Chapter 13a

Aboard the WHSS Nebraska
August 24, 2146

"The last one, making atmospheric entry now, sir," reported Major Wild to General Wrath. The two men, along with everyone else in the room, were in the CIC watching the holographic display as it showed the tracks of the remaining thirty landing ships descending towards the planet.

"Very good," Wrath said, sipping from his seventh cup of coffee of the day. Over the past week, since his marines on the planetary surface had come under increasingly violent terrorist attacks and since his timetable was now well over a week off, he had eaten very little. His face was gaunt and he had large bags under his eyes. Had he bothered to weigh himself he would have found he had lost nearly three kilos. "Still no opposition?"

"Standard assault landings, all the way," Wild responded. "The first ships are already approaching the Eden LZ now. No terrorist aircraft detected, no sign of ground fire. Not that the greenies have anything capable of taking a landing craft down."

"We didn't think they could take down an evac shuttle either," Wrath said sourly. "But somehow they managed to keep our wounded pinned down there for a week."

"Yes, sir," Wild said, not bothering to mention that a one hundred thousand ton landing ship was a bit more difficult to destroy than a two hundred ton shuttlecraft. Nor did he mention that the move Wrath had finally ordered — the deployment of the rest of the invasion force — was something that should have been done on day two.

The marines on the planetary surface had been taking quite a beating over the last seven days. They had been sent outside the perimeter in greater and greater numbers over the past six days trying with increasing desperation to eradicate the groups of greenies that were flitting around and attacking them. To date more than six hundred of them — six hundred — had been killed, some by snipers, some by mortar attacks, most by lightening fast hit and run attacks that came without warning from the cover of the hills. In addition, more than three hundred had been wounded badly enough to be taken out of action and all three hundred were still waiting down there for evacuation, the berthing rooms in the landing ships converted into primitive makeshift hospitals where overworked doctors and medics struggled to keep up with the influx. Men were dying in those hospitals of wounds that were easily treated up in orbit but there was no way to get them up there due to the threat of the greenie Mosquitoes.

And in exchange for these six hundred dead, for the three hundred wounded, the marines had confirmed kills on only sixteen greenies and had captured only four. These casualties were the result of two separate engagements where company strength marine units on search and destroy missions out in the wastelands had literally stumbled onto squads of greenies hiding among the rocks and hills. The first engagement had been five days before at the New Pittsburgh landing site. That had accounted for ten kills and no captures. The second had been at the Libby landing site just the previous day. It had resulted in six kills and the four prisoners, one of whom was badly wounded and not expected to make it. In both cases the greenies had fought back hard and fast, pouring fire into the columns of marines before going down, causing many more casualties and deaths than they were taking.

Wrath had been forced to level with the media and, through them, the citizens of WestHem to a certain degree. There was simply no other way to explain the delays in deployment of the rest of the force and the main thrusts of the invasion themselves. Of course he did not give out truthful casualty figures for either side of the engagement. The media were under the impression that the marines were fighting suicidal groups of poorly armed greenie terrorists who had been sent out in crude biosuits laden with explosives and automatic weapons. They were told that there had been less than fifty marines killed and, by best estimations, several hundred greenies killed. They were told the decision to bring down the rest of the landing ships was because the landing zones were finally being declared secured and not because the hovers, armor, and extra men were desperately needed to get the upper hand on groups of well-trained and highly motivated special forces units.

By now Wrath and the rest of the marines down to the platoon level knew exactly how the greenie teams were being deployed. The thermal signatures of the Hummingbird transport ships as they landed and took off from the drop points had finally been identified as the source of the teams and the means by which they egressed before sundown. This knowledge however did very little to help with the situation. The Hummingbirds were constructed of radar absorbent compounds that precluded detection from that particular active system. Their engine signature in level flight was so low that active and passive infrared could not pick them up either. The only time the aircraft were detectable was during the brief landing and take-off periods. This happened so quickly there was no time to get marines to the location before the soldiers the aircraft had transported scattered and disappeared. Nor could they hit them with artillery rounds since, despite seven straight days of trying, they still had not managed to break into the Martian Internet and gain access to the global positioning data to calibrate their guns. Artillery rounds that were fired were usually at least three hundred meters off target, sometimes as much as a kilometer. In more than one incident the marines who were directing the fire were inadvertently hit by it.

