That caused a chorus of derogatory laughter from the enlisted men.
“That’s a stupid name,” Murphy jeered. “Sure, the only ‘Big Red’ that makes sense to me is Junior Sergeant Alexeev over there.”
At the far end of the compartment, the large Red Army NCO looked up from his weapon and shrugged, as if unsure of the discussion. The room reverberated with mocking laughter until another round of intrigued hushes ended it.
“Anything else, Sarge?” Jenkins asked.
McCabe fidgeted in his seat and nodded.
“Yes. Just one final thing. They asked him how long he’d been here. On Mars, I assume. All he said in answer was: ‘We have always—’”
A deafening boom tore through the transport. Their vessel shook in violent spasms, throwing everyone not strapped in onto the ground. Unharnessed men slammed from side to side as the craft bucked. Equipment bounced from wall to wall. The sickening crunch of bones breaking filled the compartment until the screeching sound of metal tearing along the Martian surface drowned it out. Stunned by the abruptness of it, McCabe snatched at what equipment he could grab within hand’s reach and pulled on his helmet.
“Helmets on!” he roared.
The transport slowed to a grinding halt.
Outside, booms filtered through the thick bulkheads over the groans and pleas of the wounded. It took McCabe a moment to figure out where he had heard noises like that. His eyes widened as memories of those sounds came rushing back.
“Panzer shells!” He unbuckled himself and leapt to his feet. “Everybody out now! We’re being targeted!”
McCabe reached down and lifted a wounded soldier to his feet before forcing his way through the shocked mass of MEF soldiers. With a quick glance around to confirm everyone had their helmets on, he yanked on the door release and jumped out with his Lee-Enfield at the ready. His boots crunched under the red sand as he scanned the damaged transport. Then he looked towards the convoy. Wisps of smoke and torn debris showed at least a half-dozen transports had been destroyed in the surprise attack.
Dozens more lay unmoving, trapped between the smoking lead and rear transport vessel. As his soldiers poured out of the wounded transport vehicles, McCabe studied their location and found the convoy caught in a sloping valley. On top of one of the ridges above them, he counted at least thirty enemy tanks with their turrets pointed towards them. Moments later, they exploded to life again, raining death upon the MEF convoy.
“Cover!” McCabe yelled and beckoned his soldiers on.
Transport doors opened on the vessels in their proximity. Confused soldiers stumbled out, eager to seek refuge. Lines of vehicles erupted in flame and smoke as the enemy shells hit their targets. Men were thrown into the air like ragdolls. Limbs and burning flesh scattered in every direction. Soldiers screamed when shrapnel lanced their EVA suits. Their colleagues desperately tried to drag them from the smouldering wreckages, and yet, the shells came.
Amidst the chaos, McCabe roared orders at anyone who could listen. He urged them to seek shelter behind the rows of jagged, alien rocks at the foot of the valley. Soldiers streamed out of the burning transports, but dozens more crashed to the ground like dominos as the enemy fire lashed at them.
“What do we do?” Corporal Brown shouted over the private channel to McCabe.
“Gather who you can, Jim. We need to take that ridge.”
“We don’t have armour-piercing rounds,” the corporal called back with a hint of desperation in his voice. “They’ll cut us to shreds.”
“They’re cutting us to shreds here!” McCabe shouted. “I’ll take my chances on the ridge.”
Slipping a fresh clip into his weapon, he rallied what soldiers he could find in preparation for their last stand. Screams filtered through his comm system, but he pushed them aside as his mind desperately raced for a plan. They stood hundreds of kilometres from the nearest base. With low supplies of water and food, retreat wasn’t an option. Gritting his teeth, he prepared to act when another call cut through over the comm chatter.
“Jesus! What the hell is that in the sky?”
McCabe turned and scanned the thin atmosphere above them. Within seconds, he spotted four aircraft speeding through the sky towards them on an attack vector. Furious streaks erupted from the approaching craft, freezing him where he knelt. He watched in silence as a dozen missiles leapt from the airborne craft, pounding towards them with furious intent.
