platform and streaked into the red sky. Inside, the marines watched the ground drop rapidly away below them as they flew out over the greenhouse complexes and the frozen wastelands of Mars.

"We're coming to get you, you fuckin greenies," a young corporal yelled out triumphantly.

His call was met by enthusiastic cheers from his comrades.

"I have the C-12," the first controller said calmly. And so she did. The infrared plume from the spacecraft's engines was glowing brighter than the sun.

"Me too," said her counterpart on the other gun.

"Lock onto them," Vendall ordered.

"I have a lock."

"I have a lock."

The anti-aircraft lasers revolved on their axis, following their targets remorselessly, awaiting their own orders.

"Altitude and range?" Asked Vendall.

"Passing through twelve thousand meters," came the answer. "Sixty kilometers downrange."

"Are they past the edge of the agricultural complexes?"

"Just about."

Vendall nodded, his face expressionless. "Fire."

The two controllers looked at each other for a moment and then at their commander, perhaps wondering if they'd misunderstood him.

"I said fire," he repeated. "Do it now!"

Another brief look passed between the two women but they followed their orders. Two fingers reached down to two buttons and pushed them.

The effect on the C-12 was instantaneous. The quarter second laser pulses burned through the steel of its engine compartment and the delicate thruster engines exploded, sending a rain of steel fragments out in all directions. The spacecraft shuddered violently and began to spin, continuing upward through sheer inertia but rapidly feeling the effects of the Martian gravity pulling it back down. Inside the passenger compartment the inertial damper died at once and the marines, none of whom were wearing their safety harnesses, were thrown against each other violently and tossed about the cabin. Unfortunately for them, the cabin had not depressurized from the strike, an act that would have left them mercifully unconscious. The pilot, who was wearing his safety harness, tried desperately to power up the maneuvering thrusters, which were used for landings on the surface, but his display was dead and dark, the APU attached to the engines destroyed. He knew it was hopeless but he kept trying anyway. Out his windscreen the ground, far below him, was spinning madly around.

The C-10 finally reached the limit of it's forward momentum and started downward in a ballistic arc, spinning lazily all the way like a pencil that has been tossed by the hand of a child. It took nearly five minutes before the craft met the stony Martian soil eighty kilometers from Eden and smashed itself and everyone in it to oblivion.

Lon and his company were now nearly in position. They had been moving section by section through the perimeter corridor of the base, blasting open the doors with primacord as they came to them. These doors were situated every one hundred meters and were monitored by security cameras up on the walls, cameras that fed directly to the main control building. His men shot out the cameras as they went, knowing that it was a case of closing the barn door after the horse had gotten out, but doing it as a matter of course anyway. At each door they blew they braced for MPs on the other side. At each one they found nothing except the occasional unarmed military person whom they advised to march back to the main loading area to be taken prisoner.

"People wandering around by themselves might get hurt," Lon advised each of these people. "Announce yourself well before you get to the last door and keep your hands up. I'll let them know you're coming."

All of them did just exactly as they were told, surrendering themselves to the Martians. Lon announced each one's presence to the sergeant in charge of securing the docks and told him to expect them.

At the eighth door they passed, two before their new objective, some MPs were trying to pass through the security point. They made the lethal mistake of firing at the new hole in the door and were cut down in less than two seconds, their bleeding, dead bodies crashing to the steel deck in a heap.

"Idiots," Lon commented, before moving his men forward.

The ninth door revealed a deserted corridor. They moved to the tenth and Lon halted his squad in place. On the other side of that door was the main entrance to TNB, the place where the MPs were pinning down Charlie and Delta in the tunnel. He contacted Captain Evers on the command link.

"Fargo to Evers," he said. "We are in position, awaiting orders."

"Stand by for movement orders," Evers told him. Lon could hear the sound of small weapons fire in the background. "The other reinforcement squad is still moving in. They made contact with a squad of MPs in one of the corridors and this slowed them down a bit."

"Copy that," Lon said.

"I'm sending you a schematic of the known enemy position and strength out there. We're gonna move ASAP because the longer we wait, the more of them show up."

His combat computer beeped with an incoming download. Lon called up the schematic and it superimposed itself over the map of his objective. He could see the layout of the base main entrance area floating before him but now there were symbols representing enemy concentrations. Red marks indicated known positions, yellow marks indicated suspected positions. There were more yellow than red. He ordered his computer to download the information to the rest of his squad. They waited.

General Sega was following the advance of the greenie flanking position on his screen, noting with alarm that they were now both in position. He expected them to move in and hit the defenders with a brutal cross fire any time now. It would be touch and go for the MPs guarding the base entrance and the command post. Only about a quarter of the troops he'd shifted from the dock area were in place and he foresaw heavy casualties on their part when the greenies finally initiated contact. He hoped they could hold for another ninety minutes.

Now that the first ship was in the air and the second was clearing the airlock, he looked out over the assembly area. Almost all of the troops assigned to take the MPG base were now geared up and ready to roll. He expected them to start heading out through the personnel airlocks shortly.

Sega, aside from being a career military man was also the holder of a master's degree in military history. A part of him analyzed the moves that the Martians had made so far and couldn't help but be impressed. Imagine the MPG pulling off something like the assault on Triad. Imagine them even conceiving of it. Like most Earthlings he held a low opinion of Martians and their intelligence. After all, where had the majority of Martians originated? They'd come from the ranks of the hopelessly unemployed, the welfare recipients of the Post World War III era. Vermin were their forefathers, hopping on a ship and traversing across the solar system to a godforsaken dirtball in space just to hold a job. It never occurred to him to remember that this was the same manner in which the states of California, Texas, and Alaska had been founded. How the countries of Australia and South Africa had begun. Though a student of history he'd failed to learn an important lesson from it. He was missing something big but could not put his finger on it.

The sensation nagged at him as he watched the three columns of red symbols march rapidly forward on his TNB display, pausing for approximately two minutes at each door in the station, the length of time it took for their primacord teams to cut through it. They had assaulted TNB brilliantly in what was obviously a pre-planned and pre-staged invasion. Their intentions were clear: to seize the base and gain control over the ships and personnel on it, denying WestHem of a good portion of their navy. It smacked of a carefully thought out and planned operation. Someone had even entered a counter-plan in the event that one of the attacking companies became trapped in the tunnels. Had whoever planned this not considered the fact that there were twelve thousand armed marines only ninety minutes away in Eden? Surely anyone who planned this operation would have taken that factor into consideration, wouldn't they?

