“I heard the Mogats lost four ships in the Orion Arm,” I said. “What if they are using those ships as broadcast stations for their shield signal?”
“They probably are. Fortunately, they don’t seem interested in placing a station near Earth.”
I thought about my last conversation with Freeman and realized that they already had a broadcast station in place.
Brocius had a tall Scotch which he would likely nurse all night. He seldom touched it. When he did pick it up, he swirled the ice around the glass and took short sips.
“You remember Ray Freeman?” I asked.
“Of course,” Brocius said. I did not even bother looking for a nod from Yamashiro. He would remember Freeman vividly.
“He found a Mogat base,” I said.
“On Earth? Impossible,” Brocius said. “We would have known about it. Where did he say it was located, somewhere near Antarctica?”
“Washington, DC, sir,” I said.
“And you believe him?” Brocius asked.
“Freeman? If he says it is there, it’s there.”
Yamashiro listened without offering any information. He lit a new cigarette and enjoyed the smoke. I got the feeling that he agreed with me about trusting Freeman.
“So you think the Mogats have a secret base on Earth, somewhere near Washington, DC?” Brocius said. “Rubbish. That’s just pure…fantasy.”
“After the Galactic Central War, we went forty years without seeing a single Mogat ship,” I said. “The battle in Outer Perseus was our first sighting in months. Now, over the last two weeks, they’re all over the place. Each engagement ends the same way—they lose one ship and run away.”
“It does seem like they are ramping up.” Brocius forgot himself and took a long pull of his Scotch.
“If they have a working base on Earth, they may be ready to attack,” Yamashiro said.
“Admiral Brallier wants to send his SEALs out to disband their network. He wants to send them out in demolition teams to blow up the Mogat wrecks,” Brocius said.
“I’m not sure that would work, sir,” I said.
“I know,” Brocius agreed. “Waste of time. We might be able to blow up the ships, but with those shields, we can’t touch the broadcast gear. It’s a specking nightmare. It’s like having a damned tumor and not being able to cut it out.”
“Our only choice is to strike first,” I said.
“Take out their shields at the source?” Brocius asked. “It does seem like the only alternative, assuming we are not too late.” He thought for a moment, “Assuming Freeman is right about that base, and we’re not too late.”
Clearly shaken by the news that the Mogats had landed on Earth, Brocius drained the Scotch I had expected him to hold all night. “I’m glad we talked,” he said, and he stood, signaling both Yamashiro and me that our meeting had ended. As we rose to our feet, Brocius added, “You know what frustrates the hell out of me? It’s the feeling like we’ve won every damned battle, but we’re still losing the war.”
Admiral Brocius paused to think about what he had just said. “Listen to me. I’m swearing like a specking Marine.”
PART II
EXTREMISM…NO VICE
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
We had breakfast in a cafeteria meant for dry-dock employees. They fed us whatever we wanted. I grabbed a tray and ordered a four-egg scramble, five strips of bacon, a double order of potatoes, two slices of toast, and two cups of orange juice. The food felt heavy on my tray.
That chow tasted good. A Marine could get spoiled. A few of my men even ate their eggs without smothering them in ketchup.
We ate breakfast early, at 0600, and had the place to ourselves. Rows of tables stood empty on either side of us. I had hoped to see the SEALs this morning, but they might have already left.
“Hey, Master Sarge, when are we going back to the ship?” Philips asked.
Only Philips called me “Master Sarge.” Soldiers may call their sergeants “Sarge,” but in the Marine Corps, the term “Sarge” is demeaning, not that it bothered me…much. I had not yet accustomed myself to the name, “Master Sergeant,” because I did not think of myself as a master gunnery sergeant. Back when I had the rank of colonel, I never thought of myself as an officer. The only rank I ever felt entirely confident about was private first class, and I got promoted out of that after three months.
“We’re not going back to the
They greeted my announcement with a moment of hushed awe. The thirty-six remaining men in my platoon all knew what that meant. It meant war.
“We’re not going back for our gear?” one of the men asked.
“It’s already been crated and shipped to Fort Houston.” I sat down, and they moved in around me.
“You wouldn’t happen to know the next stop after Fort Houston?” Evans called from across the table.
“I could make an educated guess,” I said.
“Strap on your bayonets, we’re headed to Mogatopolis,” Philips said to the Marine sitting beside him. He surprised me by not referring to it as “Planet HomeMo.”
“We’re still a few men shy of a platoon,” Thomer pointed out. He was a cautious one.
“I’m not sure what they’re going to do about that,” I said. “Now that the orphanages are gone, reinforcements are harder to come by. Maybe someone will shift some companies around.”
“Think they’ll break us up?” Thomer asked.
“No. They don’t break up teams that produce. Not if they can help it.”
Thomer nodded. He was skinnier than the other clones. He ate light and preferred jogging to lifting weights. He left the tough talking to the other Marines, but he held his own in combat.
I picked up a strip of bacon and ate it followed by two fork-loads of eggs. “The brass has a bigger problem than a few empty slots,” I said. “They have to figure out some way to land enough men to make a stand. And they have to do it without the Broadcast Network.”
“How many men will they need?” Evans asked.
“This is off the top of my head, but I’m guessing we’ll need one hundred thousand or maybe two hundred thousand fully equipped troops just to get our boot in the door.
“The 2510 census said there were 200 million Mogats. If they have 200 million people on that planet, we’re going to need a couple million men along with tanks and gunships to support them.”
Evans whistled. “Two million men?” he asked. “That’s going to be some airlift.”
“Especially if we have to ship them there in explorers,” I said. “If Washington is serious about invading that planet, they’re going to need to come up with something.”
“When do we leave for Fort Houston?” Thomer asked me.
“Pretty soon—1100.”
“When do we deploy?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I think they plan to send us out as quickly as possible,” I said around a wad of bacon. I finished my first cup of orange juice in one long drink. “It just depends on how quickly they can figure out the logistics.”
“But they know how to find the Mogat planet?” Thomer asked.
