Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars (30 page)

LTC Cowboy sat down at his computer desk with a cup of tea, steam rising from the cup, filling his senses with the pleasing aroma. Being a command officer now allowed him more bulk shipping of luxury items, like his special blend of tea: black pekoe and black currant, with a touch of cinnamon. Loneliness can affect men differently. Cowboy needed the company or correspondence of country folk to help him set his anchor. He accessed his digital writing stylus and pad, and began to write a letter. The apparatus converted his script to digital format as he wrote. When completed, he would hit
send
, transmitting the letter to ASDC HQ on Earth, where a machine would recreate the letter using a pen, adjusting pressure to match the original, giving the illusion that it had been written here and not 225 million kilometers across space. He carefully finished his letter to Warren and Gladys Hard of Lebanon, MO. Officially, LTJG Eugene J. Bordelon was long dead. At any rate, in correspondence and on leave back on Earth, he was now CMDR Eugene J. Martin, complete with military papers and a driver’s license that could pass scrutiny should he ever be challenged. He used the cover story of serving abroad in the U.S. Navy, thanking them for their hospitality on his previous trip through on his last leave. Once he had ended all of the “safe” small talk that he was allowed to share with outsiders, he addressed the envelope and hit the
send
button. The ASDC mail clerk would print his hand-written letter and envelope, put the proper APO stamp on the envelope and mail it.

The man in bibbed overalls and a flannel shirt surveyed the sky for signs of rain. He needed a little, or that last hay crop before winter wouldn’t amount to much. This would drive up the cost of feed, and cause the local farmers to sell off more of their cattle than they would like. Farming was sometimes called
gambler’s ruin
, meaning that if you stayed at it long enough you would eventually lose. A wise farmer managed his finances to cover bad times, and prayed that the bad times didn’t last very long. Warren Hard had already seen a couple of his neighbors lose the gamble, borrowing too much against what they owned, and not having anything in reserve against a rainy day. His father had so drilled into him the laws of sound financial management that he had survived where others had failed. He had been to too many bank auctions lately. There was no pleasure in these auctions; they were the bones of his friend’s dreams. He bought from them what he needed, but felt guilty about it.

One of his friend’s wild dreams was to raise wolves for sale. There was an emerging market he said, for wolf-hybrids. He had kept the pure male wolf in a pen to breed his malamute bitch when she came in season. Before he could get the prescribed permit to keep the animal, the wolf dug out of the pen and escaped into the woods. The neighbors were nervous about a wolf near their stock and and kept their rifles close. It wasn’t winter yet, and the wolf apparently was getting enough rabbits and small game. So far no one had reported any livestock killed. Today Warren was attending his bank auction: like the man’s other dreams, vanished like a vapor in the wind under the auctioneer’s oaken gavel. He picked up a hay rake for three hundred and fifty dollars. One more family farm ruined from poor management.

Warren removed the ball hitch on his pickup truck, slid the rake hitch over the hole, aligned the three holes, and dropped the pin through it. He finished it up by fixing the clip through the bottom pin hole to keep it from popping out if he hit a bump somewhere. Next, he took the rake out of gear so that the rake wouldn’t turn when the wheels did as he drove it down the road. He reached in the back of his pickup bed and grabbed a triangle sign and affixed it to the rear of his new purchase. Finally, he climbed into the truck and took it slow going home, driving with the rake partially off the road and to the right to make sure he gave enough room for vehicles to pass him if needed.

Farmer Hard had given up raising goats and now had only cattle, horses, a chicken house and two hundred acres of hay. However, there was one last cash asset from the goat business: Princess, his great pyrenees bitch which he intended to breed to sell puppies to goat herders. She was in season now—the intended suitor would be brought in the day after tomorrow, and she was safely penned up.

Warren turned on the radio to his favorite station. “It’s partly cloudy with a twenty percent chance of rain today, high of fifty-nine degrees with a low tonight of forty-two. Tomorrow is going to be a little warmer with a high of seventy degrees, and a low in the night of forty-six. You are listening to “The Coyote,” 107.9 FM in Lebanon, MO.” Warren listened to the radio and sang along with Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson.

