Chapter 8A

Laura went directly from the media room of the capital building to the briefing room. It was but step two in a horribly busy morning for her. As she entered through the security-controlled door that was guarded by two of her MPG security force, the assembled briefers in the room stood from their chairs around the large table and applauded her. She actually flushed with embarrassment.

"Please," she said, smiling, holding up her hands. "Be seated."

They applauded for a moment more and finally sat down in their chairs once more.

Laura helped herself to a cup of coffee from the beverage computer. She took a sip as she moved towards her chair. The brew was smooth as silk, made from the best beans that the southern hemisphere of Earth had to offer. One thing that Martian agriculture did not produce very well was coffee. Soon the supply of Earth beans would run out and it was unlikely they would send any more. Oh well, she sighed, relishing the flavor. The cost of freedom.

"Good morning," she said to the assembled crowd. General Jackson was there of course. As was Matt Belting, their naval expert who had been working around the clock at Triad Naval Base, inventorying and analyzing what they had seized there. Five ranking loyal members of the planetary legislature were also present. They all mumbled variations of good morning in reply to her.

"Well, people," Laura said brightly, "we are an independent planet now. And as I said in my speech today, we need to make every effort to keep it that way. Now hopefully we'll be overwhelmed with volunteers for the military by the end of the day. I kind of suspect that we will be. General Jackson, are you prepared to deal with this?"

"Yes, Governor," Jackson said confidently. "I have directed recruitment to set up twenty-five additional induction sites, two in each city of Mars and a third in Eden. Those that sign up on the Internet will be directed to these sites in order of signing. They will be given their physicals and ASVABs there. Acceptable candidates will be processed immediately. We are already setting up three more basic training sites for induction. Based on their ASVABs, they will be sent directly to the appropriate division, skipping the usual process of tech school. All of the divisions will be up and training extensively anyway for the coming war."

Laura nodded thoughtfully. "What do you need the most of?" she asked.

"Two things, maybe three depending on other factors. We need tank crews to man those tanks onboard the marine landing ships at TNB. The tanks are going be the final, deciding factor in this thing after all. We also need special forces volunteers to attack the Earthlings at their landing sites and on their marches. I'll wait until I have preliminary numbers on the amount of volunteers I have for this job, but I plan to send as many teams as I can spare for this task. I want those bastards chipped away before they even get close to our city defenses. This planet has to be inhospitable to them if they're ever going to leave us in peace."

"I understand that tank crews are relatively easy to train," she said. "But what about these special forces troops? Will they be sufficiently prepared to both do us some good and keep themselves alive out there? I don't want kamikazes fighting for us. I want those troops' safety to be first and foremost."

"I have no intention of sending suicide squads out there," Jackson told her firmly. "Ever since the inception of the MPG I've made special forces a priority issue. I'm going to break up the current teams, promoting the members and forming new teams consisting of veterans and new recruits. I won't be sending any virgin teams out into the wastelands. Recruitment for special forces will consist mostly of already current MPG infantry and other troops. After all, you need to be in pretty good shape to join the forces and we don't have time to waste getting newbies in shape. Those that have to go through basic training can replace the infantry troops we'll lose that move to special forces and will augment the tank corps and the support services.

"My special forces teams will have orders to hit the marines only when they can retreat to safety. They will be small units tasked with ambush, armor harassment, and aircraft harassment. Their methods will be to hit fast on isolated targets and then pull back to safety before the WestHems can hit them with artillery or send a hover their way. Their biosuits in combination with prepared hiding places can keep them relatively safe. As safe as troops can be behind the lines anyway."

"And you will be able to support these troops efficiently?" Laura asked. "Re-supply them and extract the wounded?"

Jackson shrugged. "Pretty well. They will be dropped in, supported, and extracted by Hummingbirds, which, as you all know, are vertical take-off and landing craft that are able to sustain winged flight once in the air. The Hummingbirds can hug the ground virtually undetected by enemy sensors. They become very visible when they land and take-off due to the enormous heat that such maneuvers produce, but our troops and pilots both train extensively in order to keep these times to a minimum. A full team of special forces, that's ten troops, can exit a Hummingbird and get clear of it's take-off thrust in less than fifteen seconds. The Hummingbird can be back to winged flight in another twenty seconds. Extraction is even quicker. Our longest times are, unfortunately, when wounded are being taken aboard, and that is often when we encounter the worst landing zones. In any case, each special forces team will have a medic deployed with it."

"And our city defenses?" Whiting asked next. "How are they?"

