Blood Red Sand

by Damien Larkin

  McCabe worked his way through the packed corridor until he arrived outside the entrance to the bridge. Two heavily armed Air Force Air Police soldiers scrutinised his identity badge before clicking on a comm button to announce his arrival. A few seconds passed until a green light lit up and the doors to the USAF North Carolina’s bridge slid open.

  McCabe took a step forward and tried his best not to marvel at the rows of intricate desk stations and strange equipment that lined the bridge. American Air Force personnel bustled in all directions, checking various computer screens or speaking loudly into their headsets, co-ordinating every facet of the Allied fleet’s operations. Scanning the crowded bridge, he spotted Lieutenant Barnes speaking with a small group of MEF officers. He moved to join his superior officer and snapped his hand to his head in salute when the lieutenant turned about.

  “Ah, Sergeant.” Lieutenant Barnes smiled as he returned the salute and waved at McCabe to relax. “I’m glad to see you made it through our long sleep. Is the platoon all accounted for? Any fatalities?”

  “Fatalities? No, sir. I wasn’t aware there was a risk of fatalities in this portion of the mission.”

  The lieutenant gave a sombre nod as he stepped away from the group of officers and beckoned at him to follow.

  “Yes, indeed,” Barnes continued. “Unfortunately, we suffered several deaths while in status. System failures and all that. Thankfully, not too many but still a nasty way to go if you ask me, Sergeant. I’m afraid to say that Lieutenant Colonel Fairfax was amongst them. Once the Second Battalion is fully awakened, an announcement will be made.”

  “Understood, sir. May I ask who has command of Second Battalion now?”

  “Major Wellesley is assuming command until further notice. You’ve heard of him, I trust?

  “Only his reputation, sir.”

  A knowing smile crossed the lieutenant’s face. Clearing his throat, he pointed at something towards the far end of the bridge. “I thought you’d appreciate this before we go ground side, Sergeant.”

  Barnes led the way through the crowds of gathering officers and crewmen and pushed his way politely towards the front of the bridge. He paused beside one of the long, rectangular reinforced windows and pointed into the bleak darkness outside. A smile crept across his face as he gestured at McCabe to follow his gaze.

  “You see, Sergeant? Mars.”

  McCabe made a conscious decision to clench his jaws together to stop them from gaping in surprise as he drank in the sight. He had seen pictures of Mars during the mission briefings, but those images failed to do the planet justice. A swirling mass of red and brown dangled in front of him, almost within hand’s reach. Fascination coursed through him at the sight of the alien image. He tried to soak up every detail and commit it to memory.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, while studying the scene in front of him, “but according to mission protocol, we were to be woken a week prior to entering orbit to get battle ready.”

  The lieutenant patted him on the shoulder and guided him away from the window, towards the entrance to the bridge.

  “Yes,” Barnes said with a sigh of exasperation, “that was the plan until system malfunctions prevented us. Approximately half of the task force were activated on time with the remainder being woken today. A terrible mess if you ask me, but…” He trailed off with a shrug as a crowd of crewmen separated from a small group of officers.

  A tall, plain-faced officer spun around and, catching the lieutenant’s eye, gave a friendly nod before his gaze fell to McCabe. As quick as he made eye contact, he turned away and buried himself in a map spread out in front of him.

  “Major Wellesley,” Barnes said under his breath.

  McCabe observed the officer but said nothing. Tales of Major “Mad Jack” Wellesley were rife amongst the rank-and-file of the Mars Expeditionary Force. The stories ranged from Mad Jack single-handedly taking out a string of bunkers during the D-Day landings to facing a platoon of Nazi soldiers armed only with a Bren light machine gun.

  The more colourful recitations varied from Mad Jack murdering captured prisoners to wiping out entire villages in retaliation for the deaths of soldiers under his command. McCabe didn’t believe any of those tales. Yet, something about Major Wellesley’s presence sent a chill up his spine. True or not, the officer didn’t strike McCabe as someone he’d willingly cross in defiance with anything less than an armoured division behind him.

