Chapter 33: The Meaning of Vengeance

Admiral’s Bridge
WHSS Idaho, Mars Orbit
Friday, February 28, 2155

“Admiral, we have a communication from Triad Naval Base, somebody claiming to be Admiral Belting.”

Rear Admiral Barbour looked at the communications officer. “Somebody claiming to be Admiral Belting or somebody who is Admiral Belting?”

The comms officer blushed. “His identification checks out. It’s Matthew Belting. We have him from our records as the former Lieutenant Commander Belting.”

Barbour drily replied, “Considering he’s the ranking admiral of the Martian Navy and has kicked our collective asses for the last ten years I think we can refer to him by the title he has selected.”

The junior officer reddened further. “Yes, sir.”

“Put him through.” The image of a middle-aged man in a white t-shirt appeared on his monitor. Barbour had to remind himself that shorts and t-shirts were de rigueur in the climate-controlled conditions of Mars. “Admiral Belting.”

“Admiral Barbour. I’d like to discuss a surrender.”

“That is very nice, Admiral, but we just don’t have the room to take all of you.”

Belting returned a dry smile. “Then we’ll just have to discuss your surrender, won’t we.”

“That certainly won’t be occurring.”

“Admiral, you have lost over ninety percent of your escorts. We just killed three-hundred thousand Marines, and every lander that brought them to our planet. Your fleet is at our mercy, and my government is not feeling all that merciful.”

Barbour tried to keep his face emotion-free. It was one thing to be told the disastrous details by his staff and quite something else to hear it from the enemy. “So, you are suggesting a cease fire?”

“No, I am suggesting an unconditional surrender. Mars is getting sick and tired of this nonsense. Every four or five years you try to invade us and every four or five years we have to kick your balls and send you home crying. No more! Surrender or die!” Belting replied.

“We can discuss a cease fire, but WestHem will never surrender.”

Belting shrugged. “It’s your funeral. Literally.” The connection broke off.

Barbour turned to his communications officer. “Get me a link to General Westford.”

Cockpit
Idiot’s Delight, Mars Orbit
Friday, February 28, 2155

“Idiot Flight, Belting just gave us the go-ahead,” said Lieutenant Harry Smith.

“About fucking time,” replied his wingman, Ensign Helen Broadass. The other two members of Idiot Flight chimed in, agreeing with her.

Smith rolled his eyes and said, “Well, feel free to tell the Admiral that the next time he asks your opinion. Until then, prepare for combat and keep the chatter down.”

Idiot Flight consisted of four F-22-Ms on a ballistic trajectory to intercept the WestHem convoy orbiting Mars. They were about to attempt something that was expressly taught couldn’t and shouldn’t be attempted. Space fighters never attacked capital ships or fixed space defenses; space fighters had engines that burned red hot and were easily detected by thermal sensors. An F-22 attacking a ship would stand out like a flashlight in a dark room and be potted out of the sky.

Martian F-22s were the M-model and were specifically designed for Martian use. They were stealth fighters with twin lasers and better engines. Currently, the only specific features needed were the stealth coatings and lasers. For the last two hours, flights of four stealth F-22s had launched from Phobos Shipyard every half hour, rocketing away from the base, and heading away from the WestHem fleet and around the opposite side of the planet. Once hidden from Earthling sensors, the space fighters cut their engines and made a minimum time ballistic orbit circling Mars without any radar or radio communications. The only comms they maintained were via laser through satellites far from the invading fleet. When they came into sight of the convoy, they were totally dark and silent. Unsure when or if they would be needed, flights of F-22-Ms had been launched in preparation of forcing WestHem’s hand. The first flight had already come around the planet and then passed by the convoy, not being ordered into action. Idiot Flight was the second flight, and they were tasked with the attack.

“Idiot One targeting near Seattle, Idiot Two target far Seattle, Idiot Three target closest Panama, Idiot Four target second closest Panama.”

The other three pilots acknowledged their orders and focused on their targets. They had practiced this before, but this was the first time they had ever attempted it for real. Harry tapped his targeting screen, specifying the targets for each fighter; the targets were passed to each F-22-M. The pilots locked the ships into their targeting computers, and then maneuvered into position. Maneuvering consisted of using their maneuvering jets to orient their fighters to aim at their targets without using their main engines. The computers began a countdown, and as it dropped to zero, the four pilots fired their lasers.

