Martian Balance
Copyright© 2025 by rlfj
Chapter 8: Combat
Martian Planetary Intelligence Headquarters
New Pittsburgh, Mars
Wednesday, March 18, 2235
“Back for more? My eardrums have healed, so I guess you want to yell at me again.” Harlow Winslow was angry but also smart enough to know that there was nothing he could do about his situation. He was in jail on a different planet, a planet without air or water. Or hope. He was in a cell with nothing more than a bed bolted to the floor. There was a toilet in the corner; it had no seat and was automatic, so it had no controls to mess with or disable. Food was brought in three times a day, military ration packs of some sort, and the utensils were plastic and dull.
The MPI interrogators, Josh Alexander and Hannigan Hotsmoke, came in carrying chairs. “Sleep well?” asked Alexander.
“Food good?” asked Hotsmoke.
“Yummy. Was it my last meal? What’s next? Dow Prison? Is that where you do your secret interrogations and torture? Special death squads? How do you execute people on Mars?” asked Winslow.
The MPI agents rolled their eyes. “We kill them by making them listen to inane questions over and over. Why don’t you shut up so I can live longer,” said Hotsmoke.
“For you, I’ll talk longer.”
Alexander said, “You’ve lived here long enough to know we don’t have the death penalty. We just stick the serious assholes in Dow for the rest of their lives and give them access to a special pill just jampacked with tasty barbiturates.” Winslow shrugged. “You’ve also been here long enough to have seen politicians on holovid. We’ve got a show you might be interested in. It was on this morning, but you’ll love the rerun.”
Alexander pulled a remote control out of his pocket and pointed it at a screen on the wall. “It’s not holographic, but you’ll want to watch it anyway.”
Winslow turned to face the screen. Anything was better than sitting in a room with nothing to do. Then the rerun began, and he had to admit, it was a doozy. It was the Governor’s address to Congress and Mars, and it was fascinating. It wasn’t long, maybe fifteen minutes, and when it was over, he turned back to the investigators. “That’s what this is all about? I’m in a Martian jail because of a crime I committed on Earth?”
Hotsmoke smiled. “You’re not in jail. You’re in a detention cell. Big difference. Big fucking difference!”
“Here’s the deal, Harlow. You tell us everything, and I do mean everything, about your life in WestHem and what you did with the WestHem Navy, and we let you go with the thanks of the Martian government. You want to go back to your dozer, great! You want to go to school and learn something else? Fine by us, we’ll personally enroll you and pay you a nice stipend. You want out of a basic apartment and access to something better? We have some fantastic places available,” said Alexander.
“All you need to do is tell us the truth and never tell a lie,” finished Hotsmoke. “Lying will send you to Dow. The truth will earn you a very nice life on Mars. Maybe you’d like to move to Eden? Half the population runs around naked. A little cosmetic work and those women will be all over you!”
“You know, him I can tolerate. You’re just an asshole,” Winslow told Hotsmoke, who laughed loudly.
Alexander also laughed. “Now, that’s the kind of truth we want to hear!” He stood up. “Okay, let’s get out of here.” He motioned for Winslow to stand. “How would you like a shower, clean clothes, and a decent meal?”
“And then we can talk some more,” said Hotsmoke.
Harlow Winslow stared as the interrogators headed towards the door. “Seriously?”
“Unless you like the ambience of your accommodations. A decent meal and we pay?” finished Alexander.
Winslow stood and moved towards the open door. Maybe there was something better than a firing squad after all.
Bridge
MSS Hypnotits, Earth Orbit
Wednesday, March 18, 2235
“How many THORs will be needed?” asked Commander Bozo Armpit, captain of the Raptor-class stealth ship orbiting Earth. Cockblocker had made the last attack but Commodore Wetback, in command of the heavy task force in full stealth mode on the dark side of the Moon, wanted Hypnotits to make the second THOR attack. Somebody in WestHem might be able to track two attacks from the same ship.
“One package is twelve warheads, two is twenty-four. The Ares Alexander complex is between Chicago and Milwaukee in Central North America Province. It’s a large and sprawling place. A dozen warheads will trash it. Two dozen will turn the entire place into a humongous fucking hole in the ground,” answered Josiah Godly, Hypnotits’ tactical officer.
Armpit looked over at his comms officer. “What’s going on with Ares Alexander? Damn it, Bonghit told them they were fucking next!”
Lieutenant Sophia Andrews, Communications, shrugged. “Protesting their innocence and ordering the evacuation of the complex. WestHem is also protesting and has gone to a full war footing, which means EastHem is freaking out, too.”
“Screw it. Josiah, launch two THOR packages, and as soon as we are out of the area, drop them on the compound. Let’s see how they like it. Sophia, have we heard anything on the first launch, last night?”