  Barnes opened his mouth to speak again when a series of high-pitched wails rang out from every console on the bridge. McCabe, the officers, and soldiers of the MEF froze in position at the sound. The bridge crew of the USAF North Carolina sprang into action, furiously roaring orders into their headsets and punching commands into their workstations.

  Red lights flashed in time with the blaring alarms that shrieked from unseen speakers, drowning out the panicked shouts of the North Carolina’s crew. The captain of the North Carolina raced towards the helm station right when the massive view screen at the front of the bridge came to life.

  McCabe watched in confusion as an image of a red and yellow inferno consumed the entire screen before fading away, leaving dots of debris hanging against the background of a twinkling night sky. It took a further moment for him to realise he had witnessed the destruction of the fleet’s ships before the scope of what was happening struck home.

  “We’re under attack!” someone screamed.

  The sound of the alarms finally died, although the flashes of red remained.

  The captain of the North Carolina took over the helm. “Battle stations!”

  A split second later, the entire bridge shook. Anyone not strapped into a workstation stumbled about while the ship rumbled from a hidden force. Consoles hissed and exploded from energy surges, knocking the bridge crew to the deck.

  Without any information and with no clue what to do, McCabe gripped a nearby railing for dear life as the ship rocked and shuddered from an unseen assault. Smoke choked the bridge as crew members battled to put out sporadic blazes carving through the machinery. Over the din of strange popping noises that echoed throughout the ship’s hull, the crew shouted to one another.

  “Kamikaze attack.”

  “Venting atmosphere.”

  “Hull buckling.”

  “Main power offline.”

  “Engines gone.”

  A hundred other words blended together over the cries of the men who desperately fought to regain control of their ship, but two words spurred McCabe into action.

  “Abandon ship!” the captain roared.

  The faces of his platoon screaming in terror moments before they were blown into the vastness of space pushed McCabe past the stunned officers of the MEF. As the ship vibrated from what sounded like another volley of attacks, he raced out of the bridge area and ran down the corridor towards their sleeper pods. The lights flickered and dimmed, casting an eerie aura on the halls of the dying vessel. Dozens of wounded or dead crewmen slumped along the debris-filled corridor. Shattered wall panels hissed electrical sparks at him.

  Like a horrendous death rattle, a drawn-out screech of twisting metal filled McCabe’s ears from another thunderous round of explosions. He hit the deck and nearly lost his helmet in the process when he tumbled into a pile of corpses. He pulled himself up to the sounds of shrieks and fastened his helmet tighter before staggering through the darkening halls towards his platoon. He reached the entrance to their compartment when the final death blow landed.

  The vessel shuddered upwards as if lifted into the hands of a giant before slamming back down, sending cascades of screeching throughout the hull of the ship. McCabe stumbled into the confused mass of his platoon and made right for the entrance to their dropship.

  “Abandon ship!” he bellowed over the backdrop of explosions.

  His platoon and anyone in the vicinity sprang into action and rushed towards the hatch of the dropship. Standing by the entrance, he urged them on, gr
abbing and pulling at anyone within hand’s reach. Screams of pain and confusion resonated from all around the darkening room, but in the dim light, McCabe couldn’t see anyone else. A series of booms lanced through the ship, picking up speed and fury as the sound roared closer to their position. With the drop ship crammed, he stepped in and banged on the airlock control panel.

  Moments later, a final boom threw him to the deck when the dropship burst from its launch port on the outer hull of the USAF North Carolina. Through the tiny window port on the airlock, the once-hulking figure of their mothership disappeared in a crescendo of flame and shattered metal.

