Chapter 11B

July 28^th, 2146
Deep space, between the orbits of Mercury and Venus

The armada continued on, coasting through space at seventy kilometers per second. Because of the attacks made by Mermaid, it was now an armada that was significantly more alert than it had been on the outset. All active detection systems on all ships were powered up and sweeping through designated sectors. A full wing of attack and detection craft now maintained a 24-hour combat space patrol, circling around on all sides in overlapping patterns. However, despite all of this surveillance of the flight path, it had been more than a week now since Mermaid's attacks and no one really believed that there could be any more Owls out there gunning for them. As a result, reactions were a bit lapsed and judgment was a bit overconfident once again. The perfect environment for disaster.

Swordfish was the second of the Owls that had been launched from Triad Naval Base. Ron Bales, her commander, a former detection technician in the WestHem navy like Brett, employed the same classic attack pattern Mermaid had used. He set his ship right in the path of the advance, relatively motionless from the perspective of the fast-moving armada. When the time was right, Bales gave the order and Swordfish's weapons crew unleashed two nuclear torpedoes — each at a Panama transport ship — from a distance of 320,000 kilometers. She then turned and moved clear of the firing zone as fast as she could without risking detection. Bales knew better than to press his luck by attempting a third shot against an alerted enemy.

The torpedoes drifted through space for more than an hour, closing on their targets. The first was detected at a range of 8000 kilometers by Packhorse, the ship it was stalking. A fury of anti-missile laser fire was directed at it, trying desperately to make a lethal intersection of beam and torpedo through the electronic jamming. Purely by blind luck, that is exactly what happened. One of the lasers scored a direct hit, burning into the delicate mechanisms of the nuclear package and destroying any chance of a detonation.

Despite the destruction of the warhead however, the body and mass of the missile remained intact and continued to close with its target. Two minutes and twelve seconds after detection, this mass slammed into the side of Packhorse at a velocity of eighty kilometers per second. This was sufficient kinetic energy to blast a hole more than fifty meters wide in the hull of the ship and into the side of one of the landing ships within. More than two hundred marines inside of that landing ship were killed instantly by the impact. Another sixty were burned to death by the resulting fires or suffocated by the hull breach itself.

The second of the missiles was detected at a range of 7200 kilometers from its target, Llama. This time the luck of the anti-missile fire did not hold and the missile achieved a perfect detonation at a range of forty kilometers. In less than two seconds Llama was nothing more than vaporized metal and scattered debris. Another 20,000 marines were dead at Martian hands.

Admiral Jules was frantic at the news that yet another greenie crewed Owl was not only out there, but had annihilated another of his ships. He personally monitored the search for the vessel, watching the display for more than an hour as attack ships and destroyers swarmed through the area. In the end however, though two of the search craft had passed within 200 kilometers of her, not so much of a sniff of Swordfish was gleamed. The armada passed her by and she turned towards home, triumphant, and without a scratch on her.

Jules, after reluctantly conceding that the offending ship had gotten away clean, was then forced to make yet another report to the executive council on Earth, letting them know that yet another attack had been successfully launched upon his forces. The communication lag was well over ninety minutes at this point in the journey, but this was still not sufficient time to dampen the fury of Loretta Williams. She bluntly told Jules that he was an incompetent, in charge of a larger group of incompetents, and only the knowledge that his second-in-command was an even bigger idiot than himself had kept her from replacing him and having him sent to the brig for dereliction of duty.

Jules took his executive dressing down like a man, only muttering a few obscenities at the image of Williams on the screen. He then was forced to turn to the bigger problem of what to tell the WestHem public about this latest catastrophic loss of life. Though it was an acknowledged fact that the WestHem civilian population was nothing more than sheep that tended to believe everything that they were told on the Internet, there were limits to how much they could swallow. It was unlikely that even the sheep would buy that another of his ships had collided, or mysteriously exploded through crew errors. Reluctantly, after consulting with General Wrath and holding a few communication-lagged conferences with executive staffers, it was decided that they would have to admit Martian involvement this time.

As had been the case in the first attacks, word of what had happened had already filtered down to the landing craft aboard the Panamas. The Internet screens in every room were turned on, the coverage, though delayed by the communication lag (it was ironic that those in the armada, where the story originated from, actually had to wait the longest to receive the Internet signal since it had to travel to Jupiter, Earth, and back to Jupiter again), was constant on the explosion that had destroyed Llama. The knowledge that another 20,000 of their comrades had been erased from existence in an instant weighed heavily on the rest of the troops.

