hit and run terrorists. Operating well away from any prepared marine positions, they were able to stage their attacks with complete impunity, firing off twelve to fifteen shells in a few seconds and then retreating to a different position, long before artillery could even be called down, even if there was such a thing as accurate artillery in this conflict. 'Just get that armor unloaded and deployed,' Wrath ordered. 'Send out armored patrols in force, company strength at a minimum with heavy tank and hover support. We'll see how the goddamned greenies deal with that.'
August 25, 2146
Eden Landing Zone
Sunrise in the equatorial region of Mars was unlike any sunrise seen on Earth. The Martian air was thin and cloudless, giving nothing but the low flying dust particles to reflect light. There was no gradual lightening of the eastern sky. One second it was black night, with only the diamond points of the stars visible. The next second, the tip of the sun peaked over the horizon and began to rise, a sun smaller in diameter than that seen on Earth. You could stare at this sun for thirty to forty seconds without averting your eyes. In a matter of two minutes the darkness had disappeared, replaced by a rapidly increasing brightness. The stars winked out one by one.
Lieutenant Callahan — dressed in his biosuit and standing next to his command APC — watched this with a feeling of eeriness. Though he had seen a Martian sunrise eight times now, it still seemed unnatural to him, a reminder of how far he was from home and how alien an environment he was in. It had also proven itself to be a reliable harbinger of danger to come. The rising sun would quickly heat up the region. The temperature readout on his heads-up-display currently read 123 degrees below zero. As he watched, it began to tick upward, the rate increasing with each passing second. Within an hour, it would be less than twenty below zero — the temperature where the greenie camouflage suits became effective. Within an hour of that, the greenies would start to deploy, their Hummingbird VTOLs dropping special forces teams and mortar crews all around the perimeter. Within thirty minutes of that, the sniper attacks and mortar barrages would begin. It was the only predictable thing they had discovered about the greenies so far.
Despite the foreboding sensation the sunrise generated, Callahan knew it was simply a Pavlovian reaction, brought on by the humiliating defeats of the previous week. He had every reason to feel confident on the dawn of this day and he believed sincerely in his heart that the dealing of death would now be on the other foot. His platoon — which had taken nearly forty percent casualties so far — had been reinforced with replacements from one of the landing ships that had come down yesterday. They were now up to the full strength of forty men and, most important, they now had armor to protect them. Though it had taken the better part of twenty-four hours to unload the APCs due to the greenie mortar attacks, enough had finally been brought down to fully equip all of Charlie Company of the 314th ACR. They were spread all over the staging area — twenty in all, each holding ten marines — and the entire company was readying them for battle. In addition, an entire company of tanks had been unloading and would be providing overwatch for the day's operations. Under the command of Captain Ayers (who would of course lead from the safety of the landing ship) their orders were to secure the western flank of the perimeter once and for all. In other words, they were to deploy in force, locate any greenie troops out there, and destroy or capture them. With the overwhelming force they were wielding and with the support of two flights of six hovers apiece, Callahan thought the only question was whether the greenies would bother to show up for the battle or not. The consensus seemed to be that they wouldn't. According to Intelligence — who were monitoring greenie news broadcasts — Martian doctrine was to avoid battle when defeat was certain. Defeat surely couldn't be any more certain now that the armored cavalry was fully equipped, could it? Callahan thought not.
'I hope those green fucks do show their terrorist faces,' said Sergeant Bickers, who had replaced Sergeant Mallory in the decimated third squad. 'I think we got a little payback for them.'
'Me too,' Callahan said with utmost sincerity. 'Me too.'
MPG Headquarters Building, New Pittsburgh
0612 hours
General Jackson and Colonel Bright, commander of the special forces, sat shoulder to shoulder at the general's desk in his office, both of them staring at the computer screen before them. Both men were clean-shaven and refreshed, having slept a full eight hours the night before. They sipped from cups of coffee brewed with Martian-grown beans — what had recently been reserved for welfare recipients and prisons. The planetary supply of Earth grown coffee had run out several weeks before. The Martian coffee was perhaps not even worthy of being called coffee — it tasted more like manufactured sludge — but it had caffeine in it and both men sipped it gratefully.
