Laura went directly from the media room of the capital building to the briefing room. It was but step two in a horribly busy morning for her. As she entered through the security-controlled door that was guarded by two of her MPG security force, the assembled briefers in the room stood from their chairs around the large table and applauded her. She actually flushed with embarrassment.
"Please," she said, smiling, holding up her hands. "Be seated."
They applauded for a moment more and finally sat down in their chairs once more.
Laura helped herself to a cup of coffee from the beverage computer. She took a sip as she moved towards her chair. The brew was smooth as silk, made from the best beans that the southern hemisphere of Earth had to offer. One thing that Martian agriculture did not produce very well was coffee. Soon the supply of Earth beans would run out and it was unlikely they would send any more. Oh well, she sighed, relishing the flavor. The cost of freedom.
"Good morning," she said to the assembled crowd. General Jackson was there of course. As was Matt Belting, their naval expert who had been working around the clock at Triad Naval Base, inventorying and analyzing what they had seized there. Five ranking loyal members of the planetary legislature were also present. They all mumbled variations of good morning in reply to her.
"Well, people," Laura said brightly, "we are an independent planet now. And as I said in my speech today, we need to make every effort to keep it that way. Now hopefully we'll be overwhelmed with volunteers for the military by the end of the day. I kind of suspect that we will be. General Jackson, are you prepared to deal with this?"
"Yes, Governor," Jackson said confidently. "I have directed recruitment to set up twenty-five additional induction sites, two in each city of Mars and a third in Eden. Those that sign up on the Internet will be directed to these sites in order of signing. They will be given their physicals and ASVABs there. Acceptable candidates will be processed immediately. We are already setting up three more basic training sites for induction. Based on their ASVABs, they will be sent directly to the appropriate division, skipping the usual process of tech school. All of the divisions will be up and training extensively anyway for the coming war."
Laura nodded thoughtfully. "What do you need the most of?" she asked.
"Two things, maybe three depending on other factors. We need tank crews to man those tanks onboard the marine landing ships at TNB. The tanks are going be the final, deciding factor in this thing after all. We also need special forces volunteers to attack the Earthlings at their landing sites and on their marches. I'll wait until I have preliminary numbers on the amount of volunteers I have for this job, but I plan to send as many teams as I can spare for this task. I want those bastards chipped away before they even get close to our city defenses. This planet has to be inhospitable to them if they're ever going to leave us in peace."
"I understand that tank crews are relatively easy to train," she said. "But what about these special forces troops? Will they be sufficiently prepared to both do us some good and keep themselves alive out there? I don't want kamikazes fighting for us. I want those troops' safety to be first and foremost."
"I have no intention of sending suicide squads out there," Jackson told her firmly. "Ever since the inception of the MPG I've made special forces a priority issue. I'm going to break up the current teams, promoting the members and forming new teams consisting of veterans and new recruits. I won't be sending any virgin teams out into the wastelands. Recruitment for special forces will consist mostly of already current MPG infantry and other troops. After all, you need to be in pretty good shape to join the forces and we don't have time to waste getting newbies in shape. Those that have to go through basic training can replace the infantry troops we'll lose that move to special forces and will augment the tank corps and the support services.
"My special forces teams will have orders to hit the marines only when they can retreat to safety. They will be small units tasked with ambush, armor harassment, and aircraft harassment. Their methods will be to hit fast on isolated targets and then pull back to safety before the WestHems can hit them with artillery or send a hover their way. Their biosuits in combination with prepared hiding places can keep them relatively safe. As safe as troops can be behind the lines anyway."
"And you will be able to support these troops efficiently?" Laura asked. "Re-supply them and extract the wounded?"
Jackson shrugged. "Pretty well. They will be dropped in, supported, and extracted by Hummingbirds, which, as you all know, are vertical take-off and landing craft that are able to sustain winged flight once in the air. The Hummingbirds can hug the ground virtually undetected by enemy sensors. They become very visible when they land and take-off due to the enormous heat that such maneuvers produce, but our troops and pilots both train extensively in order to keep these times to a minimum. A full team of special forces, that's ten troops, can exit a Hummingbird and get clear of it's take-off thrust in less than fifteen seconds. The Hummingbird can be back to winged flight in another twenty seconds. Extraction is even quicker. Our longest times are, unfortunately, when wounded are being taken aboard, and that is often when we encounter the worst landing zones. In any case, each special forces team will have a medic deployed with it."
"And our city defenses?" Whiting asked next. "How are they?"
"Excellent, Governor," Jackson proclaimed. "But also untested. As you know we've constructed a complex array of infantry entrenchments, tank shelters, and recon posts atop every conceivable hill on every conceivable approach to our cities. We have fixed artillery guns ringing the cities. We have interlocking anti-aircraft laser sites ringing each city. All we have to do is add the soldiers and the WestHems are going to find themselves with a whole lot of trouble on their hands once they get within fifty kilometers of any city."
"I see," Whiting said, nodding expressionlessly. "And what will you require of our industry to fight this battle? List in order of importance if you would."
"Biosuits," Jackson answered immediately. "Model 459s. Like I said, I don't have preliminary numbers on how many troops I will have to fight with, but in a worst-case scenario I'm going to need at least an additional twenty thousand of them, although one hundred thousand would be optimum. If we're going to win this war, it's going to be won out in the wastelands. We have to be able to outfit our troops to fight there. If we wait to fight the WestHems in the cities themselves, we've already lost the war.
"We're also going to need at least a million 155 millimeter artillery shells for city defenses. We have two million in stockpile at the moment but we will use them at a frightening rate when the WestHems near the cities in force.
"We will need at least ten million rounds of four millimeter M-24 bullets, three million rounds of ten millimeter M-95 machine gun bullets, four hundred thousand sixty millimeter grenades, one hundred thousand eighty millimeter mortar shells, and at least sixty-thousand hand-held fragmentation grenades.
"And Laura, I know you're working on it with EastHem, but I need to stress the most vital component here. Fuel. If we don't secure a supply of liquid hydrogen to run all of this machinery, we might as well throw down our arms and surrender."
"I'll be sending a message to the EastHem ruling council later today," Laura replied. "Are you sufficient in tanks, guns, artillery pieces, and so forth?"
"We are," he said. "We have enough in stockpile and onboard the Panama's at TNB to supply our forces sufficiently for the first wave of marines. What we could use more of is atmospheric aircraft, specifically Mosquitoes. If the people at the factory can make them in time for the war, I'll divert some of the qualified recruits from the volunteers to train in them. The more aircraft we have harassing the WestHem armor, the less armor we'll have to deal with at the cities."
"Okay," Laura said, "let's take your requests one at a time." She turned to Kyle Yee, who was an upper level manager at Environmental Supplies, manufacturer of the biosuit. ES, as it was known, was one of the few Martian owned corporations on the planet. Its primary function was the manufacture of civilian biosuits for use in construction, maintenance, and other jobs that required people to go outside. They also had the military contract for model 459 biosuits, the more advanced military version.
"Kyle," Laura asked, "you are effectively in charge of ES. So what do you think? Can you give General Jackson's forces a hundred thousand 459s?"
Kyle was a perfect example of the culture clash that would be going on on Mars if the revolution were eventually successful. He was a Martian to the core, but he was used to thinking of things in a certain manner.
"Governor," he said slowly, "I'm not sure we can do that."
"Oh?" Whiting asked, raising her eyebrows. "And why not?"
"The 459 is expensive to manufacture Governor," he explained. "It's a specialty piece of equipment. In order to obtain the supplies needed for production of the 459 — the extractors, the combat computers, even the storage tanks — that will require much more money than we have available in liquid assets at the time being. And under the circumstances I'm not sure that the other corporations would even extend a line of credit to supply them. And we still have our civilian obligations to fulfill. The bulk of our business is civilian suits as you're aware. We can't simply convert our energies to the manufacture of 459s. It's economically unfeasible."
"Economically unfeasible?" Laura asked him, her eyes appearing to burn into the executive.
"Yes, Governor," he agreed.
Laura rubbed her temples for a moment, as if massaging away a headache. When she dropped her hands from her head, she picked up her coffee cup and took a quick sip. When that was swallowed she bored into him. "Mr. Yee," she asked pointedly, "did you vote for independence?"
"What?" he asked, confused.
"Forgive me for being personal. But did you vote yes yesterday?"
"Of course, Governor," he said defensively.
"I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Yee. Very glad indeed. Now, will you agree with me that this planet, which is now independent, is in a state of war?"
"Well, sure," he answered.
"Do you foresee any particular need for a large supply of civilian biosuits in the near future?"
He considered this for a second. "Well..." he said at last, "no. Actually, I don't."
She continued to stare at him pointedly. "I did not ask you if you thought that the manufacture of one hundred thousand model 459 military biosuits was economically feasible, did I?"
"Governor, I'm not sure that I understand..."
"I asked you," Laura said, raising her voice a tad, "if it was possible for your factory to turn out one hundred thousand model 459 military biosuits for the coming war. I don't give a damn if it's economically feasible or not. Your factory, as of today, is Martian property dedicated to the betterment of the Martian people. Profits and economic feasibility should be the absolute last things on your mind. I do not ever want to hear you mention such things again. We are in a state of war, Mr. Yee. War! We need biosuits to outfit our soldiers so we can fight this war. What I want to know is, economics aside, is your factory capable of turning out this number of suits? Is it physically possible?"
Yee seemed quite shocked by her words, but he answered her. "If we are able to obtain the needed parts, and if we put on an extra four hundred workers or so, yes, Governor, we can have the suits available by the time the WestHems arrive."
"Good," Whiting said, her voice returning to normal. "Do whatever you need to do. Hire all of the workers you need. We have millions of unemployed on this planet you know. Get the supplies you need to get sent to you without worrying about cost. This is common sense government and cost is not an issue. Production is the issue. This is a needed supply and common sense dictates that it should be produced no matter what the cost. So do it! If any of the suppliers have a problem with sending things to you, let us know immediately and we will deal with the problem. Do you understand, Mr. Yee?"
"Yes, Governor," he answered, looking like he'd just gone a round with a heavyweight. "I do."
"Good," Laura replied. She turned to Jackson. "It looks like you can count on one hundred thousand 459s, General."
Jackson suppressed a smile. "Thank you, Governor. And you too, Mr. Yee."
"As for your other requests," Whiting went on, "I obviously do not have representatives of FlightCorp, Dow Chemical, or Shilling munitions here today. Those were Earth based corporations as you know and are probably going through a bit of a shake-up right now. I will touch bases with someone over at those corporations tomorrow and make sure they are getting back into productivity. I will discuss my needs with them and..." she glanced at Yee, who was blushing, "... and persuade them gently if needed."