“She’s a good hearted woman

in love with a good timin’ man.

And she loves him in spite of his ways

that she don’t understand.

And through teardrops and laughter

they’ll pass though this world hand in hand.

Now this good hearted woman

in love with her good timin’ man.”

He turned onto the dirt road to his farm and drove past his mailbox. His two working dogs, Cocoa and Missy greeted him with excited barks. Farmer Hard backed his newly acquired purchase up to the fence and unhooked it from the truck. Finally, he hopped out and removed the triangle sign from the back and placed it behind his truck seat.

His wife Gladys was walking out of the front door of the farmhouse with a hot casserole dish in a cloth carrier. She placed the dish in the back seat of her car and waved at her husband. He waved back and smiled.

“I’m taking this casserole dish over to Cheryl’s. I haven’t seen the baby yet, so I expect I will be a while. I’ll be back in time to make supper.”

“Have a good visit. I’m going to take the dogs and move the herd into the back pasture.”

Gladys waved goodbye and climbed into the driver’s seat, strapped on her seatbelt and drove down the dirt road to the paved highway, leaving a cloud of dust behind her.

Warren finished up with the cattle, put both dogs in the back of the pickup and drove back to the house. As he drove up, he saw a gray-haired canine moving away from Princess’ pen toward the woods. The dogs clamored to give chase, but he held them back, fearing the wolf might kill them both. He walked to the pen and saw a hole dug under the fence. He felt his face flushed red with anger, cursed under his breath, and after he calmed down, realized that there was nothing he could do about it.
What’s done is done
, he thought.
There goes the profit from breeding and selling pure-bred herd dogs.
He called a man that he knew of in the next county who raised wolf-hybrids.

“Hello, Albert Smucker speaking.”

“Hi, my name is Warren Hard over in Lebanon. I understand you sell wolf-dogs.”

“I do. I have a permit for full-bred wolves which I use as breeding stock for malamute, husky and German shepherd crosses. Are you interested in a pup?”

“Well, not exactly. My great pyrenees bitch has gotten herself pregnant by a wolf that got loose from a neighbor’s farm. I was wondering if such a cross would be worth anything to anyone.”

“Not really. The desirable breeds to cross with a wolf were those that looked somewhat wolf-like already, pointed ears, wolf shaped body, that sort of thing. You will probably have to give them away.”

“Would you be interested in the pups yourself?”

“I can’t say as I would.”

“Well, I thank you for your time. Have a nice day.”

“You, too.”

That evening Warren wrote a letter to his navy pen pal, with all of the usual talk of needing rain, much hay he expected to buy this winter if he didn’t have enough. He shared about the accidental breeding of his Princess with the wolf, and how it would cost him a pretty penny.

LTC Cowboy returned his letter, advising that he was sorry about the turn of events, but told him he would buy a pup at the pure-bred price. He only wanted to make sure that the pup was of the color of the mother, and if it had yellow eyes, so much the better. When the time came he would have someone from the Navy pick the pup up and pay him.

When the pups were weaned, the farmer chose a girl from the litter for his pen pal, being the only one who was both white and had yellow eyes. An ASDC officer posing as a navy officer came to the farm, paid Warren and put the little white ball of fur in a pet carrier for her trip to the Academy and ASDC spaceport in Utah. He relinquished his charge to CPT Ripsnort, shuttle commander of the
Odyssey
. The captain took to the pup immediately, placing her bed on the bridge. When he was through with one of his stacks of newspapers, he rolled it out on the floor to train the young pup. It was a bit ironic. The stack of newspapers that he had was supposed to be delivered to LTC Cowboy: The Boston Globe, The Times Picayune, the New York Times, The Los Angeles Times and The Chicago Tribune. Mars’ executive officer liked to read the print, even though it was three months old by the time he got it. He looked at the stack. Yup, he thought. By the time he got to Mars, he would be out of newspaper and the dog would be housebroken.

