Chapter 3: Espionage

New Pentagon, Military Headquarters

Denver, WestHem

Monday, October 10, 2146

“Colonel Whitestone, have you developed a plan to defeat the Martian terrorists yet? And after them, EastHem?” asked General Morgan, smiling with the impossible request.

“Yes, sir, of course. After that we will use the combined strength of our military and naval forces to defeat the Saucer Men from Alpha Centauri.”

Saucer Men was an extremely popular WestHem vid show in which a California -class superdreadnought, with a full crew and wings of fighters and attack craft, was sucked through a space-time vortex to a time twenty-thousand years before. Once there they had to both figure out how they got there and how to get back, as well as defend Earth and defeat an alien invasion by the Saucer Men from Alpha Centauri.

“Excellent! I’ll report the good news to the Executive Council tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. The difficult we do immediately, the impossible we do tomorrow.”

“And defeating the Martian terrorists?”

“Ask me tomorrow, sir.”

General Morgan snorted out a laugh and sat down in a chair across from Whitestone’s desk. “So, what do you really plan to do about this disaster?”

Whitestone gave an exasperated sigh and shrugged. “There’s two parts to that question, sir. First, I can easily develop a plan to destroy Mars. The problem will be to get the Executive Council to sign off on it. We just need to update the original plan and utilize it.” That earned him a noncommittal grunt. “More important, we need to generate intelligence on our enemy. The necessity of procuring good Intelligence is apparent and need not be further urged.”

That earned another grunt. “Washington. You forgot the remainder of the quote. All that remains for me to add, is, that you keep the whole matter as secret as possible. For upon secrecy, success depends in most enterprises of the kind, and for want of it, they are generally defeated, however well planned and promising a favorable issue. Your average politician or military officer would need to look him up on the Internet to learn about him. They would also need to learn the meaning of secrecy.”

“I majored in history, sir, not military science,” Whitestone replied.

“And now we know why you’re a colonel and not a general,” answered Morgan.

“A colonel alive in Denver and not dead in the Jutfield Gap.”

Morgan shrugged. “So, what do we need to do for intelligence?”

“We need to insert spies into Martian society. We are still accessing the information from MarsGroup but we no longer have technical details from the satellite network. This is going to be very difficult.”

“How so?”

“First, how do I insert a spy into Martian society? This is a society of what we consider scum. They call themselves vermin, the name given them by over a century of WestHem Earthlings. Let’s say I find a spy who can fit in perfectly. Now I have to get him there. This isn’t where I can have a submarine surface off the coast of Siberia and send somebody ashore. This is a different planet! I can’t send a stealth ship there and then parachute somebody in. I’ll need to first insert them into EastHem and hope they can finagle their way onto a return trip on a freighter, so they can then find a way to sneak down to the surface and hide on Mars. Finally, if all that works out and our spy works his way into the Martian military and becomes their Chief of Staff, how does he get the information back to us? Subvert somebody at MarsGroup and take over a broadcast? Maybe he can smuggle out a thumb drive in a can of relabeled AgriCorp peas. Or maybe he can build an interplanetary radio so that he can figure out a way to go outside in a stolen biosuit and send us the information back directly.”

“Well, since it is going to take some time to sort things out, you can get your staff to work out the details. Give them the assignment. We have sources in EastHem, right?”

“Of course.”

“Start working on them. I can guarantee they are trying to figure out how to get intelligence back, too.” Whitestone raised an eyebrow and Morgan added, “If the Martians can kick our asses, then EastHem wants to figure out how to kick our asses.”

EastHem Military Intelligence Office

New Rome, EastHem

Monday, October 10, 2146

Brigadier Bullstrode returned to EastHem Military Intelligence in New Rome. For security reasons, the EastHem military located their intelligence operation away from the three co-capitals of London, Paris, and Berlin. Those capitals had the highest percentage of spies per capita on the planet. It was better to stay far, far away.

As soon as he arrived in his office, Bullstrode called his staff together. His staff consisted of a small group of colonels and senior majors, all of whom had been undercover in WestHem at one time or another. Only one of them, however, had any experience with Mars or Martians. Lieutenant Colonel Laurel Smith had been assigned as a cultural attaché at the EastHem consulate in New Pittsburgh. Since the Martians had zero interest in EastHem culture, just as they had no interest in WestHem culture, the culture section of the consulate was where EastHem intelligence was stashed.

Bullstrode looked at Smith and smiled. “So, Laurel, you’ve worked on Mars. Just how hard is it going to be to set up a functioning intelligence network there?”