"Excellent, Governor," Jackson proclaimed. "But also untested. As you know we've constructed a complex array of infantry entrenchments, tank shelters, and recon posts atop every conceivable hill on every conceivable approach to our cities. We have fixed artillery guns ringing the cities. We have interlocking anti-aircraft laser sites ringing each city. All we have to do is add the soldiers and the WestHems are going to find themselves with a whole lot of trouble on their hands once they get within fifty kilometers of any city."

"I see," Whiting said, nodding expressionlessly. "And what will you require of our industry to fight this battle? List in order of importance if you would."

"Biosuits," Jackson answered immediately. "Model 459s. Like I said, I don't have preliminary numbers on how many troops I will have to fight with, but in a worst-case scenario I'm going to need at least an additional twenty thousand of them, although one hundred thousand would be optimum. If we're going to win this war, it's going to be won out in the wastelands. We have to be able to outfit our troops to fight there. If we wait to fight the WestHems in the cities themselves, we've already lost the war.

"We're also going to need at least a million 155 millimeter artillery shells for city defenses. We have two million in stockpile at the moment but we will use them at a frightening rate when the WestHems near the cities in force.

"We will need at least ten million rounds of four millimeter M-24 bullets, three million rounds of ten millimeter M-95 machine gun bullets, four hundred thousand sixty millimeter grenades, one hundred thousand eighty millimeter mortar shells, and at least sixty-thousand hand-held fragmentation grenades.

"And Laura, I know you're working on it with EastHem, but I need to stress the most vital component here. Fuel. If we don't secure a supply of liquid hydrogen to run all of this machinery, we might as well throw down our arms and surrender."

"I'll be sending a message to the EastHem ruling council later today," Laura replied. "Are you sufficient in tanks, guns, artillery pieces, and so forth?"

"We are," he said. "We have enough in stockpile and onboard the Panama's at TNB to supply our forces sufficiently for the first wave of marines. What we could use more of is atmospheric aircraft, specifically Mosquitoes. If the people at the factory can make them in time for the war, I'll divert some of the qualified recruits from the volunteers to train in them. The more aircraft we have harassing the WestHem armor, the less armor we'll have to deal with at the cities."

"Okay," Laura said, "let's take your requests one at a time." She turned to Kyle Yee, who was an upper level manager at Environmental Supplies, manufacturer of the biosuit. ES, as it was known, was one of the few Martian owned corporations on the planet. Its primary function was the manufacture of civilian biosuits for use in construction, maintenance, and other jobs that required people to go outside. They also had the military contract for model 459 biosuits, the more advanced military version.

"Kyle," Laura asked, "you are effectively in charge of ES. So what do you think? Can you give General Jackson's forces a hundred thousand 459s?"

Kyle was a perfect example of the culture clash that would be going on on Mars if the revolution were eventually successful. He was a Martian to the core, but he was used to thinking of things in a certain manner.

"Governor," he said slowly, "I'm not sure we can do that."

"Oh?" Whiting asked, raising her eyebrows. "And why not?"

"The 459 is expensive to manufacture Governor," he explained. "It's a specialty piece of equipment. In order to obtain the supplies needed for production of the 459 — the extractors, the combat computers, even the storage tanks — that will require much more money than we have available in liquid assets at the time being. And under the circumstances I'm not sure that the other corporations would even extend a line of credit to supply them. And we still have our civilian obligations to fulfill. The bulk of our business is civilian suits as you're aware. We can't simply convert our energies to the manufacture of 459s. It's economically unfeasible."

"Economically unfeasible?" Laura asked him, her eyes appearing to burn into the executive.

"Yes, Governor," he agreed.

Laura rubbed her temples for a moment, as if massaging away a headache. When she dropped her hands from her head, she picked up her coffee cup and took a quick sip. When that was swallowed she bored into him. "Mr. Yee," she asked pointedly, "did you vote for independence?"

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Forgive me for being personal. But did you vote yes yesterday?"

"Of course, Governor," he said defensively.

"I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Yee. Very glad indeed. Now, will you agree with me that this planet, which is now independent, is in a state of war?"

"Well, sure," he answered.

"Do you foresee any particular need for a large supply of civilian biosuits in the near future?"

He considered this for a second. "Well..." he said at last, "no. Actually, I don't."

She continued to stare at him pointedly. "I did not ask you if you thought that the manufacture of one hundred thousand model 459 military biosuits was economically feasible, did I?"

"Governor, I'm not sure that I understand..."