"That will be fine, Governor," Jackson told her.
"Okay," she said, "next subject. Triad Naval Base. Mr. Belting, you are in charge of that particular phase of this war. What can you tell me?"
Matthew Belting was fifty-eight years old and a third generation Martian of American descent. He had served more than sixteen years in the WestHem Navy, the bulk of it aboard Owls and their predecessors. He was an expert in stealth space warfare and had achieved the highest rank of any Martian in history in the WestHem armed services; that of Lieutenant Commander. During the Jupiter War he'd served as executive officer on board an Owl that had been responsible for the destruction of two heavy battleships and four support ships. When the Owl in question was finally cornered and battered with laser fire, crippling it and killing it's captain, Belting had assumed command. With no hope of anything but destruction of the ship and its surviving forty-two crewmen, he'd surrendered the ship, subjecting himself and his crew to POW status. They'd spent the remainder of the war in a POW camp in Berlin. For this decision Belting was given treatment by WestHem similar to what General Sega was now experiencing. He'd been labeled a traitor, a coward, and worse by the media. Upon being released at the end of the war he was court-martialed in a staged, televised show trial and found guilty, spending three years in a federal prison outside of Phoenix. Upon release he'd returned to Mars, his homeland, his name forever in the history books as a cowardly traitor.
Belting had lived in the ghettos of New Pittsburgh for the next twelve years, drinking alcohol, smoking marijuana, and living among the jobless as a ghetto dweller. Five years ago when a firm plan began to come together for the revolution, Jackson had contacted Belting. Jackson had felt the man up for more than six months, satisfying himself that Belting could be trusted and that he still possessed the expertise he once had. When he was certain the time was right, he'd casually asked him if he felt like planning a little 'operation' that may or may not take place in the future.
Since then Belting had been a welcome though secret part of Jackson's staff. He'd taken to his part of it with vigor, researching modern naval techniques and tactics fanatically. He was perhaps the most knowledgeable authority on space warfare in existence. Though the Earthlings had convicted him of incompetence and had cussed his name so much since the Jupiter War that they now believed their own lies, Matt Belting was quite possibly the man who might insure victory in the coming conflict.
He looked at the Governor, the woman who, despite his reputation and record, had always treated him with respect and had always sought after his advice in regards to naval strategy. He would have flown an Owl on a suicide mission for her.
"The operations on Triad are going very well, Governor," he answered, sipping out of his own coffee. "Colonel Bright's men have been of great assistance to me in securing the base and inventorying its holdings. You already have been briefed on the numbers and variety of ships we have captured there, so I will not go into that unless you wish me to."
"You needn't bother, Mr. Belting," Laura said.
"Okay. All of the combat ships, with the exception of one, were captured in a combat-ready state. This means they were fully armed and fueled. The exception is an Owl, the Mermaid to be exact, which had just made port hours before Red Grab took place. In that case the only thing missing is propellant for the engines and masking system; something that can be rectified rather quickly. And of course, all of the ships are minus basic consumables, although again, the replacement of this is a minor affair.
"The fuel bunkers at the base are nearly full. Apparently there was a delivery of fuel less than a month ago. We have a total of one hundred and sixteen million tons of liquid hydrogen, which is enough propellant for two month's worth of sustained combat operations including long term Owl deployment. However, as General Jackson pointed out, if we're going to go to war for a length of time, we're going to need more.
"The consumables stock for the base is a little lower but that is not of concern. We have enough for another two weeks and those stocks can be replaced once the agricultural industry gets itself back together.
"Weapons stocks are more than I could have hoped for as far as quantity. We have over six hundred nuclear torpedoes onboard the ships and in storage. The problem is that while the base was under siege, the base security personnel wiped the programming for them. We will be unable to detonate them or even launch them as they are now."
"Will we be able to use those torpedoes?" Whiting asked, concerned. The torpedoes were a vital part of the planned Operation Interdiction.
Yes indeed," Belting said. "We just need to make new interfaces for them. SpaceLab Corporation on Triad manufactures the torpedoes. We can just have the people that work there make another six hundred detonator computers and then have them send some people over to install them on the torpedoes. Like every other industry here on Mars, it should not be a problem if they get themselves together and get to work now that their Earthling bosses are gone. However if Interdiction is going to work, it has to be initiated within ten days, fourteen at the most. I suggest you contact SpaceLab as soon as you can and get them moving on this. We will need a minimum of eighty interfaces installed in the torpedoes by that time."
Laura made a note of that. "I'll contact them first thing in the morning," she promised. "I'll make sure you have what you need, one way or the other."
Belting nodded and then went on. "The three Panama class, pre-positioned ships have been inventoried and their contents downloaded to General Jackson. As soon as feasible I will undock those ships and start sending the landing craft down to the surface for disbursement. This will of course be done at the General's discretion."
"How long until you have the people to start doing that?" Whiting asked.
"Should be soon," he answered. "It depends on the cooperation of the Martian citizens that were part of the navy. They will be the ones who know how to fly those landing craft and put them down where they're needed."
"You'll be given first crack at all volunteers with naval experience," Jackson put in. "I'll formulate the list and send it to your office hourly when the recruits start signing up."
"I understand," Belting said to the General. "And hopefully I'll be able to make use of many of them. But without the people that were captured at TNB, I won't need any of them. My greatest need is going to be current naval personnel. If Interdiction is going to work, they're going to have to be the backbone of it."
"And that brings me to the issue of POWs.
"We are still sorting through the personnel that have been captured at TNB. As you are aware, there were more than seventeen thousand of them. As of my last briefing, which took place three hours ago, we are fairly certain we have identified and released all of the civilian workers at the base. The majority of them, in fact, were probably able to vote yesterday.
"The military personnel are being held in the housing areas and we are slowly sorting through them one by one. The WestHem citizens are being placed on ships and transported down to the POW camps that are being set up. The Martian citizens that are active naval personnel are being sent to separate parts of the housing complex and are still, for the time being, kept under guard and treated as enemy POWs." He saw the look of distaste on the faces of Whiting and the legislative members.
"I understand your misgivings about this," he quickly put in. "I don't like it either. But under the circumstances it seemed a wise move. Until we establish the loyalty, or lack thereof, of these people to Mars, we must assume that they are WestHems."
"We understand," Laura said. "But please facilitate this process. It's bad enough that these people were not allowed to vote. Don't treat them as criminals any longer than you need to."
"I intend to begin making contact with the ones we have identified later today," Belting said. "I am developing a list of likely candidates for Interdiction duty. I will talk to these people personally."
"How many people capable of command have you identified so far?" Jackson asked.
"Well," Belting gave a crooked smile, "the requirements are rather stringent you know; more than three years service on the bridge of an Owl; and we've only gone through a little more than a third of the prisoners."
"How many?" Jackson repeated.
"Just three so far."
"Well," Laura said brightly, "three is better than none now, isn't it?"
Belting shrugged. "In any case, I will begin talking with these people shortly. In fact I have a 10:30 shuttle to Triad this morning and will make contact as soon as I arrive. If these people agree to go along with Interdiction I'm going to need their help picking crews. There's a lot to do and little time to do it in."
"It sounds like you have things well in hand, Mr. Belting," Laura said, and then paused, as if puzzled. "You know," she said, looking at him, "it just doesn't seem right calling you Mr. Belting. How does Admiral Belting sound to you?"
"Excuse me?" Belting said, confused.
Laura grinned. "I am proposing you be named commanding Admiral of the Martian Navy. You will given all the rights and privileges of such a rank and you will be subordinate only to General Jackson."
Belting was stunned. Admiral? Commanding Admiral?
"I second the nomination," General Jackson grinned.
"Well, Admiral?" Laura asked. "Do you accept?"
"Uh..." Belting stared at them, not knowing what to say. After years of disgrace, after being labeled a traitor, after living in the slums off of tax dollars, they wanted to make him an admiral? "I accept," he finally said. "And I thank you for this honor."
"It's no honor," Jackson said. "You've earned it and there's no one else on the planet as qualified for the job as you are."
"You will of course have to be confirmed by the legislature." Laura said. "Those of us them that are true Martians anyway. But I don't foresee any problems with that and in any case that is for after the success of Interdiction. Until then the very existence of the Martian Navy is to be kept a secret. That is vital to Interdiction, is it not?"
Belting nodded. "Yes."
"Then for now, you will be appointed commanding Admiral in lieu of full confirmation. Congratulations, Admiral. Do your best."
"I will," Admiral Belting, near tears promised. "I will."
Matt Mendez and Jeff Creek were sitting in Jeff's living room, both smoking cigarettes and both sipping from their first Fruity of the day. On the Internet screen at the front of the room the MarsGroup main channel was tuned in, the reporters still talking about the speech Governor Whiting had given and the ramifications of the vote that had been taken the day before. Belinda, who had already consumed three bottles of Fruity this fine morning, was hovering nearby, clucking her teeth at what she was hearing.
"The people on this fuckin' planet are crazy as that bitch Whiting," she was saying sadly, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers. "Don't they know what they just done? Don't they know what them fuckin marines is gonna do to us when they get here?"
"Shut your ass," Jeff said to her, irritated. "We know what we're getting into."
"You don't know shit," she said. "She promises you you're gonna get a job or some shit like that and you vote to have them marines come down here and kill us all. Didn't you hear what those WestHem fucks said last night?"
"They're talking out their ass," Matt spoke up, just as irritated with his friend's wife — who had been one of the minute percentage to give a no on the independence vote — as Jeff was. "As long as people stick together and fight them, we'll win. Don't you want to be free?"
"Free," she scoffed, taking another large drink. "There ain't no such thing in this universe. That bitch used you two and the rest of this goddamn planet to set herself up as a fuckin dictator. You ever think of that?"
"I guess it's just a chance we'll have to take," Jeff said, letting loose a loud and extremely foul fart into the room. He took a drag off his cigarette and then turned back to the screen, where a field reporter was standing outside the entrance to the Shilling Munitions headquarters in New Pittsburgh.
"Obviously this factory here," the reporter was telling the camera, "is one of those that Governor Whiting and the interim government will need to get operating at full capacity if we're going to be successful in fighting off the WestHem marines when they get here. But today confusion reigned as hundreds of unemployed showed up looking for jobs while the WestHem management structure showed up and tried to take charge as normal in an environment that is far from what they left last week before the vote. It is reported that the Martian factory workers and security guards forcibly ejected all of the managers from the building, telling them that they were no longer welcome. As to just who is running the operation at this point, that is completely unknown. In the meantime, thousands of patriotic Martians are waiting patiently and not so patiently out front for their opportunity to work here. From what we've heard, this same scene is taking place at industrial and agricultural facilities all over the planet in the wake of the independence vote."
