Chapter 28: Cease Fire

Senior Conference Suite Six
WHSS Nevada, Mars Orbit
Monday, March 23, 2150

“Just how bad is it, Admiral?” asked Colonel Oliver Whitestone. It was just after midnight and Westover had called a meeting of his senior strategic planners.

“Pretty bad. Right before I called for you, the resupply convoy was hit. We lost everything except a single Seattle.”

“Everything?” gasped Major Norman Wilde.

Westover nodded. “I waited until it was confirmed, but we lost both tankers and three supply ships, along with two Californias and a Seattle. Naval Operations back in Denver sent me a confirmation. Our own sensors detected the radiation cloud from multiple nuclear torpedoes.”

Wilde sat down at his desk and began typing. He looked up and said, “Without those tankers, we can’t refuel the tanks or APCs. Even if we win in the Gap, they won’t have the fuel or oxygen to make it to Eden.”

“I know.”

“We need to cut our losses, Admiral,” said Whitestone.

The admiral didn’t answer him directly. “Turner ordered me to nuke Mars. She wants me to nuke the Martian positions and some of the cities.”

Whitestone turned white. “Does she know what she is asking? Doesn’t she realize that if we hit their cities, they’re going to hit our cities?”

Westover shrugged. “I’m not sure she cares, as long as it doesn’t mess up her stock options. I don’t think she’s all that stable at the moment.”

“Think her stock options might take a tumble when the Denver Exchange goes up in a mushroom cloud?” asked Wilde.

“I’ll be talking to her shortly. I plan to contact General Jackson and suggest a cease fire. I want to get as many Marines out of there as I can.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Whitestone.

“It’s been nice knowing you, Admiral. Maybe we can share a cell in Butte?” commented Wilde.

“Yeah. Just thought I would pass it along.” He left the room and headed back to the bridge.

Wilde thought for a second and called up a program on his computers. He hit a key and then deleted the program. This was going to be even worse than after Martian Hammer.

Flag Bridge
WHSS Nevada, Mars Orbit
Sunday, March 22, 2150

“What is it, Admiral? What in God’s name am I doing up at this time of the day?” Senior Adviser Turner had just gone to bed four hours ago. When she was commed to report to the bridge she had contemplated telling him no but decided to attend anyway. It would be one more reason to shove the admiral out an airlock when she was able to. As it was, she hadn’t been able to shower or do her makeup, but no reporters were around.

“We need to call off the invasion. We’ve failed. The resupply convoy was hit and destroyed. I plan to call General Jackson and offer a cease fire.”

“Out of the question! The invasion continues! Order in your reserves!” This was ridiculous! They still had seven Panamas full of Marines in orbit over Mars!

“It’s over, Turner. We don’t have enough hydrogen and oxygen to keep up the attack. We’ll need our last tanker just to bring the troops still alive back aboard.”

“Never!”

Westover rubbed his face. He needed some decent sleep. “We’ve lost almost two-hundred thousand Marines in the last two days and haven’t even made it halfway through the trenches. It’s over. The defenses are worse than anything since the Lines of Torres Vedras in Portugal.”

“What are you babbling about, you fool?” Turner demanded.

“The Lines of Torres Vedras? It’s where Wellington stopped Napoleon’s armies in Portugal. Never mind.” He could see the ignorance in her eyes. “What I mean is that the defenses are impregnable. We simply can’t penetrate them. Maybe we could have at New Pittsburgh. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. We have no chance of doing it now. It’s over.”

“It’s over when I say it’s over!”

“It’s over. I will be calling Jackson and arranging a cease fire. With any luck, he wants us off his planet as much as we do,” he told her.

“Never!” She went to the door and tried to open it. “Open this door! Consider yourself under arrest.”

Admiral Westover motioned to a pair of Marine guards and summoned them over. “Escort the Senior Adviser to her room and confine her. Remove any communication or computer devices. The same goes for Senior Adviser Fuller. They are to be treated correctly but they are not to be released or allowed access to any communications or computers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Marines, I am Senior Adviser Shelley Turner and am in command of this expeditionary force! You are to place Admiral Westover in custody immediately.”

The two Marines looked at the Admiral. He said, “You have your orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Marines each took one of Turner’s upper arms and led her from the bridge. She tried to escape, but they were far stronger than she was. She was escorted away.

Westover turned to his communications officer and said, “Put me through to General Jackson.”

MPG Planetary Headquarters
New Pittsburgh, Mars
Monday, March 23, 2150

“General, I have an individual on the communications link claiming to be Admiral James Westover of the WestHem Navy.”

Kevin Jackson sat upright. He was sleeping on a couch in a room off his office. “What?” The aide repeated his message. “Is this for real?”