The effects were impressive. The first Seattle, Bangor, was hit in the engine compartment, instantly destroying both engines. The next ship hit was a Panama, Cattle Car, which also lost its engine room. Then the second Seattle, San Salvador, was hit. Instead of the engine room, the two lasers went through the center of the ship, ripping through the airlock and tearing open the environmental system; San Salvador was instantly open to vacuum, killing everyone aboard. Finally, the second Panama, Liberty Ship, was hit midship. Panamas were considerably larger than Seattles, so the damage was limited to the portside cargo hold, where a pair of APCs exploded, shredding and killing a string of other APCs.

Still undetected, the four fighters orbited away from the convoy, leaving three dead ships and one damaged ship behind them. Harry reported to Phobos, “This fucking idea actually worked!”

Admiral’s Bridge
WHSS Idaho, Mars Orbit
Friday, February 28, 2155

Alarms were ringing on the bridge and lights were flashing on consoles. Admiral Barbour could see the common signs that the convoy was under attack, but nowhere could he seen any indication of who was attacking. After a few seconds, the attack ended and his chief of staff reported, “Sir, the Greenies just hit four of our ships!”

“How? Which ones?”

“We don’t know how, but they hit Bangor, San Salvador, Cattle Car, and Liberty Ship.”

Barbour asked, “How bad?”

“It’s not definite yet, but San Salvador isn’t answering our calls. I ordered a shuttle sent over, but they are probably dead. The others are hurt bad.”

“Get me General Westford. And find out what happened to those ships!”

Thirty seconds later, Fleet General Franklin Westford was on Barbour’s screen, and he was livid. “Barbour, what the fuck is going on over there?” A fleet general was several grades higher than a rear admiral but wasn’t qualified to order the ships around. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try.

Barbour answered, “The fucking Greenies just hit the fleet.”

“That’s impossible and you know it! Nobody attacks a fleet in orbit!”

“Well, you go tell it to San Salvador! They’re dead over there!” A text message appeared on the screen. “Bangor and Cattle Car are dead, too. Their engine rooms are shredded. Liberty Ship is still functional, but they just lost the better part of a thousand Marines.”

“Impossible!”

“We need to call the Greenies back and discuss a cease fire. I don’t know how they are doing it, but they are picking us apart one ship at a time!”

“Forget it! We are not giving up! We are going to finish this mission and conquer Mars!” Westford roared.

“And just how do we do that? A third of your Marines are dead on the surface, and two thirds of the landers are gone,” replied the admiral.

“And I’m calling the New Pentagon! Prepare to be relieved of command!”

“You do what you need to do, and I’ll do what I need to do.” Barbour ended the link and ordered his communications officer to connect him to the New Pentagon.

Bridge
MSS Ballbuster, Earth Orbit
Friday, February 28, 2155

Mars and Earth were at almost the closest they would be for the next two years. As a result, a radio signal from Mars to Earth only took three minutes and thirty-one seconds. The communications officer decrypted the signal and transferred it to Captain Sugiyoto’s console. “Sugi, it’s started.”

Steve Sugiyoto glanced at his screen and then looked over at Lieutenant Maggie Handjob, his communications officer. “Looks like.” He turned to his executive officer and said, “Barney, send us to general quarters. We are to attack at 0930 local time.” He turned back to Maggie and said, “Confirm that the Finger got the order and get Blackie on the line.”

Lieutenant Commander Barnwell Halston got on the Improved-Owl’s intercom system and ordered, “General Quarters, General Quarters, this is not a drill. Repeat, General Quarters. Prepare for combat.”

Throughout the ship, organized chaos erupted. Although Ballbuster was in Earth orbit and thus in a war zone, staying at General Quarters for extended periods of time was not realistic. Living in biosuits was a short-term option, suitable for a day or two at most. Throughout the ship, officers and sailors were getting into their biosuits and closing hatches and locking down anything loose. Sugiyoto unstrapped from his command chair and stripped naked right in the middle of the bridge. He grabbed his biosuit from where it was packed behind his chair and attached the plumbing before pulling the suit on.

Blackie Sparks came on his screen. The captain of Middle Finger was also in the process of pulling on his biosuit. “I am guessing you got the message, too?”

“We are to attack at 0930.”

“You’re the boss. You choose which targets to kill.”

