EastHem were not even aware that their respective countries even maintained an embassy in the opposing country, had no idea that there even was an ambassador. The armed forces of both sides were put on a considerably higher level of alert than was the norm. All along the Alaska/Siberian line, search radars and infrared scanners came to life. Among the line troops, vacations were canceled and extra staffing in the entrenchments and monitoring centers were ordered. Air patrols were increased and a few reservists were called up. On the Internet of each country, the news was of the crisis between the two antagonists, a crisis that was called the worst since the Jupiter War.
Meanwhile, at Victory City, the orbiting platform that circled above the Jovian moon Callisto, which the EastHem marines had successful occupied and held during the Jupiter War, three supertankers were pumped full of liquid hydrogen that had been collected from the atmosphere of Jupiter. One hundred million metric tons of the compressed gas went into each hold, enough to sustain extensive combat operations for a month with plenty to spare. When the pumping was completed the ships used their maneuvering thrusters to move out into the transit corridor. They waited there, their crews nervous about their mission but thrilled about the doubling of the pay they would get for this hazardous duty.
Soon, other ships began to arrive from the EastHem naval base that was attached to Victory City. Two Colonial class superdreadnoughts, each with a wing of space fighters aboard, took up position front and rear. Two destroyer escorts, their tasks long range detection and fighter suppression, took up positions on each side. Finally, two Henry class stealth attack ships fanned out to the sides, their sensors in passive mode, their job to quickly get lost in space.
When the ships were all formed up the admiral in charge of the task force gave a command. Fusion engines were ignited and the ships began to move at .25G of acceleration, their destination Triad, Mars. They would reach there in less than two weeks if nothing got in their way.
Chapter 9
Martian Planetary Guard Base, Eden
June 6, 2146
It was the third day of the basic training program and Jeff Waters was once more seriously considering just giving up. It was 0700 hours, the sun barely up in the eastern sky, and instead of soundly sleeping in his bedroom at home, he was out here on this exercise yard, dressed in a pair of red shorts and a white MPG T-shirt, a twenty kilogram pack on his back and an unloaded M-24 rifle in his hands, running around a damn track. Sweat poured off of his face in rivers, staining the cotton of his shirt. His breath heaved in and out of his lungs, lungs made inefficient by years of cigarette and marijuana smoking. They were only a kilometer into the run and already he thought he was going to die. Nor did he seem to be alone in this predicament. Of the fifty-six recruits partaking in this particular training class, at least forty were badly sucking wind in response to the physical exercise. They were supposed to be running in a tight formation, five abreast and no more than a meter between the fronts and backs, but in practice they were scattered all over, several people actually holding others up.
'Let's keep up the pace here, ladies and gentlemen,' intoned Sergeant Woo, the infantry squad commander who was their drill sergeant. He was jogging along to the side of the formation, his own pack and rifle resting easily upon his fit body. He, like his two assistant instructors, had hardly broken a sweat, did not in fact even seem to be breathing hard. 'You can't go outside and fight the Earthlings if you're not in shape enough to keep your suit from discharging on you. We need to get you folks up to three kilometers by the end of this week.'
Nobody answered him. In part it was because the screaming of 'yes sir' or 'no sir' in response to a drill instructor's words, while common in the WestHem training system, was just not customary in the MPG. Mostly however, it was because no one had the energy or the breath to answer.
Jeff dragged himself onward, a sharp pain stitching through his side, his fingers starting to feel numb and tingly around the plastic stock of his weapon. He was about halfway back in the pack, running next to Steve Gallahad, a stocky retired gang member from the north downtown part of Eden. Gallahad was the closest thing to a friend that he had made so far in this nightmare. An intelligent, though crude, young man, he had talked Mark out of quitting three times so far and Mark had talked him out of quitting about six times.
'I can't take this shit no more,' Jeff grunted out between breaths now. 'This running is killing me, man.'
'Keep it up,' Gallahad grunted back. 'You pussy out now and I'll kick your ass.'
'You'll kick my ass in your dreams,' was the obligatory reply.
Gallahad gave the obligatory laugh in response and they ran on, their sports shoes lifting up and pounding down on the neatly manicured grass. Soon the phenomenon of the second wind kicked in, easing Jeff's suffering a little. Endorphins flooded into his body, quieting the stitch in his side and imparting him with a gentle sense of well-being, a sense that was almost, but not quite, powerful enough to override the misery that he was in.
As they approached the two kilometer mark the majority of the recruits seemed to experience the same effect. The formation tightened up a bit, although it was still a far cry from anything approaching military standards. Even the opposing personalities of the group - and there were many of those in this bunch - seemed to drop their animosity for one another at the moment and run in peace.
Presently the misery came to an end. One by one the group passed the three kilometer mark and were ordered into a gentle walk by Sergeant Woo.
'Very good, people,' Woo told them encouragingly as they made their slow-paced trek around the track one last time for the cool-down period. 'We didn't have any drop-outs on this one. That's quite an accomplishment for this bunch. Another week or so, you'll be pounding out that 3K in no time.'
A few of the mouths of the bunch made a few smart-ass remarks to his words but with the endorphins still flooding their bodies they were mostly good-natured and Woo actually chuckled at one of the funnier ones.
'Let's go hit the water fountain and then the showers,' he told them. 'And then it's back to the rifle range.'
They broke the loose formation that they had been maintaining and started heading in mass towards the bank of water coolers near the entrance to the crew building at the far end of the compound. The recruits swarmed them, grabbing the small hemp paper cups and filling them with the lukewarm liquid and swallowing it down greedily. Jeff waited patiently in a small line at one until it was his turn and then filled a cup. Before he could even put it to his lips a hand grabbed his shoulder and pushed him roughly to the side.
'Out of the way, Capitalist fag,' a contemptuous voice told him.
It was Recruit Hicks, a former Thrusters gang member from Helvetia. Though Jeff had never met him before the first day of their training, Hicks had brought the traditional animosity that had existed between the Capitalists and the Thrusters into the MPG training ground with him. He never let pass an opportunity to make some snide remark whenever he ran into Mark in the classroom or on the range or on the exercise yard. Jeff of course, in the great tradition of the Capitalists, had never failed to return an equally hostile remark. Nor were he and Hicks the only members of the class engaged in such behavior. On the contrary, Woo and the other instructors constantly had to break up verbal and physical altercations between former gang members or between gang members and non- gang members. A few of these confrontations had been quite heated, to the point where it was a good thing that the M-24s that they were carrying were not loaded with ammunition.
Up until now Hicks, who was always the aggressor in the confrontations, had kept them on the verbal level only. But now that he had carried things to the next step by putting his hands on Jeff, the code of the Capitalists demanded a suitable response. Jeff didn't think about what he did, he just reacted as his upbringing told him to. He dropped his rifle and his pack on the ground, took two steps forward, and swung a roundhouse into the side of Hicks' face, snapping his head to the side and causing it to slam into the wall. Hicks grunted with the impact and charged at him, grabbing him around the middle and forcing him to the ground. He began to punch at Jeff's face, most of the blows deflected by Jeff's blocking wrists or elbows but two of them getting through. The crowd of recruits immediately surrounded them, like kids on a playground, shouting encouragement to one or the other of the fighters.
Jeff absorbed three more blows to his face before he managed to buck Hicks off of him and onto the ground. He rolled upward, pulling himself to his knees just as Hicks tried to rise. A straight armed punch sent Hicks reeling back to the ground once more and opened up a small cut on the side of his face. Jeff then stood quickly to his feet
