Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  The helmet and suit maintain air pressure and help heat or cool you. We use a closed-circuit rebreather to breathe. The parts of the unit are a sealed facemask, a counterlung, a breathing bag and a carbon dioxide scrubber. You breathe through a sealed face mask inside of the helmet. When you exhale, the carbon dioxide is redirected to a carbon dioxide scrubber tank. If we didn’t have this setup, your only hope would to be rescued by the Americans or captured by the Soviets before your air runs out. If your suit is torn and you can’t patch it, your partner can help you before your suit decompresses. If no American is present and the Soviets are, it is preferable to be captured than to die from the bends. This isn’t a good idea, but it beats death. All prisoners are examined thoroughly. They may not know your real name, but they will fingerprint you, record your voice, x-ray your teeth, take a DNA sample and weigh and measure you. You’ll be catalogued to the last detail. It is good not to let that happen. It is best not to get captured, but it is better than death. Don’t give up any information about us. We will have a few bits of disinformation to give them in case you’re captured. We have an accord with the Soviets for prisoner exchanges, but sometimes they kill pilots instead. Sometimes it is a judgment call as to whether a pilot is killed in a battlefield situation or captured.

  Oh, and you’re going to love this piece of equipment.” He grinned like a jackass eating saw briers and held up what looked like an adult diaper. We hadn’t had to wear them on the flight over because there was a proper head on the shuttle. When he saw that the idea of wearing my own excrement disgusted me, the captain gave me an amused look. It brought to mind the hazing we’d given new Seawolf pilots, and I realized the shoe was on the other foot, now. You may get accustomed to it, but trust me, you’ll never like it.” I rolled my eyes and wondered if there was a way avoid getting caught on missions taking a dump in my astronaut skivvies.

  “Oh, and another thing, you’ll probably collect sand and fine dust in the joints of your suit, if you get out of your ship. It is mandatory to vacuum all of dust off of you when you enter an airlock and come into the buildings. The dust here is ultra-fine and gets into the bloodstream if inhaled, which isn’t healthy.

  A radio inside your helmet allows you to communicate with your fellow Americans. The speakers are in your helmet and the microphone is inside your rebreather mask and both are wireless. While you are flying, if you don’t receive a transmission or speak, you can listen to music from your ship’s music program.”

  “What if I decide to sing along?”

  “The music shuts off.”

  “Okay, I guess communication is the most important thing.”

  “Correct. To continue… There’s a voice-activated feature to switch to a common channel to talk with the Soviets if you need to. We’ll have to tweak the adjustments when you get suited up or you’ll get echo and feedback. Your helmet is very abrasive resistant and will withstand sand blasting from blowing dust and sand. Dust devils will kill you if one hits you while you’re outside of your ship. They’re often as tall as fifty kilometers and your space suit isn’t able to stand up to the abrasive effect of basaltic sand at high velocities. We’ve lost scientists and pilots to dust devils. They usually occur when Mars reaches perihelion, which starts dust storm season. The dust storms can be global sometimes and reach two hundred miles per hour and we’re unable to predict them. If it gets bad enough we’ll all get grounded until the storm is over.

  The sector we’re in is referred to the Tharsis Plain, which has four very large inactive volcanoes and the Martian Grand Canyon, Valles Marineris. The area where we’re located is mostly a “young” basaltic lava surface covered with sand and dust from a few centimeters to a hundred meters thick. We have some sand dunes here. The wind seems to be constantly changing the surface of the planet.”

  “Are we at war with the Soviets year round?”

  “Our treaty with the Soviets gives us a cease-fire on Christmas, May Day, Thanksgiving, October Revolution Day, USSR Constitution Day, the Fourth of July and New Year’s Day. The first two cease fires we’ve had were this month, USSR Constitution Day was October 7th, and October Revolution Day was October 25th. Wouldn't you know it that the Soviets would get the honor of the first two cease fire days?”

  “What did you do with your cease fire time?”

  “I went sightseeing with 2LT Kestrel to the four main shield volcanoes, including Olympus Mons, the tallest mountain in our solar system.”

  “2LT Kestrel died this month?”

  “Last week,” he said quietly.

  I saw he wasn’t in the mood to talk about his old wing man’s death, so I changed the subject. “What other duties do we have besides fighting the Soviets?”