Was there some sort of nasty surprise awaiting his men up in the orbiting city? What sort of plan could be in place to prevent reinforcement? The front of his brain assured him that the Martians had counted on seizing the base so quickly that reinforcements would not have time to arrive. This answer did not feel right however. The Martians were gambling heavily on this operation, which could only be the opening move in a full-blown revolt, a war of independence. They had planned smartly and well so far. They had to have some sort of contingency plan to keep reinforcements from taking back the station from them. What was it?

The answer was so obvious and was staring him in the face so closely that he did not see it until the base control tower urgently called him.

"General Sega!" shouted the excited Lieutenant in charge of the tower crew. Even looking at the two dimensional image on the Internet screen, Sega knew by the man's face that major trouble had just showed it's head.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" he asked tonelessly, bracing himself.

"The C-12 has disappeared off of the screen! It's gone, sir! It's fuckin' gone!"

"Lieutenant," Sega addressed, feeling dread worming its way into his stomach, "I need you to calm down immediately and give me a short, concise report on whatever the hell you're talking about. Start with what C-12 we're discussing here and work your way forward in chronological order from there. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir, I'm sorry, sir!" he barked, seeming to take a deep breath. "The first C-12 full of the marines headed for TNB launched normally six minutes ago. It went up on a normal path until it reached thirteen thousand, six hundred and seventy meters. It was sixty-eight kilometers downrange. The flight path was right on the money sir and then..." He shook his head. "And then it just disappeared from our screen. The IFF display went dark and it was gone. No distress calls, no nothing. We've been trying to contact it ever since with no result."

"I see," Sega answered, lowering his head a little, knowing now the obvious, stupid mistake he'd just made that had killed 350 men. "I suppose you've contacted Eden tower for assistance?"

"Yes sir," he said, nodding rapidly. "Its SOP. We did it within a minute of losing contact. They said they'd tracked it on infrared for the same amount of time we did and then it just disappeared at the same time we have. They even yelled at us for not filing a flight plan or letting them know we were launching."

That had been on Sega's orders. He hadn't trusted the Martian civilian controllers. He'd been right not to. "I understand, Lieutenant. Have you halted the launch of the second C-12?"

"Of course, sir." he said, and then paled. "Is that okay? I mean we don't know what happened and we have to launch some Hovers to go look for..."

"That's perfect, Lieutenant. Initiate your SAR procedures and continue to hold the remaining C-12 until we find out what's going on."

"Yes sir."

Sega figured he already knew what was going on. The missing piece of the puzzle had just fallen neatly into place. His suspicion was confirmed a minute later.

"I have General Jackson from the Martian Planetary Guard on the line," his computer announced. "It is a highest priority communication attempt. Do you wish to speak to him or would you like me to refer him to the mail server?"

General Jackson, Sega thought sourly. A man who he'd held in contempt since his appointment to the leadership of the MPG when it had been formed. A man he'd considered to be no more than a figurehead who knew a few military terms, a has-been soldier in charge of a large group of men and women that were thought to be no more than a speed bump in their role as defenders of Mars. Had he planned all of this? It seemed unlikely. Could he see reason? "Put him on screen."

It took only a second before the dark black face was staring at him. "General Sega," Jackson greeted politely. "Nice to talk to you."

Sega decided to take a stern approach. "Jackson," he demanded, "are your forces responsible for the loss of one of my C-12s a few minutes ago?"

Jackson seemed to smile. "Yes they are, General. Your reinforcements for Triad Naval Base were shot down by the anti-aircraft lasers that defend the City of Eden. Any further attempts to launch spacecraft or aircraft of any type from that base will be dealt with the same way. I suggest you stand down your troops."

"I have rank over you, General," Sega said. "Your little band of wanna-be soldiers are subservient to federal forces under the constitution. I order you to cease all hostilities immediately on Triad and everywhere else. If you refuse my order you will stand trial for..."

"General," Jackson interrupted, shaking his head in amusement, "surely you have figured out what is going on here. Mars is in a state of revolt against WestHem. You are not in command of me, you are an enemy soldier and I'm advising you to halt all flights from your base. If you launch a single vehicle from there, it will be shot down. And before you ask, yes I am well aware of the consequences of my actions."

"Jackson, listen to me," Sega said reasonably, "I need to launch hovers for search and rescue of the downed C-12."

"Not a single vehicle, General," Jackson repeated. "The C-12 was shot down from an altitude of nearly seventeen thousand meters. Eden air defense personnel tracked it all the way in. It came down without power and struck hard. Survivors are out of the question. And as for that cute idea you have about sending your marines out through the airlocks to take my base from the wastelands, forget it. I have a battalion of armored infantry deployed right outside of your base, covering all potential exits. They have heavy artillery support and in about fifteen more minutes they'll have air support as well from our Mosquitoes."

"My men outnumber yours," Sega said. "They will be coming to take your base."

"Then they will be slaughtered needlessly," Jackson told him. "You have no tanks, no anti-tank weapons, no significant air support. All you have are a bunch of jarheads with guns who will be forced to come out of predictable avenues of advance. Keep your people inside. Stand down your troops and await further developments. There's nothing you can do to help. We planned things this way you see."

"Jackson," Sega prophesized. "You'll be executed for this."

Jackson simply shrugged. "Whatever will be will be," he told him. "But that's not your concern. I've given my advice and I suggest you take it. In the meantime, I've got a war to fight." He gave him an ominous grin. "I'll be talking to you soon, General."

With that, he signed off, the image on the screen being replaced by his schematic of Triad once more. Without surprise he saw that the Martians had broken out of the main tunnel there.



The MPs guarding the main gate had the advantage of knowing exactly where their enemy was, in what numbers they were in, and what their plan most likely was. They knew that two squads and at least one battalion would push towards them from three directions, undoubtedly all at once. For many groups of trained soldiers this might have been enough despite the numerical and weapon superiority of the enemy. But the MPs were not trained as soldiers, they were trained primarily as a security force for the base, and while General Sega had issued orders on where they were to deploy in general, it was up to the on-scene officers to decide where at that spot to put the men. They thought that they had decided well by positioning the troops in groups behind planters, MP carts, and other obstacles facing all of the known egress points of the enemy. This seemed like it would keep the men safe from deadly crossfires. On the surface the defensive plan looked good; underneath, it was a deadly mistake.

