Chapter 26A

MPG Headquarters, New Pittsburgh

September 14, 2146, 2000 hours

"It's confirmed, Kevin," General Zoloft told General Jackson via video link. "The WestHem marines are in full retreat from the main line. They started giving up in droves twenty minutes ago. It started at the Pillbox 73 and 72 positions and spread all along the line from there."

"Could it be some kind of trickery?" Jackson asked, wanting to believe what he was being told but not wanting to fall into a trap.

"I don't think so," Zoloft replied. "They threw down their weapons and left them in the dirt. They're walking back toward the anti-tank ditch with their hands in the air. I can't imagine what kind of trickery it could possibly be. Take a look at the video from Peepers two and three."

Jackson called those particular images up on his screen and looked at the two views taken from the small drone aircraft circling twelve thousand meters above the battlefield. He saw literally thousands of men, marching slowing westward, their hands held high in the air as they stepped around their fallen comrades.

"It looks like the real thing all right," he said. "Have you ordered a cease-fire?"

"I didn't have to," Zoloft said. "Our troops stopped firing at them as soon as the marines started their retreat... well... as soon as they realized that was what the marines were doing. There were a few incidents of retreating marines being shot down."

"Unfortunate, but understandable," Jackson said. "In any case, put out a general order just to make it official. Nobody is to fire on retreating troops for any reason. Extend this order to your aircraft and your special forces teams that are hitting the armor behind the ditch. Fire only if fired upon or if the marines start moving forward again."

"It will be done immediately," Zoloft said. He paused for a few moments, staring at his commander's image. "You were right, Kevin. You were right all along. They are retreating because they knew we'd stop shooting at them if they did. The order you gave during phase one, the order we all protested... that order just saved Eden."

"I'm pleased that I've vindicated myself," Jackson said. "Not so much for the repair of my stained reputation as for the cessation of hostilities it has caused. This is as close as I ever want to cut it."

"Amen," Zoloft agreed. "For a while there I thought... well... you know what I thought. My sincerest apologies, Kevin, for all the flack I shot at you about that cease-fire order after phase one. I should've known better than to question you."

"Bullshit," Jackson said. "My order went against basic military logic and practice. As commander, I'm allowed to do that if I think it makes sense. I would have worried, however, if you wouldn't have questioned my decision. You were just doing your job. I don't want people who follow me blindly. Now stop apologizing and start passing on those orders. Be sure to tell your people how goddamned proud you are of them."

"Yes, sir!" Zoloft replied smartly, a smile on his face. He signed off.

Jackson leaned back in his chair with a tired yawn. He looked over at Laura Whiting, who had been hanging out in the war room with him ever since returning from her trip to the hospital to visit the wounded. "We did it," he told her. "We actually went and did it, Laura. Eden held. New Pittsburgh is going to hold. The Earthlings will be crawling back home in defeat soon. Mars is still free."

"Yeah," she said, her smile genuine but faintly troubled for some reason. "We did it. How close did we actually come to losing Eden?"

Jackson held the thumb and forefinger of his right hand about a centimeter apart. "This close," he said. "There is no way we could have held those marines back from entering the MPG base if they would've thrown themselves at us. They would've taken heavy losses but they would have eventually pushed through or forced us to surrender. It was a mathematical certainty. We didn't beat them, Laura. We made them give up."

"That's what you always said would repel an invader," she reminded. "It worked admirably."

"I never thought it would be that close though. I'm going to make sure it's never that close again."

Jeff Creek and the rest of his squad were the point squad for the re-occupation of Pillbox 73. Intelligence had assured them that all WestHem marines still capable of fighting had pulled back from the perimeter, their weapons thrown down, their hands held high. Jeff had no reason to question the intelligence report. After all they had rarely, if ever, been wrong so far. What he was concerned about were the men still inside the pillbox. Most would be dead. Some, however, might only be wounded — wounded, desperate, and possibly not in the communication loop that the withdrawing marines were using.