Both Sugiyoto and Sparks were Captains in the Martian Navy. In a fleet situation, a captain would normally be designated as the senior officer. Earth orbit was handled differently. Earth reconnaissance missions were normally single-ship missions, with one ship in Earth orbit and a second ship transiting back and forth from Mars. When two ships were in orbit, even if just briefly, the original ship was considered the senior ship. In this case, Ballbuster had been in Earth orbit almost a month longer than Middle Finger, so Steve Sugiyoto was the senior commander, even though Blackwell Sparks had been promoted to Captain six months before Sugi had.

Not that it mattered to either man. They were friends and longtime officers in the Martian Navy, and two of the most senior Owl drivers Mars had. Sugi said, “I’ll take the civilian targets.”

Blackie smiled and said, “That leaves me with the New Pentagon. Can’t say as I’m not going to enjoy this.”

“Same here. Too bad we couldn’t have done this ten years ago.”

“Okay, time to get serious. We’re going to GQ. I’ll have my TO talk to your TO. You give the word, and we’ll launch with you.”

“Agreed. Ballbuster out.”

“Middle Finger out.”

An Improved-Owl Mod Two could carry twelve thermonuclear torpedoes carried in internal launch tubes and three Mod Two pods carried externally. Each Mod Two pod held six extra nuclear torpedoes, but Martian combat experience had shown that other ordnance packages could be carried instead, such as drones and decoys. For this mission, the two ships had swapped out torpedoes for Thor packages. The eighteen torpedoes they each carried in their Mod Two pods were now thirty-six Thor packages, each of which carried nine Thor warheads. The two warships had three-hundred-twenty-four Thor warheads each available to drop on WestHem targets, and neither captain planned to take any home to Mars.

For several weeks, MPG and MPI specialists on both ships had been plotting targets for Thor attacks. The most obvious target was the New Pentagon, a massive structure on the south side of the capital. Designed like the original Pentagon, now a waterlogged ruin on the Potomac River, the New Pentagon was a gigantic five-sided cylinder twenty stories tall. Built of ceramacrete and polyglass, it was constructed to withstand anything short of a nuclear weapon. That premise was about to be tested; Middle Finger was going to drop its full complement of Thor warheads on the single target that was the New Pentagon.

The other targets were all civilian targets, but the civilians involved were the true leaders of WestHem. Forget about the elected leaders, the members of the WestHem Executive Council. The actual leaders were the corporate titans who sponsored the councilmembers and gave them their orders. These were people like William Featherstone, the Chairman of the Board of InfoGroup, and Rexford Washington, President and CEO of AgriCorp. These magnates were wealthier and more powerful than any men ever born. They could buy and sell entire countries, start wars, kill with the flick of a finger, and were above any laws mere mortals were subject to. They wanted to take back control of Mars, and they were not bothered by the fact that it was impossible to do. They said it needed to be done, so five-and-a-half billion people were put to work making that happen. The loss of a few million soldiers and sailors was immaterial, a rounding error as far as they were concerned.

Each of these titans of industry lived in what earlier peoples would have considered palaces, monuments of decadence. Even their secondary homes would have made earlier princes and kings jealous. Most had two or three summer or winter homes, some of which they hadn’t visited since they were built. All of them had primary residences in Aspen, the wealthiest and most exclusive Denver suburb. They flitted from home to home, rarely, if ever, going to the offices they maintained in Denver. That was where the workers toiled, and they were leaders, not workers.

Featherstone’s lifestyle was typical of this corporate elite. He arose at 0730, not from an alarm clock but because one of his mistresses woke him with oral sex. Another mistress bathed him and shaved him in a four-hundred square meter bathroom before dressing him and ushering him into one of his three dining rooms. Then he would spend time in his home office before being pleasured by yet another mistress. Lunch might be on the patio, followed by more office work, and more sex. Later, after an exquisite gourmet dinner, he would retire to his home theater, to watch custom-made pornography with a pair of his mistresses. Then he would take them to bed; he used the Mars-developed erectile drug Ringer-Lowenstein-Dartmouth serum, also known as Reload, liberally. All these women were beautiful and highly skilled in the art of maximizing Featherstone’s pleasure, no matter what it cost them in terms of their health or dignity.

The MPI targeting specialists had developed a list of twenty corporate leaders that would be better off not being alive after Martian Vengeance was finished. Each leader had three or four residences they might be staying at, though there was never a guarantee they would be at one when the launch order was given. Twenty corporate leaders, each of whom had four potential residences, was eighty targets. Four Thor warheads per target would assure the destruction of any conceivable residence, even if the targets had time to flee into the bombproof bunkers each residence possessed.