On a given signal the two steel doors adjacent to the main gate were breached by primacord charges and came crashing to the steel floor. The MPs opened fire into the holes trying to drive the invaders back in, trying to pin them down as they'd pinned down the main battalion. The MPG troops inside held their rifle fire, returning fire only with short bursts from their SAWs while the men armed with grenade launchers on their M-20s crept forward as far as was safe on their bellies. They marked the position of the flashes and aimed targeting lasers towards the obstacles.

Horishito, one of the grenadiers under Lon's command was among the first to fire. Bullets pinged all around him and tracers from the friendly SAW behind him streaked less than two feet over his head as he concentrated on the MP cart in the main foyer area where the flashes were emanating from. His body was flooded with adrenaline and he was seriously wondering if he would live through the next two minutes but he went forward nonetheless. He pointed the targeting laser on his M-24 at the cart and sent it out. The reading flashed before his eyes, seeming to float in the air courtesy of his combat goggles. 93 meters.

He flipped the selector switch on his weapon to the grenade setting. A red targeting recticle appeared in his goggles. He centered it in the air about a meter above the cart.

"Ninety-three meter air burst," he said into his throat microphone, which was set to computer command mode. When his instruction was logged, he spoke a single word and switched it back to communications mode.

"Hoary, taking a shot," he told Lon.

"Weapons are free," Lon replied. "Get the fuckers."

He pushed the fire button on his weapon and it kicked harshly against his right shoulder as the 50mm high explosive fragmentation grenade was shot out of the stubby barrel below the M-24s main barrel. The grenade exploded precisely over the top of the cart and the weapons firing behind it went instantly silent. He inched forward some more, focusing on a planter where another group of flashes was emanating from. He pushed the target laser and began setting up the next shot.

From all three locations where MPG troops were facing the MPs from tunnels or corridor entrances, grenades came flying out, exploding with deadly precision over the top of groups of defenders. The steel shrapnel sliced easily through the armor and helmets of the MPs, killing many outright, horribly wounding others. The sounds of the explosions echoed loudly off of the steel walls, reverterbrating back and forth with jarring concussions. In between explosions the air was filled with the chattering of machine guns and the screams of wounded men.

When the firing positions in front of them were knocked out or forced into silence, the MPG troops were at last able to rush out of their hiding holes. The reinforcement squads came first, all at once. They ran into the main foyer area and spread out, diving to the ground and searching for targets. The remaining MPs reacted quickly, shooting at the choke points and hitting a few of the Martians as they exited.

Lon, positioned in the middle of his squad, his own weapon gripped tightly in his hands, saw rounds from the MPs' weapons go flashing within inches of his head, some of them close enough that he could feel the wind of their passage. On his right Jim Gantry, one of his senior men, suddenly gasped as two high velocity bullets slammed into the top of his head, drilling through his helmet and sending a spray of blood into the air. He slumped forward lifelessly, his weapon dropping from his hands, a puddle of blood forming beneath him. A part of Lon wanted to cry out at the loss of one of his men, one of his friends, but his training kept him from reacting. Instead he simply continued to crawl forward, placing his targeting recticle on the head of an MP and squeezing off a burst. Around him, the rest of his men were doing the same, including his newest member, Matza, who was spraying the MP positions with pinpoint bursts from his SAW, providing covering fire for the advance.

At the entrance of the pedestrian station the two companies that had been pinned in place for nearly forty minutes now finally were able to attempt a break out. With the defenders of the entrance occupied by the flanking squads, they began to pour out of the tunnel using the same entrance maneuvers that the rest of the teams had. One by one, from each side of the entrance, they hurled themselves outward, diving to the ground and then rolling clear for the next man, firing as they went. They drew some fire from the MPs of course, some of it quite heavy, and several of their numbers were struck by bullets, but within thirty seconds enough of them were out to lay down a vicious blanket of gunfire on the MPs.

Hit from three directions at once, and unable to find anywhere on the entrance platform where they could be safe, even for a second, from bullets smashing into them, the MPs gave up the field very quickly. Those who had not been killed or wounded retreated in disarray towards the main corridor of the base, desperate to get to a place of relative safety. Many were shot down since Evers had given the order to keep the pressure on them. Targeting recticles were placed on their backs and rounds reached out, cutting them to the ground. But the MPG could not get them all and more than twenty made it through the wide door at the far end of the platform before the steel door was shut and locked. Battered and terrified, they were ordered to the control building to help with the last line of defense.

The foyer area, for the first time since the doors had been blown, was now silent of gunshots and explosions. Men were screaming in pain and despair and the air smelled thickly of gunpowder and burned explosives. Expended shell casings were everywhere, marking every point that someone had fired from. The MPG soldiers, weapons trained before them, fanned out through the platform to secure it. For the first time they saw the results of the battle they'd been engaged in. They saw it in graphic detail as they came across dead MPs with their heads torn open and brain matter leaking out, armor ripped apart by steel fragments with intestines, kidneys, livers protruding through the holes. They saw heads blasted apart by high velocity bullets and higher velocity, larger caliber SAW bullets. They saw wounded MPs screaming in pain and fear and they kicked their forgotten weapons away from them. They saw their own comrades dead on the steel deck or wounded by the same weapons they carried. They looked at each other with haunted eyes, the gravity of what they were a part of coming home to them in a big way. Thoughts of shouting "Free Mars" at the MSG base a few hours ago entered some minds. They were hard pressed to believe the ease with which they'd shouted that incantation.

Medics went to work on the wounded, treating the MPG first before they even headed for the worst of the MPs. Captain Evers, himself somewhat shaken by the mayhem that had taken place, did his best to put it aside and immediately issued orders for the attack to continue towards the base control room. Within three minutes of securing the platform, primacord was being placed on the door that the surviving MPs had escaped through.

Admiral Rosewood had watched the entire battle on the security cameras. He was numb with disbelief and fear. He could not believe how quickly his MPs had been overwhelmed and soundly slaughtered by the MPG troops once the break out had occurred. The entire thing had taken less than eight minutes. Only twenty of the ninety-three MPs that had been deployed at the main gate had made it through the corridor at the end of the battle. They were now rushing to join the defense of the control building. He had forty-five MPs already in position there. 115 more, including the elite TIRT team, were moving in from other parts of the base but their deployment was pitifully slow, hampered by the very security procedures that had been initiated by the Martian attack.