  “We have scientists in teams at various locations around the globe, but they’re not armed or escorted, as the treaty puts geological and scientific studies as nonmilitary. However, archaeological digs aren’t protected. Should one of our geological surveys unearth what would be classified as an archaeological dig for alien technology, the gloves are off. We aggressively fight for any alien technology we can find. Once in a while you may get called to help defend an archaeological dig or act as a military escort for some scientists coming back from regions around the globe.

  The backbone of the Soviet fighting force here is the Stalin, a tank like the American Grizzly you flew at the Academy. Its forward speed is 27.94 meters per second, slightly one-half mile an hour faster than ours. However, the Grizzly is slightly more maneuverable than the Stalin. In short, we’re built to fight, not to run. However, having said that, the ever-present dust on Mars can be your friend if you’re being pursued. Your exhaust jets kick up a dust cloud behind you similar to running a car over a dusty road and it gets difficult to pursue you closely. Your dust trail also marks your trail from a distance. If their satellites pick up your dust trail and enemy ships are ahead of you, they can send a dispatch to cut you off. We fly as a group in a flying v formation, to keep the dust out of your fellow pilots visual and radar.” He opened one of the lockers and handed me a sniper rifle. “This will be yours; it belonged to my old wingman, 2LT Kestrel. His plaque is in the memorial room. I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t receive that same honor.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Defending me.” He became thoughtful and added, “He gave his life for mine, and I’d have done the same for him.”

  He took me down to the quartermaster and got me fitted out with all the gear I needed. Afterward he took me out on a short run in our tanks close to the post and started teaching me how to do coordinated moves with him in order for us to work together on the battlefield. He worked with me every day for a month. I was not allowed on patrol until I was familiar with how the units worked together and in particular, how I was to work with him. He taught me how to use the exhaust jets of my engine to kick up the sand and dust behind me to my advantage. Dust and sand were everywhere. Our hovertanks reminded me of my dad’s old ‘54 Chevy pickup driving down a dusty road, leaving a trail of dust behind us as it went along. I was just young enough to enjoy kicking up clouds of dust and became quite good at using this to my advantage on the battlefield. I also had to spend three hours each day for a month learning how to use a sniper rifle on Mars. True to his word, COL Squid got me some forty-five shells for my colts and I spend a lot of time target-practicing with them.

  The old-timers of this station had only been here three months. Even so, they were the experienced ones. I became CPT Chainsaw’s shadow. I learned to fight side-by-side, back-to-back and never wander off or let the enemy draw me away from his side. He spent every waking hour teaching me the ways of an ASDC pilot. He instructed me at meals, after hours in our quarters and every opportunity in between. I studied his every move and came to predict even when he would turn left or right. I knew what he would do next in battle just by observing the situation. This enabled me to be just where he needed me. When my presence was beginning to irritate CPT Chainsaw, he would tell
me to go play. I’d go shoot basketball, watch TV or play cards with 2LT Ricochet and the other junior pilots.

  The first six months were hard on the junior pilots. Lieutenants Phantom, Joker, Hitchhiker and Rain Cloud were all killed in skirmishes, followed by solemn services and plaques on the memorial room wall. A sniper bullet shattered 1LT Night Hawk’s hip socket. After a hip replacement, he still wasn’t able to pass his fitness exam for a pilot, so he rejoined us as legal counsel. Only half of the pilots I came to Mars with survived the first six months.

  Combat provided more opportunities for promotion for the survivors, and the colonel was pleased to promote both Ricochet and me to first lieutenant. Richochet became LTC Exit Wound’s wingman to replace 1LT Night Hawk.

  It was Earth year 1973, March 12. Being a “greenhorn” doesn’t last long here. I had survived two years of combat missions (twice as long as I was an active duty Seawolf pilot) and went home on leave. 2LT Stone Cold had died two months before his first leave. Of the eight pilots that I had arrived with, only Lieutenants Ricochet, Grim Reaper and I were still alive to go on our first leave. Grim Reaper had plans of his own. He wanted to stay the entire time at Miami Beach, lie in the sun and chase women. Ricochet and were both Vietnam combat pilots, and had spent two more years fighting the Soviets on Mars. We visited several symbols of American liberty: Mount Rushmore, the Statue of Liberty, the Lincoln Memorial, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Arlington National Cemetery, and Congress and Senate in session. Last but not least—we went to a Yankees–Red Sox game.