The marine intelligence units had also figured out just how the greenies were able to conceal themselves so well. Examination of the biosuits of the dead and captured greenies had shown how effective of a camouflage they provided during the daylight hours. Those suits and the soldiers within them were literally invisible to both visual and, more importantly, to infrared detection if the observer was more than a hundred or so meters away and the greenie was lying still. Again, the knowledge of how the trick was done did little to help counter it. If anything, it had created an almost supernatural fear among the marines that were fighting them. They felt almost like they were fighting ghosts, spectral images that appeared without warning behind a wall of gun flashes and then disappeared like smoke before an effective counter-attack could be mounted.

"Remember," Wrath told Wild now, "I want those hovers unloaded first. Within the hour I want flights in the air searching out and eradicating any greenie teams found."

"Yes, sir," Wild responded. "They've been advised and the hover teams are already getting ready."

"Good," he said, nodding. "And intelligence is certain the FLIR units on the hovers will be able to pick up those damn invisible suits from altitude?"

Wild hesitated for a second before answering. "That's uh... what they tell me," he said. Of course he could not discount the very likely possibility they were simply telling him what they thought he wanted to hear. As an aide to a top general he had had such a thing happen more than a few times in the past, including several times on this very mission.

"Good," Wrath said, either not noticing the hesitant tone or pretending not to. "And I want the rest of the hovers running escort duty for the evac shuttles. Every available shuttle is to head down to the planet the moment the hovers are ready. I want every one of those wounded men on the hospital ship by 1800 tonight. Every last one."

"I'll see that it's done, General," Wild responded. "And what about the media? They've been asking that a pool group be sent over to the hospital ship to interview some of the wounded. We've been delaying them ever since day two of course since they don't know that none of the wounded have made it to the ship yet, but we really should set something up before they get too antsy."

"Go ahead and assign someone to that as soon as the first wounded start arriving," Wrath told him. "Make sure whoever you assign finds someone reliable to tell our media friends what its like down there on the surface." By "reliable" he meant someone who would spout the official line instead of what was really happening. It simply wouldn't do for a WestHem marine to start going on and on about invisible soldiers and heavy casualties.

"I'll give it to Captain Hovel," he said after a moment's thought. "He's bucking for Major pretty hard. He'll handle it with the discretion it deserves."

"Good man," Wrath said. "And how many correspondents went down on the landing ships?"

"A little more than half, sir. They were shuttled over to the transport ships this morning and distributed pretty evenly among the landing ships. Most of them went down to the Eden LZ since that's where the heaviest action is anticipated."

"And my orders to keep them inside the landing ships were understood?"

"Yes, sir," he replied. "They'll be shut inside the VIP quarters until the greenies are completely eradicated on the perimeters."

"What kind of bullshit story did we give them for why we have to do this?"

"Possible problems with the biosuits we reserved for them," he answered. "We told them a manufacturer recall has been issued and we haven't been able to determine if it applies to that model."

"Nice," Wrath said with a smile. "I like that one. It has class. Give an attaboy to whoever came up with it."

"Yes, sir," Wild said. Of course Wrath didn't ask if the reporters had believed the excuse that was being offered to them. It went without saying that they would know it was nothing but a pretext to keep them inside. But, of course, none of them would question it, at least not publicly. Not if their corporate bosses told them not to.

"Major Wild?" a young communications officer suddenly spoke up from a nearby terminal, his voice timid, as if he was hesitant to interrupt the discussion Wild was having Wrath.