"We're like rats in a cage," said Private Stinson aboard Mammoth. "We're trapped in these floating deathtraps while the greenies pick up off like targets on the range."

This time Lieutenant Callahan didn't bother spouting the company line, that they didn't know for sure that the greenies were involved. Though there had been no official statement yet, even the news was saying that the Martians had been responsible for this latest explosion. Though many wild theories were being floated by the "military experts" that worked for the big three Internet services, the most popular was some sort of kamikaze attack. Various physicists were put on camera to show just how the velocity of one vessel ramming another in open space at full speed could result in a cataclysmic explosion.

"Do you think they felt it when they went?" asked Sergeant Mallory. "Do you think it was real quick, or did the slowly suffocate to death when the hull was breached?"

"Had to have been fast," Corporal Jones said. "The whole ship is gone they say. Nothing but fragments left. They probably didn't even know what hit them."

They all silently pondered that thought for a moment as the latest expert on the Internet screen explained about kinetic energy and velocity. Before he could get too far into his lecture however, the newscaster interrupted to say that Admiral Jules was now giving his briefing on the events. It was time for the official word.

"Here we go," Mallory said. "Get ready to swallow a big one."

Jules came on the screen, resplendent in his class A uniform, his hair neatly pressed, his face dusted with a covering of make-up. He had the same solemn look on his face as he'd displayed the last time he had been forced to give such a briefing.

"Good evening," he told the solar system. "By now I'm sure everyone has heard about the tragic events that took place today, events that come little more than a week after the horrible accidents that befell our forces and cost so many their lives. I'm saddened to announce that once again catastrophe has struck this armada, a catastrophe that has cost many good men their lives.

"At approximately 2116 hours, Denver time, the WSS Llama, a Panama class transport ship carrying 20,000 marines for Operation Red Hammer, exploded, killing all hands on board. Rescue vessels were immediately sent to the scene of the explosion but there was no hope for survivors. The ship was in fact, completely destroyed.

"As before, an immediate investigation was launched into the cause of this explosion and the cause was found rather quickly. This time, the tragedy was not the result of an accident. This time, Martian terrorists were responsible for this heinous act."

He paused for a moment, to let his words sink in. After a few deep breaths, he continued. "Based on tracking data uplinked to the command center just prior to the explosion, it appears that these Martian terrorists took control of one of the Owl class stealth attack ships that were docked at Triad Naval Base when that facility was seized by the rogue units of the Martian Planetary Guard. These terrorists, probably using rudimentary spaceflight skills picked up by accessing the training computers at TNB, managed to accelerate the Owl to a speed of more than seventy kilometers per second towards our armada. Probably more by sheer luck than anything else, they were able to steer this vessel directly onto a collision course with Llama. Since the armada is traveling seventy kilometers per second towards the Planet Mars and since the Owl in question approached from the opposite direction, the closure speed was nearly 140 kilometers per second. This gave only seconds for Llama to attempt evasive action once the vessel was detected closing with her. Unfortunately, seconds were not enough time to prevent the collision. The Owl struck amidships on the port side. At that velocity, the impact was enough to completely obliterate both vessels.

"This is, without a doubt, one of the most cowardly, atrocious acts of barbarism imaginable. I implore all WestHem citizens to say prayers for the souls of these brave marines and naval personnel and for the families they've left behind. I am assured by the Executive Council that those responsible for launching this horrible mission against our forces will be tracked down once the planet has been liberated and they will be tried for crimes against humanity, treason, and for more than 20,000 individual counts of murder."

The briefing by Jules went on for quite some time, with General Wrath making an appearance and spouting a few words of his own about how his marines were still in high spirits and how they would fight on and re-take that planet despite the losses so that those responsible could be punished. This was followed by a question and answer period, during which, as before, not a single reporter asked a single question about the possibility of there having been a nuclear explosion responsible for the destruction of Llama. There was, however, a brief question concerning the WNS Packhorse, another Panama class that had been reported damaged that day.