The captain doted over the pup, feeding her, grooming her, training her and cuddling her on the three month trip to Mars. As the shuttle got closer to Mars, the captain began to prepare himself for the inevitable separation from his new pup to her rightful owner. He couldn’t help but regard her as his own and she adored him. She had been in his care longer than in her own mother’s.

The pup read the body language of her transitional master. She had no way to know that their relationship was to be short-lived. He was regarded by this “pack” as the alpha male. His relationship with her was different than it was with other members of the pack. The captain didn’t hug, play with, groom, pet or feed the other members of the pack. His tone when talking to her was that of endearment, but with the others is was different. She had no language in which to frame her thoughts of their relationship. She knew that the alpha male favored her as special. and in the world of wolves and men, favor was understood and felt.

The trip was coming to an end. As Mars grew closer in his viewer, the captain rationalized that a shuttle was no place for a dog, wolf or whatever she was anyway. The post would have a lot more room, and a dog needed some open space, he told himself.

The
Odyssey
acquired an orbit around the planet named for the god of war, and the captain keyed his mike. “Camp Freedom, this is CPT Ripsnort of the shuttle
Odyssey
requesting permission to land.”

“We read you,
Odyssey
. Permission granted.”

“Roger that, bringing her down.”

The
Odyssey
broke orbit and descended amidst a shower of sparks on the vessel’s heat shield. The captain kept an eye on his external and internal heat sensors, and watched his angle of descent very carefully. The post at first was a small dot, and then grew in size, looming larger as the shuttle grew nearer. The captain lowered his landing gear and slowly cut the power to his engines to manage the “fall” of his vessel to the ground. The shuttle landed, and the aircraft conveyer moved the freighter through the transitional airlocks, and then into the freighter hangar.

LTC Cowboy had been informed of the shuttle’s arrival and was waiting at the shuttle dock. Several pilots made their way down the loading ramp carrying duffle bags. For some of the pilots this was their final destination; others would layover here until the shuttle was finished with routine maintenance and refueled, and then continue to their posts. Finally, CPT Ripsnort descended down the loading ramp with his duffle bag over one shoulder and a white ball of fur cradled against his chest. The post’s executive officer greeted him.

“She any trouble on the trip?” Cowboy queried him.

“Only trouble is giving her up. We’ve become quite close. You’ll find she’s house-trained, good-natured and probably the smartest animal I’ve ever met. Hadn’t gotten her to heel yet—but she does sit and lay down when I tell her to. I had to eject your newspapers out of the airlock with the rest of the garbage.” Cowboy nodded that this was an acceptable price for her care, studied the captain and thought about asking for his pup, then reconsidered. The captain was still holding the pup, hoping perhaps that Cowboy would tell him to go ahead and keep her.

“Thank you, captain.” Cowboy could see that parting with her was hard on the man. “Tell you what. You don’t leave until morning for Titan, and I have afternoon patrol to go on in five minutes. Keep her with you and bring her to my quarters for supper. I’ll feed her well and when she goes to sleep you can slip off. That way the anxiety of changing masters will be lessened. She’ll simply wake up and you’ll be gone.”

The captain was relieved that he had the rest of afternoon to say goodbye. “What time?”

“Nineteen hundred.”

“Very good, we’ll be there.”

At nineteen hundred sharp, man and dog arrived at Cowboy’s quarters, with her bed, food and water dishes, and her chew toys. Cowboy loved to cook; when he wanted to show favor or gratitude, he always cooked his guest the finest meal that he could. Tonight he was cooking the last three steaks in his freezer. Meat was a precious commodity; it had to be imported from Earth. He also added some not so rare, but hard to get baked potatoes and some salad greens that were plentiful from the greenhouse. Captain Ripsnort’s affinity for apple pie and a good cup of coffee was well-known, so some favors from the mess sergeant were called in to round out the meal.