"Jan," a newscaster back at the main office enquired, "we've heard that Governor Whiting is personally contacting each of the vital industries to ask them to work together to formulate some sort of command structure so that productivity can continue. Have you seen or heard any evidence of that?"
"I have heard that Governor Whiting has contacted some of the old lower level supervisory staff that used to assist on the factory floor," the reporter replied. "As to what was said and how effective it has been moving things along, I haven't been able to develop any information regarding that."
"They're never gonna get those fucking places running," Belinda predicted gloomily. "Everyone's gonna be fighting over who gets to give the orders and no one's gonna do the work. They'll be rioting in them places in two days."
"They'll send the MPG in to take over the place if they don't get their shit together," Matt said. "That's a munitions factory. We're gonna need the bullets and shells that that place makes."
"Hopefully it won't come to that," Jeff said. "The MPG has better things to do than babysit a bunch of fucking whiny employed fucks that want to be in charge."
"What about you?" Matt asked. "What're you gonna do now? You gonna just sit around and live off the unemployment some more or are you gonna go out and get one of them jobs that they're offering?"
"I don't know, man," he said with a shrug. "I'm kinda just enjoying watching the show go on, you know what I mean? If nothing else, we tweaked WestHem's ass pretty good with this one."
"Yep," Matt said. "We tweaked them all right. But if we want to keep tweaking them we're gonna have to do more than sit here and watch the show. This is the chance to get a real job, to earn some real money. I'm gonna take it."
"Yeah? What are you gonna do? Go work in the fuckin munitions factory? Or are you gonna go work in the greenhouses picking fuckin tomatoes or something?"
"Neither," he told him. "I'm gonna sign up for the MPG."
"The MPG?" Jeff asked incredulously. "You're gonna join the fuckin army? Are you dusted?"
He shook his head. "I want to help fight this war," he said. "I really think that we have a good chance of staying independent if we get enough people to sign up. I voted yes and I'm gonna go help fight those Earthling fucks. I want to be part of it."
"Part of it?" Jeff said. "You are fucking dusted. What if you get killed, man? Those WestHem marines aren't gonna be shooting training rounds when they land down here and try to take these cities back. They gonna be playing for keeps."
"And so will I," Matt told him.
Jeff shook his head, half amused, half disgusted with his friend's willingness to throw himself into the fray. "I just don't get you sometimes, man," he said. "After living in this ghetto all your fuckin life, you..."
"Don't you see," he interrupted, "that's exactly why I'm doing it. I've lived in this fucking neighborhood all of my life, without any hope of ever escaping it thanks to those WestHem fucks and their corporations. Only now, there is hope to get out of here. Somebody has to fight for it though or the hope is going to be gone in about twelve weeks or so. If we win this thing, this planet will be free forever. This war will go down in history as the Martian Independence War, something that they'll talk about in history for the next two thousand years." He paused, giving a little shrug. "I want to be part of that. I want my descendents to be able to say that their dad or their granddad or their great fucking granddad fought in it."
A change underwent Jeff's face as Matt explained himself, a subtle shift from disgust to understanding. It was a change that Belinda, even in her drunken state, instantly picked up on.
"Oh my fucking God," she said dramatically. "Look at this shit. He's got you actually thinking about that shit now, doesn't he?"
"He does make a very good point," Jeff admitted, almost reluctantly.
"So now you're gonna go out and sign up to get killed by the WestHems too? Is that what you're saying? You want to die alongside him, or end up in some shithole prison when they take this place back?"
"I didn't say anything like that," he said defensively. "I just said he made a good point."
"I got a news flash for you, moron," Belinda said, spilling a little bit of her Fruity down her arm she was so excited. "We're not going to win this war. There is no way that the Earthlings are going to let us keep this planet. We surprised them a little bit the other day, that's true, but they're going to jack this planet back from the MPG as soon as they land. This isn't going to go down in history as no fuckin Martian Independence War because we ain't gonna win. They're gonna say it's an uprising that they put down and no one will even remember it twenty years from now. And if you two don't fuckin know that then you're even stupider than you look."
"And so what are you going to do?" Jeff asked his wife. "Just sit here through the whole thing and drink Fruity?"
"Goddamn right that's what I'm gonna do," she said. "That's what my life consists of. I'm vermin, just like you two. Only I'm gonna be a living, free vermin when this little war is over and we have marines occupying our city. Nothing ever fucking changes around here. You're stupid if you think that it does."
Matt had heard just about enough. He swallowed the remainder of his own bottle and stood up. "Well you two can sit here and argue about it if you want, I'm going to sign up. Time's a wasting."
"Good," Belinda nearly spat, "and take your fuckin perfect world ideas with you. Maybe we'll come visit you in prison when this is all over."
He ignored her, heading for the apartment door. He didn't make it three steps before Jeff stood up from his own chair.
"Wait up a second," he told him. "I'll go with you."
"You'll do what?" Belinda screamed at him. "You are not going with him! You ain't gonna get your stupid ass killed before I get knocked up and have my baby! I ain't gonna live in this fuckin one bedroom apartment all my life!"
"That's why I'm going with him," Jeff said calmly, grabbing his PC and his cigarettes. "So you won't have to. C'mon, let's go."
The nearest MPG recruiting office was forty blocks away, in the south portion of Helvetia Heights. They rode the public transit train there, utilizing one of the transport tokens that came with their monthly welfare allotment. They stepped off at the nearest station nervously, knowing that they were now deep in enemy gang territory, an act that could easily lead to their deaths if they were discovered.
Sure enough, they made it no more than two blocks from the station before a group of Thrusters stepped out of the lobby of a public housing building and blocked their path. There were six of them, all young, dangerous looking, hardened veterans. They surrounded them menacingly, eyeing the Capitalist tattoos on their quarry's arms, their hands playing in their waistbands where their guns would be holstered.
"A little out of your turf?" one of them, the apparent leader of the group, inquired plainly, his face expressionless.
Neither Jeff nor Matt said anything, both knowing that they were caught, neither wanting to give their foes the satisfaction of hearing them whine.
The leader continued to stare at them, his hand continuing to fondle the concealed handgun. "You got a lot of balls just walking around over here like this," he told them. "A lot of fucking balls. Where you heading?"
They remained silent, both glaring defiantly at the faces around them.
"Let's take 'em around the back and pop 'em," one of the younger members suggested.
"Yeah," another put in, "then we'll drag their fucking bodies back to the border tonight and dump 'em."
"We might just do that," the leader said thoughtfully. He took a step closer to Jeff, fingering the tattoo on his arm. He then looked over at Matt's. "You're retired?" he asked.
"Yeah," Jeff grunted, since some reply seemed necessary.
"Over eighteen then?"
He nodded.
"Where you heading?" the leader repeated. "You didn't come all the way into our turf like this with only the two of you looking for a fight. And you ain't here sellin' dust either. So what the fuck you doing out here? Didn't you know that we was gonna find you?"
"We knew," Jeff told him. "We ain't here to make trouble. We're heading for 104th and Stevens."
The leader nodded. "The MPG recruiting center," he said. "You going to sign up?"
"Yeah," Jeff confirmed.
The leader looked over at Matt. "You too?"
"Yeah," Matt grunted as well.
He nodded again, his face remaining without expression or nuance. He turned to his people. "Let 'em through," he said. "They're going to sign up."
There was no argument, no hesitation. They simply stood aside.
"Get your asses on down there," the leader told them. "You have safe passage through our turf for that. We catch you anywhere except between here and there though, you're dead meat. Got it?"
"Got it," Jeff told them.
Their bodies flooded with nervous adrenaline, they started walking once again. They didn't look back. They were harassed no further on their trip.
The recruitment center had been hastily set up the night before in the lobby of a commercial building that catered to the welfare class retail industry. It was home to the welfare food mart, the welfare clothing store, welfare intoxicant shops, and many other stores that accepted government subsidy dollars. Like any such building there were thousands of square meters of vacant space. It was in the remains of a former rent-to-own establishment that had been closed the year before for lack of sufficient profit margin that the MPG had brought in desks, computer terminals, and recruitment specialists. A squad of infantry had also been brought in as a security measure.
Jeff and Matt did not get near the recruitment center or even the building itself for quite some time however. A line of people stretched from the main lobby doors for three blocks in both directions. There were males and females alike, most between the ages of eighteen and thirty years old, all of them wearing welfare clothing, most sporting gang tattoos on their arms. They stood patiently in groups of two and three and four, many smoking cigarettes, a few even sipping from Fruity bottles. Amazingly enough many of the former gang members were from rival gangs, some of the rivalries as bitter and long-lasting as that between the Capitalists and the Thrusters. They stood shoulder to shoulder in many places with no apparent conflict or strife. Some even seemed to be conversing.
"Goddamn that's a lot of fuckin' people," Jeff said as they approached the tail end of it. "How long is this shit gonna take?"
"Quite a while it looks like," Matt said. "Come on, let's get in line."
They got in line. It was a slow moving one and it took them nearly three hours before the building was even in sight. At last they made it to the front and were brought before a desk where a weary looking sergeant in standard indoor garb asked for their identification. They provided it for him and he ran their names through his computer.
"You boys have been in a little trouble in your lives now, haven't you?" he asked lightly, with the air of one who had already asked that more than a thousand times that day.
"Just the normal shit for the hood," Jeff responded. "Is that gonna keep us from signing up?"
The sergeant smiled a little bit. "If we eliminated everyone around here because they had a criminal record we wouldn't have anyone at all." He scrolled up and down through the screen for a moment. "Let's see what we got here... possession of dust, assault and battery, carrying a concealed weapon, possession of stolen property, possession of illegal chemicals. That's all the usual stuff all right. No murder convictions, no sexual crimes, no assaults against peace officers. Those are the big eliminating factors. Have either one of you ever worked before?"
"Naw," Jeff said. "Ain't too many jobs around here."
Matt shook his head in the negative as well.
"No job training skills or anything like that?"
Again they both answered in the negative.
"Ok then," the sergeant said. "If you two will head on upstairs for me you'll find corporal Jennings who will set you up on a computer to take the ASVAB test."
"The az-vab?" Jeff asked. "What the fuck's that?"
"Armed services vocational assessment battery," the sergeant explained. "It's an exam that tells us what your strengths and weaknesses are so we can determine what assignment would best suit you."