"What is it?" Wild said, somewhat impatiently.

"I have an urgent communications request for General Wrath, sir," he said.

Wild gave him an annoyed look. "Refer it to the mail system like all of the other requests," he barked. "Why are you even bothering us with this?"

"Sir, its from the Martian Planetary Guard command facility in New Pittsburgh," he said. "He says he's General Jackson."

This got the attention of both Wild and Wrath. "Oh really?" Wrath said, raising his eyebrows. Jackson had attempted no communication with Wrath or any other Earthling since his infamous "flying fuck at Phobos" statement just before the first landings. Of course Marine intelligence was monitoring and recording his daily briefings to the Martian public, mainly for the purpose of splicing them up into inflammatory, out of context statements for distribution to the WestHem media, but there had been no direct talks of any kind.

Wrath turned to his aide. "Surrender terms perhaps?"

Wild nodded wisely. "They may very well be," he said. "After all, the rest of the landing ships are coming down. They have to know things are almost over for them."

"Put it on the main screen," Wrath said. "Be sure to record it for intelligence."

"Yes, sir," the officer said. He spoke a few words to his terminal then turned back to Wrath. "On screen now, sir."

Wrath looked up at the large screen at the front of the room and saw the face of his counterpart on the planetary surface, the man he had grudgingly accorded a small amount of respect to for the surprises he'd pulled so far, but a man he still saw as a clear inferior. As always he was dressed in his MPG t-shirt. His eyes had bags under them almost as large as Wrath's.

"Mr. Jackson," Wrath said, his words picked up by the microphone near the desk and transmitted, along with his image, to the open broadcast link. "Rather interesting timing you have, communicating with us right now, while our ships are about to touch down on the surface."

Jackson offered a slight smile. "It seemed appropriate under the circumstances," he said. "Besides, there's not a whole hell of a lot going on at the moment, is there?"

"I assume that you called this conference to talk surrender terms," Wrath said. "If that's the case, you can save your breath. Any surrender will be without dictated terms. Unconditional is all we will accept. I believe I've made that clear from the start."

Jackson smiled wearily. "You assumed wrong, Wrath," he said. "My forces have no intention of surrendering to you. We're dug in for the long haul and we have every intention of repelling you from the surface."

"Jackson, as a military officer you have to know that's simply not possible. Simple math will tell you that. My forces are highly trained, professional soldiers, and we outnumber your thugs four to one. Do the honorable thing and stand down. Don't sentence those misguided men to death."

"Look, Wrath," he said wearily. "I know you're just posturing for the media right now, trying to talk tough to impress your citizens when they see this clip in their daily briefing. Any chance we can drop that now and talk as two commanding generals should? I know and you know that my forces have hit yours quite hard. You don't have to give me a rebuttal on this, since that is not what I wanted to talk to you about. You go ahead and keep telling your citizens that terrorist attacks are what are causing the deaths of your soldiers. There's no point in my disputing you because all you do is chop up my statements anyway."

"What is it that you want then?" Wrath said. "And please keep in mind that my patience for your rhetoric is very limited."

"We need to discuss the prisoners that you've captured from our special forces teams," Jackson told him. "Now I know from those briefings you give you're claiming you've taken more than fifty of my men into custody but by my count I have two squads that reported coming under fire and that are now unaccounted for. That's twenty men although my guess is that most of them were killed in the exchange of gunfire."

"The numbers that I reported in the briefing are accurate," Wrath said with an indignant tone, although he was secretly impressed with Jackson's reasoning ability.

"As I said," Jackson said, "my hope is that we can talk like two military men here and you can save the propaganda for your daily briefing. What I expect out of you is that you treat the men you have captured and the bodies you have recovered according to the established Geneva Accords regarding warfare. By this I mean we are to receive a full accounting of our men that have been killed in action that you've been able to identify, an approximate number of the KIAs you have not been able to identify, and, most importantly, that you immediately release to us the identities of all men you have taken into custody and give us an update on their condition. Those men are to be treated as prisoners of war, which means they will not be subjected to torturous interrogation, paraded in front of your media cameras, or charged with criminal offenses."

