Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  CAPTAIN CHAINSAW

  Earth date: March 6, 1971—Martian year 192, Sol Mercurii, sol 3 of the Martian Month Taurus—sol of the Martian year 303

  I settled my clothes in the empty dresser and mounted my pistols on the wall next to my new bunk. I heard the door open and the man in the fishing picture greeted me. He was about six-feet tall with sandy-brown hair and brown eyes. He opened his mouth in a deep southern accent and said, “How ya doin’? I’m CPT Chainsaw.” I went to attention and saluted. He laughed. “This will get old real quick if you think that’s necessary in our quarters. At ease. You’re excused from saluting in here from now on, and never salute me in the field. Saluting in the field is called a sniper check. Understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good,” he said, extending his hand.

  “By the way, what’s your first name?”

  “Captain,” he replied with a gleam in his eye. “I believe my mamma named me Captain.”

  “So it isn’t encouraged to reveal much about your identity, I take it.”

  “Affirmative. That way if you’re captured by the Soviets, you can’t tell them anything. It will be my job to teach you everything I know and your job is to guard my six. I want to finish my four years, go home, get married, get fat, have a couple of kids and hunt or fish every weekend. Allowing me to get killed is a violation of a direct order. Got that?” I nodded an affirmative.

  “Good, we’ll be sticking closer than any family you’ve ever had. For you to keep me alive, I must keep you alive.” He spotted my pistols on the wall. “Nice colts.”

  “My grandfather’s, I wore them in Vietnam when I flew.” I took the box down, removed one of the pistols from the display case, and flipped open the cylinder out of habit. Finding it not loaded, I handed it to him.

  He inspected its nickel-plated finish, scrollwork and pearl handles admiringly and then handed the pistol back to me.

  “Any questions?”

  “What can you tell me about this place?”

  “Mars,” he began, “is a subject of many legends and myths. These are the facts. Mars has two moons, Deimos and Phobos, but they’re smaller than most cities, 12.6 and 22.2 kilometers, respectively. They’re so small you can’t see them as they pass overhead. I wouldn’t call them moons, they’re more like asteroids from the asteroid belt between here and Jupiter trapped in Mars’ gravity. They have no alloy-x as we have long picked them clean and they’re too small for posts.

  A Martian solar day or sol is 24 hours, 39 minutes and 35.244 seconds. They keep us on schedule by resetting the clock back to midnight thirty-nine minutes and thirty-five seconds after midnight. We go by the Darian calendar. A Darian month is twenty-eight days: every sixth month it is twenty-seven. The twenty-fourth month of the year, Vrishika, is twenty-eight days, except leap year. Days are referred to as sols here, but don’t get hung up on trying to change the whole English language. We still say yesterday, today and tomorrow. The sols of the week are Sol Solis, Sol Lunae, Sol Martius, Sol Mercurii, Sol Jovis, Sol Veneris, and Sol Saturni. A Martian year is 668.6 Martian solar days.”

  He stopped and smiled. “I hope you know if you signed up for a four-year tour it is 7.53 Earth years. Leaves are 3.57 years apart, Earth time.” He grinned at my shocked expression.

  “Just kidding. We go on the Martian calendar and day here, but your papers were signed on Earth, so your service is in Earth years.”

  “One question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “How do we keep track of that extra thirty-nine minutes and some odd seconds added to a day? I mean, we have to be able to keep time properly for mathematical calculations.”

  “Okay, the best way to explain it is this. Let’s say it’s twelve minutes after midnight. On Earth it would be referred to in military time as zero hundred twelve. Here is said to be twenty-four hundred twelve. Zero hundred doesn’t occur until after the extra 39 minutes, 35.244 seconds are added into the previous day. This keeps our time square with the Martian sol. Our computer programs adjust and keep accurate track of the time. However, if you get an Earth standard clock in your quarters, you must set it back 39 minutes, 35 seconds each night when you go to bed to keep it on time.”

  “So adding them after midnight gives us more time in the rack, or a longer work day?”