He got a shrug back. “We traced the routing back to a newly launched WestHem satellite within defensive range of the convoy. The face matches up with what we have on Westover from their personnel files.”

“What’s he want?”

“He asked to speak to you. That’s all he said. He gave us a return link and asked us to call him back at 0400.”

Jackson glanced at the wall clock; it was 0315. “Shit.” He stood and scratched. “Okay, get Slackass in here, and wake up Tesla and Belting. I want them listening in, but I don’t want them talking to whoever this is. I need to shower and shave and drink a pot of coffee.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll send in some coffee.” The aide left and began making calls, the first of which was to get some coffee and pastries going. He had a feeling it was going to be a long day.

It was 0350 when everybody was awake and linked. Matt Belting, Fleet Admiral, Martian Navy, asked the critical question. “Is this for real? Is it actually Westover?”

Marcus Slackass, Directory of Planetary Intelligence, answered, “As far as we can tell, it’s Westover. We’ve got voiceprint and facial recognition matches. It’s a human, too, not a fake.”

“So, what’s he want?” asked Governor Tesla. “And what’s the situation in the Jutfield Gap?”

Jackson answered. “The situation is the same as last night. We’re holding. It’s ugly and it’s bloody, but we are holding and not about to break. The Marines keep pushing, but it’s like shoving a stick of butter against a white-hot skillet. They can shove all they want, but they can’t push through the white-hot skillet.” He paused and said, “What does he want? I don’t know.”

The aide cleared his throat and said, “General, it’s time.”

“Thank you. Governor, Admiral, I am cutting your voice off. If you have anything to say, text it and I’ll look at it. Marcus, I want you quiet and out of camera range, but follow along.” The others all acknowledged him, and he motioned to the aide. Thirty seconds later he had the face of Admiral Westover on his screen.

“This is General Kevin Jackson. May I ask your name?”

“I am James Westover, Admiral, WestHem Navy, commanding the WestHem fleet and the Marine Expeditionary Force on the Martian surface. I am sure that by now your technical people have verified who I am and where I am speaking from.”

Jackson nodded. “Just making sure. How can I help you, Admiral?”

“I would like to discuss a cease fire. It’s time to end this,” answered Westover.

“You know the rules. You cease firing and order your men to start walking away and we’ll cease firing.”

“That’s fine, but I need to issue the order and it’s going to take some time to filter down. I would ask that you issue the appropriate orders yourself.”

Admiral Jackson saw both Slackass and Tesla nodding. Belting simply looked curious. In many ways, his war was already over. He looked back at Westover and said, “That can happen. Just remember, anybody moves forward, they die.”

“Understood. I will order the landers down.”

“Nobody said anything about landers,” said the general.

“I don’t have enough transport capacity on the surface. I need to send down empty landers to bring them back up.”

“No landers.”

“General, my men are going to start walking back, but they aren’t going to be able to hike fifty kilometers to the landing zone and I’m not leaving them on the surface to die. I am sending down landers to a point halfway between the Jutfield Gap and the landing zone. If you want to slaughter my men, it will be on your head, not mine.”

Jackson stared at his counterpart for twenty seconds before saying. “You may bring the landers down. Anything comes off those landers except for biosuited medics, and we blow everything to Hell and gone.”

“Then you’ll need to transport our wounded to the landers,” Westover replied.

“Don’t push your luck. They can walk home. Anybody who can’t walk home can drop their weapons and walk towards the trench. We’ll send you identities and medical conditions. We can arrange a transfer through EastHem.”

Admiral Westover tried to keep the disgust off his face. He knew the reality of what would happen. The Executive Council, under orders from InfoGroup and the other corporations, would refuse to accept any repatriated prisoners. It was better for the story if the ruthless communist terrorists butchered the prisoners. They had done it before, and there was no reason to think it wouldn’t work again. Whoever was left on Mars was going to remain on Mars.

“Agreed. Issue your cease fire orders. I will do the same. Farewell, General Jackson.”

“Farewell, Admiral Westover.”

The screen went black.

Jackson looked at the others on the connection, and then clicked an icon, putting him in touch with General Hans Worthall, commander of them Eden Military District. “Hans, issue cease fire orders. It’s over. We won.”

Colorado Heaven Condominium Complex
Colorado Springs, WestHem
Monday, March 23, 2150

Two Marine officers knocked on the door to the Whitestone residence. Cheryl Whitestone answered. She nervously looked at the officers. It was once common for human notification teams to show up when soldiers and sailors fell in battle. That was a courtesy long forgotten, but maybe they still did it for senior officers. “Hello?”