"Shee-it," Jeff said toughly, "just give me a fuckin' gun and point me to the fuckin' Earthlings."
"Well, we like you spirit," the sergeant responded. "But we still have to give you the test. So if you'll just head upstairs for me."
They headed upstairs. Once there they found another two-hour wait until a computer terminal was free.
The test itself took only an hour. The first section consisted of a series of multiple choice questions in such subjects as math, English, reading comprehension, spatial relations, and general knowledge. They both answered everything to the best of their abilities and then were automatically moved onto the second section, which was a standard psychological examination. The questions here were widely varied and many of them bordered on the bizarre but — in accordance with the instructions at the beginning — both did their best to answer truthfully instead of in a smart-ass manner, which was what their gang instincts cried out for.
Both finished at roughly the same time. The computer screens they were using thanked them for their participation in the process and gave them appointments with recruiters. Matt's was in six days at the very recruiting center that they were now sitting in. It included a free two-way pass for the public transportation system. Jeff's appointment however, was a little different. It was in two days at the MPG deployment center itself.
"Why do you think we have different appointment places?" Jeff asked as they headed back through Thruster territory to the train station. "And why would they send you back here why they send me all the way over to the other side of the city? That don't make no fuckin sense."
"Maybe it has something to do with that test we took," Matt suggested with a shrug. "They said it was for placement."
"Shit," he said, "if they try and make me clean out biosuits or something like that I'm fuckin walkin. That's not what I signed up for."
"Maybe they want to put you in tanks or something," Jeff suggested.
"I'd go for that," he replied, lighting a cigarette. "I ain't gonna clean out no fuckin biosuits though. They better not even ask me that shit."
Meanwhile, at the MPG deployment center, Lisa Wong was on duty behind her computer terminal in the administration part of the building. Her leg was healing up nicely from the shrapnel injury she'd received in the firefight at the main gate to EMB but she still had a bulky bandage wrapped around it, a bandage she wore with a certain amount of pride. She had been wounded in battle! In an actual, knockdown, drag-out battle with WestHem marines! After that the accounting and inventory tasks she was performing — even though the demand for them had quadrupled in the last week — were now unimaginably dull. She stared at her screen listlessly, looking at rows and columns that listed where combat equipment was stored and at what rate it was being used, vowing that she would not fight the war by doing this.
She looked at her watch, seeing that it was 1510, twenty minutes before her scheduled appointment with Captain Jennifer Stanley, the commanding officer of the accounting and receiving department. The appointment had been made the previous day, shortly after the vote count had been announced, in response to an email that had been distributed to all MPG members from General Jackson himself. The memo had stated that all MPG members requesting either removal from the MPG on grounds of non-support of the revolt or reassignment within it to move into or out of combat branches should contact their respective commanding officer. Lisa, obviously, was going with the latter option. Since Governor Whiting had banished the sexual barrier for combat branches, she sure as hell wanted in on it.
At 1518 she could wait no longer. She got up from her desk and made her way to the elevator, where a trip up three floors brought her to the main administration nerve center for the base. The doors opened on a spacious lobby furnished with plain but functional desks, couches, and chairs. Other MPG members awaiting their own appointments with their own commanding officers occupied most of the chairs. A civilian secretary sat behind a desk, answering computer calls and putting in an endless stream of appointments for others.
"Name?" the secretary, a young Asian descendent with a particularly thick Martian accent asked.
"Corporal Wong," Lisa told her. "I have a 1530 with Captain Stanley."
"Hold on a sec," she said. She completed the call that she was currently handling and then put someone else on hold. She then checked through another screen on her computer and tapped it with her finger. "Should be about another five minutes or so. Go ahead and grab a seat."
She thanked the harried looking secretary and then plopped herself down on one of the couches. The woman sitting next to her was someone she knew. She worked in the outfitting department a floor below hers and had been part of the makeshift platoon that had pinned in the marines. They chatted while they waited, talking of Lisa's wound and their hopes for reassignment.
"I want tanks," the woman told her, almost hungrily. "I want to be in the machine that blows those Earthling fucks back to their landing area."
"I just want someone to give me a gun to fight with," Lisa responded vaguely, not mentioning her real hope for fear that she would laugh it off.
Right on schedule Lisa was invited into the captain's office for the meeting. She walked through the doors a little nervously, into a small room with a standard plastic desk and a few potted plants. Pictures of a smiling girl of about twelve were displayed on the top of the computer terminal. Stanley was sitting in her chair, looking a little frazzled herself. She was a handsome woman of about forty years old, a ten-year member of the MPG and a low-level accountant for MarsTrans in her civilian life.
"Let me guess," she told Lisa as she took a seat before the desk. "You're here to request reassignment to a combat branch."
Lisa smiled. She had always liked her CO who, in the tradition set by General Jackson, was an approachable, personable leader to her troops. "You must be psychic, Captain," she told her.
"I must be," she said with a sigh. "You're the fifteenth member of accounting that's met with me today. From what I hear I have similar appointments taking up most of my time tomorrow as well. Not only am I not getting any work done, I'm losing all of my best people. I don't suppose that you'd reconsider and man that desk for me instead of an M-24?"
"Not a chance, Captain, sorry," Lisa told her.
"Can't say that I blame you," she said with a shrug. "I put in my own request for reassignment yesterday with Colonel Culligan. Unfortunately my request was denied. Seems they need me a little too much over here in accounting."
"Well... someone has to do it, don't they?"
"Just not you," she said with a hint of sarcasm. "I know the feeling, believe me. So, where can we put you? Do you want tanks? Infantry? Flight training maybe? I haven't checked your qualifications yet."
"Well... actually," she said slowly, hesitantly, "I was thinking of... maybe... uh..." she trailed off, unable to get the words out of her mouth.
"What?" Stanley asked patiently. "Spit it out, girl."
"Special forces," Lisa finally blurted, feeling herself blush.
Stanley raised her eyebrows a tad. "Special forces?" she said. "Wong, I know you're hot to get into combat and all but the qualifications for special forces are pretty stringent. Those positions are only open to existing MPG members that have combat unit experience. At this particular moment in time that only includes the men. Maybe in a year or so, after you..."
"Begging your pardon, Captain," Lisa interrupted, "but that isn't exactly what the requirements say. I read them very carefully."
Another raising of the eyebrows. "Oh?"
"Yes," Lisa confirmed. "They read previous combat unit experience or an equivalent experience. I think I might qualify under the equivalent experience umbrella."
"Equivalent experience? Are you talking about police work?"
"Exactly," she said with a smile. "I have basic police academy training, three levels of advanced weapons and tactics training, and almost eight years of street patrol time. I'm qualified as expert in the M-24 and the 4mm pistol as well as the MP-7 and MP-9 assault rifles. That is all in addition to my MPG basic infantry tactics training."
Stanley nodded thoughtfully. "That is pretty impressive," she admitted. "But as to whether or not that counts as equivalent training or not would not be up to me. I'd have to kick your request over to Colonel Bright's office for consideration."
"Could you do that for me?"
"I'll need a resume of some sort first," she told her.
Lisa smiled. "I just happen to have one already composed on my PC," she said. "I can download it onto your computer right now."
"Very good then," she said, turning her screen towards Lisa to allow her to access the download port. "Put it in. And for what its worth, I'll even send off a letter of recommendation."
"Thanks, Captain," she said gratefully. That was going to be her next request.
"Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into if they accept you though? You would be one of very few women in special forces. God only knows what the men would think about that. Are you sure you can handle it?"
"I've worked Helvetia Heights, Collerton, and downtown in a police cart," Lisa said. "After that I can handle anything that they can throw at me."
Brett Ingram sat quietly at a chair, staring out the window at Mars floating below. He was in a bachelor officer's room on the outside wall of the base; a room intended for one occupant that he was sharing with three others. The surroundings were comfortable but the door was locked and armed MPG troops patrolled outside. Spacer Sugiyoto, one of the other Martians that had been stationed aboard the Mermaid was one of his roommates, as were two other native Martians he'd never met until two days ago when they'd been separated out from the rest of the WestHem naval personnel that were being held prisoner in the enlisted dormitory. The fact that they were all Martians did not escape them, nor did they think it a coincidence.
After all, they knew what was going on on the planet below. Even when they'd been crowded in with the other prisoners in the dorm, they had known about the revolution and the vote and the declaration of independence. Their captors had allowed them access to video terminals in their captivity, terminals that showed both MarsGroup broadcasts as well as WestHem big three broadcasts. In the room they were in now the main terminal mounted on the wall was available for their viewing pleasure twenty-four hours a day, on any network that they wished to view. The only capability that had been removed from it was transmission of information or email to the Internet.
The four of them had been watching MarsGroup almost continually since being placed in the room together. In between newscasts that showed MPG soldiers patrolling city streets and huge lines before recruitment centers and industries, they had speculated on just what the reason for their segregation might be. All four had come to the conclusion that the Martian authorities — namely General Jackson, Laura Whiting, and the small group of planetary legislature members that were loyal to them — simply didn't know what to do with them.
"They know we're greenies but they don't know if they can trust us because we're WestHem naval personnel," Sugiyoto had surmised on more than one occasion.
"They were nice enough to separate us from the Earthlings but not quite nice enough to just let us go," was Ingram's opinion on the matter.
"Or let us vote in the independence vote," added one of the others at this point in the conversation. "The most important fucking vote this planet has ever engaged in and we weren't allowed to take part in it."
These same points, as well as a few others, were what were being rehashed for the thirtieth or fortieth time when the door to the outside hallway suddenly slid open on its track. A pair of MPG infantry soldiers stood there, their uniform full battle gear, their M-24s cradled down low in a manner that was almost, but not quite, non-threatening.
"Mr. Ingram," one of them said politely, looking directly at him. "If you would come with us please?"
Brett looked at them a little nervously. "Where are we going?" he asked, making no move to get up from his small chair.
"Someone wants to see you," was the reply. "If you would come with us please?"
He went with them. After all, what else was there to do? They led him through a maze of corridors deep within the bowels of the base, through sections he had never been in before, through security door after security door, all of which opened with a touch of their hands. They passed several other MPG soldiers on the way to their destination, all of them armed, but no one else. The halls that had once undoubtedly teemed with WestHem officers and men were now virtually deserted.
"Where are all the Earthlings?" Brett asked them at one point, not really expecting an answer from them but unable to contain his curiosity.
To his surprise, one of the soldiers answered, his voice friendly. "Most of them have been moved down to the surface," he said. "The rest are still over in the enlisted dorms. They should be down at the POW camps by the end of the week."