  GOVERNMENT DISTRICT, NEW BERLIN COLONY, MARS

  09.29 MST

  DAY 1

  Reichsführer Ernst Wagner repressed a smile as he studied the physique of the woman held behind the reinforced glass walls of her cage. Like a tigress, she stalked back and forth. She eyed the ring of SS guards waiting to extricate her from her prison cell. The pristine hospital robe she wore covered the contours of her body, yet the elegance of her movements was breath-taking. He had known many women before and after their exodus to Mars, but none compared to Anna Bailey.

  The thick glass door slid open, and two SS guards stepped in with their batons at the ready. Anna stopped her pacing and stood to face them head on. Her bruised knuckles tightened into fists at her side when four more guards entered to form a picket in front of the entrance to the cell. Wagner watched in silence as she eyed them one at a time before a slight smile cracked across her swollen face.

  From what he knew about Anna’s life, she grew up with a family that rubbed shoulders with the rich and the powerful. Funded by her British father’s aristocratic wealth and her American mother’s oil money, Anna had travelled the world, graced the highest social functions, and been the belle of every ball she ever attended. Her good humour and style lay matched by her beauty and wit. Her smile could turn even the most steadfast male to a drooling mess, while her charm could reduce him to putty in her hands. All of this and more rendered her the perfect MI6 operative. One capable of infiltrating the good graces of high-ranking Nazi party members before the war but now she paid the price for her treachery. Anna also held the key to advancing humanity’s fledgling grip on the stars.

  The first guard took a step forward, his baton pointed at her, while he instructed Anna to step out of the room. She stood as motionless as a statue. Her gaze darted toward the baton, then towards the door, and finally to Wagner himself. A chill crept up his spine when those cold eyes looked through him, but his cheeks burned as she softened her gaze and flashed an endearing smile at him.

  As swiftly as that smile appeared, it slipped from her face when one of the guards approached. In motions almost imperceptible to the human eye, Anna launched towards the guard in a lightning strike. Her fist slammed into his gut, and the bolt-like uppercut to his jaw lifted him off his feet. By the time the other guards reacted, Anna already held the first guard’s baton in her hand. In the blur of movement that followed, Wagner didn’t know whether to compare her to a sword fighter or a ballerina.

  She smashed her baton into the nearest guard’s head, knocking him to the ground. Spinning about, she deflected an attack before ramming her knee into the groin of another SS soldier. The remaining three guards circled her and unleashed a simultaneous attack, but she swung about, slamming her elbow into the face of one while driving her foot into the chest of another with enough force to knock him halfway across the cell.

  The last guard managed to react a split-second faster than Anna and caught her across the back of the head with his baton. She fell to her knees. The guards who managed to regain their composure piled on top of her in a desperate bid to subdue her. Anna bucked and shouted. Every point in her body was a trained weapon as she bit at their arms and gouged at their eyes with her fingers.

  In the end, it took all six of the wounded guards to hold her down and attach handcuffs and ankle restraints. Once chained and on her knees, she ceased resistance. The guards slipped their batons into their belts, each one of them sporting bruises and cuts from her brutal attacks. Limping and wincing from pain, they lifted Anna to her feet and escorted her out of the cell.

  “A fine workout today, Herr Reichsführer,” Anna said in perfect German as the SS guards walked her outside.

  Wagner held up a gloved hand, stopping the guards in their tracks. He reached into his pocket and slipped out a silk handkerchief. After taking a step towards his prisoner, he dabbed it against her nose gently, wiping away a small trickle of blood.

  “An unforgettable performance, as always, Miss Bailey,” he replied in English. “I’m glad you have your blood pumping. Today will require a lot more vigour than our usual endeavours.”

  Anna flicked her head, moving stray hairs from her vision to look up at him with those deep, mesmerising eyes. Wagner tried to maintain his composure at the full force of her attention. He reminded himself to see past her soft, delicate features and remember that despite her natural beauty, she was his enemy. For as long as she had Jewish blood pumping through her veins, that was all she could ever be.

  “So, today’s the day?” she said, without a hint of concern in her voice. “You’ve finally cracked it, Herr Reichsführer?”