  “This is a hardship post and in the short time we’ve been here we’ve seen a high mortality rate. You might’ve noticed that there are no women here. They give us more rack time when they can to improve morale.

  Let me see, where was I? Oh yes, Martian gravity is only thirty-eight percent of Earth’s. You’ll need to exercise regularly in the exercise room that has corrected gravity to keep your heart strong. Mars is a cold place and a desert. You wouldn’t guess it by the pictures. The surface temperature can get down to -200 °F at the poles in winter and up to 68 °F at the equator during summer days but it isn’t typical. However, the air temperature rarely gets above 30 °F. There’s surface water that’s liquid in briny pools and ice patches, mostly where the Martian crust is broken by meteors making craters. The crust is broken and the underground water rushes out, only to have half of it quickly sublime away while the rest freezes. In almost all temperatures, the sublimation rate will cause the water to evaporate to salts and minerals. The two icecap-covered poles have a mixture of frozen water and carbon dioxide sandwiched between layers of dust, although the South Pole has more water ice than the North Pole. The water that sublimes around the globe winds up as snow over the poles.

  There are shallow pools of water underground close to the equator. This is one of the reasons we built our post here. The second reason is a more moderate climate than elsewhere. Last of all is position. Valles Marineris is to our back and a fracture system north of us which makes the enemy go through narrow canyons to get to us.

  Our main buildings are underground and heated. We have five wells on the post, which are under part of the complex to keep the water from freezing. The good part about the water here is it has no pollution or harmful microbial life in it, but we have to run it through a desalinization process to remove the peroxides and salts. The atmosphere is composed of ninety-seven percent carbon dioxide. The atmospheric pressure here is about what it is on Earth at twenty-two miles above the surface. For all practical purposes, it is a soft vacuum. We produce breathable air from peroxides that we extract and refine from Martian regolith. Our suits and the main buildings have carbon dioxide filtration systems, but we lose a little air when we open an air lock or take off a suit. Our production facilities make enough oxygen to make up for the loss.”

  “What’s our commander like?”

  “COL Squid was a green face on SEAL Team Two, as were LTC Exit Wound and MAJ SEAL. This is a Navy-only post. COL Squid teaches Okinawan karate classes to all pilots three times a week and it is mandatory that you train. He likes competitive games: running, boxing, karate and chess. He expects your best. If he challenges you to some contest, beat him if you can. If you throw a match to try sucking up, he’ll put you on crap detail for a month. Oh, by the way, COL Squid is back from maneuvers. He wants to see you in his office,” he said, grinning. “I’ll notify your next of kin. If and when you make it back, I’ll take you on a tour of the hangar deck and show you around.”

  “I’m not asking you your real name, but where did you serve?”

  He thought for a second. “I’m not going to be able to hide this from you, being my roommate and all.” Pulling his shirtsleeve up, he revealed a Seawolf tattoo from Det Four on his upper right bicep. I responded in kind by showing off my Seawolf tattoo. He smiled like a kid in a candy shop. “We’re going to get along just fine. In case you wondered why you got the invite to this party here, this place is run by SEALs, and they love the hell out of Seawolves.”

  I asked for directions and followed them to the post commander’s office. The outside door to the commander’s office led to COL Squid’s aide’s office, which served to keep anyone from bothering
the commander unless the business was specifically with him.

  “COL Squid is expecting you,” informed PVT Gray Eagle. The young private looked as though he may come into puberty any day now and ask someone to teach him how to shave. He had high cheekbones, dark eyes and hair: Choctaw or maybe Cherokee, I surmised.

  The inner door to the commander’s office was an oddity here, real polished oak with nice grain. I knocked on the door to hear, “Just a moment.” I heard a thunk sound hit the door.

  “Come on in,” beckoned the deep, resonant voice from within. I wasn’t entirely prepared for what I saw. The man before me was holding a four-foot long blowgun. He looked beyond me and pointed to the door. “Not bad, huh?”