'Right there,' Bright said, pointing at the screen with his finger. The image before them was an infrared shot of the Eden landing zone that had been taken from an MPG reconnaissance satellite less than twenty minutes before. 'As we figured, they're deployed in force this morning.'
'Fuckin' aye,' Jackson agreed as he saw the bright spots of nearly two hundred armored vehicles and nearly a thousand men. 'I guess our free ride is over.'
'Unfortunately,' Bright said. He flipped to another image, this one showing the New Pittsburgh landing site. It showed pretty much the same thing — tanks, APCs, and armed men getting ready to head out into the field on search and destroy missions. He then flipped to the Libby view and then the Proctor view. The marines at these two sites were not yet gearing up, but that was because it was two hours earlier there, well before sunrise. The vehicles for such an operation, however, were plainly visible, just waiting to be occupied and piloted by infantry squads. 'They plan to put a major hurt on us today.'
'It would seem so,' Jackson said. 'Does this give you reservations about today's operations?'
Bright let a small frown cross his face. 'We've gotten off easy so far,' he said. 'Less than a dozen troops killed. Only a few captured. No aircraft shot down. That's might change today.'
'Perhaps,' Jackson said with a nod. 'But I don't think so. We've been training for just such an engagement for years, haven't we? Oh, sure, we've pretended it would be the EastHem's who would be the invaders, but that hardly makes a difference, does it? The EastHems and WestHems both have similar doctrine in regards to extra- terrestrial invasion. And the Earthlings are being kind enough to be as predictable as I always thought they would be. Stage one of our defense was an outstanding success. Why is it so hard for you to believe that stage two will be different?'
Bright had to admit Jackson had a point. MPG doctrine was divided into five distinct steps for defending against invasion and each of the five steps had been practiced obsessively. Step one was to slow the deployment of armor and aircraft at the landing zones by means of mortar and small unit attacks from the perimeter. This would serve to buy time to gear up the main defenses and would begin to affect enemy morale and unit cohesion. Step two, which was merely an extension of step one, was to draw the enemy armor and aircraft out into the landing zone perimeters and engage them there utilizing coordinated hit and run tactics. This, it was hoped, would further degrade enemy morale and, most important, would start to significantly whittle away the numerical advantage the enemy had the air superiority. In exercise after exercise over the years, the special forces and air wings had proven that they had the ability to pull this off with minimal casualties. But those had been exercises performed with training charges, conducted with MPG units flying outdated hovers playing the opposition force. This would be the real thing, where the price for losing was not who had to buy the beer and bonghits at the Troop Club, but death or capture. 'I'm afraid for the men,' Bright said. 'This will be the first real test of our tactics, tactics you and I developed. If we're wrong, they'll be slaughtered out there and their deaths will be on our conscience.'
'If we're wrong,' Jackson said, 'then all is lost anyway. The WestHems will defeat us and our cities will be captured.'
Bright nodded. That too was a good point. Perhaps the best one. 'I'll brief the teams personally today,' he said.
'I would expect nothing less,' Jackson said. 'I'll make sure the air wing is ready to do their part.'
Bright certainly hoped the air wing would be ready. They were the key to the success of stage two doctrine. Without them, the WestHem hovers would smash his perimeter teams to pieces one by one.
Eden Landing Zone, aboard the primary landing ship
0710 hours
The combat information center, or CIC, was a much different place than it had been a week ago. Then, it had only been staffed by a skeleton crew — a few technicians to monitor instruments, a few gunnery officers pulling shit duty, and a lowly commanding officer to fill out protocol. Now, after a week of having their asses kicked up and down the perimeter by the greenies, every terminal was staffed, every feed from every instrument was constantly