  Finally, it was time to call my brother Roger. At first he thought the call was a cruel hoax from someone who opposed the war. He had attended my closed casket funeral. I had to tell him the story about how he got the scar on his right shoulder before he believed me. Then I apologized again about that one; honestly, it was an accident.

  Understanding that I was not permitted to meet him in Alexandria, he agreed to meet us in New Orleans for three days of deep-sea fishing. Ricochet and I spent time with Roger and his two sons, which we promised to do every time we came back. It was understood that Roger and the boys couldn’t ask what I’d been doing. I let them know that it was honorable service to our country, and that I could say no more.

  Soke Marx met us in New Orleans at a friend’s dojo for a week of Keichu-Ryu training. This would become my practice on every leave home. He was impressed with my cross-training in Aikido and Okinawan Karate and by the end of the week promoted me to second degree black belt in Keichu-Ryu.

  We still had enough time left to meet Grim Reaper at Miami Beach for a week of girl chasing. I had some laughs but didn’t keep any phone numbers or addresses. Beth had taught me a lesson about long-distance relationships. I had nothing to offer since I was going back to Mars.

  On November 19, 1973; in a joint effort, both Ricochet and I got a battlefield promotion to captain for saving COL Squid from a sniper. Tobias couldn’t resist the joke, so he changed his call sign to “Kangaroo.”

  I followed my orders to the letter, and in the Earth year 1975 I saw MAJ Chainsaw to the transport freighter home. I became MAJ SEAL’s wingman when 2LT Dust-off bought it.

  It was November of 1975 and leave time again. Kangaroo, Grim Reaper and I had survived thus far. It was also decision time. We would have to declare at the end of our leave if we were returning or processing out. The three of us would make that decision later. We all decided to take our leave together. First we trained with Soke Marx for three days and then we fished with my brother and his sons for another three days. Ricochet had sold us on going to Alabama to turkey hunt. ASDC’s planners helped us to book a hunt which included a lodge, equipment, licenses, and a guide. All three of us tagged out with nice, fat gobblers. I had my bird deep-fried, southern-style, packed on dry ice and ready to take back with me. Time was short, but we made it to Miami and chased girls for a few days before driving non-stop back to Utah. We all re-enlisted.

  The fourteenth day of the month of Kumbha in the Martian spring, Earth year 1976 became a turning point in my career. When a sniper killed MAJ Headache, I was promoted to major and got my own wingman, CPT Grim Reaper. Later that year I lost my first wingman and friend to a sniper. This weighed heavily on my heart. During my whole tour in Vietnam, not one of my crew so much as received a purple heart. Of the pilots that I arrived on Mars with, only Kangaroo and I were still alive. I started having bad dreams from time to time, usually triggered by the death of one of my fellow pilots.

  I got my new wingman, 1LT Dutchman, straight out of Naval Aviation Top Gun School. I was now accustomed to the routine. Other than the high mortality rate, this felt like home. My wingman and I tuned into each other and were in sync almost from the start. We had Vietnam service in common. He had flown an F-14 Tomcat off of the USS Constellation providing air support for Operation Frequent Wind, the evacuation of Saigon. He sported a tattoo on his upper right arm of a tomcat with a holster and pistol, one of the patches of the VF-2 Bounty Hunters. We had several shared interests: martial arts, chess, fencing, and baseball. To my relief, I was able to keep this wingman alive.

  In the Martian spring during the month of Makara, Earth year 1978, it was time for my third leave. Usually MAJ SEAL did not take leave at the same time that I did. He had been unable to go on leave for the last three months because of orbital alignment issues, so he was going on leave with Kangaroo and me. We headed for New Orleans to meet Soke Marx for advanced keichu-ryu karate training and then a little fishing with my brother in the Gulf.

