Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars (12 page)

CPT Watchful Eye was the chief of tactical operations and acting as the lead technician while they were operating with a skeleton crew during setup. “Sir, yes sir. We’re also monitoring all channels for any Soviet radio messages. If we hear any activity, we’ll try to break their encryption.”

“Very good, son. By the way, where can I view the construction activity outside?” The young officer walked over to the colonel’s workstation, and typed some commands into the keyboard. The computer monitor showed several pictures of the construction team doing various tasks.

“There are eight cameras, sir. You can access the menu here and view them all at once in small screens, or type in the number of the camera, and it will become full screen. To return to the main view of them all, just hit escape.”

“Very good.” Just then CPT America returned with a cup of coffee for the colonel. “Thank you, Captain. Maybe we need to put a coffee pot on the bridge,” he joked.

He laughed. “I thought about that, Colonel but going for coffee and to the head is half my exercise.”

The room settled down, and the tech boys watched their screens for something interesting in an otherwise boring
stakeout
while the colonel kept an eye on the building progress. His executive officer stayed with the group setting up the recycler. It was clear that he would be staying with the highest priority job unless he was needed elsewhere. CSM Rainmaker was the artillery battery’s noncommissioned officer in charge, and the “walking boss” of the construction battalion.

The colonel dropped by his quarters and grabbed his file on the Soviets and another cup of coffee. Coffee cup in hand, the colonel carried the file back to his workstation. He wanted to read the profiles of the Soviet commander and his executive officer, and the officer most likely to assume command if both of them were dead. He sat down, opened the file and started reading.

COL Boris Nikitich Glaskov

Birthplace… Moscow, Russia

Age forty-two

Career Soviet Army, with good political connections. He’s thought to have relatives in the Soviet government, but none on the Central Committee. Considered to be one of their best Soviet commanders. Rumored to have political aspirations, and will retire from the military soon to take a government job in the politburo. Considered a good pilot, but a better military strategist.

COL Red Fangs considered thoughtfully what the report said. His friend’s death would no doubt bring this man the promotion he sought. Perhaps he could do something to tarnish the afterglow of his victory over Eagle 1. He sipped his coffee, and read the file on the Soviet executive officer.

LTC Rurik Alievich Averbukh

Age thirty

Birthplace… Leningrad, Russia

He was a former first officer in Spetsnaz, Soviet Special Forces and is a superb pilot and sniper. Leadership and tactical abilities are his strongest points. It is estimated he’s a stronger leader and strategist than COL Glaskov. It is assumed he’ll take over the lunar post if COL Glaskov gets promoted to the politburo.

COL Red Fangs mentally noted LTC Averbukh as a high priority target, took a sip of coffee and opened the last file. He scrolled down the bottom line summary as he had the first two…

MAJ Feliks Aleksandrovich Cherenkov

Age twenty-eight

Birthplace… Smolensk, Russia

He’s the best combat pilot the Soviets have. His administrative skills are rated only average, but as a combat officer in field he’s unequalled.

The colonel closed his file, mentally noting how to use all three pieces of information to their advantage. The gears in his mind were turning, and a plan was formulating…

July 14, 1970—Ten Forty Zulu

“Sir. Colonel, I have something on the satellite feed.”

“What is it?”

“The Soviets are leaving with forty-five tanks headed our way. I’m also watching their artillery pieces leave, too.”

“How many artillery pieces?”

“Sir, I see twenty, with an escort of ten more tanks. Satellite zoom photographs of the artillery estimates the barrel length of forty-five calibers.”

“Keep an eye on them.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Command Sergeant Major?” asked the first officer.

“Sir, yes sir.”

“When the freighters are as unloaded as they can be, send a detail to start drilling the mine holes around the post perimeter, two clicks beyond guntower range. Have them open a link to our tech boys. When the Soviet satellite passes over, make sure the mess isn’t visible from the air and equipment must be cleared. Everyone else is to join the rest of the construction effort. Place them where they will do the most good.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

The construction crew had to dig the mine holes in the solid rock around the perimeter of the post before the Soviet satellite blackout window closed. To place a mine, the rocky ground had to be chiseled eighteen inches deep. Once the holes were dug, the demolition teams would set and ready the mines, then re-fill the holes with crushed rock chips, sand and dust. Then they would tamp it down until it settled, fill it again and cover the hole and surrounding area with a smooth covering of fine moon dust to wipe out any footprints. The mines had electronic safeties that could only be armed remotely.

COL Red Fangs had anticipated that mines would be a key element in their defense and brought more than enough with him from Earth. After mining the camp’s perimeter, there would be plenty to use elsewhere, if needed. One mine could take out one tank. He knew he had one chance to use them effectively before the enemy was wary of their presence.

The Soviets would most likely set their artillery pieces and tanks initially outside of guntower range, but close enough for artillery. Hopefully, between the mines, artillery and his defensive grid, he could do enough damage to make the Soviets go home. That would give them a chance to both complete a proper post, and harvest any alloy-x scrap left behind by the Soviets.

COL Red Fangs entertained the thought of the Soviet commander positioning his tank over a mine. He decided he had another fate for his enemy and smiled for the first time since he arrived.

The Soviet satellite orbited at an altitude of one hundred kilometers and had an orbital period of two hours. This limited the Soviets’ ability to spy on them to ten minutes every two hours. If the job took over one hour and fifty minutes, work could pause and then resume until the satellite passed by the next time. They had to clean up the area and hide the equipment just before each fly-by. The mine construction project had to work carefully around the Soviet satellite’s monitoring.