"Again," Jules answered, "it seems that tragedies are striking this attack force in groups of two. Just minutes before the explosion that obliterated Llama, Packhorse was struck by a small meteor that somehow managed to be missed by the anti-meteor defenses. It is estimated that this was a small meteor, probably composed of a material that does not absorb heat well and that was shaped in just a way that it deflected most of the radar energy. It struck Packhorse amidships and caused a serious hull rupture, which, unfortunately caused the deaths of approximately 230 marines and naval personnel. The ship itself is being repaired in space and is still underway with the rest of the group. The remaining marines on board that ship, although understandably shocked and saddened by today's events, will still participate in Red Hammer when the landings occur."

"A meteor hit it?" asked Mallory. "Oh Jesus. There hasn't been a ship struck by a meteor in more than a hundred years. Now we're supposed to believe that one just happened to hit right before Llama went up?"

Nobody disputed his words. Everyone had a pretty good idea of what had really happened.

"LT?" Stinson asked Callahan.

"Yeah?" he said, wearily.

"Them greenies got those Owls that they took at Triad operational, don't they?"

Callahan wanted to lie, knew that his superior officers would not appreciate him voicing his own opinion in front of the troops. He wanted to, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "It looks like maybe they do," he sighed. "Probably at least two of them, maybe more. They positioned themselves out here and they're pounding on the transport ships."

"They've given us more casualties doing that than they ever could have hoped for on the ground," Mallory opined.

"Don't worry though," Callahan said. "Once we make our landings we're gonna give it back to those greenie fucks in spades. We're gonna show those bastards what marines really do."

There were a few half-hearted cheers at his words, cheers that were mostly reactions rather than being powered by any actual emotion. In truth, morale was about as low as Callahan had ever seen before. They were trapped onboard a confined ship with primitive washing and laundry services and they were now apparently being stalked by an enemy capable of vaporizing them all in an instant. There was no way that they could fight back against such a thing; no way they could even see it coming.

Meanwhile, in Eden, just outside the MPG base, the Troop Club was doing its fair share of business. Every table was full of off-duty military personnel swilling down alcohol or smoking marijuana. The three servers behind the bar and the two waiters circulating among the tables were scrambling to keep up with the demand. Though the Earthling accountants that had managed the bar had been banished to their apartments along with most of the other Earthling corporate types, the actual labor pool that ran the facility still reported for work every day to do their part to keep the MPG morale from descending to the level being faced by the WestHem marines. In all, it was a project that seemed to be working well. At most of the tables the talk was boisterous and laughter was frequent. On the large Internet screens that were mounted on the walls and above the bar, MarsGroup channels were the ones being viewed.

The clip of Admiral Jules' briefing regarding the destruction of one of their vessels had just been played for everyone to see. Commentary by the Martian newscasters as to just what this really meant was now being offered.

"Laura Whiting, the interim government officials, and everyone on General Jackson's staff have continued to refuse comment on the destruction of the WestHem ships today," said a pretty African descended reporter. "No explanation is offered for the refusal to comment, but it should be pointed out that Whiting and Jackson have both been very candid with past requests on past MPG operations during this conflict. One can only speculate that the reason for their silence must be an ongoing operation that might be compromised if WestHem authorities were given details. As such, our department and all of the other MarsGroup stations that report news and information are honoring their request and not pestering them. It is, however, common knowledge, as we've reported in the past, that at least four of the Owl class stealth attack ships that were captured at Triad Naval Base are no longer in their moorings and that there was a frantic burst of activity at SpaceLab Incorporated, the facility that produces the nuclear torpedoes that the Owls fire. This information, coupled with the wave of explosions that the approaching armada seems to be facing over the last ten days, is certainly compelling."

"Compelling," said Lon Fargo from one of the tables near the back. "She says it's compelling. I think they should keep their fucking mouths shut about it. Don't they know that this planet is full of WestHem spies that are relaying that information back to Earth?"

"Freedom of the press," said Horishito, who had just packed an electric pipe with a hit of some potent marijuana. "Even during wartime, we have to let the press report what they see. That's the only way to run a planet."

"Oh, lets not start that argument again," said Matza, who was packing his own pipe with another load. "I agree with Lon. They should shut their asses about it until whatever operation we're running with those Owls is over with."