He checked his computer, looking at the time display. The marine reinforcements would arrive in less than an hour now. Would they make it to the control room in time to prevent the MPG from gaining entry?

As if in answer his Internet screen came to life, showing the face of General Sega. Sega did not look happy at all, in fact, he looked downright miserable. This did little to allay Rosewood's own fear.

"General," Rosewood enquired, "did you see the results of the main gate battle on your display? Those MPG troops killed..."

"I saw it, Admiral," Sega said with a nod, his voice strained. "I'd hoped your MPs would have held longer, but I suppose it doesn't matter now."

"Doesn't matter?" Rosewood exclaimed. "Are you mad? We have to hold until your reinforcements..."

"There will be no reinforcements," Sega said simply.

Rosewood stared in disbelief. "No reinforcements?" he demanded. "What the hell are you talking about, man? Didn't you tell me that they launched and were on the way? Where the hell are they?"

"They were shot down by MPG air defense batteries," Sega told him. "340 of my marines went crashing to the ground from seventeen thousand meters in the sky. That's 340 E-mails to 340 families that I have to write. General Jackson contacted me right after that and informed me that any other ships launched from my base will also be shot down."

"They can't do that!" Rosewood yelled, outraged.

Sega blinked. His patience was obviously at a minimum. "John, I'm not sure exactly what you mean by that statement. If you mean that it is morally and legally wrong to shoot down WestHem armed forces ships and kill WestHem marines, I agree with you, but as for the Martians abiding by that code, I'm afraid that they've already proved that they don't. If you are referring to the physical possibilities of the greenies doing this, well, I'm afraid they've got the upper hand there too. My barracks is located directly adjacent to Eden and the city is virtually ringed with anti-aircraft lasers of varying caliber. There is no way for me to launch a vehicle of any size without their noticing it and engaging it. In addition, they have my pedestrian access tunnels blocked in by armed troops and armored vehicles, making it impossible to exit into the city to retake it. I intended to move my men overland through the airlocks to seize the base from that direction, but Jackson has assured me that that avenue of escape is covered with infantry, tanks, and artillery. While I have not actually checked out this statement, I find myself inclined to believe Mr. Jackson in this instance. In short, my men are stuck here on this base, as useless to what is going on as a cock on a cow."

Rosewood sat silently for a moment, letting the information he'd just been given sink in. Faintly, even through the steel walls of his building, he could hear gunfire erupting from the street level below as the battle for the control building began.

"What do I do now?" he finally asked. "I have the MPG right outside my building now."

Sega stared levelly at him. "Surrender your forces," he told his naval counterpart.

At first Rosewood was not sure he'd heard him correctly. "Did you say surrender?"

"I did," he repeated. "You have a grand total of about two hundred poorly armed and poorly trained MPs, many of whom are not even in position yet. Pitting this against a battalion of trained infantry soldiers with machine guns and grenade launchers is like sending a Boy Scout troop to defend South Korea during I-day. Without hope of reinforcements all you can accomplish is the needless deaths of your MPs. Surrender your men right now, before any more of them are killed."

"And just turn the base over to the... the greenies? I will not!"

"You will!" Sega commanded. "I am the highest ranking WestHem military officer on the Planet Mars. As of now I'm assuming command of all WestHem forces stationed here and that includes your naval base. I'm giving you a direct order to surrender the base peacefully to the MPG."

"Sega, do you know what you're saying?" Rosewood was outraged and terrified. "A third of the WestHem navy is in dock here right now. You would turn that over to the greenies? You'll be imprisoned for ordering such a thing!"

"We can't win this battle, John," he said, seemingly near tears. "All we can do is get a shitload of our forces killed and give the greenies valuable combat experience in the bargain."

"But what about..."

"John, sit there and think for a minute. What are the greenies going to do with all of those ships? They don't have the personnel or the know-how to man them. Are they going to use them against us? Please. And did you think that WestHem is simply going to relinquish the planet to them because their guard force managed to overwhelm the pitiful number of troops that are stationed here." He shook his head firmly. "Mars has enough armor and trained men to hold back a few divisions of EastHem troops for a week or so. Our intelligence estimates have always been that it was doubtful that they could even do that. Do you really think they can stand up against the full fury of the WestHem armed forces when they come to re-occupy this planet? WestHem will send five times the number of men the MPG has and will equip them with five times the armor. Sure, we'll be taken prisoner for about five months or so, the amount of time it will take for WestHem to send over a task force, but believe me Rosewood, there will be a reckoning for this and the greenies are gonna pay a stiff price for fucking with us this way. That cunt Whiting and that nigger motherfucker Jackson are going to have their heads on spikes on top of the capital building in New Pittsburgh. The MPG will be disbanded and its officers will be imprisoned for life, some of them even executed. As the old saying goes, they may have won this battle, but they don't stand a fart's chance in a windstorm in the war."

There was silence as Rosewood considered these points. He found that Sega's words made sense, as much as he was loath to surrender his beloved base to those green traitors. He had to admit that there seemed no other option. Already he was envisioning his testimony before the justice subcommittee that would inevitably follow this heinous act.

"Okay," he said to Sega. "I'll reluctantly surrender."

Sega nodded. "Good. Do it immediately so that not a single soldier is unnecessarily killed or wounded. Send a report off to Earth before the greenies take control of the base and for God's sake, be sure to disarm and scramble all of the nuclear weapons on your ships." He smiled. "Perhaps we'll see each other in whatever POW camp they send us to."

"Perhaps we will." Rosewood nodded miserably.

General Sega got General Jackson on the computer and told him his intention to surrender the forces on the planet and above it, effective immediately.

"Very wise decision, General," Jackson said amicably. "I must say that I'm relieved. Our intention is to make this transfer of power as bloodless as possible."

"The marines are going to come take this planet back from you," Sega told him. "If you truly want it to be bloodless, then you'll surrender to me immediately before they deploy."