“Incoming!” someone shouted.
McCabe didn’t have time to scream before the sound of death filled the valley.
PART 2:
SAVAGE WARS OF PEACE
140KM SOUTH-EAST OF NEW BERLIN COLONY
13.27 MST
DAY 1
The sheer violence of the missile strikes caused the ground to tremble like an earthquake. Time slowed as men froze in horror. The comm channel remained deathly silent as Sergeant McCabe waited for their imminent destruction. It never materialised.
McCabe tumbled backwards in surprise as dozens of more missiles streaked above him. The ridge where the enemy panzers had bombarded the MEF column moments ago blazed and burned. Rows of German panzers lay in twisted wrecks, their guns forever silent. Some of the Wehrmacht soldiers leapt from their panzers to flee. They survived long enough to be gunned down by the heavy machine guns of the aerial craft that circled the German forces like vultures. From beyond his eyeline, on the other side of the ridge, McCabe noticed dozens of wisps of smoke, a tribute to the devastation wrought on the enemy.
It started with a single soldier shouting, and then it spread. McCabe and the MEF soldiers had stared into the precipice of death, but now they were saved. They cheered and whooped as the mysterious aerial craft refused to relent and continued to pound the enemy.
Forcing himself to his knees, he rested his Lee-Enfield across his lap and glanced at an equally surprised, yet jubilant Corporal Brown. The corporal shrugged and extended a shaking hand towards McCabe’s shoulder, patting him on the back.
Dazed, McCabe reached for the controls on his EVA suit’s left arm console and scanned all available channels to contact the aircraft. It took a moment for him to recognise an MEF signal and he tapped on his console again to open a channel.
“This is Sergeant McCabe, Second Battalion, Third Brigade. To the aircraft above us, please identify yourself.”
Static interference answered him. He waited a few seconds and then reached for the button on his console again. A shrill, high-pitched roar cut over the comm channel.
“YEEEEE-HAAAWWWW!! Get some! Get some! Get some!”
Heavy machine blasts rang out from above as the attacking craft circled in on more escaping German soldiers. What few panzers remained intact attempted to escape while firing up at the aircraft, but they stood no chance. The highly manoeuvrable craft dodged and weaved between the enemy panic fire and launched its own missiles back in answer.
“Howdy,” a voice finally replied, “thought you boys could use a hand.”
“Who is this?” McCabe asked, recognising the drawling accent as American.
Splutters of machine gun fire raged out from the aircraft, driving the last of the German attackers from the field of battle. The MEF soldiers cheered and waved at their saviours above while medics desperately rushed to save the wounded. Signalling at Corporal Brown to lead a team to the top of the ridge to secure the position, McCabe continued to watch the ships above. They swung back and forth, chasing the retreating enemy over the rocky Martian soil.
“This is Crewman Lockhart from the USAF North Carolina. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sergeant.”
“The North Carolina?” McCabe gasped. “That was our transport ship. I thought she was destroyed?”
“That’s a negative, Sergeant,” Crewman Lockhart replied. “She sure as hell got her guts torn out, and her engines are totalled, but she’s just about in one piece. She ain’t gonna be able to leave orbit, but we have communications, weapo
ns, and a shit tonne of these atmospheric troop transports left. They may look ugly, but they sure as hell pack a punch.”
The momentary flicker of hope at escaping Mars died with the crewman’s words. Shaking his head, McCabe rose to his feet and surveyed the ambushed convoy. The uninjured organised themselves into firing positions along the flanks of the damaged vehicles, and teams worked their way through the wreckage searching for survivors.
“Say, you gotta CO down there I can talk to?” Crewman Lockhart asked.
“Yes, Major Wellesley’s in overall command. I’ll get him now.”
“Don’t bother, friend,” Crewman Lockhart replied. “We’ve got these krauts on the run. I’m coming in.”
“Understood. McCabe out.”
He clicked off the comm channel, slung his Lee-Enfield, and began marching through the mass of MEF soldiers surrounding the convoy. He glanced up the ridge and spotted Corporal Brown directing his sections to sift through the debris and seize the high ground.