  I turned toward the door and saw six blowgun darts stuck into a cork dartboard. All six darts were either in the center or very close. “Not bad,” I agreed. He motioned for me to retrieve the darts and try it. I did so and came nearly close to equaling his, to which he appeared pleased. CPT Chainsaw’s description of a man who likes to compete in games was accurate. Good to know my intel so far was straight.

  Before me was a very muscular man in his mid-thirties, about six-foot tall. From his accent, I suspected he was from the northeastern US, probably Maine. Dark brown eyes and short brown hair accented his square face and Greek nose. He met my gaze evenly, and then dropped his eyes to read something else. “Son, do you know why you’re here?”

  “I’ve heard some of what’s going on here.” He pointed to the picture on the wall showing a field of alloy-x scrap being gathered by some utility vehicles, guarded by tanks.

  “This is the reason we stay here. This resource is extremely precious and neither side is willing to let the other side have any of it. The rest of the space race is soon to be carried to other worlds, but we remain here. Just the alloy-x scrap that falls on Mars alone could cause the rise of the next superpower. We patriotically defend this planet and fight for every piece of scrap. We call it scrap because it is either pieces of the original Ktahrthian’s colonization vessel that exploded in space, or scraps of exploded tanks or other structures here. Any questions?”

  “Just when do I start?”

  “That’s the spirit.” He smiled at me as though I was his new best friend. I would learn later that though he was tough, he inspired men to follow him because he cared for them as if they were his sons. He looked down at the report in my file and looked up. “I personally handpicked you for this post from the recruiter’s list. As a Seawolf pilot, you had a good record, kept your nose clean, did your job and never let the other sailors down. I see your detachment flew support for SEAL Team One. In addition to the ribbons and medals you were previously awarded, you have also been “posthumously” awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross,” he said, with an easy smile and glint in his eye. “That was one hell of an engagement. It takes a lot to impress me. That’s what brought you here.” He handed me the medal. “I think we’ll get along fine. The inventory of your personal stuff has listed a pair of Colt forty-five pistols. Do they have sentimental value or are they tools only?”

  “Both, I used to wear them over my zoom bag and they were my grandfather’s.”

  “Can you shoot?”

  “I’m not as good as my grandfather, but I like to think I’m ok,” I said, frowning a bit.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “MAJ Callahan let me have my pistols but wouldn’t let me bring any shells.”

  He smiled at the mention of the major. “MAJ Carnage made a name for himself on Luna. He is the one who “killed you” with a rubber stamp.” But shells are not a problem.” He opened his desk and handed me the three boxes of shells I had to give up to MAJ Callahan. “I want to see you shoot. If you’re any good, I’ll order you all the shells you can shoot. Oh, and I suppose you’ll want this,” he said as he handed me my parents’ and grandparents’ pictures. Then he presented me with a box and bade me open it. It was leather-bound King James Bible. “Church services are Sol Mercurii at nineteen hundred, Sol Solis at zero nine hundred and nineteen hundred. Karate classes are at eighteen hundred on Sols Lunae, Mercurii and Saturni.”

  “Sir, is that an order, sir?”

  “The karate classes, yes. But you shouldn't have any trouble with that. You are listed as being a first-degree black belt in Keichu-Ryu Karate. I've heard of that style. You will be expected to share your style with us. We follow Bruce Lee’s philosophy of adapting what is useful, rejecting what is useless and adding what is specifically our own, so that our style is continually evolving. SGT Samurai shares Aikido techniques with us.

  As for the church services… no, it is not mandatory. But, I’d be disappointed if you died not knowing God. Everyone here has the freedom of religion. But true courage and wisdom comes from God above.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be attending both.”

  “Excellent! Now, I suppose you would like to know what’s expected of you. You’re to be CPT Chainsaw’s shadow from now on. As wingman your primary responsibility is protecting him and performing any mission duties that you’re assigned. Keeping him alive is a direct order. Do not disobey this order! I have lost eight pilots in the two months we’ve been here. If you survive until the end of your four-year tour, you will no doubt be on my senior staff, or offered a job as an instructor back home.”

  After being dismissed I found CPT Chainsaw back at our quarters.

  “Okay, it’s time for the tour. Do you intend to wear those pistols outside of your space suit?”

