Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars (59 page)

“Sergeant, can you send one of your boys over to MAJ Norsemun’s office with a six-pack of real beer and a snack for Blaze?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“What else do you have that goes with beer for us?”

“I have some roasted soy nuts seasoned with garlic and cayenne, and some sweet rolls I just pulled out of the oven.”

“Sounds good, send them up.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

The bell sounded for round eight, and Kahless moved only one-quarter of the distance to meet Tkachenko, capitalizing on the new strategy of strength management. Tkachenko took it as a sign of weakness and launched his attack like a pair of scud missiles flying at his enemy’s face. Kahless braced himself for the onslaught, blocking most of the blows. Tkachenko connected with a nasty straight right and blackened the American’s other eye. Kahless shook it off and fired right-left-right combinations and backed his opponent up to the ropes. Both fighters continued with close infighting until Kahless smacked his adversary with an uppercut to the solar plexus. Tkachenko could not breathe and was bent over. Before he could recover, Kahless twisted his whole body weight into a devastating right hook to the Soviet’s jaw, propelling him through the ropes like some discarded rag doll placed in a giveaway box for Good Will to pick up. Tkachenko landed on the padded floor at the base of the squared ring on the American’s side. Security quickly moved to form a shield between the fallen fighter and the American spectators.

The referee directed Kahless to the neutral corner, and he complied. MAJ Luv2Bomb, ever conscious of a fast count being called foul, began the twenty count. “One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten,” he began. Tkachenko stirred and found his way to one knee. Twice the American had surprised him, and twice had he paid for it. “Eleven—twelve—thirteen.” The Soviet approached the ropes and pulled himself up. “Fourteen—fifteen—sixteen,” counted the referee. Tkachenko slipped his leg through the ropes and was standing fully upright by the nineteen count.

For a man knocked completely through the ropes and onto the floor, Tkachenko didn’t show it. He redoubled his efforts to regain lost momentum. He fought like a man unafraid, undaunted by the setback. Kahless was surprised by the strength and vigor his opponent still had. The American swapped blows with the Soviet and slowly
let
Tkachenko move him toward the American corner. It was slowly, artfully and carefully done, so much so as the Soviet never questioned for a minute why he was three feet from the blue corner when the bell announced the end of round eight. Kahless sat down in his chair and watched his antagonist walk the distance back to his corner. It was a small thing, but in the strategy of strength management, small things add up.

The next three rounds were a grueling exchange of body blows and head shots from both sides. Both warriors wearied themselves trying to grind their opponent down for a knockout punch, to no avail. Tkachenko’s left eye went from swollen to black and blood-filled. Kahless had suffered further injury and now two of his ribs were cracked on the left side. Kahless always seemed to be at his corner at the end of the round, and despite his injuries, he slowly got his second wind while the Soviet was slowly becoming spent.

“Arkady, that is your forth vodka. If we don't eat something soon, we may experience
time travel
. It will not go well with us if it is found that we got drunk, instead of following orders concerning the transmission.”

“But of course, Oleg.” MAJ Ivanov called the Mess Sergeant and ordered some food. He put the vodka bottle back in the desk drawer until they had eaten something.

MAJ Jankauskas studied the ring with interest when the bell signaled the beginning of round twelve. The internal pressure was simmering within the Slavic warriors and as the pressure increased, demanded release.

“The American is continuing that hiding technique, obviously afraid to be hit. He also looks as though he is beginning to tire before our colonel’s relentless attacks. This round should be the turning point for the American’s crushing defeat,” predicted SSGT Butkovsky.

“I agree, Senior Sergeant. The American has attempted to clinch again and the referee has broken it up. Both are fighting real close again; our commander is working the midsection of his enemy. The American has landed another hard right to our commander’s left eye, but our colonel is continuing to press his attack, not letting up on his opponent.”

MAJ Jankauskas and the Soviet pilots increasingly were becoming agitated as the fight became more intense. “The American is firing quick right jabs in rapid succession with his right hand to our colonel’s left ribs. Another blow from the American—our colonel blocks it and delivers a punishing overhand right, and COL Kahless’ nose is gushing blood!” exclaimed JSGT Pavlov.

Kahless clinched his foe in an attempt to slow his momentum down while he could recover from the damage he’d just received. Kahless was bleeding on Tkachenko’s sweaty shoulder. The Soviet shook the American to make him let go. “You are finished, give up!” he snarled.

As the referee broke the clench, with bravado he did not feel at the moment, he snapped back, “I’m just getting started.”

The internal pressure at the Soviet bleachers had finally reach critical mass, redlined and blew. MAJ Jankauskas stood up with a shout, “Destroy the American dog, Colonel!”

“Show him Kuzka’s mother!” shouted 1LT Ryzhkov.

“Well, it seems that there certainly is sex in the Soviet Union,” quipped CPT Two Horses.

“I stand corrected, Captain. It just appears that they are slower to arouse,” answered his junior partner. “And it looks as though our colonel is about to be saved by the bell. He looks like he took a pretty hard shot to the nose.”

“And there is the bell ending round twelve,” said SSGT Butkovsky, not happy that it was ending with the American bleeding. He would have much preferred that COL Tkachenko capitalize on the bleeding American’s weakened state. “This appears to be the turning point of the match,” he reported enthusiastically.

The American medic went to work putting Kahless’ nose in place and stopping the bleeding. His chest was heaving from being out of breath. His first officer sponged the parts of his sweaty brow and face that the medic wasn’t working on. In between mouthfuls of blood and sweat running into his eyes, Kahless explained. “I think I’m closing his left eye. It will alter his depth perception if he can’t see out of it. It is his dominant eye.”