They approached carefully through the access trench, two platoons of 2^nd Infantry soldiers and two main battle tanks waiting at the fallback trench to provide cover for them. They kept their M-24s locked, loaded, and held out before them, ready to fire at the slightest hint of trouble.

"Coming up on the entrance," Jeff reported. He had lost the random number drawing for point position, which meant he was the point man. "There's two dead marines just outside. They look like wounded that someone dragged out and then dropped there. I can see some arms and legs just inside. Nothing moving."

"Copy," replied Sergeant Walker. "Drogan, Zanderson, Clipjoint, Zing — get up on either side of the trench and against the wall next to the entrance. Get some frags out and ready to use but don't toss them in unless Creek comes under fire."

The four people Walker indicated scrambled out the top of the trench and spread to the sides, all of them pulling fragmentation grenades from their equipment packs. Jeff moved slowly forward, step by step, until he was able to put his head inside the opening. The entryway was reasonably clear but there was a pile of bodies at the foot of the staircase on the far side. He reported this and then moved inside. The four grenade holders jumped down and followed behind. When he reached the foot of the staircase and got a look inside he felt a gag rising in his throat.

You will not puke in your helmet, he told himself, repeating this incantation over and over as he looked at the sight before him in horror. More than a dozen marines had been in this section of the staircase when the fragmentation booby-traps installed in the walls had blown. The marines had been ripped open by the explosions, most in their midsections. Internal organs, intestines, rib and pelvic bones had been exposed on nearly every body. The entire stairwell was choked with a fog of red blood vapor that had become trapped in the confined space, that was still slowly rising from most of the bodies.

"Oh, now that is fucking disgusting," said Drogan. She and the rest of the squad had moved up behind him.

"I almost feel sorry for them," Private Clipjoint said sadly.

"Fuck that shit," said Drogan. "They tried us and they fuckin' lost. They shoulda stopped back at the line and this wouldn't have happened to them."

"Yeah, but still..."

"Could we wax philosophical a little later?" Walker asked. "For now, how about we clear the rest of this position before the marines change their minds and start heading back."

They moved up the stairs, trying as hard as they could to avoid stepping on body parts or entrails or kidneys or livers and mostly succeeding. They found more bodies on the next section of stairway and a lot more in the lower level defensive position.

If anything, the scene was even more gruesome here. Those marines that had been near the firing positions at the front of the position had been blown into pieces which were now scattered throughout the floor. Arms, legs, heads, and torsos were everywhere. Those who had been near the back, where the large openings were, had merely been ripped open. They were lying mostly intact, with hundreds of holes in them. A few were still alive, as was evidenced by the slight movements they were making and the outgassing of their exhalations. None were in any shape to put up resistance although Jeff and the others made sure to kick any weapons well away from them and to remove any grenades or ammunition clips from their biosuits.

"Doc, start sorting through them," Walker ordered their medic. "Get some medivac teams up here to get them out of here."

"Right," Tom Huffy, their medic, replied. He went to work.

"The rest of you, man those firing positions and keep an eye on the WestHems. Second squad is coming up to secure the top."

Jeff tore his eyes away from the gore around him and walked over to the firing position he'd occupied during the battle. The 7mm gun was still there but was far from functional. Its body had been broken in half by the exploding tank rounds and its barrel had been bent. Not only that, most of the ammunition drums had been cracked open, spilling the rounds out onto the concrete floor.

One look outside the firing port told him he wouldn't be needing the 7mm, or any other weapon. There were no marines anywhere near the position. Three hundred meters away, he could see them lined up just on this side of the anti-tank trench, slowly working their way inside of it in small groups and then emerging from the other side. Only then would they put their hands down.

It was then that he realized he had actually managed to live through this war.

Aboard the WSS Nebraska, Mars orbit

2015 hours

"What do you mean they're giving up?" General Browning demanded of General Dakota Dickenson, commander of the Eden forces.

"The men have left their positions," Dickenson's image replied. "All along the length of the line they've thrown down their weapons and have walked back to the anti-tank ditch and the APCs."