“Nothing coherent. InfoGroup is claiming that nothing was bombed on Earth at the same time they are broadcasting forest fires and earthquakes in the strike zones. Nobody has heard from the CEO of Ares Alexander, which could mean he’s dead or it could mean he’s smart enough to keep his fucking mouth shut and not attract another THOR.”
“Again, screw it. We have our orders, and I have zero interest in not bombing these fucking assholes.” The entire ship had seen the broadcast of Governor Bonghit’s speech, delayed only by the distance from Mars. The ship’s company was universally incensed by what they heard, and they were wondering when they could respond. “Josiah, put a timer on the screen for launch and a second timer for the attack, and then pass it along to Cockblocker.”
“Fuckin’ A, Skipper.” Two timers went on the screen. The two packages would be ejected in fifteen minutes and immediately begin slowing down, dropping to a lower orbit as Hypnotits kept moving. Twelve minutes later, their programming had them entering the atmosphere on the terminal attack profile. By then the ship would be thousands of kilometers away.
“And I want our satellites doing a BDA.” The Battle Damage Assessment would let them know the accuracy of the strike and the effects.
“Yeah.” Godly passed the request to Andrews, who had primary access to both the Martian satellite network and their Earthling counterparts.
Twenty-seven minutes later, by which time Hypnotits was well away from Central North America, every spare display screen on the ship was tuned to the feed from ReconSat 24-5. Suddenly the center of the screen flared bright white and a loud ‘Whoa!’ went through the ship. By the time Hypnotits had orbited the planet, the white flare had changed to a black and red cloud of smoke, and InfoGroup was reporting a massive asteroid strike northwest of Chicago, destroying the city of Madison.
“An asteroid?” asked Armpit, not speaking to anybody in particular.
Godly smiled. “And now we have the name of our next weapon system.”
“Works for me.”
Bridge
MSS Harbaugh, 1,000 Kilometers From Ceres
Wednesday, March 18, 2235
Commodore Andrew Backblaster looked at his flag captain. “You heard Jimmy, and we received our orders from Henny. Any issues or complaints?”
Captain Rollie Barnes smiled at the commander of Task Force Backblaster. “Was that a serious question?”
“Technically, yes. Otherwise, probably not.” Barnes looked over Backblaster’s shoulder to find the commodore’s staff grinning.
Barnes added, “I think I could make a lot of money by auctioning off the privilege of hitting the launch button.”
The commodore smiled at that. “I knew there was something I had forgotten. Too late now. What’s the attack plan?”
Captain Barnes turned to his tactical officer. “Janice?”
Lieutenant Janice Hotbottom, Harbaugh’s tactical officer and defacto tactical officer for the task force, answered, “We are currently facing what WestHem considers a heavy defensive task force. They have a pair of Manhattan-class heavy dreadnoughts, four Province-class anti-stealth ships, and eight Rattler class stealth ships. They also have a heavy F-34 force centered on an ancient California that has had the engines removed.” The F-34 was the replacement for the F-22 common during the Revolutionary Wars. Mars wasn’t impressed. They had seen the specs years before and even then their fighters were better. Now, it wasn’t even close.
She turned towards the holotank between the command chair and the consoles on the front bulkhead. A small ball appeared. “Here’s Ceres.” The ball became smaller, and a globe of discrete point sources came into view around it. “This is the deployment of their task force.” The ball shrank again, and a vague cloud appeared. “And these are the fighters they’ve deployed. According to WestHem tactical doctrine, this gives them the maximum capacity to both detect enemy forces and defeat them.”
“And?”
“And they’re already fucked and dead. They just don’t know it.” She continued, “We have fifteen discrete naval targets. We also have four separate commercial targets - two ore processing plants, a collection point, and the headquarters facility. That gives us nineteen fucking targets. Figure two warheads per target. That’s thirty-eight warheads. We’ll launch three pods, Ore City will launch one, Eden will launch one, and Aardvark will launch two. That gives us forty-two warheads. Harbaugh will launch one warhead at each target, and the others will also be divided up, so that no ship is singly responsible for any target. The extra warheads will be targeted on the Manhattans, the California, and the headquarters habitat.”
Backblaster glanced at his staff tactical officer, who smiled and nodded. Even without Lieutenant Commander Gonzalez’ approval, the attack plan sounded perfectly fine. Each missile pod carried six missiles with B-57 warheads, hexagonally packed around a central missile carrying penetration aids and jammers. Ever since the successful use of missile pods during the Revolutionary Wars, they were the basis of every subsequent Martian warship. They were carried externally on stealth ships and internally on anti-stealth ships and battlecruisers.
“And if something goes fucking wrong?”