"Why don't you let me worry about the marines?" Jackson said. "In the meantime, we have some shooting to stop, don't we? Things are quiet at the base right now. I'll instruct my troops guarding it to take defensive measures only for the time being. You need to instruct your troops to disable their weapons and put them back in storage. Nobody is to leave. When things stabilize around here, we'll be entering the barracks to take control of it."

"I want my men to be treated as POWs," Sega said. "With all the rights and privileges that come with it. I don't want any of them beaten or killed by your thugs."

"They'll be treated under the Geneva Accords, you have my word on that," Jackson assured him. "In fact, they'll be held right where they're at. EMB will make an excellent POW camp once we get all of the computers and weapons taken out. Now, shall we discuss the situation on Triad? We still have heavy fighting taking place outside the control room. The navy personnel and my men are being needlessly killed as we speak. I'll order my men to hold in place and take defensive measures only. You get Admiral Rosewood to have his men cease fire immediately and disable their weapons."

"It'll be done," Sega said.

He signed off a moment later and then began composing a hasty email video that would be sent to Earth.

No further shots were fired at the Eden Marine Barracks. The MPG troops holding the perimeter continued to build up at each stronghold, just in case Sega's surrender offer was nothing more than a deception, but they kept their weapons down and their lasers uncharged.

Up at Triad Naval Base, things went just a little differently. Thanks to communications difficulties between Rosewood's command center and the MPs that were deployed throughout the base, it took nearly twenty minutes before all of them got the word that the brief war was over. Several skirmishes occurred in the corridors near the housing area and the ship docks resulting in more than fifteen deaths - all of them MPs, and more than thirty wounded - twenty-five of them MPs. At the control room itself, the MPs here were among the last to hear about the cease-fire. Finally, however, after more than twenty of them were shot down, the proper radio frequency was located and the order was given. The word was quickly passed and their guns fell silent one by one. More relieved than anything else, they dropped their weapons and allowed themselves to be taken into custody. They were handcuffed with plastic ties and stripped of their radio gear. The MPG troops then moved to the control room itself.

They did not have to blow open this door with their primacord. Admiral Rosewood opened it for them voluntarily. A platoon from Charlie Company entered the building, their guns ready for action. They didn't need them. Everyone inside was unarmed and sitting peacefully in their chairs, some of them weeping softly in fear or anger, most stoic. Admiral Rosewood was one of the stoic ones.

"You will all be executed for this you know," he told the troops as they searched everyone, one by one.

"We all have to die sometime, don't we, Admiral," a voice replied. "I'm Captain Evers, the commander of the group that hit this part of the base. You put up a much better defense than we gave you credit for in the planning stages. You should be proud of yourself. You cost me a lot of good men."

Rosewood said nothing. He simply glared at the captain.

Evers was unoffended. He had seen too much in the last hour to be offended by much. He tuned his radio to the command frequency and keyed it up. "Evers here," he said to Colonel Bright, who was still back at the Triad Control Center. "We have the TNB control room secured. We'll start working on gaining control of the security functions."

"Copy," said Bright. "We've restored light and power to the main tunnels. We're offloading all of the passengers on the trains that were trapped at this end and then we'll be sending them back empty to start transferring the wounded. I've got the dip-hoes moving to the platform to help our medics and start transporting them. How many are we talking about from your section?"

"I've got nineteen dead and thirty-three wounded," Evers told him. "We're still getting a count of the MPs but it looks like upwards of seventy dead and almost a hundred wounded."

"Could've been worse I suppose," Bright said with a sigh.

"Yeah," Evers agreed. "We could've lost and had them die for nothing."

Brett Ingram and his group of Martians that were unloading supplies from the Mermaid were as surprised as anyone when the security alarms had activated in response to the condition Red Zebra. Still, they had followed the protocol that was established for such an event, which stated that any ship personnel in the immediate vicinity of their vessel at the time of the alarm would return to their vessel and assist in its individual security. They hadn't done much to assist in the security but those of them that had been in the supply room at the time had come back just seconds before the base computer system automatically closed and locked the docking door, sealing them inside for the duration of the crisis. And so, as the MPG special forces troops were forcing their way through the access tunnels and engaging in battle with the MPs, Brett was sitting on a small chair in the supply room.

Trapped in the ship with he and his offload crew were two security personnel — who's presence were required at all times due to the nuclear warheads on board — and Lieutenant Commander Braxton, the executive officer, who had been overseeing the details of extended docking. They too had been quite confused at first, with the security personnel grumbling about ill-timed drills and Braxton complaining about missing a lunch date with his wife. That confusion came to an end when they scanned through the radio frequencies and happened across the MP force's tactical channel. Upon discovering that Martian troops were invading the base, their grumbling had turned to rage that had quickly been turned upon the six members of the off-load crew. Guns had been pulled and Brett and his people had been ordered into the crew quarters.

"Sit the fuck down there!" Ordered Braxton, pointing at the floor next to the folded-up sleeping racks. "If any one of you green motherfuckers so much as twitches I'm gonna kill you!"

Braxton kept the two security men with him, putting the three of them between the Martians and the hatch. Their guns remained in their hands while they monitored the developing situation on their com-links. Brett was able to overhear enough information to gather that the MPG had attacked the base in force and were overwhelming the base security teams.

What the hell was the meaning of it? he wondered silently, trying to figure things out. Obviously the attack was related to the events going on in the capital but what was the purpose of attacking TNB? Whatever it was he was very fearful as he watched the faces of his captors. They were scared stiff and they were holding guns on them. As reports of company strength incursions moving towards the docks surfaced, they became even more nervous.

Finally came the order for all WestHem forces to surrender.

"Surrender?" Braxton yelled in disbelief. "What the fuck are they talking about? Surrender the base to greenies?"

"What's gonna happen to us now?" one of the security men enquired. "Are the greenies gonna kill us all?"

"What about the ship?" asked the other one. "What about the torpedoes on board?"

Braxton ignored their questions, fixing his eyes on Brett and the others sitting next to him. His gaze was murderous as he raised his pistol and pointed it at them. He began to walk forward.

"Your fuckin' people did this," he said, his finger firmly on the trigger of the gun. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill every fuckin' one of you green bastards!"

To Brett the 3mm hole at the end of the pistol looked as big as the tunnels the MPG had used to infiltrate the base. He swallowed nervously, staring back into the furious madness of Braxton's face.