  “If it’s practical, and doesn’t cause me any issues, yes.”

  “I see you got some shells. Well, load your pistols and bring them with you.”

  After I loaded my colts, he took me to the hangar deck, where he gave me a tour of our equipment and gear.

  “You have three weapons once you’re outside of your ship, the sniper rifle, your service revolver, and your combat knife. The sniper rifle is a scoped, bolt-action Winchester .308. We’ll be spending a lot of time making sure you are proficient in that. Your standard issue revolver is a .357 Colt, but you can use any revolver you like. Semiautomatics jam too easy because of all of Mars’ ever present dust, so we don't use them. Finally, this is your combat knife.”

  I was unimpressed as he showed it to me. It was just a double-edged knife with a five-inch blade. “I’ve seem bigger knives in ‘Nam.” He unsheathed it, walked over to an old flight suit that had failed safety inspection and sliced the oxygen hose off of the helmet, then cut a slash in the suit. He tapped his head with his finger, indicating I should use my head.

  “You don’t have to stab anyone here.”

  “Understood.”

  “The Martian environment is harsh and unforgiving. Mars demands respect and will try real hard to kill you. Always keep that in mind. This is your flight suit. It is designed just like a spacesuit as it has to keep you warm, provide air and maintain the proper pressure inside. It will take a while to get accustomed to walking in it. The center of gravity is on the outside of your body now instead of your body-center. This suit is very resistant to rips and punctures, but it isn’t perfect. Don’t let your flight suit get ripped. Your flight suit has hot patch kits in your left sleeve pocket, and it is imperative you fix a leak quickly. If you get shot, the wound isn’t your first concern, patching the hole is. You have to get a hot patch from your utility pocket or your suit will start the decompression process. You will suffer great pain in a matter of seconds. Getting a case of the bends isn’t pleasant, I assure you. With complete decompression of your suit, your mucous membranes and surface fluids in your eyes, nose and lungs will boil, and you’ll experience severe abdominal pain from trapped gas pockets in your intestines.

  Being gunshot is another story. Your suit has packets next to your skin. If punctured, these packets release medicine that kills pain, stops bleeding, and fights infection. Nothing can stop an alloy-x sniper bullet, though. A surgeon will have to get the bullet out if the wound isn’t fatal.”

  “Will I
die if my suit decompresses and I can’t patch it?”

  “Yes. Your suit decompresses in about fifteen seconds. Then you develop the bends, fall into unconsciousness and suffocate, long before you freeze to death. Did they teach you how to use a hot patch in basic training?”

  “Sure.”

  “Suit up.” After I was fully suited up, he helped me strap my pistols on over my flight suit. He retrieved a stopwatch from around the neck of a mannequin that was wearing an old flight suit. Before I knew what was happening, he unsheathed one of my pistols, and fired three shots into the mannequin. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM! I was a bit stunned that he took such liberties with my piece. But as I was to learn later, the captain felt that important lessons needed to be visual and action oriented.

  “Now, show me. Show me. Our lives depend upon it. You must be able to apply the patch quickly. Here, grab this bag full of patches, and we’ll practice on this old suit until I’m satisfied that you can do it right and quickly.” He motioned for me to demonstrate how to apply the patch.

  I pulled out a number three hot patch. It had a clear backing that I had to peel off to activate the chemicals heating up the adhesive on the side. The peel-off backing protruded an inch past the patch to make it easier for a pilot with bulky spacesuit gloves to handle it. I had the patch securely applied in eighteen seconds.

  “I regret to inform you that your son was killed in the line of duty for being too slow! We will be here all day if we have to, until you get it down to ten seconds or less.” It didn’t take all day. I got my speed down to nine seconds within fifteen minutes. He continued with my orientation.

  “After you patch the hole you must send an encrypted distress signal before you lose consciousness. This helps your rescuers get to you before the Soviets do, and to get you medical attention. There’s very little atmosphere here. When ejecting away from the battlefield if your tank starts to blow, you have retrorocket boots that have just enough fuel to let you drift to the ground.