Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars (63 page)

Turn the page for a preview of the next book of this series, entitled - Warzone: Operation Wolf Hunt.

COSTLY SKIRMISH

Earth date: December 7, 1984—Martian year 199, Sol Solis, sol 15 of the Martian Month Virgo—sol of the Martian year 515

“You are cleared for take-off, Colonel, reported MAJ Norsemun.”

“First hangar airlock is open,” informed Chief Wolverine.

My first officer approached me as I was getting into my tank. “You sure you don't want me to bring another squad?”

“No, Jim. You get next patrol or other outing, weather permitting. I haven’t been in a tank for a month because of these infernal dust storms.”

“Neither have I. Have a safe trip, and call us if you need us.”

I visually inspected my suit and the exterior hoses, checked my air tank gauges and examined the maintenance seal, then suited up. I placed the rebreather mask on my face and turned the air valve on. The cool taste of the oxygen-nitrogen mix assured me my equipment was okay. Finally I put on my helmet. After running a preflight check on my tank, I fired my tank up and led my squad through the three transitional airlocks.

It was dust storm season. I’d grounded the entire regiment for the last month. The storms had subsided, and the dust particles had settled enough so that we were now getting our satellite views of the surface back. Our morning satellite pass revealed that the dust storm had exposed a metallic object in the Eisenhower Plain. It was possibly an alien relic, so I took a squad to the plain to investigate. I’d been going stir-crazy for the last month and welcomed the reprieve from my prison.

“A squad of Soviet tanks is crossing into the Eisenhower Plain now, sir,” reported MAJ Norsemun. “Sorry sir, we didn’t have a satellite view until they entered the plain. Their ETA and yours to the object is approximately sixty-three minutes.”

“We’ll arrive at the same time?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Scramble all pilots to reinforce us.”

“Aye, sir. Colonel, twenty-five Soviet tanks have just left the Soviet post and are headed your way.”

“Understood.”

Both our reinforcements and the Soviets’ were one hour and forty-five minutes from the object. The
object of curiosity
was partially unearthed and located in the Eisenhower Plain two hundred meters on our side. The imaginary line dividing our
turfs
existed halfway between the two posts.

We coexisted with the Soviets because neither side was able to drive the other out. Engagements with the Soviets generally occurred for three reasons. The most common reason was the fight over alloy-x, either from destroyed objects turned into scrap or from meteor showers, which littered the Martian landscape with it. The second, less common but more important was to defend or attack an alien archaeological dig site. The third reason was less important than for scrap or technology, but important nonetheless. The third reason to fight was if one side had the sand to cross the
imaginary line
. To do so was the same as throwing down a gauntlet. If you tolerated the enemy crossing that line today, then he would cross the next line, and so forth until he was at your front door.

The economics of a fight dictated who’d recover more or most of the scrap from the destroyed vehicles and how close your reinforcements were. In today’s case, there was no advantage to being closer to either post. If a Soviet patrol could make it here before our reinforcements could, they might challenge us for the dig.
This is a bad place for a dig
, I thought. This was too close to the middle of the line to be easily defendable, with no mountains here for snipers. If both sides think that this is a viable dig site, this could force us into the bloodiest conflict I’d ever witnessed here.

A Soviet patrol of five tanks was six minutes from the object; we were five. We arrived to see a piece of alloy-x metal sticking out of the sand. The Soviets were rapidly closing on our position. The Soviet commander opened a channel to me.

“COL Kahless, this is COL Tkachenko. I claim the right to salvage that object.”

“Why COL Tkachenko, I didn’t know we had salvage laws here.”

“I will have that object. If I have to fight you for it, I will.”

“You know we both have reinforcements coming, and if you choose to cross the line I’ll have to fight you. Then both of our reinforcements would arrive, and they would fight which would result in many deaths on both sides. Besides, it is probably just a small piece of metal with no real importance.”

I was hoping to avoid a full-scale conflict over what may or may not be a dig site of importance. I couldn’t however, afford to allow him to have the object, no matter what it was. If it was a relic with the cipher containing the cloaking technology, then the Soviets and the Chinese would both have it, and America would be at a distinct disadvantage. The Soviet colonel was also aware of this.

“If I could inspect the object, we could avoid the deaths of many of your men,” the Soviet officer offered.

“No can do, Yuri. It is on our side of the line.”

“I have tried to be reasonable. Prepare to die.” With that, the Soviet cut off all communications and drew his men into attack formation. With a squad of five tanks, the squad leader has the lead with his wingman close while the other three back his play.

The Soviet leader knew which tank was mine and he led the attack against me, with his wingman close on his starboard wing. My other three tanks met the remaining enemies and a violent clash ensued. My usual wingman was on leave, and today CPT Two Horses had my six. We kicked up so much fine dust in the air with our engine jets that we were forced to fire at heat signatures. My master panel, which kept track of the GPS signals from my ships, showed we’d lost one of ours already. The air was thick with fine dust, smoke and fire. I was firing at the heat signature of COL Tkachenko’s tank and estimated that I was doing some damage. His heat signature was changing, indicating his tank was on fire. My ship shook violently when I took a direct hit. Now my engine was smoldering.

“Sorry Colonel, I’m done,” reported CPT Two Horses. I felt the shockwave from his tank exploding, and I prayed he was able to survive to eject. I took another direct hit.

“Engine critical, twenty seconds to destruct,” reported my computer’s familiar female voice. Smoke was filling the cockpit, beginning to make my control panel gauges unreadable. I turned on my rear ventilator, vented the smoke out and concentrated on the business at hand. COL Tkachenko’s wingman had lost his tank the same time mine had, and the heat and radar signatures on my control panel revealed only four other tanks left. I made one last attempt to bring him down before my engine blew and fired twice with both cannons and ejected. Both our tanks blew at the same time.

