Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars (42 page)

It was close to twelve hundred and almost time for lunch. Sammy reached for a fishnet next to the fish tank, dipping it into the tank and retrieving a very large fish. He took a gaff hook and hooked its mouth and held it up, grinning. He placed it on a cleaning board and went to work as deftly as any surgeon, placing the fillets in a rinsing bowl, throwing the guts, scales and bones in the fertilizer hopper. Sammy put a pot full of boiling oil next to a pot of water on to boil. He split the fish head with a sharp knife and placed the pieces in a pot of boiling water. My expression must have been hilarious for Sammy laughed loudly. “The doctor ordered you to eat lunch with me,” he grinned mischievously.

“What’re you going to do with that fish head?” I asked, eyeing the pot suspiciously.

“I’m making fish head soup,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “Yes, sir. We have fish head soup, fried fish, shrimp, rice and salad: five-star restaurant.”

Sammy threw some chopped green onion stems, soy sauce, ginger, and some herbs into the water pot. Turning the heat down, he covered the pot. He rolled the fish fillets in tempura batter and dropped them in the oil. Then he went to the tank and took another net and a five foot steel rod with a bend on the end and unhooked the screen door to the shrimp partition. Sticking his net in, he waved it around, and then folded the net over its rim to trap the shrimp. Then he closed the trap door before any fish could get inside. The tank had a screened partition on the bottom, running from end to end. It separated the shrimp from the fish, so the fish wouldn’t eat them. Some of the fertilizer was lost because the shrimp did some of the tank cleaning. We liked them nonetheless, and we did turn some of the waste from cleaning the shrimp into fertilizer. After taking out the shrimp, he peeled, battered and dropped them into the oil. He turned around and produced two small salads from the refrigerator and laid them on the table.

While he tended the fish and shrimp, we talked about his life before Mars, in San Francisco, where his family owns a greenhouse and a landscaping service. It turned out his family were descendants of Tokugawa Ieyasu, who became Shogun over Japan in 1603. Sammy was quite proud of his lineage.

The soup pot was boiling when he pulled out the last of the shrimp and the fillets, and laid them on a cloth to drain. “Soup should be served first, but we got a late start, so we’ll eat it last today but first next time,” he explained. He put two plates on the table, and served a spoonful of rice on each plate. Next he dipped a slotted spoon into the hot grease and retrieved the shrimp and fish, fried to a golden brown crust, glistening wet with dripping grease. Their smell was like heaven to me, and my stomach growled its greeting like a tiger.

Sammy decided to set further boundaries for our meetings. “I want you to understand that I respect your religious beliefs. I am under orders to help you, not proselytize you. I do expect you to be respectful of my faith as I am yours.”

“Understood.”

“As you know, I am a devout Buddhist, and I have a meal chant I say before every meal.”

I nodded.

“First, let us reflect on our own work and the effort of those who brought us this food. Second, let us be aware of the quality of our deeds as we receive this meal. Third, what is most essential is the practice of mindfulness, which helps us to transcend greed, anger and delusion. Fourth, we appreciate this food which sustains the good health of our body and mind. Fifth, in order to continue our practice for all beings we accept this offering.” He paused and I now realized it was my turn to pray.

“Lord Jesus I thank you for this food and fellowship, amen.”

Sammy served the rice
Asian style
, a bit clumpy and sticky. This gave him an opportunity to teach me to eat with chopsticks. It was awkward at first, but I succeeded in hoisting a sticky clump of rice to my mouth.

“So, do you know any history of the shogun you’re descended from?” I asked, in between bites of fish.

He smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Now that you mention it, I do.” I suddenly realized I’d been set up. In between bites, he told me a tale of feudal Japan, stories about emperors, feudal lords, samurai, peasants, loyalty and treacheries, battles, schemes, and fair ladies, both virtuous and unvirtuous. After we finished eating, he poured two bowls of soup. “When you can appreciate fish head soup, then you’ll be truly Japanese,” he said, with a glint of humor in his eyes. Even though I knew that it had been cooked, eyeballs and all, it actually wasn’t that bad. In fact, I had to admit that I liked it.

We finished the soup just as the story was getting started. Sammy looked like at the clock, and announced, “It looks like you’re a colonel again. I can finish this story next week. Bring your dog next time.”

“Okay, I’ll bring her.” I arose, and noticed that the cares and worries of command had fallen off of me for a few hours. Sammy put some fish fillets and shrimp, along with some fresh vegetables in a bag, for me to cook in my quarters tonight. “Thanks, Sammy. See you next week.” He smiled and nodded in agreement and I went back to work.

Sammy introduced me me to folding paper cranes, and composing Japanese Haiku poetry on my second visit. It isn’t long, it doesn’t rhyme, but I liked it nonetheless. It has to have exactly seventeen syllables and be three lines long. The first line has five syllables, the second seven, and the third five and conveys a poetic thought. The first one he had me do revealed I’d a bit of doom and gloom in me. It went something like this…

Winter winds, howling

Bringing forth death’s icy grip

Sorrow and blackness

I remember the look on Sammy’s face, when I composed that one. He flatly stated, “I see we have a lot of work to do.”