"Sir," he finally said, fighting to keep his voice calm and reasonable. "We are WestHem naval personnel. We are not MPG members. If you kill us you'll be committing cold-blooded murder and you'll be court-martialed for it when this is over. Don't do anything rash. We didn't attack the base. We're spacers, just like you are."

"You're fuckin' greenies!" Braxton yelled, stepping closer and training the pistol directly on Brett's forehead. "How dare you say you're just like me! You are lowlife pieces of shit and your people just killed hundreds of my people. You fuckin' terrorists!"

"Commander," Brett said, "we may be of Martian descent, but we are WestHem naval personnel. We are not enemy soldiers. We are not terrorists. If you kill us you will not be a hero, you'll go to prison for the rest of your life. Think this through, sir!"

"Commander," said one of the security men, who looked even more nervous than Brett felt, if that were possible. "He's right. They may be greenies but they're spacers in our navy. You can't kill them."

"C'mon, commander," The other security man chimed in. "Put the gun down. Think about what you're doing."

Braxton took a deep breath, his hand trembling a little on the barrel of the pistol but not wavering in its aim. "You're the little green prick that's always making me look bad in front of the captain," he said. "I bet you just love what's going on here, don't you? I bet you just love that your terrorist buddies have taken over this base."

"Sir," Brett said, "I'm just as appalled by what's going on as you are." This was not exactly true, he was more confused than appalled, but it seemed that a little white lie was appropriate under the circumstances.

"Yeah, right," Braxton said, but he seemed a little calmer now. Slowly he lowered the gun down, not holstering it, but at least not pointing it at anyone anymore.

Brett let himself exhale a brief sigh of relief, aware that he had come within a bare inch or so of death.

Just then an announcement was paged across the ship's intercom, which had been accessed by the main control computer.

"This is Admiral Rosewood," a voice said. "Greenie troops have attacked this base in large numbers and we have been forced to surrender it to them. All ships in dock will remain sealed for the time being. We will delay allowing the terrorists access to them as long as we can. The highest-ranking officer on each vessel carrying nuclear weapons is ordered to disable those weapons as quickly as possible using the computer scrambling procedure. I repeat, the highest-ranking officer on each vessel carrying nuclear weapons is ordered to disable those weapons as quickly as possible. These weapons must not fall into the hands of the greenies in a state in which they can be detonated. Scramble them immediately! When the greenies do gain access to your ship, you are instructed to surrender peacefully to them and to obey their instructions. Do not attempt to fight or flee them. God help us all in this dark hour."

There was no further from the admiral or anyone else.

Braxton left the six Martians under the watch of the two security personnel and headed up the ladders to the torpedo room. It took him less than ten minutes to permanently destroy the detonation computers on the weapons.

Brian could not believe the day he was having. He had awakened early that morning expecting nothing more than another day on the streets of Eden, answering calls for assistance and taking crime reports. Now, with lunchtime barely passed, he was in a completely different uniform, sitting in the cockpit of a Mosquito, and circling two thousand meters above the MPG deployment area on the edge of the city. His laser cannon was set to wartime charging level and his wing pods were each holding a 1000-kilogram free-fall penetration bomb. Mars was rebelling against WestHem. He still couldn't believe it, was still not quite sure just how he felt about it.

The surrender and cease fire had taken place less than an hour before. Down below he could see the rows of MPG tanks and APCs that were forming up. The call-up was still underway of course but better than seventy percent of the Eden division soldiers had already reported for duty. More than a hundred armored vehicles were now poised and ready for action, their task to march on the marine barracks and gain entry to it. The APCs each contained a squad of heavily armed and bio-suited infantry troops. The tanks would support them at the entrances. Brian and his gunner were but one of more than thirty aircraft that were circling above in tight formations. Their task would be to support the breach from the air, which meant that they would bomb the living shit out of the barracks if any harm came to the troops trying to enter it.

"I feel like a sitting duck up here circling like this," said Colton, his gunner. "Those anti-air emplacements on the edge of the barracks have probably got a lock on us right now. Those are heavy caliber guns. If they hit us, we won't have to worry about ejecting. There won't be anything left to eject."

"There's only four emplacements," Brian said soothingly, although he was a little nervous as well. "They may get four of us but they'll be dead before they can recharge. I don't think even marines are that stupid."

"I think maybe you're giving them too much credit," Colton replied.

They circled in silence for a few more minutes, the engine humming at only a few RPMs above idle, the fuel and oxygen gauges steady. They could stay up nearly five hours at this rate of consumption.

"Where's this all gonna lead, Brian?" Colton said softly, breaking the silence. "Did Whiting just dig herself a hole and pull us in after her?"

Brian made a quick check out the cockpit window, checking the position of the Mosquito on his wing. He then scanned his eyes over his instrument panel, checking the readings. He then returned his eyes forward, looking out at the armor that was assembling below. "She might have," he allowed. "But we all got the speech before we suited up today, didn't we? We all had the opportunity to back out of this thing. If we're going down a hole it's not because she dragged us in. We jumped in after her."

The Martian troops began to move in a few minutes later. From the wasteland side of the marine base, the tanks and APCs rolled across the sand at half speed, their treads kicking up a huge cloud of dust that was slowly blown east by the prevailing winds. The Mosquitoes moved even closer to the base, circling virtually right above it, where they could provide mass bombing and laser fire support if needed. The tanks held back a half a kilometer from the airlocks, their laser cannons charged, their eighty millimeter main guns locked and loaded with high explosive, penetrating shells. The APCs continued on, not coming to a halt until they were less than a hundred meters from the doors of the airlocks. Their ramps swung down and the troops off loaded, quickly forming up into company sized units, their rifles and SAWs ready for action. Slowly they advanced, expecting to be fired upon at any moment.

Their expectations were not met. When they reached the airlocks, the doors slid obediently open, just as had been promised in the surrender agreement. Inside, all of the marines had been removed from the assembly area and the entire section had been decompressed. The troops passed through the airlocks and into this room quickly, fanning out and covering all of the doors. The airlock doors were then shut again and the assembly room was recompressed, a process that took more than twenty minutes. Only then were the doors to the main part of the base finally opened. The troops began to move onto the base to take it under occupation.

At the main entrance on the Macarthur Avenue side, other troops moved down the corridors to enter from here. At the tunnel where the fighting had taken place they stepped over the corpses of the marines that had fallen in the three breakout attempts.

