Greenies

you are special. You served aboard an Owl and more than anything, we need to get those Owls up and running. But first I need to ask you a question; perhaps the most important question anyone will ever ask you in your life, so think carefully about it.' He paused, staring at Brett. 'Where does your loyalty lie, son?'

'I'm a Martian, sir,' Brett answered immediately. 'And I want to fight for us. I want in.'

Belting, his face remaining expressionless, reached into his desk and withdrew an electronic note-pad. He turned it so that the script was facing Brett and slid it across the desk to him. 'This is a resignation from the WestHem Navy. If you're going to fight with us you need to sign it and it will be transmitted to Earth along with any others we get. By signing it you will not only be giving up any rights to pay or benefits from WestHem after the war, but you'll be committing treason against them. If we lose, I can promise that we'll try to protect you from harm but I can't guarantee that we'll be successful. We don't know what's going to happen if we lose.'

Brett skimmed the script which was brief and to the point. 'Then I guess we'd better not lose,' he said, placing his right index finger on the signature pad.

'Very good,' Belting told him, holding out his hand for a shake. 'Congratulations, you are now an officer of the Martian Navy. I think commander would be an appropriate rank for someone of your experience, don't you?'

Brett's eyes widened. 'Commander?' he said. 'But sir, I'm just a spacer first class.'

'That's in the WestHem system,' Belting told him. 'Things are going to be different here under our system. In the first place I'm going to be forced to trust you at your word that you will be loyal to us and that you will fight for us. We simply don't have time to do it any other way. Second of all, you're going to be asked to do things for us that would more than likely be considered impossible under the WestHem system. I'm going to ask you to take command of your ship, the Mermaid, and get it up and running in the next two weeks.'

Brett reeled from that one. 'You want me to command an Owl? And get it running in two weeks?'

'You heard me correctly,' Belting confirmed. 'I have an operation planned for when our Earthling friends start heading for us, an operation that is designed to whittle down their numbers a little. I call it Interdiction, and those Owls figure quite heavily in it.'

'You want to use the captured Owls to hit their transport ships,' Brett said, although it was not a question.

'Correct,' he said. 'That's Interdiction in a nutshell. I want to get as many of those Owls operational as I can and I want to meet the WestHem marines when they come around the sun and I want to pick at them and harass them their entire trip here. What Interdiction will concentrate on will be the Panamas, where the marines and their equipment will be riding. For each Panama that we destroy on the way here, our chances of being defeated on the ground here on Mars will decrease by five percent at least.'

Brett took a deep breath, excited at the thought of what Belting was suggesting but forced to examine the hard reality of the situation. 'Sir,' he said to his new boss, 'how will we crew the Owls for this? And then there's the matter of command. Sure, I've been on the bridge for quite a while now and I like to think I'm a pretty good detection man, but I've never commanded a ship before. And you want me to do it against the WestHem navy? To sneak in and blow up their ships? It'll be a suicide mission at best.'

'Well, let's take your concerns one at a time, shall we. How will we crew them? My hope is that they will be mostly crewed with former WestHem naval personnel of Martian descent. There are a number of such people on the planet you know.'

'But most of them were cooks and cleaning people,' Brett said. 'What we need are engine room personnel and bridge personnel.'

'We'll spread those with that kind of experience around as evenly as possible,' Belting told him. 'They will be the officers on the ships. The others will just have to be trained in their duties while you are enroute. How many people, after all, does it really take to run an Owl? They crew more than a hundred, but you can run a ship with thirty trained people, can't you?'

'I suppose,' he said doubtfully. Sure it was theoretically possible, but...

'You won't be getting much sleep on your way to the battleground, but by the time you get there you will hopefully be able to function as a fighting ship, as a team.'

'Hopefully,' Brett said with no small measure of trepidation.

'And then there is your command concerns,' Belting said next. 'To tell you the truth, I don't think that is much of a concern at all. You've been on the bridge of Mermaid for years now. You've observed the command deck through several captains and executive officers. You know what the captain is going to do most of the time before he does it, don't you?'

'Well...' Brett said, 'I suppose.'

'I've been in the same position as you on that bridge, son,' he said. 'I've read your file over and over again and I've read through your reports and I've seen the ASVAB analysis on you. It would seem that I have more confidence in your abilities than you yourself do. I know you can command one of those ships and I would venture a guess that you would probably be better at it than many full captains of the WestHem navy. After all, you won't be afraid to deviate from the book now, will you? You will know how to get things done.'

Brett said nothing. He just sat, thinking this mad scheme over.

'It's a dangerous job that I'm asking you to do,' Belting told him. 'I won't make any bones about that. You'll be out there in Earthling territory all alone, with nowhere to run, with only the capabilities of your ship to protect you. This is a voluntary war, Mr. Ingram. If you don't think that you're capable of doing what I ask, or if you feel that it is too dangerous an undertaking, then you are free to turn down the offer of command and I'll find you reassignment somewhere else. The decision is entirely yours.'

He took another deep breath, his instincts screaming at him to refuse this suicidal assignment. But he didn't. Instead he said, 'Will I be able to examine the records of those assigned to my ship?'

Belting smiled again. 'Of course, commander,' he told him. 'Anything you want.'

Salta, Argentina Sector — Southern WestHem

May 28, 2146

Lieutenant Eric Callahan and his platoon of marines had received their orders the previous day. They, along with the rest of the 314^th Armored Cavalry Regiment, were being redeployed as part of Operation Martian Hammer, the operation to retake the planet Mars from the greenie terrorists that had assumed control of it. Since the word had come down the entire regiment had been in a constant state of motion as they prepared to ship more than 3000 men up to Departure for deployment onto the transport ships. Thankfully only the men, their bio- suits, and their light weapons needed to go up. The brigade's heavy equipment — the helicopters, the tanks, the APCs, the artillery guns — would all be staying behind as it would be worthless on the surface of Mars. Special extraterrestrial tanks, APCs, hovers, and self-propelled artillery pieces were being moved from warehouses and storage ships in orbit to replace them.

Callahan and his men had been at the Marine airport for the past twelve hours now, not so patiently awaiting their turn to board an aircraft for the two-hour flight to Buenos Aires, where the spaceport was located. They had spent most of that time in the waiting areas watching Internet broadcasts from the big three. Occasional MarsGroup blurbs were shown as well but they were carefully edited shots, meant to inflame the WestHem populace, not present a fair and impartial analysis of the Martian situation. Needless to say the marines — Callahan included — were outraged by the reports of what had occurred on the planet, particularly the reports about their brother marines, the fast action division.

It was said that the rogue elements of the MPG, who had captured EMB with the help of that traitorous bastard Sega, had already executed hundreds of soldiers, lining them up and mowing them down with machine gun fire and tank shells. These reports came from eyewitnesses who had managed to escape the base and somehow transmit their accounts over a side channel of the Internet.

'No one is exactly sure just how many of the marines on the base have been killed,' a reporter, speaking live from Denver, explained to the audience, 'but it is feared that the intention is to eliminate all of them to prevent an uprising.'

'Motherfuckers,' one of Callahan's sergeants spat, his eyes glaring murderously at the screen. 'I can't wait until we're there, you know what I'm saying. I can't wait to smoke me some greenie ass.'

'No mercy for those bastards,' a corporal agreed. 'No mercy. I say we put every last one of them