'The Exodus?' Today was a day of days and would be long remembered in the history books of the human race—that is, if all went according to plan.
'All is moving as planned, General.'
'Excellent.' The general pulled at the unruly long dark hair hanging out of the back of her ski mask and tied it into a ponytail, pulling it up through the hole she had made in the back of the ski mask. She often wore her hair in a ponytail if there was a chance that she would be seeing any action. The red, white, and blue mask contrasted against the black hair and pale Martian skin and her tall slender athletic frame misleadingly suggested late twenties or early thirties and an average Martian female, not the great general who held off the Invasion of the Martian Desert with an extremely inferior force in numbers and technology more than thirty years prior.
The general's deep brown eyes shined with deep intent and purpose such that nobody would dare second- guess her timing or her resolve. Her plan had been in the working for decades—four or five decades. Oh sure, it was a dynamic plan and some aspects of it had changed over the years, but the general purpose of the plan had always been the same. Only recently had there been hope of forgoing the plan when the president of the United States offered to send an ambassador to meet with the Separatist Laborers Guild to discuss tariff relief. But once the administration chose an ambassador the level of seriousness that the White House was taking the Separatists became quite clear.
The president of the United States gave the task to a low-end second-term senator simply to appease pressure from the opposition parties in the Senate. It had become quite clear to the Separatists now just how serious the United States was about the disconnect between the Separatists and themselves—not very. And this day, this one day on the red planet, the United States would regret their decision.
The unknown upstart senator from Mississippi from the GOP was sent to act as the arbiter and ambassador to the Martian laborers of the Separatist movement. Senator Alexander Moore was a competent man, but had little power within the U.S. government as he was only a second-term senator in supernumerary positions of unimportant committees. The general not only knew Senator Moore, she knew him well, very well. She had done some background checking to make certain, but it was the same Alexander Moore that she had held captive for several years following the Martian Desert Campaigns. The arrogant Americans had sent in the entire Luna City Brigade to push the Separatists out of the Syrtis Major Planum and back into Elysium, but they had not expected an organized military force like the one that General Ahmi had amassed. Ahmi had implemented terrorist, resistance, and guerilla tactics taken from the great asymmetric battles of history and literally laid the American military forces to waste.
The Separatist Army quickly decimated the American infantry and Marines much the way the so-called 'Task Force Smith' had been decimated at the onset of the American-Korean War centuries before. Stupid complacent American policymakers never learned from their own history. Many of the Marines were captured and kept in Separatist POW camps. They were tortured and were fed propaganda on a daily basis, but most of the Marines died before the American government accepted peace terms allowing for the release of the POWs. During that time Ahmi had the young Marine major Alexander Moore in her camp. He was unbreakable, an excellent soldier, and even in the last of his days with her remained a true patriot to his country.
No matter how wonderful a soldier Moore might have been, now he was a second-rate politician. He was a small fish in a very large ocean filled with sharks, barracudas, and killer whales. Their past relationship would probably be of little use to her, but Ahmi was smart and calculating and patient. She never underestimated her opponents nor did she ever overlook a potential relationship that could be exploited for the benefit of her plan. She hoped the brave bullheaded senator didn't get all caught up in the coming day's events. There was a soft place in her heart for all her POWs and she remembered Moore most fondly. Most fondly.
'Are there any issues that I need to address right now?' Ahmi asked the commander.
'No, ma'am. All is moving smoothly,' he replied.
'Very well. Give me a few moments alone please.' She wanted to look across her beloved red, blue, and green planet and at the late-night sky one last time. After the day ahead of her, it would likely be a very long time before she would have Martian soil under her feet and the Martian sky over her head. She looked up at Phobos and Deimos through the window at the edge of the spaceport hangar bay. Elle picked up her e-suit helmet and slipped it on over her ponytail and mask and gave it a twist to seal it on. A gust of cool oxygen rushed over her face as the scrubbers kicked online. The general walked to the edge of the airseam in the hangar bay door and stepped through the force field into the Martian atmosphere. She had time to take a short stroll in her new armored transfigurable fighter mecha.
Her Stinger, as the freedom fighters were calling them, was as close a copy of the U.S. Marine fighting mecha known as the FM-12 strike mecha as it could be made from the intelligence that the Separatist spies were able to gather. The mecha was transfigurable like the Orcus Drop Tank Mecha that the Separatists had been using for decades, but the design added a third configuration that mimicked the FM-12's eagle-mode. The Stinger could fight upright as a giant humanoid-looking metal beast in bot-mode. It could fight as an aerospace fighter plane in fighter-mode. Or it could fight as a hybrid fighter like a metal eagle with hands and feet.
The Stingers had taken the Separatist agents, engineers, laborers, and aerospace scientists more than a year to design even with the stolen data on the FM-12. Once the design was settled upon, it took another year to find suitable manufacturing capabilities to build more than just a prototype. Then the fighter went into production outside the Sol System. That had been the most difficult aspect of the effort—the long-range communications and transportation over the multiple-light-years gulf between the stars.
Elle bounced up to her private Stinger and gave the command through her AIC implant to open the cockpit. The Stinger sat like a bird perched on the end of the taxiway in eagle-mode. Elle gave a quick tap on the ground with her jumpboots and bounded upward and into the pilot's couch of the new fighting mecha. Elle was proud of her revolution and what they had accomplished and what they could accomplish. Her Stinger was the culmination of all that. The code that she had helped develop—her original occupation more than three-quarters of a century before had been as a software engineer and wireless technician—would render the mecha invisible to the targeting systems of the enemy. Of course, Elle realized that the sensor systems, the structural integrity field generators, the armor plating, and the weapons targeting systems were not as advanced as the bird's American counterpart, but the little software surprise would help even the playing field.
The general and leader of the Separatist Revolution strapped herself into the seat of the mecha and cycled the cockpit canopy down. Then she addressed her AIC to preflight the bird.
Run up the cloaking software and let's go for a spin while we still have time.