In all, more than nine hundred MPG infantry soldiers entered the base and took up occupation duties. They found the marines inside to be verbally abusive but otherwise unarmed and docile. They were instructed to return to their dormitories for the time being and they went without question. No shots were fired and the long process of clearing the base of weapons and communication gear began to take place.

At Triad Naval Base a similar process was underway. Here the task was complicated by the limited number of soldiers available and the high number of civilian personnel that worked on the base. It was quickly realized that more soldiers were needed and an order went out to both New Pittsburgh and Libby to send a battalion apiece up. The decision was made to hold all personnel exactly where they were until their arrival.

Meanwhile, the deployment of the MPG continued and by 4:00 that afternoon 98% of the active members had reported to their duty stations across the planet. Each unit that deployed was told of the circumstances of the call-up and offered the chance to forgo participation in what was going on. A few took the offer, removing their uniforms and going home, but the vast majority stayed and agreed to follow whatever orders they were given.

Movement orders were issued to nearly every combat unit that formed up. In every Martian city, armed and armored soldiers took control of control centers and federal offices. Corban Hayes and the remaining agents were in the New Pittsburgh office when a company of troops rolled up outside in APCs and surrounded the building. Though the agents were armed with automatic weapons, they gave up without a fight when an MPG captain in the city control center shut off their power and utilities. Hayes was reportedly in tears as he was handcuffed and led towards the city jail to stew with the rest of his men.

Laura Whiting was still sitting in her office, high above the streets of New Pittsburgh, her attention divided between two Internet terminals, one of which was showing a MarsGroup station, the other of which was showing a big three station. For once the two news services shared a common thread: that of confusion. They reported on the fighting that had occurred on Macarthur Avenue in Eden, and the movement of troops and armor outside the two military bases themselves. They also had a few reporters on scene up on Triad near the tram stations, although they had no idea of what had occurred there except that there had been shooting on the platform between MPG soldiers and MPs.

"The only thing we know for sure," the MarsGroup anchor told her audience at the hourly recap, "is that a large scale deployment of the Martian Planetary Guard has taken place and that those soldiers are being used to fight WestHem forces that are stationed on the planet. Heavy fighting was reported at the Macarthur Avenue main entrance to the Eden Marine Barracks, including the use of tanks and armored personnel carriers with heavy weapons. MPG troops in large numbers have been observed entering the base from both the Macarthur Avenue entrances and from the outside airlocks on the planetary surface itself. They did not seem to be under hostile fire as they did this. It is unknown just what their exact intention is but it would seem that occupation of the base is their goal.

"Meanwhile, other elements of the MPG have taken control of federal buildings, including the FLEB offices, in the cities of Eden, New Pittsburgh, Libby, and Procter. We have tried to interview some of these soldiers but they have all refused comment on what their exact mission or intentions are. Governor Whiting, who's indictment and arrest warrant are what apparently precipitated all of this activity, has not responded to requests for interviews but she has released an email announcing that she will address the planet tonight at 1900 hours, New Pittsburgh time. We will of course carry that address live."

The big three recap was basically the same information, although with a decidedly different slant to it.

Laura sighed as the reporters began rehashing the same information again. Her stomach was knotted and burning from the tension of the day. She took a sip out of her ninth cup of coffee and continued to wait and watch.

Soon Jackson's face appeared on one of her screens. His face was showing the strain of the past few hours as well but he seemed to be happy nonetheless. "The planet is pretty much secure," he told her.

"Pretty much?" she said.

"We have TNB locked down tight and all of the MPs accounted for. The same goes for EMB. We're in occupation of the base and more than ninety percent of the weapons there are now accounted for. We're going room to room with scanners to find the rest. In the four cities where we have MPG divisions, all of the FLEB and other federal law enforcement have been captured and are accounted for. Now we just need to get some soldiers over to the other cities and take control of them there. I've already sent battalions out on the inter-city trains for that duty."

"Could those agents cause problems for us?" she asked, knowing that each of those offices had around a hundred agents.

"Nothing that's going to put our possession of the planet in jeopardy," he said. "They could put up a fight if they were stupid I suppose, but it'll be an ultimately losing one. We'll have them all secured or dead within twenty-four hours."

She nodded. "Let's hope that it doesn't come to that," she said. "What else has been done?"

"Communications with Earth have been virtually shut down," he said. "We've assumed control of the com-sats and have shut off all outgoing transmissions except media broadcast. Per your orders, they're still allowed to receive signals and email."

"Very good," she said, and then braced herself. "And the casualties?"

"Relatively light," he said, offering a crooked grin. "Since General Sega surrendered all of the WestHem forces once it became apparent that they could not win, we were spared..."

"Numbers, General," she insisted.

He breathed deeply, casting his eyes upon her. "Thirty-three dead, forty-seven wounded," he told her. "Most of them up at TNB from the force that was pinned in the tunnel."

"And the enemy?" she asked next.

"We haven't got a firm count just yet but we have a rough estimate," he told her. "Including the feds at the capital building and the marines in the C-12, it looks like about 560 dead, 133 wounded. We also lost two civilians and had three of them wounded when those idiots guarding the passenger platform at TNB opened fire on our troops instead of surrendering. For what its worth, the numbers are considerably lower than what was predicted for the operation."

She nodded. "I understand. See to it that names are gathered as soon as possible and that the families of those killed are notified immediately after my speech tonight. And as for the WestHem casualties, make sure a full accounting is sent to Earth as soon as possible."

She seemed morose, and this bothered Jackson. It bothered him greatly. After setting all of this in motion, after all the years of planning and scheming, was she now paling due to the casualties sustained in the successful operation? She should be cheering.

"Laura," he said carefully, "we knew we were going to take casualties when we started this thing. Those MPG troops knew when they went in that they might get killed. The all voluntarily went in anyway. They died fighting for Mars. For Mars! Not for some moon that circles around Jupiter that nobody was even using but that our government wanted to deny to EastHem so they could keep selling them fuel. They didn't die in some godforsaken shithole in the southern hemisphere of Earth fighting fanatical nationalists that hate WestHem rule as much as we do. They died for Mars, Laura, for this planet, so that we could be free. And while I'm sure they'd rather be alive right now and I'm sure their families feel the same, they died for us and I'm sure they'd be proud of that fact; as should we all."