By eleven hundred hours, the construction crew had finished setting up and dialing in the recycler, and the hungry beast was ready to transform scrap and structural alloy-x into a processed product ready to build other vital structures and equipment. Four empty freighters were recycled, and the bulk of the construction crew concentrated on building the factory while part of the crew started assembling the oxygen extraction plant and steel mill.

July 14, 1970—Sixteen Hundred Zulu

The factory was now complete. The equipment based on the alien designs was ready to produce artillery, combat and utility ships. The factory building was also sharing space with the armory and hangar crews. The armory was already equipped to make the weapons modules to arm the offensive hovertanks. The hangar crew was on standby to repair any equipment breakdowns if necessary. Until then, they assisted with building construction. All hands of the construction crew stopped to get ten scavengers built to begin immediate alloy-x salvaging on Frost Crater. The second and third shift tactical operations technicians were lending their technical skills to the building of the scavengers or working on the oxygen extraction plant and steel mill. The tac ops techs were on sixteen hour days: one shift on the bridge, two hours off, then another eight hours helping other crews, then six hours of sleep. The colonel couldn’t afford to have any of them falling asleep on the bridge. The post was going up at an unbelievable rate. From a distance, the post looked like a beehive, swarming with busy bees.

July 14, 1970—Eighteen Hundred Zulu

When ten scavengers rolled out of the factory bay, the scavenger crew headed out to the Frost Crater to start the salvage operation. They had just been fed and would bring more food and water with them. Their operation would be non-stop until the Soviets arrived and forcibly shut them down. Knowing they would be utterly exhausted by then, the crew programmed each vehicle to retrace its path back to the post; autopilot would allow them to sleep. There would be no other rack time for this crew until the Soviets put an end to their salvaging.

The construction crew finished building a mobile construction unit. By twenty-one hundred it was up and running, starting to build the guntowers. The factory was beginning to build artillery pieces.

The mess crew had cycled all of the workers through supper, and all hands were back at it again. Thankfully none of the equipment had broken down, and so far there were no accidents. COL Red Fangs found that his walks to the coffee pot and the head weren’t enough to keep the kinks out of his muscles. He suited up and made a quick inspection on the ground, mostly to stretch his legs.

COL Red Fangs left the ship wearing an impassive expression, but inwardly he was worried. It was going to be difficult to deal with twenty artillery pieces and fifty-five tanks. It would be calling it very close. When the Soviets arrived, he needed enough artillery to destroy their artillery battery, and a strong enough defensive grid and tanks to defend their post during the post siege. Salvaging of alloy-x from the battlefield would favor the Americans because it was very close to their post. But—they had to survive first.
If we win, we can recycle the Soviets’ scrap and some of their hardware to build the proper post
, he thought.
If we lose, there will be nothing to worry about
. He found his executive officer overseeing the construction of the guntowers.

“LTC Judgment Day, a word with you.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“I fully expect COL Glaskov to call when he arrives to offer terms of surrender or meet with us to do so.” COL Red Fangs pondered the timing for a moment. “What would you do if you were the Soviet commander arriving with forty-five tanks and no artillery for three days, with the enemies’ post so heavily fortified that you couldn’t conduct a successful siege?”

His executive officer considered the question. “I’d offer terms of surrender, note that pending doom awaits, and play mind games with you for three days until my artillery arrives. Then I’d destroy your artillery and defensive grid, and charge in with an impressive number of tanks. I certainly would harass you so that it would be difficult for you to sleep.”

The colonel frowned, “Yes, that’s what I’d do. What are the chances we can entice some of their men to defect?”

“In a cheap American b-movie, perhaps. In reality, it isn’t likely. They’re the best of the best, and they’ve been carefully trained politically. It would take time to capture and
re-educate
them, and time is a commodity in short supply.”

“I’ll trust your assessment since you’ve spent a lot of time in Soviet studies. At twenty-two thirty give the entire crew six hours of rack time, with the exception of the tac ops boys on duty on the bridge.”

“Sir, yes sir.” The colonel left his first officer to his work and returned to the command vessel’s bridge.

July 14, 1970—Twenty-Two Thirty Zulu

COL Red Fangs headed to his quarters, private but very small, consisting of only a table and chair, a bed and a small locker. The three command officers and the freighter captains were the only ones with private rooms.

After taking a sailor’s shower and getting dressed for bed, he inserted a Chuck Berry cassette into his tape player and pressed play. The music played in the background. He usually read from
The Art of War
before retiring, but he was too beat. He fell into a deep sleep. The strong, loud sound of his snoring competed with the music.

Deep down Louisiana close to New Orleans

Way back up in the woods among the evergreens

There stood a log cabin made of earth and wood

Where lived a country boy named Johnny B. Goode

Who never ever learned to read or write so well

But he could play the guitar just like a ringing a bell

Go, go Johnny go, go…

LTC Judgment Day retired to his quarters. He readied himself for bed and put in one of his favorite cassettes, one by Credence Clearwater Revival. He opened the first of his Old Milwaukees and tried to relax. Their weight limit was tight for personal possessions, but he made it a priority to get a six-pack in his baggage, which afforded him one beer per night. They should last until after the encounter with the Soviets. Wondering if he had overlooked any preparation for the Soviets’ arrival tomorrow, he changed for bed. The words of the song caught his attention.

I see the bad moon arising.

I see trouble on the way.