"Those men are not prisoners of war," Jackson said firmly. "They are separatist terrorists and they will be treated as such. They will be transported back to our landing ships and they will be extradited back to Earth for trial on charges of treason, murder, and terrorist acts. All of the thugs under your command were warned of that well in advance of our landings here."

"Nevertheless," Jackson said, "this is a war we are engaged in. I know it and you know it. Keep in mind that we have captured more than thirty thousand prisoners of war from your armed forces."

"Which you are holding as hostages," Wrath said. "And our reports are that you've tortured and outright killed thousands, if not all of them."

"Again, Wrath," Jackson said with a sigh, "you know that is not true. We have transmitted to WestHem the name, rank, serial number, and physical condition of every single WestHem armed forces member that we have in custody. We have given you a full account of every one of your soldiers that was killed in the battle to capture the planet. Those bodies have been placed in storage for return to Earth. The prisoners are being kept in Geneva Accord standard POW facilities and will be returned to you when this conflict is over. They have been permitted to send mail home although my understanding is that your intelligence is blocking these communications."

"Lies, nothing but outrageous lies," Wrath said, managing to keep a perfectly straight face even though he knew that everything Jackson was saying was true.

Jackson ignored him. "It is my demand as a military officer involved in open warfare that our prisoners and dead be accorded the same treatment, as is required under international law."

"It's not going to happen, Jackson," Wrath told him. "Those men are terrorist criminals and they will be charged and tried as such."

"Then you, General Wrath, will be subject to indictment by a Martian court for war crimes when this conflict is over," Jackson told him.

That actually made Wrath bark out laughter. "Is that the best you can do for a threat?" he asked. "You're going to indict me for war crimes? Jackson, might I remind you my marines will have your entire planet in custody within three days? Might I remind you it will be you and your so-called governor that will be in federal prison awaiting execution six months from now? There will be no Martian indictments. Your planetary government will cease to exist entirely when this conflict is over."

"That is your opinion, General," Jackson responded. "Myself and my soldiers, we have our own opinions on how this war is going to end. My hope is that you will at least entertain the possibility that my forces might defeat yours and that this planet will gain the independence we seek."

"Impossible," he spat.

"And if that happens," Jackson went on, ignoring the interruption, "we will demand the extradition of any war criminals under indictment as part of any armistice agreement. Keep in mind that if we defeat your forces, we will control the supply of food stocks to WestHem. They will have to take our demands seriously."

Wrath yawned. "You'll forgive me if I don't start trembling in my boots."

"I'll forgive you," Jackson said. "But I would suggest you keep my words in mind. We Martians are not quite the pushovers you seem to think we are. Perhaps you'd care to reflect upon the damage we've done to you so far with these terrorist acts you keep talking about, both in space and on the planetary surface. You might also consider that my forces are well motivated to fight and that we've been training ever since the end of the Jupiter War to repel an invasion such as the one you are mounting. Do you remember your military history, Wrath? You went to the same military academy I did. Remember General Cornwallis? Remember General Westmoreland? They both thought victory was assured, that their objectives were a cakewalk, and neither one of them was fighting a force as equitable as the one you're fighting. We may fall in this battle, Wrath. I am able to acknowledge that fact. You need to acknowledge the fact that it might be your forces that fall and make contingency plans for it. That is all I'm telling you."

Wrath refused to entertain even the possibility of his forces defeat, even deep in his own mind where cold hard facts instead of self-serving propaganda were churned over. "All captured combatants in this battle will be arrested and tried as terrorists," he stated as forcefully as he could. "And if you have any compassion whatsoever for the citizens of your planet, you will unconditionally surrender right now, before our armor and our hovers are unloaded and start putting a serious hurt on you."