"I see," Brett said thoughtfully.
Near the front portion of the naval base, nearly two kilometers from where they'd started, they came to the main control building, the building that Admiral Rosewood had surrendered to the special forces troops on the orders of General Sega. Signs of the battle that had taken place here were everywhere. Glass was missing from many of the doors and little holes, obviously made by high-velocity bullets, peppered nearly every surface. Two more soldiers guarded the front entrance. They pushed a button on a computer screen and the doors slid open.
Brett was led into the entrance foyer, where two more soldiers — one with a light machine gun — were standing guard. One of them got up and walked over to Brett, standing before him impassively. He held a standard issue police scanner in his hand and he quickly ran it over Brett's body.
"He's clean," the soldier said. "Go ahead and take him up. The admiral is waiting for him."
The admiral? Brett thought, confused. What admiral? Was Rosewood still on the base? And if so, why would they want Brett to talk to him?
He kept his questions to himself and the two soldiers that had accompanied him took him to a bank of elevators in the far wall. One of them was standing invitingly open and they entered it, the soldiers flanking him on either side.
"Top level," one of the men said and the machine began to rise, going non-stop to the tenth floor of the building. When the doors slid open again they were in a large hallway. Closed doors lined it on both sides.
"Right this way," the other man told him, heading to the left. Brett followed.
Shortly they came to a door marked with Admiral Rosewood's name and rank. Someone had taken red spray paint and drawn a circle around his title and then put a diagonal slash through it. Brett was still staring at this curiously when the door slid open, revealing a reception area. The desk that had guarded the entrance to the inner office was still there but empty, its computer terminal darkened. The two soldiers guided him around it to the inner door. One of them put his hand on the locking screen and the door slid open.
Inside was a large office, complete with a huge desk that appeared to be made of genuine oak. A middle-aged man in civilian clothes sat behind the desk, a man that looked vaguely familiar to Brett. He looked up at their entrance and smiled a little.
"Come in," he told the group at his door. He looked directly at Brett. "Go ahead and have a seat, my friend." He waved to a plastic chair before his desk.
Brett slowly went inside and sat in the offered chair. The two soldiers continued to flank him, their weapons clanking as they adjusted them.
"Thank you for bringing my guest, gentlemen," the man told the soldiers. "If you would give us a few minutes of privacy now I'd appreciate it."
The soldiers didn't seem to like this idea too much. "Admiral," one of them said, "he's still technically a WestHem POW. I'm not sure that..."
"I don't think he's going to try to harm me, are you, Mr. Ingram?" the man — the so-called admiral — interrupted.
"Uh... no," Brett said. "Not at all."
"But..." the other soldier started.
"If there's trouble I'll call you," he said. "I'd like what is said between myself and this young man to be private and confidential, okay?"
"Okay," one of them said doubtfully. Reluctantly they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them. Brett was now alone with the familiar looking man the others called admiral, who was looking across the desk at him, a small smile upon his face.
The man turned the computer terminal towards him and tapped a few keys. "Spacer First Class Ingram," he addressed him, paging through screens on the terminal. "You were born December 3rd, 2116, in Libby, Mars. The son of Jack and Lisa Ingram, second generation Martians." He looked up at him, his blue eyes probing. "That makes you a third generation Martian. You've grown up on Mars, you were educated on Mars, and you are without dispute, a Martian, correct?"
"Uh... yes," he said slowly, not knowing where this conversation was leading.
The man read a little bit more. "You were admitted to the WestHem Navy on January 4, 2136 at the age of nineteen. Trained in electronic systems at Triad Space Base and assigned to the Mermaid. There you have been ever since. Your fitness reports are marginal. They describe you as 'competent at your tasks for a Martian descended crewman'. There are several reprimands for not following procedures as prescribed in the manual." He showed him a cynical smile. "The WestHems don't like us Martians very much, do they?"
"Excuse me... uh... sir?" said Brett, tired of the mystery. "I'm not quite sure exactly what's going on here."
The man smiled politely. "No," he answered, "I guess you don't, do you? Perhaps we could start with an introduction. I already know who you are and I'm pretty sure that you know who I am; you just haven't recognized me yet. The pictures that they showed you back in your naval history classes were of a much younger me I'm sure."
"Naval history classes?" Brett said doubtfully, although that did seem to ring a bell in his brain.
"I'm the man who surrendered the Herring to EastHem during the Jupiter War. The first Martian descended naval officer to achieve command status."
Brett's eyes widened in surprise. Yes, he knew that story all right. Everyone knew the story of the Herring's surrender and the subsequent disgrace of acting captain Belting after the war. But Brett had thought him dead, either killed by the street gangs of New Pittsburgh or a victim of liver cirrhosis from alcoholism. What was he doing here now? And why were MPG soldiers calling him admiral?
"I can see by your eyes that you recall the face now," Belting said. "Good. That saves me the trouble of explaining that rather painful episode of my life to you. Let us move on to current events, shall we?"
"Sure," Brett said carefully.
"Governor Whiting has named me commanding admiral of the Martian naval forces," he told him.
"The Martian naval forces?" Brett said. "Mars doesn't have any naval forces."
Belting smiled again. "We do now," he told him. "I'm sure you're aware that we have revolted against WestHem, are you not?"
"Yes of course. We've been watching Internet ever since it happened. Its all we have to do."
"Very good. We haven't said much about it to the media and they've been kind enough not to push the issue too much, but here at Triad Naval Base we have captured ten Owl-class ships, twelve California class warships, fully equipped with fighters and bombers, five Panama class transport ships, and a variety of smaller vessels; supply ships mostly. We have also captured a total of 16,462 WestHem naval personnel. Of that number, 1340 are native Martians such as yourself. So we're faced with the problem of just what to do with you all. Should we condemn you to waiting out this war in a cell as a POW just because a couple of years ago you needed a job and took what was available? That doesn't seem hardly fair now, does it?"
"No sir," Belting answered, starting to sense what was coming.
"Indeed it is not. We have no reason to believe that you are any less a Martian than the droves of young men and women that are signing up for service all over the planet. So each of the native Martians that are among the POWs will be getting a speech similar to this one, though usually with a lower ranking officer. I took you because you are special. You served aboard an Owl and more than anything, we need to get those Owls up and running. But first I need to ask you a question; perhaps the most important question anyone will ever ask you in your life, so think carefully about it." He paused, staring at Brett. "Where does your loyalty lie, son?"
"I'm a Martian, sir," Brett answered immediately. "And I want to fight for us. I want in."
Belting, his face remaining expressionless, reached into his desk and withdrew an electronic note-pad. He turned it so that the script was facing Brett and slid it across the desk to him. "This is a resignation from the WestHem Navy. If you're going to fight with us you need to sign it and it will be transmitted to Earth along with any others we get. By signing it you will not only be giving up any rights to pay or benefits from WestHem after the war, but you'll be committing treason against them. If we lose, I can promise that we'll try to protect you from harm but I can't guarantee that we'll be successful. We don't know what's going to happen if we lose."
Brett skimmed the script which was brief and to the point. "Then I guess we'd better not lose," he said, placing his right index finger on the signature pad.
"Very good," Belting told him, holding out his hand for a shake. "Congratulations, you are now an officer of the Martian Navy. I think commander would be an appropriate rank for someone of your experience, don't you?"
Brett's eyes widened. "Commander?" he said. "But sir, I'm just a spacer first class."
"That's in the WestHem system," Belting told him. "Things are going to be different here under our system. In the first place I'm going to be forced to trust you at your word that you will be loyal to us and that you will fight for us. We simply don't have time to do it any other way. Second of all, you're going to be asked to do things for us that would more than likely be considered impossible under the WestHem system. I'm going to ask you to take command of your ship, the Mermaid, and get it up and running in the next two weeks."
Brett reeled from that one. "You want me to command an Owl? And get it running in two weeks?"
"You heard me correctly," Belting confirmed. "I have an operation planned for when our Earthling friends start heading for us, an operation that is designed to whittle down their numbers a little. I call it Interdiction, and those Owls figure quite heavily in it."
"You want to use the captured Owls to hit their transport ships," Brett said, although it was not a question.
"Correct," he said. "That's Interdiction in a nutshell. I want to get as many of those Owls operational as I can and I want to meet the WestHem marines when they come around the sun and I want to pick at them and harass them their entire trip here. What Interdiction will concentrate on will be the Panamas, where the marines and their equipment will be riding. For each Panama that we destroy on the way here, our chances of being defeated on the ground here on Mars will decrease by five percent at least."
Brett took a deep breath, excited at the thought of what Belting was suggesting but forced to examine the hard reality of the situation. "Sir," he said to his new boss, "how will we crew the Owls for this? And then there's the matter of command. Sure, I've been on the bridge for quite a while now and I like to think I'm a pretty good detection man, but I've never commanded a ship before. And you want me to do it against the WestHem navy? To sneak in and blow up their ships? It'll be a suicide mission at best."
"Well, let's take your concerns one at a time, shall we. How will we crew them? My hope is that they will be mostly crewed with former WestHem naval personnel of Martian descent. There are a number of such people on the planet you know."
"But most of them were cooks and cleaning people," Brett said. "What we need are engine room personnel and bridge personnel."
"We'll spread those with that kind of experience around as evenly as possible," Belting told him. "They will be the officers on the ships. The others will just have to be trained in their duties while you are enroute. How many people, after all, does it really take to run an Owl? They crew more than a hundred, but you can run a ship with thirty trained people, can't you?"
"I suppose," he said doubtfully. Sure it was theoretically possible, but...
"You won't be getting much sleep on your way to the battleground, but by the time you get there you will hopefully be able to function as a fighting ship, as a team."
"Hopefully," Brett said with no small measure of trepidation.
"And then there is your command concerns," Belting said next. "To tell you the truth, I don't think that is much of a concern at all. You've been on the bridge of Mermaid for years now. You've observed the command deck through several captains and executive officers. You know what the captain is going to do most of the time before he does it, don't you?"
"Well..." Brett said, "I suppose."
"I've been in the same position as you on that bridge, son," he said. "I've read your file over and over again and I've read through your reports and I've seen the ASVAB analysis on you. It would seem that I have more confidence in your abilities than you yourself do. I know you can command one of those ships and I would venture a guess that you would probably be better at it than many full captains of the WestHem navy. After all, you won't be afraid to deviate from the book now, will you? You will know how to get things done."
Brett said nothing. He just sat, thinking this mad scheme over.
