Chapter 21: Insurance

MPG Headquarters
New Pittsburgh, Mars
Thursday, March 19, 2150

“What’s up, Kevin?”

Jackson asked, “I have a couple of questions for you. First, what is going to happen back on Earth once everybody knows the WestHem Navy blew the shit out of our satellites and our railroads? You know, the ones they say are theirs?”

Slackass shrugged. “Nothing good, for them, anyway, but that’s only going be if they learn about it. No way are the three networks going to admit that their Navy shot down billions of dollars’ worth of satellites that belong to them. The same with the railroads. MarsTrans just lost a trillion dollars in track and trains. They haven’t even admitted to losing a third of their Marines.”

“What would happen if the information got out, anyway?”

“Stock market crisis, probably. InfoGroup, ICS, and WIV still have plenty of assets in Earth orbit and around Jupiter. They’ll take a beating and maybe have to consolidate, but something will survive. MarsTrans will be destroyed. All their assets are here. Right now, they are still a paper company, but the paper is worthless without the phony assets of the railroads. They’ll collapse in a heartbeat. Why?”

“Any chance we can get the information to the public? We can give it all to MarsGroup and they’ll broadcast it. Hell, I’m sure we’re already getting questions,” Jackson said.

“It doesn’t matter if they don’t broadcast it.”

“Would it help if EastHem broadcasts it? Does any of what they say bleed over to WestHem?”

Slackass scratched his chin. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend? It couldn’t hurt to try. They’d probably do it in a heartbeat if we give them the Earth exclusive, whatever that means. Throw in a few bonghits of Martian Greenbud and they’d be all over it. It would be a slow-motion disaster for them, but it’s possible.”

“Okay, make a few calls and I’ll talk to Tesla and the people at MarsGroup.”

Marcus nodded and said, “You said you had two things to talk to me about.”

“Who’s running things up there?” Jackson asked.

“The navy guy is an admiral named James Westover. I thought you knew that,” replied Slackass.

“I did, but is he actually in charge, or is he a hack like the last batch they sent us?”

“Come on. Let’s go down to my offices and talk to my people.” Slackass stood and led Jackson down four floors to Planetary Intelligence Headquarters. Unlike most WestHem military and naval leaders, Jackson didn’t lead an entourage around. He only had a single aide with him, and he left his security element behind. Another difference was that when Slackass led him into the office, Jackson had his aide sit down next to him, and not stand behind him. Slackass ordered his senior people to join them.

“So, tell me about Westover. Is he actually in charge up there? Or is he answering to the Senior Advisers he got saddled with,” Jackson asked.

Harry Lloyd was the specialist in WestHem personnel. “Both. He’s a very smart guy and he’s answering to corporate assholes.”

“Well, he managed to put a major hurt on us and do stuff the last batch never allowed,” commented the general.

Lloyd nodded. He threw a photo on the main monitor. “James Westover, Admiral, WestHem Navy. He has had a distinguished career up to now, though it was always in secondary roles. He’s always been the exec, the second in command, but always with an asshole in charge. Whenever they had a problem, a base that was having problems, a training command that was turning out crappy pilots or officers, a fleet that failed its qualifications, he’d be the guy sent in, but only as a second in command. Some idiot would be in command, a guy who looked good and had vidstar quality, but the actual work would be done by Westover. What I don’t get is why he’s in charge and not the second in command here. Instead, he’s in charge and the idiot is his deputy.”

“That’s weird. Can we figure that out? And can we get Matt Belting in on this?”

Marcus nodded and clicked on the appropriate icons on his computer. Belting’s face came on the monitor next to Westover’s. “What’s up, Kevin?”

“Trying to get a handle on the WestHem command structure. What can you tell me about Westover?”

“Well, he’s a four-star admiral, what used to be called a full admiral. As you know, Martian ranks are based on WestHem ranks, and WestHem ranks date back hundreds of years to British ranks. Admiral ranks start at one star, what we call commodores and what they call commodore admirals. The difference is that a commodore admiral is a fixed rank and for us commodore is a position.”

Jackson cocked his head and said, “Not following.”

Belting nodded. “It’s the difference between rank and position. We are a small Navy. Most of our ships are commanded by commanders and captains, what you would call lieutenant colonels and colonels. When we send out a task force, we usually name a captain as the commodore, a one-star admiral, but only for the sake of commanding the task force. When they return to base, the task force is disbanded, and the commodore rating gets retired. At some point we’ll probably grow large enough that we’ll have full-time commodores, but right now I’m the only full-time Martian admiral and I’m only two stars, what WestHem calls a rear admiral.”

“So, Westover outranks you?”

“In their system, yes. Three stars is a vice admiral, and four stars is an admiral. That used to be the top rank, but WestHem has additional ranks. Five stars is a fleet admiral, and six stars is a fleet marshal,” said Belting.

Lloyd spoke up. “Excuse me, Admiral, my name is Harry Lloyd and I do human intelligence for Planetary Intelligence. I assume you know we’ve been reading some WestHem mail...”

Belting laughed. “My people are the ones who set up the mail tap and are giving you the mail to read.”

“Yes, sir, and thank you very much. We’ve been digging some since you started talking. Would it be unusual for the Marines to be involved in selecting the Navy admiral running the invasion?”

Belting looked shocked at that. “Seriously? For real? That would be fucking weird!” His image turned towards General Jackson and said, “Kevin, you’re an all-around wonderful guy, but I wouldn’t let you run my ships, and I wouldn’t tell you how to run your army. It’s the same in WestHem. If the Marines are pushing for Westover, that means something.”