  We had an open invitation to stay at my pen pal, Warren Hard’s farm in Lebanon, MO., and we stayed with them overnight on the way to New Orleans. The three of us were more than welcome, and his wife Gladys cooked up country heaven. Considering all of the soy and fish we’d been eating for two years: roast beef, mashed potatoes, Dutch apple pie and cold goat’s milk was going to be the talk of our return trip home. The next day we said our goodbyes and headed south.

  We spent the second week of our leave with Soke Marx and the third week with my brother fishing in the Gulf of Mexico. MAJ SEAL left us after the fishing trip to go visit his family in the Chuska Mountains on Navajo Nations land. His mother still lived in a hogan next to his Grandmother Mary, Uncle George and Aunt Elsie Mae.

  We didn’t want to go to Miami Beach to chase girls, so we stayed in New Orleans. Grim Reaper’s death was still on our minds, and we didn’t want to think about it. New Orleans was a great place to meet beautiful and interesting women. Even so, I still elected not to keep any addresses or phone numbers. We spent the rest of our leave in New Orleans, enjoyed the music, the food, and the ladies until we had to go back. As usual, it was over all too soon, and we reported back to the Academy to fly back to Mars.

  Once home, I settled back into the familiar. I thanked God that my wingman was still alive, which was how I aimed to keep him. On the sixth day of the Martian month Sagittarius, Earth year 1979, LTC Exit Wound was offered his own command on Europa when a sniper killed COL El Tigre. He accepted, and MAJ SEAL was promoted to lieutenant colonel.

  The Martian summer, Earth year 1979 brought more changes. COL Squid was shot out of his tank in a fierce battle and was finished off by a sniper before we could come to his aid. LTC SEAL was promoted to full-bird colonel and made post commander. I was called into his office and promoted to light colonel. COL SEAL’s wingman, CPT Kangaroo was promoted to major and decided the joke was over and reverted back to Ricochet.

  I became COL SEAL’s friend and right-hand man. He was a Navajo and proud of his uncle, who’d been a Marine Corps Code Talker. He didn’t approve of ragging on marines. He was a tall, muscular man, with thick dark black hair, high cheekbones and dark eyes—a man of action, but also a deep thinker. I resolved that I would remain his executive officer and serve here as long as COL SEAL remained post commander.

  BLAZE

  LTC Cowboy sat down at his computer desk with a cup of tea, steam rising from the cup, filling his senses with the pleasing
aroma. Being a command officer now allowed him more bulk shipping of luxury items, like his special blend of tea: black pekoe and black currant, with a touch of cinnamon. Loneliness can affect men differently. Cowboy needed the company or correspondence of country folk to help him set his anchor. He accessed his digital writing stylus and pad, and began to write a letter. The apparatus converted his script to digital format as he wrote. When completed, he would hit send, transmitting the letter to ASDC HQ on Earth, where a machine would recreate the letter using a pen, adjusting pressure to match the original, giving the illusion that it had been written here and not 225 million kilometers across space. He carefully finished his letter to Warren and Gladys Hard of Lebanon, MO. Officially, LTJG Eugene J. Bordelon was long dead. At any rate, in correspondence and on leave back on Earth, he was now CMDR Eugene J. Martin, complete with military papers and a driver’s license that could pass scrutiny should he ever be challenged. He used the cover story of serving abroad in the U.S. Navy, thanking them for their hospitality on his previous trip through on his last leave. Once he had ended all of the “safe” small talk that he was allowed to share with outsiders, he addressed the envelope and hit the send button. The ASDC mail clerk would print his hand-written letter and envelope, put the proper APO stamp on the envelope and mail it.

  The man in bibbed overalls and a flannel shirt surveyed the sky for signs of rain. He needed a little, or that last hay crop before winter wouldn’t amount to much. This would drive up the cost of feed, and cause the local farmers to sell off more of their cattle than they would like. Farming was sometimes called gambler’s ruin, meaning that if you stayed at it long enough you would eventually lose. A wise farmer managed his finances to cover bad times, and prayed that the bad times didn’t last very long. Warren Hard had already seen a couple of his neighbors lose the gamble, borrowing too much against what they owned, and not having anything in reserve against a rainy day. His father had so drilled into him the laws of sound financial management that he had survived where others had failed. He had been to too many bank auctions lately. There was no pleasure in these auctions; they were the bones of his friend’s dreams. He bought from them what he needed, but felt guilty about it.