"I understand all of that, Kevin," she told him. "I also understand that you did everything you could to keep those casualties to a minimum. It's just that..." She paused, trying to figure a way to articulate what she was feeling. "It's just that I sent those people in there and some of them are dead now. Tonight I'm going to ask for more people to sign up to do the same and, if they agree to do it, we're going to lose some of them too. We face a long, hard struggle against a superior enemy and each one of our soldiers that dies in this conflict is a living, breathing person with a family, with a life. I just want to make sure that I never allow myself to forget that, that I never treat them as pawns in a chess game against WestHem. I never want to hear you say the term 'acceptable losses' to me. Never. No loss is acceptable, Kevin. Each one is a tragedy and should be treated as such. If I start accepting the deaths of my soldiers as acceptable or inevitable, I'm no better than the pigs we're fighting. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Governor," he said, finding himself moved by her words. Laura had a gift for that. He remembered himself as a young private in the WestHem marines, stationed in Argentina region and fighting the nationalist guerillas. He remembered his friends dying there, ambushed when alone by the poorly trained and equipped but fanatical Argentines. He remembered the sensation that his superiors simply didn't give a shit whether or not he lived or died. He did not want a single soldier under his command to ever feel like that. "I do understand, perhaps even better than you do yourself."

"Good." She gave him a weak smile. "Please continue your report."

Jackson looked down, consulting some notes he had before him. "We have a preliminary estimate on POWs here. We have captured approximately forty-six thousand WestHem military personnel at the two bases on Mars. Of course more than eight thousand of those captured at TNB are Martian civilians that worked on the base. They'll of course be released as soon as they are identified. The rest are sworn members of the WestHem armed forces. Preliminary numbers put the number of those that are Martian citizens at approximately eight percent. We've got people working the computers right now and we'll segregate the Martians from the Earthlings when we ID them. As for how many of that eight percent are loyal to Mars?" He shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. I like to think it'll be in the upper ninety percent range, but who knows?"

"If it isn't at least in the upper eighties, especially among the navy," Laura opined, "we're in a lot of trouble."

"Well, we'll squeak by, no matter what," Jackson answered optimistically. "Right now the POWs are still confined to their bases, most of them in their assigned housing units. Processing will start shortly. We'll segregate the Martians and keep them at TNB and then we'll move the bulk of the Earthlings to the compounds we'll be setting up in Libby and Procter. Most of the marines however, will be held right on the barracks grounds where they were stationed. A convenient, pre-positioned POW camp. We'll use the MPG troops that are prison guards in their civilian lives to watch over them; those that aren't vital to combat operations anyway."

"Sounds like a good plan," Laura said approvingly.

"Thank you. I thought of that part myself."

"Any idea whether or not we'll be able to use Interdiction as a plan?"

"Matt Belting will be launching to Triad later today. He'll be the man to make the final decision on that but I don't imagine he'll be able to say until after we vote whether to go ahead with this revolution or not and after he has a preliminary report on the recruits we get with naval experience. I certainly hope we'll be able to pull it off. If we don't, my troops are gonna have quite a fight on their hands when the WestHems finally make their landings here."

"Too much of a fight?" she asked.

He stared at her. "Laura, you know what kind of odds we face even under the best of conditions. WestHem has the power and might to send a whole lot of trouble our way. We need Interdiction to go off at least in some capacity or we're going to lose some cities to the marines once they land. That may not lose us the war, but it'll sure make it longer, harder, and deadlier. I've planned my campaign under the assumption that we won't man a single ship or stop a single WestHem transport before it reaches Mars, but my job will be a whole lot easier if Interdiction goes forth with at least a small measure of success."

"Then I guess my speech tonight had better be inspiring," she said simply.

"If I know you Laura, and I do, you might even get some of those corporate haunchos to sign up."

Under Whiting's orders, all of the office workers in the capital building were released, including the legislature and Lieutenant Governor Scott Benton. They did not go home as was offered. At Benton's suggestion, the legislature immediately convened a special session and voted to condemn Laura Whiting's actions and to open an investigation into impeachment proceedings for her actions. They added an addendum demanding her immediate removal from office during the course of the investigation. This time, with a clear course of action and with no pause to consider recall campaigns, the vote passed, with only half of those legislative members that had shifted loyalties during the last few months voting against it. The Lieutenant Governor ordered the results of the vote immediately transmitted to her through the secure Internet channels.

Laura did not address them in person, though she did broadcast her reply to them on the big screen in the legislative chambers.

"Sorry, folks," she told them, shaking her head sadly, "I'm afraid I won't be honoring your vote, at least not yet. Things have gone a little far for that."

"It's a constitutional requirement that you honor the vote," Benton, acting as spokesman, told her firmly. "You do not have a choice whether or not to honor it. You will step down immediately and I will take over as Governor."

"Our constitution was put aside when the first shots were fired downstairs," she returned. "I will not stand down unless the Martian people ask me to stand down. No votes from the legislature will be binding until further notice."

"You can't do that," Benton nearly screamed. "You have no authority to disregard a vote. None!"

"Those armed men under my command have given me the authority," she said. "Right now they are following my orders and they are securing this planet from WestHem interests, of which you Scott, and most of you on the legislature are included in. As Martian citizens you will have the opportunity to judge my actions and vote upon them in a few days. Until then, this office and the Martian Planetary Guard are in charge of the planet. The legislature is hereby dismissed from office until further notice. You will all vacate the building immediately or I will have the troops remove you."

"We're not leaving," Benton told her. "And we will not allow you to pervert our constitution in this manner. You will step down right now and submit yourself to custody or I will..."

"You will what, Scott?" she asked him. "Have the feds take me into custody? There are no more feds in New Pittsburgh. The MPG is loyal to me and my orders and we have initiated a revolt against WestHem. A revolt, do you understand? Revolts are not stopped by votes cast by playthings of the people we are rebelling against. Now I'll tell you one more time, leave the capital building or you will be removed by force."

"We're not leaving," he repeated stubbornly.

She smiled. "Tell that to the soldiers when they come up to remove you then," she said, and then signed off.

Ten minutes later, an entire platoon of armed soldiers entered the legislative chamber. Five minutes after that, the entire legislature and Scott Benton were escorted out of the building at gunpoint.