“Admiral, what if I told you that the Marines also sent two officers to Westover for his staff?” asked Lloyd.

“That would also be unusual. Who are these two officers?”

Lloyd clicked on his computer. “One is Colonel Oliver Whitestone, Military Intelligence. According to the Marine databases, he was assigned to General Morgan’s staff. General Morgan is the Adjutant to the Chief of Staff.”

“That means Morgan is the brains behind the Chief of Staff. If this Whitestone worked for Morgan, he’s smart,” Belting commented. “Who’s the other guy?”

“I am ... not sure ... oh, this is weird!”

“What?” asked Jackson.

Lloyd said, “Sir, the name listed is Major John Norman, but when you dig deeper, the guy is a ghost. He just showed up out of nowhere in the runup to Martian Justice. A deeper look shows a G2 lock, which peels back and shows that John Norman is actually Major Norman Wilde.”

Both Jackson and Belting sat up at that and looks of surprise were on both their faces. “Oh, shit!” muttered Belting.

“Excuse me, but who is Norman Wilde?” asked Slackass.

“Norman Wilde was the brains behind Martian Hammer, the real Martian Hammer, not the abortion WestHem tried,” said Jackson. “According to some of the Marines we captured after they surrendered, his plan was to kill the satellites and then the railroads, followed up by a rapid advance to combat upon landing. After the war he was tried for treason and sentenced to life in prison. He got caught up with the idiots running the thing.”

“Then what’s he doing on the Nevada?” asked Belting.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I would bet this guy is the one who planned the attack on the satellites and the railroads yesterday,” said Slackass. “WestHem has slipped a joker in the deck, guys. My bet is that the Marines, the real Marines, not the video Marines, were not amused by Martian Hammer and want to make sure it doesn’t happen a second time.”

Lloyd said, “General, if I understand what this man planned, then the next action in the attack will be landing a massive number of Marines, and quickly.”

Belting looked at his screen and then looked up. “Heads up, Kevin. It’s starting. Landers are departing the Panamas.”

Chasm 268
New Pittsburgh - Eden Rail Line
Thursday, March 19, 2150

Walker Stevens was standing on the edge of Chasm 268, looking down at what he could only call organized chaos. He had gotten both a call and a text that morning telling him to report to the civilian air departure port. A civilian Hummingbird would pick him and his cameraman up and fly them to the disaster site.

For Walker Stevens, becoming a MarsGroup reporter was a major boon to his official job, WestHem spy. The pay wasn’t bad, and it allowed him all sorts of access to news and stories the average person only learned about on the news. The only thing he couldn’t get involved in was military stories. He and Tasty moved into a larger apartment and his frequent away stories simply made their reunions that much hotter.

He and Marty Mickelson, his cameraman, got to the port at 0730. The first indication they knew something was off was when the pilot greeted them by saying, “You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

“Hey, it took me a few minutes longer to get ready,” replied Marty.

“Nobody cares. You need to get suited up. Follow me,” was the brusque reply. The pilot turned on his heel and walked away.

Walker and Marty looked at each other and followed the pilot. He led them into a dressing room. “What is this...”

“Get undressed. You need to put on a biosuit.”

“A biosuit?” asked Walker.

“What? You think they built an arrival and departure lounge out there for you? You’ll be in the Martian atmosphere from the time we land to the time we take off. Get undressed.” The two men stripped and put their clothing in lockers. Then they looked at each other in confusion.

Meanwhile, the pilot was already naked and putting on waste handling underwear, the tubes needed to pee and poop in a biosuit. He tossed one to each of his passengers and then showed them how to put them on. After that, he handed them biosuits, guessing their sizes. Walker he got right; Marty he was a size too small. Then he pulled his own suit own. “Here, take one of these.” He passed over a small bottle of pills.

“What are they?” asked Walker.

“Anti-nausea pills, strong ones, for when we lighten before launch.”

“I’ve been lightened before,” protested Walker.

“Yeah? How often? Wearing a biosuit?”

“Uhh...”

“You blow chunks wearing your helmet, you swim in it until you come back in. You aspirate it, you’re dead. Take a pill,” the pilot repeated.

“When you put it that way.” Walker took a pill and passed the bottle to Marty. He swallowed the pill and allowed the pilot to help him with the helmet. As it settled over his head, he realized just how awful a helmet full of vomit might be. “Why don’t we put the helmets on later, in the Hummingbird? If we’re going to puke, then we puke, wipe our faces, and put our helmets on.”

The pilot turned red at that. “Regs are that nobody goes out without a biosuit fully operating. And nobody but nobody pukes in my bird! Got it?”

Walker held up his hands and rolled his eyes. “Lead the way, Captain.”

The pilot turned and walked towards the hangar. Walker and Marty picked up their gear and followed. Inside the hangar, the pilot, who still hadn’t introduced himself, walked them up the back ramp of the Hummingbird and showed them where to stash their computers and camera equipment, and buckled them into their seats. Then he said, “I’m going up front. We’re out of here in five minutes.” He closed the ramp and went forward.

“You ever done something like this before?” asked Walker.

Marty shook his head. “No. You?”

“Unh unh.”

A few minutes later the Hummingbird began moving and the pilot’s voice came through their helmets. “Prepare for lightening ... three ... two ... one.” Suddenly it felt like the floor was falling out from underneath them. Walker’s inner ear went haywire, and his stomach churned.