She shrugged and smiled back. “It will be ... different. I am sure that it will be easier now than when WestHem ran the place. We were limited to only a handful of people in the consulate and FLEB agents would tail us anytime we left the consulate. Surveillance was so close that you could forget trying dead drops and brush passes. As for digital transfer of information, it was always questionable whether WestHem was reading the mail or not. There were times when they figured out what was being sent to us and they would react immediately. Other times we never heard a peep, but was that because they didn’t know or care what we were doing or because they didn’t break that particular code? It was their home ground after all, and they tended to act like a bull in a China shop.” The FLEB was the Federal Law Enforcement Bureau, WestHem’s premier law enforcement agency.

“Was it hard to set up a network of locals?” asked Colonel Pierre Dupont, a specialist in computer-based espionage.

“It was ridiculously easy. You remember learning about MICE, right? Money, ideology, compromise, and ego? You could close your eyes and just point at any warm body outside an office building and hit somebody you could turn in a heartbeat. Money? Even the employed Martians were kept at low pay levels by their Earthling bosses. Ideology? Trust me, none of them believed any of the crap that WestHem was shoveling. Compromise? Everything is illegal, so it was easy to find something they were guilty of. And ego? There wasn’t a one who didn’t think they were smarter than the assholes dumped on them by Denver and the WestHem corporations. The problem was that anybody we talked to was going to be immediately arrested and questioned. You go to lunch at a local place, five minutes after you left, it would be shut down and everybody working there would be down at FLEB headquarters being questioned. You buy flowers for your girlfriend; the florist shop gets taken apart as they look for bugs.”

“Merde!” he muttered.

“It’s more than that. The only people worth talking to were the people with jobs. They were the only ones with access to anything worth knowing. The vast majority of Martians, however, are unemployed. They live in ghettos and receive nothing more than basic foodstuffs, intoxicants, and Internet, and their main employment is stealing. They steal from WestHem, they steal from the corporations, and they steal from each other.”

“And now?” asked Bullstrode. “Your best guess since the Revolution.”

Smith shook her head and held her hands up in a questionable motion. “I just don’t know. This is unlike any revolutionary movement we’ve ever run across. We have plenty of them in Africa, but those we can figure out a way to compromise the leadership and end the problem. My best guess is that we’ll be able to do something, but maybe not right away. I see two approaches. First is through the new embassy.” Following the Revolution and the EastHem recognition of the new Martian government, the former EastHem Consulate in WestHem territory was upgraded to an Embassy to an independent nation.

“I would assume that the Martians will be following our officers as they attempt to develop contacts, much like WestHem did.”. commented Bullstrode.

“Yes, sir, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. We won’t know if they are any good until we try. Still, that’s why I say it’s only one approach. The second approach is through inserting agents into Martian society. We should be able to find agents and send them to Mars on return flights of the bulk food freighters. Once there they can be integrated into Martian society, perhaps as new immigrants. If they are good enough, they might be able to impersonate Martian citizens.”

“All right. That will be sufficient for now. Let’s call it quits for the moment. Lieutenant Colonel, please stay. Thank you.” Everybody in the room stood and came to attention, and then silently left the room. Lieutenant Colonel Smith, however, stayed at attention. Once the others left, Bullstrode said, “As you were.”

Smith relaxed and said, “Yes, sir.”

Bullstrode sat down and pointed towards a chair for Smith. “Laurel, how long before you can find me some answers on inserting agents into Mars?”

“I can probably figure something out by next week, sir. As for actual insertion, I won’t know until we try it.”

He nodded and considered the situation before reaching into his desk. He pulled out a small metal case and pushed it across his desk. She opened the case and found the three gold diamonds of a full colonel. She looked up at him and he said, “You’ll need the rank to get the job done. You’re in charge of our new intelligence unit. We need human intelligence from Mars, as much as we can get, as fast as we can get it.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Bullstrode stood and held out his hand. “You’ve earned it, Colonel. Let me know your plans and what I need to do to help.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Smith came to attention and left the office.

Martian Planetary Guard Headquarters

New Pittsburgh, Mars

Tuesday, October 11, 2146

Colonel Marcus Slackass, Director of Planetary Intelligence, returned to his office in the newly created Martian Planetary Guard Intelligence Office. His secretary and lover, Genevieve Vermin, was waiting for him. “Have fun?” she asked.

“Every day I get the opportunity to defend our great planet is a day of pleasure,” he replied.

“That bad?”

Marcus sighed and shrugged. “It is what it is.”

She smiled and cupped her substantial breasts through her white MPG t-shirt. “Want me to take your mind off your troubles for a while?”

Marcus grinned at her. “Not during work hours. At 1800 I expect you naked and on your knees, but not a minute before then.”

She pouted theatrically and sat down across from him. The difference between the two was profound. Marcus Slackass was a member of the Martian Planetary Guard since the day it was founded. General Jackson had asked him and a half dozen other Martian-born officers in the WestHem Marines to resign their positions with the Marines and form the MPG. Fortunately, he obtained a position with Shilling Munitions, since only employed Martians were allowed to join the MPG. WestHem was not going to allow unemployed ghetto-dwelling vermin access to weaponry.