The fine dust and smoke suspended in the air obscured my view as I drifted back to the ground. A brilliant flash and a loud roar signaled another tank had blown. My visibility was poor. I no longer had my ship’s console to aid me in keeping track of where my pilots and their ships were.

I slung my sniper rifle over my shoulder and walked south a little to see if I could find some cover and get a better look. Another two explosions signaled what I estimated was close to the last two tanks if I counted right.

We were in trouble. All of the pilots were outside of their ships and on the ground and a large dust devil was heading our way. I tried to radio my post on my personal communication device in my suit but got a lot of static interference. This was no small dust devil. I estimated it was one kilometer wide across the base and at least eight kilometers tall. The top six or seven kilometers of the devil consisted of a blue cloud of ice crystals. Dust devils were truly the God of War’s version of wrath. There was no predicting them, just deal with them when they occur. I didn’t know which was more dangerous, COL Tkachenko armed with a sniper rifle, or a dust devil coming at us with full force.

From across the battlefield, I saw the slumped figure of CPT Two Horses being picked up by the dust devil. His body was assaulted by a vortex of dark basaltic sand particles, mixed with ice crystals. The high-speed material was pinging my officer’s body, arcing his form with filamentary static discharges. The dust devil pulsated with a light show within as the static charges hit my pilot over and over while carrying his body along its path down the Martian landscape.

The Eisenhower Plain was mostly flat and had few rocks, but it did have a few. Bumping into a small boulder about the height of a man, my leg protested. I let out a salty epithet that sailors keep in reserve for such events. A quick examination of my suit revealed no tears or rips. It would make for a nasty bruise, but that was not my immediate concern.

After the dust devil moved away from our position, the wind had calmed, revealing no tanks left on the battlefield. I started using my sniper scope to look for enemy snipers, and I saw a Soviet sniper doing the same. His scope was moving toward line-of-sight with me, and I focused my aim on his heart. I fired at the same time that he did. The wind kicked up again and I assumed that it threw both our shots off. I felt a sharp pain in my back. The bullet had missed me cleanly from the front, but then ricocheted off the rock behind me. I’d fallen forward and was laying belly down, unable to move or even feel my legs. My suit would start decompressing in seconds. I felt around back and found the hole and pulled out a #4 hot patch and stopped the leak. I wondered if my patch job was a futile attempt; Tkachenko might still finish me off with a second shot. I pulled my spotting scope out of my suit pocket and looked for him. Incredible! He was on his back and not moving, either. I’d hit him after all! The dust storm started again. The storm was getting more violent, this time as violent as a Mongol horde in battle array. This was not a good day to fight out here. I accessed my remote comm. link through the static and raised my executive officer.

“LTC Killer Instinct, status of reinforcements!”

“Sir, with the dust devil in your vicinity and the storm starting again, the reinforcements on both sides won’t be able to do much in this weather.”

“Call the Soviet XO. Advise that his commander has been shot and we request a truce to recover our dead and wounded. Also advise that we will revisit the issue of possession of this object when the storm breaks. And Colonel?”

“Sir?”

“Please send a team to retrieve us. I need medical attention. I’ve been shot.”

The cost of the skirmish was high. We recovered the bullets from my men’s bodies, confirming that COL Tkachenko killed them all before shooting me. The ballistics of the three men killed matched a bullet we retrieved from a pilot confirmed killed by COL Tkachenko in a previous engagement.

We couldn’t immediately recover CPT Two Horse’s body. The dust devil had lifted and moved his body fifty kilometers west before its static energy was discharged and it dissipated. We were unable to recover his body until after the storm was over, two weeks later. The dust devil sand and ice blasted off his space suit, and peeled the skin off of his body. The only part of his spacesuit left was his helmet and boots. The nights near the equator were very cold, but the summer sols lately had been a balmy 60 °F. I could only assume that his body was freeze-dried at night, and then thawed out during the day. In the soft vacuum and low humidity, his corpse had become mummified by the time we retrieved his body. It was a gruesome sight, and we didn’t let his son CPL Gray Eagle view the body. Of the squadron that I left with, only 1LT Gladiator and I survived.

MAJ Sawbones couldn’t remove the bullet from my back without possibly killing or permanently paralyzing me. The swelling began to subside and little by little I recovered feeling in my feet and legs. The physical therapist here was as good as any back on Earth so I would do my rehab here. It took a month before I could walk with a walker, another to walk with a cane and was allowed to return to desk duty.

After the dust storm season was over, the object of the dispute was further uncovered. It was a piece of an old tank, nothing more. We let the Soviets inspect it, but COL Tkachenko was not present. I was still unsure of COL Tkachenko’s fate until he contacted me. He looked as fit as ever. He played me a game of chess online as if nothing had ever happened; beating me two games to one. I had time during physical therapy and my restriction to desk duty to begin to process nearly dying or being confined to a wheelchair for life. I’d never retreated from a challenge before, but was beginning to wonder if it was time to pass the torch to my first officer.

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

NAVAJO TERMS

bilagaana
- Navajo word for white man.

Chindi
- In Navajo religious belief, a chindi is the ghost left behind after a person dies, believed to leave the body with the deceased’s last breath. It is everything that was bad about the person: the residue that man has been unable to bring into universal harmony.

Dawn boy
- The sun bearer, gave gifts to the Great-Chief-of-All-Magic, and received gifts from him for all men.