  “Yes.” With a smile, he slipped his handkerchief back into his pocket. “And you, Miss Bailey, will have the glory and honour of being our first successful test subject. You will be the first living subject of the Hollow Programme.”

  He nodded at his guards to proceed when a door slammed open behind him. The guards flanked their prisoner and escorted her down a narrow hallway at the same time as Wagner spun about to see the enraged face of Generalfeldmarschall Seidel. Fury etched across the face of the leader of all Wehrmacht forces in the New Berlin military district.

  Seidel’s eyes narrowed when they focused on him. His pounding steps echoed throughout the corridor as he marched towards Wagner. With a sweep of his hand, he opened his trench coat and unholstered his Walther P38. Grinding to a halt, he cocked the pistol and aimed it right at Wagner’s head.

  “You have betrayed us all!” Seidel screamed, causing spittle to form at his mouth.

  At the sound of his voice, several SS guards burst out of their offices with weapons drawn. Peering down the barrel of the gun, Wagner raised his hand. Without breaking eye contact with Seidel, he waited until the sound of doors closing signalled they were alone again.

  “You question my loyalty, Herr Feldmarschall?”

  Seidel took a step closer, pushing the gun to point-blank range. His hand remained firm and steady while his eyes burned with all the fires of hell. Under any other set of circumstances, Wagner held no doubts the veteran officer would shoot him dead on the spot.

  “British soldiers have landed on Mars,” Seidel hissed.

  “Yes, I read the reports, Herr Feldmarschall.”

  Seidel’s face burned an even darker shade of red. “They would have had to travel for a year to get here. An entire year! And I heard nothing. Your SS ships engaged their ships. And I heard nothing. My entire force is hundreds of kilometres from here in the middle of a tactical training exercise. An exercise you were fully aware of! New Berlin is completely defenceless while British soldiers are landing, and still, I heard nothing. You have betrayed us all, Reichsführer Wagner. I will know why before I blow your brains out.”

  From the look in his eyes, Wagner had no question about the generalfeldmarschall’s resolve.

  “I have obeyed the Führer in all matters, this included, Herr Feldmarschall.”

  A sliver of doubt cut across Seidel’s face at the mention of the Führer. Some of the red leaked from his cheeks, and his gaze flickered. His grip on the gun remained solid, but his finger loosened from the trigger.

  “The Führer would never sanction this,” Seidel persisted with a slight shake of his head. “The Führer would never allow our enemies a foothold on this world and leave New Berlin defenceless.�
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  “It is not your place to question the will of the Führer,” Wagner said, putting steel into his own voice. He raised his hand in a slow, controlled motion until it approached the weapon centimetres from his forehead. With the tip of his gloved finger, he lowered the barrel of the gun until it pointed towards the floor.

  Seidel kept on glaring at him, but his face no longer contorted in unbridled rage.

  “The Führer has no desire to annihilate the British outright,” Wagner continued, adopting the tone of the school principal he once was. “The Führer wills them to be beaten by the force of German arms in honourable combat. Let them come to New Berlin, Herr Feldmarschall. Let them know suffering and defeat as they die on our doorstep.”

  “I do not have adequate forces available to defend the colony. I’ve issued the recall order for all forces under my command, but it will be hours until they return. The British are already within the outer defensive parameter.”

  “You have the garrison and my SS. If you need more, activate the Volkssturm.”

  Seidel turned his head and spat in contempt. “The Volkssturm is filled with old men, invalids, and young boys. The British will cut them to pieces.”

  Wagner took a step closer to the Wehrmacht commander. “You will fulfil the Führer’s orders, Herr Feldmarschall. If you are unable to do so, I suggest you put that gun into your mouth and pull the trigger. It would save us all a great deal of hassle. Your family included.”

  Seidel’s face glowed red with rage once more. For a moment, his hand twitched on the gun. In the end, he did nothing. Wagner smirked, soaking up the blazing hatred in Seidel’s eyes.