"I asked you," Laura said, raising her voice a tad, "if it was possible for your factory to turn out one hundred thousand model 459 military biosuits for the coming war. I don't give a damn if it's economically feasible or not. Your factory, as of today, is Martian property dedicated to the betterment of the Martian people. Profits and economic feasibility should be the absolute last things on your mind. I do not ever want to hear you mention such things again. We are in a state of war, Mr. Yee. War! We need biosuits to outfit our soldiers so we can fight this war. What I want to know is, economics aside, is your factory capable of turning out this number of suits? Is it physically possible?"

Yee seemed quite shocked by her words, but he answered her. "If we are able to obtain the needed parts, and if we put on an extra four hundred workers or so, yes, Governor, we can have the suits available by the time the WestHems arrive."

"Good," Whiting said, her voice returning to normal. "Do whatever you need to do. Hire all of the workers you need. We have millions of unemployed on this planet you know. Get the supplies you need to get sent to you without worrying about cost. This is common sense government and cost is not an issue. Production is the issue. This is a needed supply and common sense dictates that it should be produced no matter what the cost. So do it! If any of the suppliers have a problem with sending things to you, let us know immediately and we will deal with the problem. Do you understand, Mr. Yee?"

"Yes, Governor," he answered, looking like he'd just gone a round with a heavyweight. "I do."

"Good," Laura replied. She turned to Jackson. "It looks like you can count on one hundred thousand 459s, General."

Jackson suppressed a smile. "Thank you, Governor. And you too, Mr. Yee."

"As for your other requests," Whiting went on, "I obviously do not have representatives of FlightCorp, Dow Chemical, or Shilling munitions here today. Those were Earth based corporations as you know and are probably going through a bit of a shake-up right now. I will touch bases with someone over at those corporations tomorrow and make sure they are getting back into productivity. I will discuss my needs with them and..." she glanced at Yee, who was blushing, "... and persuade them gently if needed."

"That will be fine, Governor," Jackson told her.

"Okay," she said, "next subject. Triad Naval Base. Mr. Belting, you are in charge of that particular phase of this war. What can you tell me?"

Matthew Belting was fifty-eight years old and a third generation Martian of American descent. He had served more than sixteen years in the WestHem Navy, the bulk of it aboard Owls and their predecessors. He was an expert in stealth space warfare and had achieved the highest rank of any Martian in history in the WestHem armed services; that of Lieutenant Commander. During the Jupiter War he'd served as executive officer on board an Owl that had been responsible for the destruction of two heavy battleships and four support ships. When the Owl in question was finally cornered and battered with laser fire, crippling it and killing it's captain, Belting had assumed command. With no hope of anything but destruction of the ship and its surviving forty-two crewmen, he'd surrendered the ship, subjecting himself and his crew to POW status. They'd spent the remainder of the war in a POW camp in Berlin. For this decision Belting was given treatment by WestHem similar to what General Sega was now experiencing. He'd been labeled a traitor, a coward, and worse by the media. Upon being released at the end of the war he was court-martialed in a staged, televised show trial and found guilty, spending three years in a federal prison outside of Phoenix. Upon release he'd returned to Mars, his homeland, his name forever in the history books as a cowardly traitor.

Belting had lived in the ghettos of New Pittsburgh for the next twelve years, drinking alcohol, smoking marijuana, and living among the jobless as a ghetto dweller. Five years ago when a firm plan began to come together for the revolution, Jackson had contacted Belting. Jackson had felt the man up for more than six months, satisfying himself that Belting could be trusted and that he still possessed the expertise he once had. When he was certain the time was right, he'd casually asked him if he felt like planning a little 'operation' that may or may not take place in the future.

Since then Belting had been a welcome though secret part of Jackson's staff. He'd taken to his part of it with vigor, researching modern naval techniques and tactics fanatically. He was perhaps the most knowledgeable authority on space warfare in existence. Though the Earthlings had convicted him of incompetence and had cussed his name so much since the Jupiter War that they now believed their own lies, Matt Belting was quite possibly the man who might insure victory in the coming conflict.

He looked at the Governor, the woman who, despite his reputation and record, had always treated him with respect and had always sought after his advice in regards to naval strategy. He would have flown an Owl on a suicide mission for her.

"The operations on Triad are going very well, Governor," he answered, sipping out of his own coffee. "Colonel Bright's men have been of great assistance to me in securing the base and inventorying its holdings. You already have been briefed on the numbers and variety of ships we have captured there, so I will not go into that unless you wish me to."

"You needn't bother, Mr. Belting," Laura said.