"It's a dangerous job that I'm asking you to do," Belting told him. "I won't make any bones about that. You'll be out there in Earthling territory all alone, with nowhere to run, with only the capabilities of your ship to protect you. This is a voluntary war, Mr. Ingram. If you don't think that you're capable of doing what I ask, or if you feel that it is too dangerous an undertaking, then you are free to turn down the offer of command and I'll find you reassignment somewhere else. The decision is entirely yours."
He took another deep breath, his instincts screaming at him to refuse this suicidal assignment. But he didn't. Instead he said, "Will I be able to examine the records of those assigned to my ship?"
Belting smiled again. "Of course, commander," he told him. "Anything you want."
Salta, Argentina Sector — Southern WestHem
May 28, 2146
Lieutenant Eric Callahan and his platoon of marines had received their orders the previous day. They, along with the rest of the 314th Armored Cavalry Regiment, were being redeployed as part of Operation Martian Hammer, the operation to retake the planet Mars from the greenie terrorists that had assumed control of it. Since the word had come down the entire regiment had been in a constant state of motion as they prepared to ship more than 3000 men up to Departure for deployment onto the transport ships. Thankfully only the men, their bio-suits, and their light weapons needed to go up. The brigade's heavy equipment — the helicopters, the tanks, the APCs, the artillery guns — would all be staying behind as it would be worthless on the surface of Mars. Special extraterrestrial tanks, APCs, hovers, and self-propelled artillery pieces were being moved from warehouses and storage ships in orbit to replace them.
Callahan and his men had been at the Marine airport for the past twelve hours now, not so patiently awaiting their turn to board an aircraft for the two-hour flight to Buenos Aires, where the spaceport was located. They had spent most of that time in the waiting areas watching Internet broadcasts from the big three. Occasional MarsGroup blurbs were shown as well but they were carefully edited shots, meant to inflame the WestHem populace, not present a fair and impartial analysis of the Martian situation. Needless to say the marines — Callahan included — were outraged by the reports of what had occurred on the planet, particularly the reports about their brother marines, the fast action division.
It was said that the rogue elements of the MPG, who had captured EMB with the help of that traitorous bastard Sega, had already executed hundreds of soldiers, lining them up and mowing them down with machine gun fire and tank shells. These reports came from eyewitnesses who had managed to escape the base and somehow transmit their accounts over a side channel of the Internet.
"No one is exactly sure just how many of the marines on the base have been killed," a reporter, speaking live from Denver, explained to the audience, "but it is feared that the intention is to eliminate all of them to prevent an uprising."
"Motherfuckers," one of Callahan's sergeants spat, his eyes glaring murderously at the screen. "I can't wait until we're there, you know what I'm saying. I can't wait to smoke me some greenie ass."
"No mercy for those bastards," a corporal agreed. "No mercy. I say we put every last one of them down."
Callahan said nothing. He was too tired to be enraged any further. He sincerely hoped however, that the greenie forces wouldn't surrender in the next few days as was being predicted my most of the government and military officials that were being interviewed. He wanted to smoke some greenie ass as well and he wanted to do it by leading an actual armored assault, just like an ACR was supposed to fight. There would be no marching around in the mountains and trees, picking at an enemy that hid like a coward. They would be pitting tanks against tanks, APCs against entrenched infantry troops. And since they would outnumber the greenies by more than four to one it would be a pushover battle, something that would offer some valuable experience that would be helpful in the event a real war ever occurred with the EastHem fascists.
EastHem Capital Building, London
May 28, 2146
The Martian Declaration of Independence was a short document, less than a page in length. It contained no flowery speech, no legalese terms, in fact very few adjectives of any kind. It was a simple statement proclaiming that the Planet of Mars had forcibly broken ties with WestHem and now considered itself a free and sovereign nation, with all of the rights and privileges that went along with such a thing. It asked that the two governments of EastHem and WestHem immediately recognize the Planet Mars as such and that they publicly acknowledge it. The document was fingerprint signed by Governor Laura Whiting, the loyal members of the legislature, and General Jackson. Attached to it as a separate file were the certified results of the Independence vote. The declaration and the file had been digitized and sent over an unencrypted frequency to both EastHem and WestHem.
The upper echelon of the EastHem government had been following the events on Mars very closely over the past two weeks. They had watched with glee as the reports had come in regarding the takeover of the planet and the capture of a third of the WestHem navy at anchor. A certain trepidation had fallen over them when they'd received the text of Governor Whiting's address the night of the capture however. She had told the solar system that in order for their revolution to succeed that they would have to engage in trade with EastHem. She had admitted that on an open channel for all the people of both worlds to hear. That had forced the powers-that-be of EastHem into a frenzy as they tried to figure out how to respond to this.
Though EastHem was portrayed by the WestHem media as a fascist dictatorship, in truth the government there was very similar to the government of WestHem. Primarily EastHem was a capitalistic society in which huge corporations controlled the vast majority of the wealth. The official head of the government was a ruling council of nine representatives. Like on WestHem, these politicians were merely puppets for the corporate money that had purchased them and their votes.
Anthony Billings was the chief executive council member. A handsome, charismatic, fifty-five year old Londoner, he was owned quite thoroughly by A&C Hydrogen, the biggest producer of fuel in the hemisphere. He had called a special meeting of the council to discuss a matter of great importance in regards to the Martian situation.
"My fellow councilmembers," he said to his colleagues. "Forgive me for pulling you from your offices in the middle of a workday but I have received word from Mr. Jennings..." he pointed to Kelsey Jennings, the EastHem national security adviser, "... that an encrypted message from the Martian governor has arrived just thirty minutes ago. This is a message that has great bearing on the questions that we have been debating since the Martian revolution took place and one that needs a quick decision."
"Is she asking for trade?" asked Barbara Cassidy, another senior member of the council. Kiev Food Products, the agricultural giant of EastHem, owned her. Her sponsors, and therefore herself as well, were quite eager to participate in trade with Mars as it would easily increase their profits by more than a hundred percent.
"I will play the message for all of us to see in just a moment," Billings replied. "We will then open a discussion on the matter. I have taken the liberty of inviting Mr. Jennings to this meeting as well as General Hans, the chairman of our joint chiefs." He nodded towards a uniformed general sitting at his left. Like most of the EastHem military leaders, he was German in ancestry. "Both of these gentlemen possess some expertise that we will need in order to decide the next step in this process. And now, with no further ado, I will play the message for you."
He spoke a few words to the computer terminal, which caused the lights to dim down and the large view screen at the front of the room to come to life. Everyone watched attentively as Laura Whiting's face, a face that looked tired and drawn from the recent stress that the woman had undergone, filled the screen.
"Greetings, honored ruling council of EastHem," the image said emotionlessly. "By now I'm sure you're aware of the recent events on the planet Mars and I trust that you have received our declaration of independence — a document that was sent out two hours before this message — and had a chance to look it over. I am also confident that you have been monitoring the news broadcasts that have been generated, including the one that portrayed my Independence Day speech to the planet.
"As is the Martian way, I will get right to the point of what I want. Mars is going to have to go to war with WestHem in order to keep our independence secure. As I speak they are loading up marine units into naval ships with the intention of taking our planet away from us and putting it back under their control. We intend to fight them but in order to do that, we are going to need fuel, and lots of it. You folks have fuel and you have the means to deliver it. We would like to engage in straight trade with you for this commodity. In exchange we offer you the commodity that you are perpetually short of: food. We have the means of ending the famine that regularly plagues your nation and boosting your economy exponentially. We will exchange a large portion of our food surplus for your fuel. We require that the fuel will be shipped to our storage tanks at Triad on a bi-monthly basis and that your cargo ships arrive at the same destination in order to pick up the food products. The terms we will offer will be more than fair, in fact they will be quite extravagant.
"As I said in my speech, you hold our fate in your hands. If you refuse to do business with us, our revolution will die in the time that it takes the WestHem landing ships to arrive here. Mars will go back to being a WestHem possession and you will never enjoy Martian agricultural products on your shelves. If you do agree to trade with us you will be subjecting yourself to anger from WestHem. I don't think that that anger would lead to military action on their part but I cannot guarantee that. It is a question that you will have to decide for yourselves.
"Our terms for this deal are few but they are non-negotiable. If you accept our offer it must be done openly, without deceit. We require that you publicly recognize us as the legitimate government of Mars and that you acknowledge our independence. We will not engage in secret trade agreements or clandestine operations to secure this fuel. If you treat us as one sovereign nation dealing with another, you will reap huge benefits. If you are not willing to do that, than we would rather flounder. The decision is now yours. Please get back to us as quickly as possible with your response.
"Thank you, Laura Whiting, acting Governor of Mars."
The screen clicked off and the lights came back on. Everyone continued to stare at the screen for a moment, all of them somewhat taken aback by the briefness of the message.
"Well," said Cassidy, "she certainly doesn't mince words, does she?" As a third generation politician, used to being addressed formally, she was actually a bit offended by Whiting's brevity.
"No," Billings agreed with a sigh, "she certainly doesn't. But let us forgive her for this minor transgression, shall we? Martians are well known for their crudity with the spoken word. After all, look at their ancestry. They are the descendents of welfare recipients of a society that were once the lower classes from this hemisphere. It amazes me sometimes that they can speak coherently at all."
The assembled politicians and military leaders all had a laugh at this jest although, in truth, none of them really thought it was all that funny. But when the CECM made a joke, you laughed at it. That was proper etiquette after all.
"In any case," Billings went on, "I suggest we concentrate more on Ms. Whiting's message than the words she used to deliver it with. Though no firm terms have been laid out, she is offering us a portion of their food surplus in exchange for fuel and official recognition of their government. The question we need to be asking is: are these terms acceptable?"
"We can't recognize the Martian government as official," Cassidy said immediately. "There's no telling what WestHem would do in that instance. They have nuclear weapons pointed at our cities and millions of troops across the Bering Straight from us. It's simply too risky to change the status quo in that manner."
"So you're saying that we should ignore this offer?" Billings asked. "Ignore the strengthening of our economy that this influx of food resources could represent?"
She shook her head. "We don't ignore it completely," she said. "We officially condemn their actions and call for a return to WestHem rule. We then make clandestine shipments of fuel to them in exchange for the food."
"They said that the offer was non-negotiable," another member, a more junior one, pointed out.
"Everything is negotiable," Cassidy said confidently. "They need our fuel more than we need their food. Without shipments from us their entire revolution is lost. She admitted that herself. The worst that can happen to us is that we go on as we always have. It is we that are in the position of strength here."
"I tend to agree," Billings said with a nod of his own. "There is of course the question of whether clandestine fuel shipments are even possible. General Hans, perhaps you can answer that one for us?"
