“The attack started a couple minutes ago,” said Freeman.
There was movement on the street near the base of the fort. Twenty men, maybe as many as thirty, skirted around the remains of blasted buildings and wrecked vehicles. They were on foot, running quickly, and hiding behind cover. “The scouts have arrived,” I said.
“It has to be a demolition team,” Freeman said. “There aren’t enough of them for anything else.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“The Pentagon won’t speculate until after the battle,” Freeman said. “I’m guessing they’re Mogats. Amos Crowley is probably someplace nearby coordinating the attack.”
Freeman and Crowley had history, and Freeman wanted to settle that score. He wished he was in New Gibraltar, I could hear it in his voice. Freeman may have considered himself a mercenary, but he mostly collected bounties. Crowley was the prize he wanted most.
The majority of the Marines in the base must have been dead or wounded. However many were left, they did not put up much of a fight as the commandos closed in. Somebody managed to mount a machine-gun nest on the wall and a perforated line of tracer fire rained down into the street. A commando fired a shoulder-mounted rocket at the nest. The rocket streaked through the air leaving a trail of glare and smoke. Dust clouds exploded out of the wall where the machine gun had been. The tracer fire stopped.
The commandoes divided into teams that now stormed ruins of the fort. They sprinted the last yards to the base, dodging around holes and debris and overturned cars in the near darkness of the night.
I viewed all of this knowing that I was connected to these events and yet somehow I felt detached. What did I care if the Republic fell? The only people I ever considered friends were in the Unified Authority military—Bryce Klyber and Vince Lee, my old buddy from the Marines. Klyber was dead, of course, and I had not heard from Vince in years. Last I heard, he was an officer in the Scutum-Crux Fleet.
Using an optical command, I brought up an “On the Spot” audio analysis.
“
“
On the screen, the commandoes turned to retreat. They backed away from the fort and headed toward a single transport under the cover of a bullet and rockets barrage. The last of the commandos boarded and the shooting stopped. In the distance, the firefly glow of armored transport rockets vanished into space.
“The Moga …
“Watch the fort,” Freeman interrupted me.
The Mogats had placed High Yield radiation bombs around the walls of fort. These bombs burst, flooding the streets with a dazzling blue-white display that seemed to burn into my eyes. The effect of having my shades go stark white then black was like being blinded. For a moment I sat in that plush cabin thinking my shades had died, then I realized that the site I had been watching was no longer in operation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Normally a wing of three Air Force F-19 Falcons guarded the Mars broadcast discs. As my Starliner approached on this visit, however, I saw two squads of five fighters circling the area.
“Starliner A-ten-twenty-thirty-four, be advised that Mars Station is on high alert. Do you copy?”
“Aye,” I said. “I copy.”
“Due to heightened security, disc traffic is slow. We are requesting that pilots return home unless they have urgent business. Please await instructions while I access your travel file.”
Considering the attack on Gateway and the importance of the Mars broadcast discs, I thought that ten F-19s was pretty skimpy protection. The Army base on Mars had some pretty hefty cannons, but after seeing the destruction of Gateway Outpost, ground cannons no longer seemed like an effective deterrent. I joined the queue of ships waiting to approach the broadcast discs. The line was at least twenty miles long. Hovering above the line, like a trio of vultures, were three fighter carriers.
Mars did not have a fleet of its own. These ships had to be on loan from the Earth fleet. Since capital ships travel a maximum speed of thirty million miles per hour, the trip from Earth to Mars would be anywhere from three to five hours depending on where each planet was in its orbit. Even a five-hour trip seemed short compared to the twenty hours it had just taken me in my Starliner.
“My records show that you are traveling to the Golan Dry Docks. Is this correct, Starliner A-ten-twenty-thirty- four?” the traffic controller asked. “The Golan facility is a maximum security facility. What is the purpose of your travel?”
“I am working for the Joint Chiefs,” I said.
There was a short pause. “Starliner A-ten-twenty-thirty-four, you have been cleared for immediate broadcast. We have dispatched an escort to take you to the front of the line, sir. Please follow your escort.”
In times of emergency, the military ran the Broadcast Network. The man on the other end must have been Air Force.
As I approached the broadcast discs, the tint shields came on and I could no longer see out the windows of my ship. The tint shields had to be thick to protect my eyes from the blinding glare that poured out of the discs when they discharged their electrical currents. Sitting in my pilot’s chair, I watched the slow approach of the two Falcons on my radar. In another moment, the radar would go blind and I would see the glare of lightning so bright that it penetrated the tinting across the Starliner.
In the last moments before my radar went out, three fighters glided alongside my ship. My Starliner must have looked like such a relic compared to those ships. The F-19, designed for space and atmospheric combat, was probably the sleekest fighter in the U.A. arsenal. It had an elongated fuselage that looked like a cross between a stiletto and a dart. Its wings were razor thin but strong enough to handle atmospheric maneuvers. These jets would outpace any fighter in space and fly circles around any attacker that tried to touch down in an atmosphere like Earth’s. The F-19 was the pride of the Air Force.
“Hello, Starliner A-ten-twenty-thirty-four,” one of the fighter pilots said. “Why don’t you follow us, sir?”
This, of course, was fighter pilot humor. The Mars flight computers had complete control over my cockpit. I could not even shut down the power to my engines without asking permission.
A squadron of Tomcats circled the Golan Dry Docks and the nearby disc station. Two battleships were moored nearby. Golan was indeed on high alert. After identifying me and scanning my plane, traffic control brought me in through a partially sealed aperture and armed guards walked me to the security station.
The last time I passed through the posts at this security station, I was identified as Lieutenant Wayson Harris, “Marine on the lam.” This time I was a retired Marine and I was coming to visit the head of Golan security, Colonel Clarence McAvoy.
I handed my papers to the guard and walked toward the post. The Dry Docks’ high alert had brought out the brass. An Army major sat with civilians and enlisted men on the other side of the bulletproof glass. The light on the inside of the booth was bright. After the gloom of the hangar, it made me squint. This, I suspect, was intentional: it’s hard to shoot accurately when your eyes have not adjusted.
“Step forward,” said the guard on the other side of the posts. For all I knew, this was the guy who pulled the gun on me the last time I passed through. He was Army. He wore combat greens, and his M27 was strapped to his belt like a side arm.
I stepped forward.
The corporal snapped to attention. “Welcome to the Dry Docks, Colonel,” he said in a loud enough voice for the people behind the glass to hear. I looked over and saw that even the major now saluted me. I returned the salute and moved on.
“Colonel McAvoy is expecting you, sir. He left word that he wanted to drive you to your meeting personally.”