"Who in the hell ordered that?" Browning yelled. "Did you order it? If you did..."

"Nobody ordered it, sir," Dickenson told him. "They did it on their own, just like they did during phase one."

"They're marines, goddammit! They can't just give up a fight without orders! You order them to go back, pick up those guns, and open that goddamn corridor to the MPG base!"

"I've already tried, sir," Dickenson said. "I've sent my orders through the colonels in command of each brigade and I've even opened a channel to all troops and broadcast my order in the clear. I've threatened to prosecute every marine who turned away from his duty for desertion, cowardice, even treason. They're simply not listening."

"What about the greenies?" Browning asked. "What are they doing?"

"Nothing," Dickenson said. "They stopped firing as soon as our men started to retreat. There hasn't been so much as an air attack since they turned around."

"Those greenies are just encouraging this behavior," Browning said, as if he thought the greenies should be encouraging the marines to attack them more.

"I agree, sir," Dickenson said. "So what are your orders? It would seem at this point that an organized withdrawal to the LZ would be the only thing we can do."

"No," Browning said immediately. "We will not withdraw. We came here to take Eden and we're going to take Eden. I order you to make those marines resume their attack!"

"Sir," Dickenson said, his voice sharpening, "you can't order me to do something that's impossible. The men are refusing to push forward. The men that were in the rear are refusing to go forward now that those in front of them have given up. The only thing we can do at this point is concede defeat and start getting our men and equipment back to the LZ — all of it that we can salvage anyway."

"That is unacceptable!" Browning yelled.

"It's also reality, General," Dickenson said. "I've got thousands of wounded down here that need to be evacuated. I've got thousands more that are going to start running out of breathing air soon. I don't have enough APCs to transport them all back. We need some kind of official cease-fire with the Martians in this sector so we can salvage what we can."

"There will be no cease-fire! If those men want to breathe they'll go forward and take Eden like they were goddamn ordered to."

Dickenson sighed. "I'm sorry, General," he said, "but if you won't make contact with the Martians for an official cease-fire, I will be forced to contact them myself."

"If you do that you'll be tried for treason!" Browning threatened. "I order you to make those men take their objective!"

"I think this conversation is over, General," Dickenson said. "I take full responsibility for my actions."

"Dickenson, don't you dare..." he started but was unable to finish. The screen went blank. Dickenson was gone. "Goddammit! Wilde, get him back on the line!"

Wilde had been standing behind Browning and had watched the entire exchange. "I can try, General," he said, "but I'm afraid he's right. The men have lost the will to fight. There is no way they're going to go forward. It's too late now even if they wanted to."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Browning said, turning his anger toward Wilde now. "They were within sight of the MPG base! They were less than two kilometers away. All they had to do was clear one more position and we would have taken that city!"

"I know, sir," Wilde said. "Unfortunately the Martians fought back much too hard. They destroyed our morale and robbed them of the will to fight. We're not going to take Eden. Dickenson is correct. We need to concede defeat to the Martians so we can get out as many men and machines as we can."

"Do you hear what you're saying, Wilde?" Browning asked. "This was your goddamn plan in the first place!"

"I was trying to do the best with what the suits in Denver left us with," Wilde said. "Mathematically it should have succeeded. But war is not just about math, as we're finding out."

"That's a copout. Those men are cowards! Treasonous, yellow-bellied cowards!"

"Call them what you will, sir. The fact remains, we've lost at Eden. Refusing to acknowledge that is not going to change anything. Now will you allow me to coordinate with General Dickenson on cease-fire terms with the Martians? The air supply situation is going to get critical down there before much longer — probably already is. If we don't come to some sort of arrangement with the Martians they're going to capture a sizable portion of our men."

"Permission denied," Browning spat. "Let the cowardly fucks get captured. I hope the greenies torture every last one of them. They deserve it for what they've done."