"It would be impossible to deliver anything to the Martians without WestHem knowing about it," he said immediately. "Fuel ships and cargo ships are huge machines, detectable from hundreds of thousands of kilometers away. Keeping such a thing strictly secret is out of the question."
"I see," Billings said thoughtfully. "I was afraid of that." He turned back to the rest of the council. "That leaves us with the option of open deceit in this matter. We refuse to acknowledge Mars as a government, we condemn their actions, but we ship anyway and keep it out of the public's eye. I don't think that WestHem would attack us for this. They would not be happy about it, but they wouldn't risk military action for such a thing, especially since they seem to think that they'll take their planet back with their military forces no matter what we do or don't do. Relations would be strained this way but they're always strained, aren't they? And in this way we'll be able to get the best of both worlds."
The other council members liked the idea. General Hans seemed to think it was something that would work as well, although he suggested that military ships escort any ships making pick-ups or deliveries. They all talked this and other aspects over and then took a vote. It was unanimous in favor of opening clandestine negotiations for clandestine trade.
"Of course we will not respond to Ms. Whiting ourselves," Billings said after the measure was passed. "We don't want her thinking that she and her planet are important enough to be brought directly to our attention. I'll have one of my staff members record the reply to her and we'll send it off within the hour."
Capital Building, Eden, Mars
May 28, 2146
"Who in the hell is this moron?" Laura asked General Jackson as the image of a power-suited man appeared on their view screen.
"He sure ain't one of the council members," Jackson responded. "I have full dossiers on all of them."
They were in Laura's office and it was late in the workday. They had sent their request for negotiations to Earth more than seven hours before. And now, when the reply had finally come in, they were not even looking at one of the people to whom they were hoping to negotiate with.
"Greetings, Ms. Whiting," the man's image said to them, a phony, corporate smile upon his face. "My name is William Warringer. I am a special assistant to executive council member Billings."
"Special assistant?" Jackson snorted in disgust. "I told you they were going to play games with us. They want us to think that our request wasn't even important enough to bother the council with."
"You gotta love Earthling politics, don't you?" Laura asked.
"... asked by my boss and his associates on the council," Warringer was saying, "to send a response to the offer that you presented to us earlier today."
"Let's hear the bullshit," Laura said with a frustrated sigh. Didn't these EastHem suits know that time was of the essence? Couldn't they dispense with the games for once?
"It is our understanding," Warringer told them, "that you are requesting recognition of your government in a public forum and that you wish to engage in a trade of fuel for food products. Unfortunately it is not possible for our government to condone the actions that you have taken against your mother nation. We cannot, in good faith, recognize your government or those actions as official or just. We must in fact condemn what you have done and speak out publicly against it. Grievances should be aired in courtrooms and on the Internet, not by force of arms or by the capture of a possession. It is our duty as a civilized nation to implore you to give up your illegal action before any more blood is shed."
"Jesus, this is pretty thick," Jackson said.
"Yep," Laura agreed.
"However," Warringer continued, "since we realize that you are unlikely to give up your ill-gotten gains at the present time and since we also realize that the welfare of the common people on your planet depend upon a steady supply of hydrogen fuel, we might be willing to engage in a limited amount of the sort of trade that you mentioned."
Laura and Jackson both had a sharp, cynical laugh at this statement.
"Beautiful," Laura said. "They'll do it for our common people."
"Of course such trade would have to be kept... shall we say... under the table," Warringer told them next.
"Of course," Jackson commented.
"We might be persuaded to arrange for some quiet shipments of fuel to your orbiting space dock in exchange for shiploads of food surplus. It would be imperative that such shipments be kept secret from the general public and from the WestHem government. Please respond at your convenience, using the same communication method as your original message. If these rather generous terms that we are offering you are deemed acceptable, and if the full council agrees, we can commence with some quiet negotiations of the terms of this trade.
"Awaiting your reply, William Warringer."
The screen blanked out, leaving the two of them two stare at it for a moment.
"Christ," Laura finally said. "I don't know why I'm surprised by this but I am. Those EastHem morons don't know the deal of a lifetime when it's staring them in the damn face."
"What now?" Jackson asked.
"Now," she said, "we send a reply back and lay our cards down on the table." She turned to the computer screen on her desk once more. "Computer, open mail program. Addressee, EastHem ruling council. Highest level of encryption."
The computer repeated what she had said and told her to record when ready.
EastHem capital building, London
May 28, 2146
They had all been on the verge of leaving for the day when Jennings informed them all that a reply had come in from Mars. This was surprising to them — they hadn't expected to hear from Laura Whiting for at least another twenty-four hours — but they nevertheless gathered back in the executive briefing room to view it.
"It's only been six hours since we sent our message," Cassidy said sourly as she took her seat near the head of the table. "When you account for the travel time of the radio signals, she couldn't have spent more than thirty minutes or so before she answered us."
"She's desperate," someone suggested. "She wants to open negotiations for our deal as quickly as possible."
They all informally agreed that that was probably the case.
"Open message," Billings told the computer once everyone was seated and paying attention.
The lights dimmed down once more and the screen came to life. Laura Whiting's face greeted them for the second time that day. She did not appear very happy.
"This message is in response to the insulting reply that you gave us to our offer," she said sternly, making everyone gasp a little at her insolence. The image took a deep breath and stared into the camera. "Look, people," she told them next. "We are in a very desperate situation here on Mars and we don't have time to play nice little political games and negotiate back and forth. Nor are we willing to accept clandestine shipments on your terms. I believe I made that point perfectly clear in my first message. This is the deal: We will trade one half of our monthly food surplus for three hundred million metric tons of liquid hydrogen per month. You will provide the shipping for both of these commodities and we will supply the labor needed to load and unload it. In order for this deal to be binding, we require public acknowledgment of our government and public acknowledgment that we are an independent nation. That is it. These terms are not open to negotiation or change. Take it or leave it. We require an answer within twenty-four hours. That answer will be either yes or no. If you fail to respond to us or if you send me a message from some political underling or if you send me a message that asks for some modification of this deal, there will be no deal. Half of our food surplus should be more than enough to compel you to do as we ask and it is well beyond fair.
"Awaiting your reply, Laura Whiting."
The first, instinctive reaction around the table was outrage. The council members erupted into a chorus of indignant exclamations, shocked words, and even a few utterings of politically incorrect profanity, the likes of which was rarely heard in such a setting. They could not believe that this Martian woman, this greenie, would dare talk to the ruling council of the most powerful nation in the solar system in such a manner. There was talk of simply abandoning the entire deal on that basis alone. The Democratic Republic of the Eastern Hemisphere certainly did not wish to do business with uncouth, uncivilized welfare scum who did not follow or apparently even know the most basic rules of propriety. It took several minutes for it to even occur to anyone just how magnanimous of a deal they were actually being offered.
It was one of the junior members of the council, the forty-five year old representative of the Zimbabwe region in Africa (though she had never actually been to Zimbabwe, which was one of the worst and largest slums on the planet), who finally ventured that maybe they should think about this for a second.
"They are offering us half of their monthly surplus," she hesitantly said during a lull in the blathering. She blushed a little as she said this. As the newest member of such a powerful group of people, she was not yet accustomed to adapting a stance that was different than the majority. "Maybe we should consider that factor for just a few moments."
The table grew silent and all eyes turned to her.
"Are you saying," asked Billings, "that you would actually consider engaging in trade with such barbarians? With a woman who sends a message to us demanding that we bend to her terms? That offers us... us, an ultimatum?"
"Well," she said, nervous but determined to stand her ground and make her point, "I will be the first to agree that the way in which we were addressed by this Whiting woman is reprehensible. But on the other hand, we can't really fault the deal that she is offering now, can we?" She looked up at the ceiling, towards the computer audio inputs. "Computer, what is the monthly food surplus from the WestHem colony of Mars?"
"On average," the computer answered, "the surplus amounts to thirty-six billion metric tons of various agricultural products. Would you like a breakdown by category?"
"No thank you," she said. "I believe I've made my point." She looked back at the council members, all of whom were already softening their expressions. "She's offering us eighteen billion tons of food products per month. Eighteen billion in exchange for a mere three hundred million tons of hydrogen. That is three tankers full of hydrogen in exchange for more than a hundred cargo ships full of food products. I don't know about your sponsors, but mine would certainly want me to give serious consideration to accepting this deal in light of the sheer amount that we're talking about. That is enough to boost our economy into the stratosphere. All of our national debt would be paid off, our deficit spending would come to an end, and of course our sponsors would benefit very highly." As an afterthought she added, "It would also serve to end much of the famine in the Africa and Middle East regions."
Nobody cared too much about the famine, but the other points she had made most definitely struck a note with them. Suddenly, dealing with such barbarians didn't seem all that bad of a thing. But there were still a few problems.
"What will happen if we recognize Mars as an independent planet though?" asked Cassidy. "There is still that issue to think about. Recognizing them and openly engaging in trade with them, especially for hydrogen, is likely to prompt military action by WestHem."
"Yes," agreed Billings. "While this trade offer is intriguing to say the least, the risk of open warfare and even a nuclear exchange is considerable. I think we're going to have to try to persuade our Martian friends to accept trade without recognition. Again I point out that, Whiting's pretentiousness aside, it is we who are dealing from the position of strength."
"They said they would not consider a deal without recognition," the junior member interjected.
"She was posturing," said Cassidy. "They will lose their entire revolution if they don't secure a fuel supply. Do you really think that they're willing to risk that?"
"But are we willing to risk the loss of this once in a lifetime deal if it turns out that she is serious in her threats?" the junior member, more confidant now, demanded.
That silenced the table once more.
"Look," she said, "how serious is this threat of war that we're worrying about? Is it more serious than risking the loss of this unprecedented trade agreement?"
Billings considered that thought for a moment. He looked over at General Hans. "General," he said, "I believe that this question is within your area of expertise. Suppose we do recognize Mars as an independent planet and suppose we do engage in trade with them. Would WestHem attack our supply ships? Would they be able to defeat our navy out in open space? Would they engage in a nuclear attack upon our cities?"
Hans, who was more or less neutral in the debate on trade, did not take long to answer. "The loss of a third of their fleet to the Martians would seriously hamper their ability to fight a naval war with us," he said. "And in addition, the loss of their fast reaction division, all of the equipment for this division, and the commitment of so many of their other troops to the Martian theater would severely hamper their ability to make war upon us in a conventional fashion. On a strictly numerical basis, our fleet would have them outnumbered and outgunned quite easily. They will know this as well as we do."