Hotbottom shrugged and smiled. “Then it goes fucking wrong. We have overwhelming naval firepower. If something goes fucking wrong with the first two warheads, we can launch a third, fourth, or fifth at each target. Their fighters are completely screwed no matter what. Those that don’t get destroyed during the attack will run out of air and die after we destroy their base. If they do try and fight us we ream their fucking asses with our lasers. If anybody is hiding, we find them when they activate their sensors and kill them then. We can do this, sir.”
“Rollie?” asked Backblaster.
“I trust her and her plan. It works. Even if the B-57s don’t kill them, the Beltings and Raptors have a full load of B-26s in their internal tubes.”
Backblaster nodded. “Approved. When can we launch?”
“Any time, boss. It’s not like we have to launch before they learn they are targets. They’ve already heard about being at war and that we are coming for them. Their radars are going crazy, and they are shooting lasers at anything even close.”
“Then we do it now. How long from initial launch?” To coordinate the attack properly, the ships furthest from Ceres would need to launch first.
“Thirty-seven minutes. At thirty-eight minutes Ceres goes up in nineteen balls of plasma.”
“Go to General Quarters. When everybody reports they are ready, we launch.”
“Roger that.”
Backblaster’s staff communications officer passed the order to go to General Quarters. Since the entire task force had seen the Governor’s speech, nobody was surprised. General Quarters was reported throughout the task force in under three minutes. Everybody on the Bridge looked at Backblaster. He settled himself in his tactical chair and said, “Proceed.”
Captain Barnes looked at Lieutenant Hotbottom and said, “Give the order, Janice.”
“Done!” The young woman clicked an icon on her screen, and the battle began.
Task Force Backblaster was in an offensive-defensive configuration, which meant they were oriented to protect each other even as they were launching an attack. Ore City was farthest from her targets, so she was the first to launch a missile pod. Next was Eden, then Harbaugh with her three pods, and Aardvark with the final two. A timer began counting down on the main screen.
Command Center
Ceres Sector Command, Ceres, Asteroid Belt
Wednesday, March 18, 2235
“Admiral! We have what looks like a launch signature!” reported a nervous lieutenant commander. He was seated at a console on what had been the Cartagena, an ancient California-class dreadnought that now served as the home base for the F-34 fighters defending Ceres. A large patrol was constantly moving around the base, with additional patrols on five- and ten-minute alert status.
Vice Admiral Jamison Hargrove looked at the junior officer. “It looks like a launch signature. What does that mean?” Ever since the warning from Departure City, every sensor officer near the base was reporting possible signatures everywhere.
“A thermal bloom, faint, about a thousand kilometers away, fourteen mark twelve.”
“That’s it? A possible thermal bloom? Any radar reflections? Any signal traffic?”
“Not yet, but we have a full deployment of sensor drones in a globe around the base. They’ll pick something up in a minute or two ... Hold ... Hold...” He looked up from his console and said, “Panama is reporting a possible signature as well, a thermal bloom that also disappeared.”
“Could it be what you saw?”
“No sir, different bearing.”
Hargrove thought for a second and said, “Get the F-34s heading in that direction and launch the Alert-Five fighters. Get the fighters using their radars. If something is out there, they’ll find it.”
A third report came in of a possible thermal bloom. Something was out there. “Wake up the Alert-Ten fighters.”
It was just too bad the thermal blooms came from the penetration aids and jammers from the missile pods. The missiles themselves were already inside the outer perimeter of the WestHem fighters.
Bridge
MSS Harbaugh, 1,000 Kilometers From Ceres
Wednesday, March 18, 2235
The clock kept ticking down on the main screen. Everybody had at least half an eye on the timer, though they were also checking their passive sensors for any response from the WestHem defensive force. That came two minutes before the final maneuvering. “We have dozens of radars lighting off. Their fighters have a scent of something, probably the thermal aids ... More fighters launching.”
Backblaster nodded. “Any chance they detected the real missiles?”
“Nope. Looking for love in all the wrong places. Actual detection will be in one minute thirty-two seconds.”
“Continue the attack, as planned.”
Five seconds before the earliest possible detection, the penetration aids went crazy. Jammers turned on, rocket engines lit off, and false signals were sent. Meanwhile, the real missiles kept burrowing deeper into the nest that was Ceres.
The Revolutionary Wars were fought with missiles armed with the WestHem-developed B-26 warhead. Martian engineers modified the missiles by adding additional stealth coatings but never touched the warheads. They carried a two-hundred megaton thermonuclear warhead capable of destroying any ship within fifty kilometers, sixty if it was side on to the blast. WestHem knew about the B-26 warhead, since they had developed it in the first place; it was highly effective and fairly idiot-proof. If it had any faults it was that it needed to get within fifty kilometers of a target to be sure of killing it, and anti-missile lasers could kill a missile out to sixty-five kilometers. Ever since the Revolutionary Wars, WestHem warships were covered with dozens of anti-missile lasers.
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