As he walked, McCabe nodded at the survivors and patted his fellow NCOs on the back. Reeling from the shock of the surprise attack, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette before realising he still wore his helmet.
Working his way through the destruction, he found Major Wellesley hunkered by a gutted transport, speaking into a portable long-range transmitter. The major looked up at McCabe and acknowledged his presence with a nod as he continued speaking into the handset. After a minute or two, he replaced the handset and stood.
“Sir, we’re in the process of securing the ridge and tending to the wounded. I should have a full list for you in the next few minutes. It looks like some of the Americans survived the attacks. I have a Crewman Lockhart on the way down to meet you.”
The major started walking and gestured at McCabe to follow. “Yes, I heard. We still haven’t been able to trace the source of the jamming, so it’s making long-range communication tricky, but I’ve managed to get through to Major General Hamilton. It looks like a small portion of the fleet survived the initial attack. The major general has also received reports that the Jewish inhabitants of New Berlin are in open rebellion against the Nazis. It is imperative that we reach the colony soon and render what assistance we can.” The major held up his hand and gazed into the sky.
One of the transports descended near the Allied convoy and made its way towards a flat piece of land under the watchful guns of the MEF defensive parameter. In silence, Major Wellesley made his way towards the craft as it began its landing procedure.
McCabe followed close behind, awestruck at the ferocious firepower and manoeuvrability of such an ungainly and hulking craft.
They paused amidst a group of soldiers, who trained their guns on the transport’s airlock door. The vessel landed with a thump on the hard, Martian soil. Within seconds, its massive engines turned quiet. Without waiting, Major Wellesley took a few steps forward. McCabe fell in beside his superior officer, keeping his Lee-Enfield at the ready, but he didn’t aim it at the Allied craft.
The airlock door slid open. A single figure jumped out and strolled towards them. Like the MEF soldiers, the pilot wore an EVA suit, except his was the red-and-black khaki they had trained with back at the Atacama Desert base in Chile.
Private Jenkins raised up a fuss over that fact, so McCabe lowered the sound volume on his platoon’s comm channel and continued on to meet the pilot.
Crewman Lockhart strode up to them and paused a metre away. His helmeted head moved from side to side as he studied McCabe and Major Wellesley.
“Sorry,” he mumbled in a high-pitched voice. “I don’t have a grasp on limey rank markings. Who do I salute?”
McCabe and Major Wellesley glanced at each other before returning their attention to the young American. Even behind his EVA helmet visor, he looked too young to be an Air Force pilot. His stature made him look childlike, not to mention the tone of his voice and uncertainty on military procedure.
“This is Major Wellesley,” he began, “and I’m Sergeant McCabe. You don’t salute in a warzone, lad. Gives the snipers something to aim at.”
“Snipers?” Crewman Lockhart gasped and hurled himself to the ground.
Again, McCabe and Major Wellesley glanced at one another before McCabe stepped forward and helped the crewman to his feet. “There’s no snipers actually here, but it’s better to keep the saluting to indoors. No offense, lad, but aren’t you a little young to be a pilot?”
Crewman Lockhart flashed a boyish grin from behind his visor as he dusted himself off.
“Caught me,” he said as he wiped grains of copper sand from his shoulders. “I’m fifteen years old. My pops brought me aboard as an engineering apprentice. He was a pilot and a damned good one at that. Taught me everything I know.” The young crewman grinned from ear to ear at the mention of his father, but after a brief pause, his smile faded. “He died. In the initial attack. I found him in the hanger bay with his head damn near blown off. He was trying to evacuate everyone when a console blew. The Germans killed him.”
Major Wellesley rested his hand on Lockhart’s shoulder and fired his razor-like glare at the young man. “I am very sorry for your loss, Crewman Lockhart, but what is the status of the fleet? Report now.”