Jackson seemed saddened, though not particularly surprised by his words. "I was hoping that somewhere inside of you there was still a hint of the military honor that was instilled in us in the academy," he said. "I guess I was wrong." He gave a little one fingered salute. "Get your forces ready for the next act, Wrath. And keep in mind that you have been warned on the subject of war crimes."

"Jackson, listen to reason. You don't have a..." But the image of Jackson had disappeared from the screen.

"He cut off the transmission, sir," the communications officer said apologetically. "Would you like me to try hailing him again?"

"That won't be necessary," Wrath replied. "We have nothing further to talk about." He turned to Wilde once again. "Now how much longer until those landing ships start touching down?"

Lon lay on his belly behind a spill of rocks atop of a hill. His combat goggles were in magnification mode as his eyes tracked over the array of landing ships that had come down on the Eden landing zone. The full compliment was now on the surface. They had come in from the east, touching down in prepared positions one after the other, their retro-rockets blaring bright enough to overwhelm the infrared spectrum, the roar thunderous even from five kilometers away through the thin air. All of the ship mounted 150-millimeter guns were now deployed, as were the 20-millimeter cannons. The marines themselves had remained inside of their ships while the landings were going on, although this was not standard WestHem doctrine. Most likely their commander did not want them exposed to mortar fire until necessary. Now that all of the ships were down however, there was cautious activity taking place. Ramps had come down and groups of engineers had emerged, followed by armed combat soldiers, all of them walking with that clumsy awkwardness that marked newcomers to Martian gravity.

Lon and his squad were spread out just over two kilometers from the nearest WestHem perimeter position, just over four kilometers from the nearest landing ship. This was his team's seventh straight day of deployment. They were all tired but their spirits remained high. They had done their job and done it well, having ambushed more than fifteen groups of marines ranging from four-man patrols to understrength companies, causing well over seventy casualties without so much as a twisted ankle among their own. They had been combat tested, had come out the better for it, and were now a well-drilled killing and hiding machine, the bane of the invading marines. But they also knew that everything that had occurred until now was just a warm-up. The real games would begin today. The marines were about to inject hovers and armor into the equation, two things that would make things exponentially more dangerous. As such, the team was very heavy on anti-tank and anti-aircraft lasers for this deployment, fielding two of the former and three of the latter. Their packs were heavy with the disposable charging batteries that powered the weapons.

"I've got a bay door opening on LS 5," Lon announced quietly as he adjusted the magnification of his goggles even higher. "Right where all of the engineers are gathered."

Everyone looked at the target that had been designated as Landing Ship 5. It was a specially modified ship designed to launch extraterrestrial hovercraft from bays located on both sides. Behind the hovers would be fuel storage tanks and pumping systems, ammunition storage, crew quarters, and maintenance facilities. In short, everything that was needed to deploy and maintain a formidable force of heavily armed combat aircraft.

"How many hovers does that thing hold?" asked Horishito as he watched two of the bay doors slide slowly open.

"Standard load out is one hundred and ten multi-purpose attack hovers," answered Lon. "They also carry ten to twelve transport and medivac hovers. Intelligence says that the Earthlings might've crammed a few more than the standard load in there for this campaign though. You know how they are on that air superiority thing."

"Yeah," Horishito said nervously. "I know how they are."

"Have we ever actually shot down a hover with one of these shoulder-fired lasers?" asked Lisa.

"Us personally? No." Lon answered.

"I mean anyone, anywhere?" she said. "Or is all just theory that we can take them down? Remember the mess in the Jupiter War?" During the Jupiter War one of the main causes cited for the defeat of the WestHem forces had been the lack of effectiveness of their portable anti-aircraft laser systems. The marines had been able to hit the EastHem hovers but had done little more than damage them. Only three had been shot down by the portable weapons in the entire conflict.

"The technology has improved considerably since the Jupiter War," Lon said. "These weapons are more than three times as potent."