MPG regional headquarters, Eden

2030 hours

"General?" said Major Smoker, General Zoloft's aide in charge of communications. "I'm getting a transmission from the Eden LZ."

"Oh?" Zoloft asked, raising his eyebrows a bit.

"It's from General Dakota Dickenson," Smoker said. "He's the commander of the Eden area marine forces. Intelligence confirms that is his current position and the computer confirms voice-print analysis."

"I see," Zoloft said. "Did he say what he wanted?"

"He wants to talk to 'whoever is in charge of Eden', he says."

Zoloft chuckled a little bit. The fact that Dickenson didn't know who was in charge of Eden MPG operations spoke volumes about how much the Earthlings had underestimated them. They hadn't even bothered to develop dossiers on the MPG command staff. "Put him on my screen," he said. "Be sure to record for Intel."

"Coming on now, General."

The screen changed from a schematic of the battlefield area to a live shot of a balding, middle-aged man dressed in Martian camouflage fatigues. He had a single star on each of his lapels. His face looked tired, defeated, with bags under both bloodshot eyes.

"This is General Zoloft," Zoloft said. "Commanding officer of the Eden area MPG units."

"General Dickenson," Dickenson returned. "WestHem Marine Corps. I am commander of the Eden theater of operations."

"I know," Zoloft told him matter-of-factly. "What can I do for you, General?"

"I would like to discuss a cease-fire in this area of operation."

"We have already ceased firing," Zoloft said. "I'm sure you must have noticed that by now."

This seemed to fluster Dickenson a bit. It was obvious he was not used to being talked to in this manner by a greenie. "Well... uh... yeah, we did notice that. What I'm suggesting is that we come to terms for an official cease-fire agreement."

"Okay," Zoloft said, deliberately making his Martian accent a little thicker, "lay 'em on me and I'll consider it."

"Very well," Dickenson said. "I am willing to concede that my men will be unable to secure the liberation of the city of Eden in their current numbers under the current circumstances."

"Why that's mighty nice of you to concede that. Let's hear the terms."

Dickenson swallowed a few times, seemed about to say something, and then changed his mind. He took a few breaths. "We are willing to withdraw all of our men and equipment from the area of operations around Eden and move back to our landing zone. We would like to do this without being attacked by the insurgents you command."

"My insurgents, as you call them, have been ordered not to fire on you unless you fire on them or unless you start moving forward again. As long as you head back to your LZ and don't shoot at us, we will not shoot at you."

"Well, that is part of the problem," Dickenson said. "We have many wounded out on the ground out there. Those rebar traps and the mortar fire in the anti-tank trench are responsible for most of them. We also have many on the open ground between the anti-tank ditch and the pillbox positions. We need to collect them and load them onto the APCs for transport back to the LZ. In order to do that, we will have to move forward to some degree."

"You can collect all of the wounded in the anti-tank ditch and take them back to the LZ with you," Zoloft told him. "Any wounded east of the anti-tank ditch, however, will be attended to by my forces."

Dickenson shook his head. "That's not acceptable," he said toughly. "My wounded will not be used as further hostages in this conflict."

"They will be treated in our hospitals and given the best care possible," Zoloft said. "After that, they will be held as prisoners of war along with all of the other marines and naval personnel we captured at the beginning of this conflict until such time as a formal armistice is signed and prisoner exchange occurs."

"No," Dickenson said. "We will collect our own wounded."

"You seem to forget who is negotiating from a position of strength here, General," Zoloft said. "You are the one who got your ass kicked. You do not dictate terms to me. I dictate them to you. Your wounded will be collected, treated, and cared for as POWs under the terms of the Geneva Accords — which, I might add, is a courtesy not being returned for those of our forces that you've captured, but that's another story. In any case, the sooner we hammer out a cease fire agreement, the sooner we can go out and start hauling those wounded men in."

"I won't agree to that," Dickenson said.

"Then those men will die out there," Zoloft told him. "Any men moving forward from the main anti-tank trench will be fired upon. Now are you going to agree to this, or not?"