“Yes, sir,” Lockhart said, looking up at the major and fidgeting with his hand as if considering saluting. “The fleet was almost totally wiped out. Only the USAF North Carolina and the USAF Ambrose Burnside held together, but they’re crippled beyond repair. We managed to maintain life support on the ships and brought as many survivors in from the escape pods and other ships as we could until we knew what to do next.”
“You said you had weapons back online,” he pressed. “Have you the ability to target enemy positions from orbit?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Lockhart replied with a hasty nod, “but Major General Hamilton instructed us not to unless specifically ordered by him. We have no hope of getting off this rock any time soon, so we need to take the Nazi colonies intact or we’re done for.”
“So, we’re back to square one,” McCabe said with an exasperated sigh. He faced the major. “I’ll have the lads pack up and prepare to move on. At least we have air support for the trek to New Berlin.”
Lockhart half snorted, half laughed, causing them to return their attention to him. He held up his hand as he chuckled to himself before straightening. “Begging your pardon, Sergeant, but you got more than air support. You got full air superiority.” He raised his thumb and jabbed it over his shoulder.
It took several moments of scanning the rough Martian terrain and seeing nothing unusual until McCabe lifted his gaze higher. Behind the young Airforce engineer-come-pilot a swarm of dots filled the Martian skyline. As the seconds passed, those dots raced closer and closer until he made out the outline of hundreds of similar transport craft darting towards them.
“We got more transports then we have pilots, so it may take longer than expected, but how about we give you boys a lift to New Berlin? Save all that trouble of getting ambushed again.”
A rare grin crossed Major Wellesley’s face. “I think we’d like that. Make it so, young Lockhart. Take us to the gates of New Berlin.”
FIELD COMMAND POST – OUTSIDE THE JEWISH GHETTO, NEW BERLIN COLONY
14.29 MST
DAY 1
Generalfeldmarschall Seidel took another drag on his cigarette as he examined the map in his hands. He shivered against the artificial cold that lingered in the air; a product of New Berlin’s weather control systems designed to mimic weather back in his long-lost homeland. Hunkering down in the hastily assembled field command post, he traced his hand along the map of New Berlin. Superimposing enemy locations in his mind, he tried to work out a coherent way of obliterating the Jewish insurrectionists once and for all.
At first, he thought the attacks happened to be nothing more than random outbursts by a few deranged individuals, timed to coincide with the arrival of British forces
on Mars. That alone raised his suspicions that they had contacted the Allies in advance. But as time wore on, he suspected this could be the product of a fine-tuned plan designed to inflict maximum damage on the under-strength garrison that struggled to keep a lid on the peace. Within an hour of the original incidents, ten more attacks took place across the colony, sending the already fearful German citizenry into blind panic. To make matters worse, they weren’t a bunch of deranged maniacs. The entire Jewish slave population had risen in revolt.
The underground ghettos, and even the small enclave where the more trustworthy Jewish labourers lived above ground, stood ablaze. Mobs of armed Jewish gangs had erected barricades, set up sniper posts, and prepared defensive positions in anticipation of the German counterattack. In some cases, ordinary German citizens had been assaulted, which caused the unnerved German civilian population to move from panic to pure outrange. In turn, they demanded action from the government, which remained silent. The mess lay in Seidel’s hands to clean up.
He stood, walked towards the tent flap, and took a step outside. Pulling his leather trench coat tight around him, he stared at the Jewish ghetto ahead and studied the German soldiers massing for an assault. Even with the full Wehrmacht garrison at his disposal, he needed far more soldiers for a counter-insurgency operation of this magnitude. And with Allied forces rapidly approaching the colony, he couldn’t help the feeling that he was doing exactly what the enemy wanted him to do.
As he watched his Wehrmacht soldiers jog about, setting up light machine guns and mortars, he gritted his teeth at the mismatched uniforms of the Volkssturm. Although some of the older men held experience from the last war, the young boys that filled the Volkssturm’s ranks appeared too eager for what was about to happen next. Even worse, the weapons and equipment they carried with them were woefully outdated. Seeing their substandard weapons, he had been forced to allow them to draw on the Wehrmacht’s ever-decreasing stores to supply them.
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