"But they've never been combat tested?" she asked.

"No," he admitted. "They've never been combat tested. Just like everything else we've been doing out here, its just theory for the moment."

She nodded, a grim expression on her face. "Let's hope it's a good theory then."

There was a sharp flare of white in the infrared spectrum from the open bay doors. The military personnel that were standing nearby quickly backed away, several of them tripping and falling as they retreated.

"Engine ignition," Lon said. "They're about to come out. Jefferson, send out a report."

"Sending it," said Jefferson, who was on another hill, one hundred meters to the east. His communications gear was already set up and locked onto the com sat. Now that armor and hovers were being deployed the communications loop had been expanded to the point where all of the special forces teams at any particular landing site were being indirectly linked. Jefferson's message, after hitting the dish and being transmitted to Eden, was then rebroadcast through the satellite link to all of the other teams. In addition, position reports of the other teams on the ground were kept updated on each commander's combat computer. This was a calculated risk since any team captured would be able to give away the locations of the others, or at least their last known position, but it was felt that the sharing of the information and locations and, as a natural extension, the combat power, was a benefit that outweighed the risk.

One hover emerged from each bay two minutes later. They eased out and hesitated over the ground for a moment, the four thrusters on the bottom flaring brightly with the intense heat of burning hydrogen fuel. Slowly the thrusters flared brighter and the hovers rose higher into the air, until they were several hundred meters above the top of the landing ship, high enough that the blast from their thrusters were no longer kicking up dust. Two more emerged from the bay right behind them, performing the same maneuver. Once all four were in the air they formed up into a loose diamond shape.

"EHC-750s," Lon said, identifying them by their official military designator. "Very bad news if they get us in their sights."

"That ain't no shit," agreed Horishito, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

The EHC-750 was the latest development of the ever-changing extraterrestrial hovercraft. It was a multi-purpose craft that was capable of air-to-air combat, close air support for ground troops, and even tactical bombing. Its armament consisted of four high-powered anti-air lasers, two twenty-millimeter cannon turrets, and, most frightening to Lon and his troops, a nose mounted eighty-millimeter gun that could fire sixty high explosive rounds per minute. The 750 was, in short, a flying tank. Even its profile was sinister looking. It was triangular in shape, the weapon pods and guns mounted from stubby wing-like protrusions on the sides. The cockpit, where the pilot and gunner sat, sat up high to give a panoramic view.

"You sending off the reports on this, Jeffy?" Lon asked Jefferson.

"Transmitting it now," he reported. "All units are being advised that they're in the air."

"Good," Lon said. "Luckily, those things are brighter than the sun in the IR spectrum. It shouldn't be too hard to see them coming at us."

"Intel is sure our suits are invisible to their FLIR, right?" asked Horishito.

"As sure as they can be," Lon answered. "We don't have any 750s in the MPG to test with though, so I guess we'll be finding out how good their information is, won't we?"

"More theory then, huh?" asked Lisa, who had one of the anti-air lasers in her hand, her thumb nestled near the charge button but not pushing it just yet.

"More theory," he agreed.

Now that the hovers were formed up they began to rise higher into the air. They turned as one towards the east and then lit their rear thrusters, imparting forward motion. They moved off, picking up speed and gaining altitude.

"Where are they going?" asked Horishito.

"Escort duty would be my guess," Lon replied. "Remember, they have all of their wounded stuck in the landing ships. Now that they have some air-to-air capability they can bring down their shuttles to evacuate them. I bet they started the shuttles down right after the last landing. They're probably approaching atmospheric entry now."

"Makes sense," Horishito said.

They continued to watch and ten minutes later, through the same two doors, another four hovers emerged into the air. These too rose into the air and formed up before moving off to the east. Jefferson continued to update Eden and the rest of the forces on the ground on these developments. On Lon's combat display symbols representing the eight aircraft appeared at the edge of his view to remind him that they were out there; as if he could forget.