"I see," Billings said thoughtfully. "And what of nuclear attack upon our cities?"
Hans gave a slight shrug at this question. "The use of nuclear weapons on a strategic basis is a political decision made by political leaders. Blowing up each other's cities and annihilating the population of this planet is a rather drastic step that I do not believe would be undertaken over so petty a matter as recognition of the Martians and engaging in trade with them. But, since I'm a simple military man I would defer an official opinion on that to you folks here at this table. I would however, think that the WestHem would be much more inclined to move in that direction if we were to aid the Martians militarily as well as in trade."
"So you're saying," Billings said, "that you don't think that they would attack us in any way for simply recognizing Mars and trading food for hydrogen, but that they might if we send troops to help fight the WestHems off?"
"That is my opinion, Chief Councilperson," he confirmed. "For what it is worth."
They ran the question by the National Security Adviser, who concurred with Hans in this assessment of the situation.
"So what do we wish to do here?" Billings asked his colleagues. "Do we bow to the Martian demands and risk war with WestHem, or do we attempt to negotiate further with the Martians and risk losing the lucrative trade arrangement they are offering us? Which of these risks is the greater one?"
"I believe that we should take the deal that they are offering, on their terms," said the junior member, who could almost feel her influence with the council growing by the minute. "We stipulate to the Martians that the trade agreement will cover food for hydrogen only and that under no circumstances will we ever provide weapons or military assistance to them."
Billings looked at her, knowing that what he said next would likely decide the matter. Sure, there would be a vote taken but generally his opinion was the one that swayed the momentum of the others. It really was an easy decision to make. If he somehow managed to fumble this opportunity, his sponsors would be very upset with him and would engineer his defeat in the next election. "I believe that the lady from Zimbabwe is correct," he told them. "This opportunity for trade is simply unprecedented. There is very much to gain from accepting it and very much to lose by attempting to alter it. As we've seen by the events of the past few days on Mars, our greenie friends are unpredictable and do not always follow the rules of political logic. Though there is a risk of war with WestHem, both conventional and nuclear, that risk would seem to be small as long as we stick to the tenants of the agreement and do not stray into other areas. I move that we should accept the deal with the Martians as it stands, with the aforementioned stipulation of no military involvement."
"Second the motion," the junior member immediately said.
The vote was taken on the motion. It was unanimous in favor of it.
"Let it be recorded then," Billings said. "We'll send a reply off to Whiting immediately and then get our staff to schedule a press conference for tomorrow evening in which we will announce recognition of Mars as an independent nation."
WestHem Capital Building, Denver
May 29, 2146
"... and so it is with great pleasure that we welcome the planet Mars and all of her people to the brotherhood of independent nations in the solar system," the image of Billings, EastHem Chief Councilperson, said on the view screen at the front of the room. "We will begin working immediately to set up a diplomatic exchange within each other's capitals and to open the door to trade."
"Those bastards," spat Loretta Williams, her face actually red with anger. True, they had all been expecting this move on EastHem's part but it was still infuriating to have to witness the reality of the situation.
"Now now," said the Chief Councilperson, "this is not the time for useless emotional displays. This is the time to figure out just how this will effect our upcoming operations and just what our response should be. General Wrath? Perhaps you could help enlighten us."
Wrath was dead tired. He had been working non-stop ever since the Martian revolt getting Operation Martian Hammer organized. There were large bags under both of his eyes and if not for the amphetamines that the medical staff had been plying him with, he would have collapsed days ago. Nor was he none-to-happy to have been called down from Armstrong to give this briefing to the Executive Council. Why in the hell had they insisted he come her in person when he could have given them the information they needed via videoconference? Still, he kept his poker face on and smiled at his bosses as he began to speak.
"This action by EastHem will make our job a little more difficult if the Martians decide to fight us," he said. "I don't know what kind of deal the Martians offered them but it was obviously enough to convince them to take it. So what we have now is the reality that the Martians will not be short on fuel for their tanks and APCs."
"Will that affect the course of the battle?" Williams asked him.
"Not in the least," he said confidently. "When I planned this operation I planned for the worst case scenario of the Martians having a secure supply line. We will still outnumber them by more than four to one, we are still better trained and equipped, and we will still triumph in a matter of days. This move is meaningless. The only thing it will allow will be for EastHem to enrich themselves on our agricultural products for the duration of this crisis."
"I see," said Williams. "And what of that? Is there anyway for us to prevent EastHem from taking advantage of this situation? A blockade around Mars perhaps?"
"That would be more Admiral Jules' area of expertise than mine," Wrath said, although he knew damn well just what Jules was going to say.
Jules was, if anything, even more fatigued than his marine colleague. He had been up for nearly two straight days now trying to shuffle ships and get crews reassigned. The last thing in the solar system that he wanted right now was to have to tell the Executive Council something that it didn't want to hear. But that was exactly what he was going to have to do. There was no way to soft talk and ignore this particular problem. "Well, ma'am," he said carefully, "the fact of the matter is that it would be a very bad idea to challenge EastHem on a point such as this."
"A bad idea?" Williams asked, her glare burning into him. "The public is going to demand that we do something about this situation. The media are probably already in a feeding frenzy over this recognition and trade agreement. Are you telling me that our navy is not capable of preventing EastHem ships from docking at Triad?"
"Those EastHem ships will undoubtedly be escorted by superdreadnoughts and stealth attack ships," Jules told her. "And while we ordinarily would be able to put up an effective blockade and defeat the EastHem navy in any conflict, the loss of so many of our ships to the greenies would make such a venture unacceptably risky."
"Unacceptably risky?" Williams asked. "Are you saying that they'll defeat us?"
He wavered for a moment, knowing he was treading on very shaky ground. "Not defeat us necessarily," he finally answered. "But the advantage that our superior training and superior technology usually gives us will be somewhat negated by the numerical advantage that the EastHems will enjoy. We would still surely come out the victor if push came to shove but it is possible that we might take unacceptable losses of men and ships."
The council looked at him thoughtfully as they pondered his words. "So you're saying," Williams summarized, "that the possible losses we would take by challenging the EastHem navy is not worth simply allowing the trade to go unchecked?"
"As long as General Wrath is confident in his ability to beat the Martians while they are in possession of a supply line," he qualified, tossing the ball neatly into his counterpart's court.
All eyes turned back to Wrath, who, anticipating such a volley, had already put an expression of confidence upon his face.
"My marines will make those greenies wish they were never born," he told them firmly. "With or without a supply line, with or without utilizing the equipment that they stole from us, we will beat them soundly in any battle. It is a mathematical certainty. The only thing that would change this equation in any way would be the inclusion of EastHem troops and equipment into the battle. If they send a few divisions of their own marines in one of those ships... well... then we might have a little larger of a problem to deal with."
Williams nodded as she heard this, her face troubled but determined. "Well then, we'll just have to make sure that they don't do that now, won't we?"
Early the next morning the WestHem ambassador left the embassy in downtown London and was taken by private aircraft to the EastHem Capital building. After passing through the usual security checkpoints and scans he was brought immediately before the ruling council. The customary period of pleasantry exchange took place and then the ambassador, following the instructions given to him by his own ruling council the night before, lodged an official protest on their behalf for the recognition and trade agreement with Mars.
"It is regretful that your government chooses to stand in the way of a new democracy," Billings told the ambassador. "In any case, our recognition of the Martians as the legitimate government of that planet will stand, as will our agreement to engage in trade with them."
"My nation regards this act with great displeasure," the ambassador told them.
"Nevertheless," Billings returned, "our decision will stand. Is it your country's intention to try to stop us?"
"I have not been told of any exact plans," he replied. "What I have been told is to inform you that we consider this to be an unfriendly act and to protest it in the strongest terms."
"I see," Billings said, suppressing a smile. In the nuances of diplomatic language, he had just been told that WestHem would do nothing to prevent the trade between EastHem and Mars.
"I have also been told," he continued, "to inform you that if your country were to give any military assistance of any kind to the Martians — supplying them with weapons, ammunition, and especially troops — we would consider that to be an act of war against us and we would respond accordingly."
"We have no plans in that direction," Billings said.
"That is fortunate," the ambassador said. "Because to do so would invoke the gravest possible consequences."
Billings and the rest of the council nodded solemnly at these words. The gravest possible consequences was an allusion to nuclear war. The ambassador had just told them that WestHem was willing to allow the trade of hydrogen for food, but that they would start tossing warheads across the border if troops or weapons were sent.
"We understand," Billing informed him, "and you have the word of this council that no weapons or troops will be sent to Mars. Our interest is in the purchase of food products from this new member of the international community, not in arming them up."
And with that, the ambassador had what he needed from the council. Though no contract was signed, an agreement had been forged and his job was complete. They spent another thirty minutes going through another exchange of pleasantries and then the ambassador headed back to the embassy to report his success on a secure Internet link.
The agreement was of course not made public in either nation. Most of the citizens of WestHem and EastHem were not even aware that their respective countries even maintained an embassy in the opposing country, had no idea that there even was an ambassador. The armed forces of both sides were put on a considerably higher level of alert than was the norm. All along the Alaska/Siberian line, search radars and infrared scanners came to life. Among the line troops, vacations were canceled and extra staffing in the entrenchments and monitoring centers were ordered. Air patrols were increased and a few reservists were called up. On the Internet of each country, the news was of the crisis between the two antagonists, a crisis that was called the worst since the Jupiter War.
Meanwhile, at Victory City, the orbiting platform that circled above the Jovian moon Callisto, which the EastHem marines had successful occupied and held during the Jupiter War, three supertankers were pumped full of liquid hydrogen that had been collected from the atmosphere of Jupiter. One hundred million metric tons of the compressed gas went into each hold, enough to sustain extensive combat operations for a month with plenty to spare. When the pumping was completed the ships used their maneuvering thrusters to move out into the transit corridor. They waited there, their crews nervous about their mission but thrilled about the doubling of the pay they would get for this hazardous duty.
Soon, other ships began to arrive from the EastHem naval base that was attached to Victory City. Two Colonial class superdreadnoughts, each with a wing of space fighters aboard, took up position front and rear. Two destroyer escorts, their tasks long range detection and fighter suppression, took up positions on each side. Finally, two Henry class stealth attack ships fanned out to the sides, their sensors in passive mode, their job to quickly get lost in space.
When the ships were all formed up the admiral in charge of the task force gave a command. Fusion engines were ignited and the ships began to move at .25G of acceleration, their destination Triad, Mars. They would reach there in less than two weeks if nothing got in their way.