"Here, here," said Lon, picking up a pipe of his own. He looked over at the newest member of his squad, the member that he had fought unsuccessfully to avoid having assigned. It was a fight that he was now kind of glad he had lost. "What do you think about this, Wong?" he asked her. "Your partner is usually quite opinionated on these matters. Are you the same?"

Lisa looked up at him, her eyes reddened and half-lidded, a determined expression on her face. She too held an electric pipe in her hands, its bowl stuffed full. "My opinion?" she said with a snort. "My opinion is that it doesn't fucking matter. The Earthlings are a bunch of dumb asses. They haven't even admitted that we've hit them yet, at least not with actual weapons. I think we could send them a schematic of the exact location of every one of those Owls and a timetable showing when they're going to attack, and the dumb fucks still wouldn't do anything about it."

"Fuckin aye," put in Winters, another of the new assigns from the last training class. He had been a dip-hoe in Eden before the revolution and was now the squad's medic. "And you gotta hand it to those guys that went out in those ships to hit them. That takes some balls. I thought joining the special forces was nuts. They're actually out there in deep space going up against the goddamn navy."

"And kicking ass too," said Matza. "They've already knocked out about sixty thousand of the OPFOR. And there's still at least two more Owls out there. Shit, they keep this up and we might not have to fight at all."

"Don't say that," said Horishito. "They give up before they get here then we won't get to watch Wong prove she's got bigger balls than we do. I for one have been looking forward to that."

That produced a bout of laughter from everyone at the table, Lisa included. Though there had been a time when such words, obviously directed at the fact that she was a female, would have provoked anger in her, those days were gone. In two weeks of training with her new squad out in the wastelands, she had more than proved her worth to her teammates. Her physical condition was now better than she had ever imagined it could be. She could haul a full load of sixty millimeter mortars, in addition to her own weapons, up the tallest hill without causing a discharge warning on her suit. She could move boulders and dig hiding holes in the rocky Martian soil as well as any of them. She could shoot any weapon in the special forces inventory with pinpoint accuracy, with or without the combat goggle targeting system active. She could assemble booby traps and plant them in under a minute flat.

"Maybe that's a bad analogy," Lon said.

"Oh?" said Lisa.

"Yes, I've seen you in the shower, remember? Your balls aren't very big at all. In fact, I can hardly see them."

"Yes, and I've noticed you've done a lot of searching for them too, boss man," she said slyly. "Sometimes you've searched so much in there that your weapon started to get cocked."

The table erupted in another bout of laughter, this time at their leader's expense. Lon actually blushed at the attention. True, he had been known to check out his new female squad member in the shower from time to time, and true, it had caused him to develop the beginnings of an erection more than once, but he hadn't been aware that anyone, especially Wong herself, had noticed. Another supposition, proven wrong. Still, Lon was good-natured about the jive, and Wong was a very attractive woman. Could he help it if she insisted on showering and dressing with the rest of the team? That was her decision, wasn't it? "I was just checking to make sure you practice good hygiene after our deployments," he said. "You know what they say about cleanliness."

"Hey, sarge," Horishito said. "How come you never check out my hygiene that thoroughly? Wong got something that I don't got?"

"Yeah, sarge," said Matza. "I'm hurt. That's blatant favoritism, you ask me."

"And what's so interesting," Lisa said, "about a woman soaping herself up in the shower, anyway? I certainly don't find it all that exciting."

"No?" said Lon, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"No," she said, "although you never know what's going on in my little mind while I see all you guys soaping up now, do you?"

"She's got a point there," said Matza. "She could be thinking whatever she wants in there, and we wouldn't have a clue, would we?"

"Part of the beauty of being a girl," Lisa said. "So are we gonna take these bonghits or what? I think we're on number five here, aren't we?"

"Number five," Horishito agreed. "And I still say that no girl is gonna take more hits than I can. Nothing personal, Wong, its just an anatomical fact of life. Men are better suited for sucking up the green."

"That's why we got a hundred bucks riding on it Hoary," she said. "Now lets smoke up."

"Let's smoke," the other two echoed.

On the count of three all of them activated their electric pipes, turning the marijuana inside into shriveled ash and sending the cooled steam that was produced down into their lungs. They each held their hits in for a count of thirty seconds before blowing them out.

"Damn," said Lon, taking a few breaths to get some fresh oxygen in. "There's really nothing in the solar system like Agricorp green. I'm glad all the people who grow it are on our side of the revolution."