Chapter 19: Operation Clean Sweep

Flag Bridge

WHSS Nevada, Mars Orbit

Wednesday, March 18, 2150

“So, it is clear that our fighter operations are designed to draw out the Greenie terrorists and engage them in an environment that we will be able to control. We can expect minimal casualties, almost none, in fact, while killing almost all of them.” Admiral Jacobs was smiling at the video cameras as he told the reporters the plans they had made to inflict massive casualties on the Greenie fighter wings. “Now, to transmit those orders to our courageous and talented pilots!” He held up a thumb drive and pushed it in the console. “I don’t think they are going to enjoy the treatment they are about to receive,” he said grimly. “Finally, to our gallant pilots, good luck, and good hunting!”

Behind him, the combined military and naval officers on the bridge of the Nevada applauded, joined by the civilian staffs of Senior Advisers Turner and Fuller. He said a few more words to the vidcrews and then they were ushered out. Other cameras were already down in the launch rooms taking shots of the fighters and attack planes launching. He wasn’t sure whether the Greenies would do what he had been assured they would, but you had to start somewhere.

California -class superdreadnoughts carried four wings of fighter and attack craft, split between two wings of F-22 fighters, one wing of A-12 attack craft, and one wing of AA-71 atmospheric fighters. Each wing was eighteen fighters or attackers. After the convoy attacks, WestHem was down to twenty-six Californias. Theoretically, that meant there were one-hundred-four wings, totaling eighteen-hundred-seventy-two small craft. The reality was that almost another four wings died in the attack on the convoy and at least another hundred fighters were too damaged to fly. That left roughly seventeen-hundred fighters and attack craft for Operation Clean Sweep.

F-22s and A-12s were space vehicles, designed to operate in the vacuum of space. The F-22 was a single seat space fighter, armed with powerful lasers and optimized for fighting other fighters and attack vehicles. A-12’s were two-seaters carrying a pilot and a weapons officer. They were larger and slower, but though they were also armed with a laser, their true payload was a nuclear torpedo. In an anti-convoy or anti-ship mode, they flew in after the fighters and launched their torpedoes at capital ships and transports. They could also swap out their torpedo for a heavy laser as an internal payload, but they weren’t fast enough or maneuverable enough to stand up to a dedicated fighter.

Operation Clean Sweep envisioned the use of the F-22 space fighters to be launched from the convoy and threaten the Martian satellites. They wouldn’t actually attack the satellites, since that would be considered cruel to the unfortunate WestHem citizens held in bondage by the communist terrorists. It also wouldn’t be good for the stock price of the owners of the satellites, ICS, WIV, and InfoGroup. Therefore, the satellites wouldn’t be attacked, but the Greenies were too stupid to understand that so they would respond by coming out to attack the WestHem F-22s. They would be slaughtered in droves by the superior WestHem pilots.

It had been rather difficult for the WestHem Navy to find pilots who would believe this gigantic line of bullshit. The pilots from Martian Hammer had been treated as rudely as the Marines from Martian Hammer. Roughly half the pilots and weapons officers died and none of the survivors were looking forward to a return visit. A large percentage of the survivors left the Navy, either retiring or resigning. The ones that didn’t were dumped by their Earth superiors, who didn’t believe the conditions of the Martian fighting and were sure that the pilots were nothing but a bunch of whiners and failures. Still, the word got out that the Greenies weren’t a bunch of assholes who weren’t sure what all those buttons and switches were for. The word also got out about how screwed up the tactics and orders had been. The result was that for the last several years the WestHem pilots selected for Martian Justice were put through an intense training regimen. Hopefully it would work.

MPG Headquarters

New Pittsburgh, Mars

Wednesday, March 18, 2150

“Matt, what is your assessment of WestHem’s Operation Clean Sweep?” The individual asking was wearing the Martian Planetary Guard uniform, red shorts and white t-shirt with his rank embroidered on the chest. That rank was General; the speaker was Kevin Jackson, the highest-ranking officer in the MPG and quite possibly the most respected individual on Mars after the late Laura Whiting.

The image in his monitor shrugged. “Total bullshit, but that’s what we expected. The fucked-up thing is that they announce all this shit ahead of time! Total insanity!” The speaker was Admiral Matthew Belting.

“And your response?”

Another shrug. “Pretty much like last time. We have to honor the threat whether it’s real or not. I’ve got our people sitting in their cockpits ready to launch. As soon as we see the Earthlings launch, we’ll launch. We’ll launch the F-22s first, but we have the A-12s loaded with laser packages in case we need to.”

“And your secret plans?” asked Jackson.

Belting grinned. “Still secret, as far as we know. You can check with Planetary Intelligence, but I’m seeing nothing from the take that gets sent to me.” He looked off the screen for a moment and then turned back, saying, “Got to go! It’s beginning.”

Launch Bay 4

WHSS Nevada, Mars Orbit

Wednesday, March 18, 2150

Launch was scheduled for 0930, so that the results of Clean Sweep would be available in time for editing and release on the nightly news. Once Admiral Jacobs inserted the operation plan into his console, the operation package was disseminated throughout the fleet. By 0930 the pertinent portions had been downloaded into every fighter and attack craft’s targeting computer and every flight leader’s mission control computer.

The ‘Crushers’ were Fighter Wing 34-4, seventeen F-22s fully fueled and ready for action. They were led by Major Harold ‘Madman’ Rawlings, a seventeen-year veteran of the WestHem Marines. He had been at the Marine Academy in Las Vegas during the Jupiter War, but it ended before he could see service. He was sworn in as a Second Lieutenant in 2133 and had spent his entire career in F-22s, doing squadron service, staff duty, flight instruction, and wing command. He had missed out on Martian Hammer, being an Exec in an Alaskan squadron facing EastHem across the Bering Strait. Now it was his chance to show the fucking Greenies how it was done in the big leagues.

At 0930 the Launch light turned green on his main cockpit display. Smiling, he hit the clamp release button and his F-22, Shady Lady, floated free in the launch bay. He hit the launch button and a puff of gas blew Shady Lady out of the launch bay and into Martian orbit. A glance at his screen showed that the rest of the Crushers were with him, and he looked to his right, where his wingman, Lieutenant ‘Hammer’ Hammond, was waiting. “Crushers, on my six! Let’s kick some Greenie ass!” Madman flicked the switch and ignited his engine and Shady Lady took off like a bat out of hell. Hammer followed and the rest of the wing came next.

And they pay me to do this, thought Madman.

He lined Shady Lady on the flight path in his ops package and noticed it was an attack run on a Martian satellite. That made sense, since the first thing you wanted to do was to blind your enemy. Knock out his satellites and you knock out his eyes and ears and his navigation. It was time to get serious. “34-4, target is satellite 45-67, heading 327 mark 200. Stay on me and watch your wingman.”

There were hundreds of satellites orbiting Mars. Some were in high geosynchronous orbits, hanging in position over a fixed location on the surface. Others were in polar orbits, circling the planet as if they were winding string on a ball. Yet others were in lower orbits, whizzing around the planet at high speed. 45-67 was a GPS and radio relay satellite and was five thousand kilometers away. His flight computer calculated the fastest course and speed and Madman lined up on the path showing in his heads-up display. He would be there in thirty minutes.