I got my eagles back as promised, but it did nothing to make my world right. Over the next few months, I came to realize that I needed help. Though the greenhouse was giving me a sanctuary for a time, I needed to face my demons and get my heart right with God. Sammy and I had many discussions, but I knew the day would come when I had to speak with the chaplain. I started my own seeking, returning to prayer. For the first time since COL SEAL’s death, I opened the Bible to seek wisdom. I determined that I would make a discipline out of Bible reading and daily prayer, always seeking wisdom from above. In time, I realized that I shouldn’t have avoided our chaplain, and I prayed with MAJ Intercessor on several occasions. Slowly my rage gave away to reason, and though we still were at war with the Soviets, I felt my peace return. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed my peace of mind. Even though my true redemption came from God alone, I continued to enjoy the Sol Jovis morning meetings with Sammy and the fellowship we had. It was actually a relief to go somewhere and not bear the responsibility of command.

The war after COL SEAL’s death had been waged with fierce brutality on our part. We caught their pilots anywhere we could and killed them without mercy. We seemed to be winning the scrap reclamation, as well. Judging from our progress over time, I estimated that we could gain complete control over Mars by year’s end, despite our failed siege of the Soviet post. My attitude toward the Soviets had changed somewhat, but without an accord, we were still fighting them the same way we had since COL SEAL’s death. Neither the Americans nor the Soviets trusted each other enough at this point to sign a new accord. In the meantime, we had no protection or guarantee of humane treatment of our men if captured. I regretted our situation, and it weighed heavily on my conscience.

ENTER COL YURI TKACHENKO

Earth date: May 14, 1980—Martian year 197, Sol Veneris, sol 6 of the Martian Month Aries—sol of the Martian year 228

COL Tkachenko read the official summary of events that had transpired on his eight month trip to Mars. A lot can happen in eight months, mused the Soviet. COL SEAL was dead. Col Kiknadze was dead, LTC Matulevich was dead, and now the new American first officer was dead. Kiknadze had ordered the assassination of the Americans, succeeded at killing one of them, but spurring an all-out war with no Rules of Engagement. The new commander was thought to be insane. He had become particularly savage in his dealing with the Soviets:
probably something to do with the death of his former commander. Well, that fool Kiknadze had at least killed one of the men that Tkachenko had been ordered to kill. Now it was time to come in, calm the new American commander down a bit, get a new accord signed, kill him, and to begin the process of dominating Mars.

On the sixth of Aires, I was in my office trying to formulate the strategy for the next few months, when I got a comm. call from MAJ Norsemun.

“Colonel, a Soviet transport has landed,” he informed me.

“What’s the cargo?”

“Just two passengers.”

“Who?” I asked, my curiosity now in full gear.

“COL Yuri Tkachenko and LTC Vladimir Voronin,” he flatly stated. LTC Menshutkin left on the same transport freighter. Suddenly the climate seemed to take on an uncharacteristic chill for this season.

I let out a low whistle. Col Tkachenko was known as the “Butcher of Titan” and the “Ukrainian Wolf.” He was the man the Soviets sent to get the job done, a closer. He was tough, skilled and a brilliant strategist. The best words to describe him were
ruthlessly brilliant
. Some of his strategies were taught at the SCA Academy. As far as Soviets go, this one was the most feared, a living legend. LTC Vladimir Voronin was known as the “Lucky One.” He always seemed to be at the right place at the right time, do the right thing and never makes a mistake.

“What else can you tell me?”

“Well, we decoded Soviet messages over the last six months that indicated that COL Kiknadze was falling out of favor with the SCA for losing his grip on Mars. He was being replaced before he ever launched the assassination attempt on you and COL SEAL.”

That got my attention. “Assassination attempt on both of us, you said?”

“Yes, sir. The plan was to kill you both. It was supposed to be an olive branch to SCA Central Command to try to keep his command. His career had become rather lackluster since being here and he was being transferred to a desk job on Earth. Apparently he drank too much vodka toward the end, and he was desperate enough to break the treaty prohibiting the use of redfield generators. I made a call to Ganymede. We found that Tkachenko left straight for here, even though it took eight months because of the orbital alignments. In short, he was sent to replace Kiknadze before you killed him. Apparently the Soviets didn’t think he was able to handle the American backlash for killing COL SEAL. They viewed his actions as an act of desperation.”

“What do you have on Tkachenko and Voronin?” I queried him.

“I’m sending their files to you now, Norsemun out.”

I opened the file on Tkachenko. Soviets serving on frontier posts used aliases as their real names were top secret. Individualism was not encouraged in their system. They didn’t romanticize their call signs and did not refer to them in dealing with us. I could bet that Yuri Tkachenko was not his real name.

Subject: COL Yuri Mikhailovich Tkachenko