Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  One of his friend’s wild dreams was to raise wolves for sale. There was an emerging market he said, for wolf-hybrids. He had kept the pure male wolf in a pen to breed his malamute bitch when she came in season. Before he could get the prescribed permit to keep the animal, the wolf dug out of the pen and escaped into the woods. The neighbors were nervous about a wolf near their stock and and kept their rifles close. It wasn’t winter yet, and the wolf apparently was getting enough rabbits and small game. So far no one had reported any livestock killed. Today Warren was attending his bank auction: like the man’s other dreams, vanished like a vapor in the wind under the auctioneer’s oaken gavel. He picked up a hay rake for three hundred and fifty dollars. One more family farm ruined from poor management.

  Warren removed the ball hitch on his pickup truck, slid the rake hitch over the hole, aligned the three holes, and dropped the pin through it. He finished it up by fixing the clip through the bottom pin hole to keep it from popping out if he hit a bump somewhere. Next, he took the rake out of gear so that the rake wouldn’t turn when the wheels did as he drove it down the road. He reached in the back of his pickup bed and grabbed a triangle sign and affixed it to the rear of his new purchase. Finally, he climbed into the truck and took it slow going home, driving with the rake partially off the road and to the right to make sure he gave enough room for vehicles to pass him if needed.

  Farmer Hard had given up raising goats and now had only cattle, horses, a chicken house and two hundred acres of hay. However, there was one last cash asset from the goat business: Princess, his great pyrenees bitch which he intended to breed to sell puppies to goat herders. She was in season now—the intended suitor would be brought in the day after tomorrow, and she was safely penned up.

  Warren turned on the radio to his favorite station. “It’s partly cloudy with a twenty percent chance of rain today, high of fifty-nine degrees with a low tonight of forty-two. Tomorrow is going to be a little warmer with a high of seventy degrees, and a low in the night of forty-six. You are listening to “The Coyote,” 107.9 FM in Lebanon, MO.” Warren listened to the radio and sang along with Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson.

  “She’s a good hearted woman

  in love with a good timin’ man.

  And she loves him in spite of his ways

  that she don’t understand.

  And through teardrops and laughter

  they’ll pass though this world hand in hand.

  Now this good hearted woman

  in love with her good timin’ man.”

  He turned onto the dirt road to his farm and drove past his mailbox. His two working dogs, Cocoa and Missy greeted him with excited barks. Farmer Hard backed his newly acquired purchase up to the fence and unhooked it from the truck. Finally, he hopped out and removed the triangle sign from the back and placed it behind his truck seat.

  His wife Gladys was walking out of the front door of the farmhouse with a hot casserole dish in a cloth carrier. She placed the dish in the back seat of her car and waved at her husband. He waved back and smiled.

  “I’m taking this casserole dish over to Cheryl’s. I haven’t seen the baby yet, so I expect I will be a while. I’ll be back in time to make supper.”

  “Have a good visit. I’m going to take the dogs and move the herd into the back pasture.”

  Gladys waved goodbye and climbed into the driver’s seat, strapped on her seatbelt and drove down the dirt road to the paved highway, leaving a cloud of dust behind her.

  Warren finished up with the cattle, put both dogs in the back of the pickup and drove back to the house. As he drove up, he saw a gray-haired canine moving away from Princess’ pen toward the woods. The dogs clamored to give chase, but he held them back, fearing the wolf might kill them both. He walked to the pen and saw a hole dug under the fence. He felt his face flushed red with anger, cursed under his breath, and after he calmed down, realized that there was nothing he could do about it. What’s done is done, he thought. There goes the profit from breeding and selling pure-bred herd dogs. He called a man that he knew of in the next county who raised wolf-hybrids.

  “Hello, Albert Smucker speaking.”

  “Hi, my name is Warren Hard over in Lebanon. I understand you sell wolf-dogs.”

  “I do. I have a permit for full-bred wolves which I use as breeding stock for malamute, husky and German shepherd crosses. Are you interested in a pup?”

  “Well, not exactly. My great pyrenees bitch has gotten herself pregnant by a wolf that got loose from a neighbor’s farm. I was wondering if such a cross would be worth anything to anyone.”

  “Not really. The desirable breeds to cross with a wolf were those that looked somewhat wolf-like already, pointed ears, wolf shaped body, that sort of thing. You will probably have to give them away.”

  “Would you be interested in the pups yourself?”

  “I can’t say as I would.”

  “Well, I thank you for your time. Have a nice day.”

  “You, too.”

  That evening Warren wrote a letter to his navy pen pal, with all of the usual talk of needing rain, much hay he expected to buy this winter if he didn’t have enough. He shared about the accidental breeding of his Princess with the wolf, and how it would cost him a pretty penny.

  LTC Cowboy returned his letter, advising that he was sorry about the turn of events, but told him he would buy a pup at the pure-bred price. He only wanted to make sure that the pup was of the color of the mother, and if it had yellow eyes, so much the better. When the time came he would have someone from the Navy pick the pup up and pay him.

  When the pups were weaned, the farmer chose a girl from the litter for his pen pal, being the only one who was both white and had yellow eyes. An ASDC officer posing as a navy officer came to the farm, paid Warren and put the little white ball of fur in a pet carrier for her trip to the Academy and ASDC spaceport in Utah. He relinquished his charge to CPT Ripsnort, shuttle commander of the Odyssey. The captain took to the pup immediately, placing her bed on the bridge. When he was through with one of his stacks of newspapers, he rolled it out on the floor to train the young pup. It was a bit ironic. The stack of newspapers that he had was supposed to be delivered to LTC Cowboy: The Boston Globe, The Times Picayune, the New York Times, The Los Angeles Times and The Chicago Tribune. Mars’ executive officer liked to read the print, even though it was three months old by the time he got it. He looked at the stack. Yup, he thought. By the time he got to Mars, he would be out of newspaper and the dog would be housebroken.

  The captain doted over the pup, feeding her, grooming her, training her and cuddling her on the three month trip to Mars. As the shuttle got closer to Mars, the captain began to prepare himself for the inevitable separation from his new pup to her rightful owner. He couldn’t help but regard her as his own and she adored him. She had been in his care longer than in her own mother’s.

  The pup read the body language of her transitional master. She had no way to know that their relationship was to be short-lived. He was regarded by this “pack” as the alpha male. His relationship with her was different than it was with other members of the pack. The captain didn’t hug, play with, groom, pet or feed the other members of the pack. His tone when talking to her was that of endearment, but with the others is was different. She had no language in which to frame her thoughts of their relationship. She knew that the alpha male favored her as special. and in the world of wolves and men, favor was understood and felt.

  The trip was coming to an end. As Mars grew closer in his viewer, the captain rationalized that a shuttle was no place for a dog, wolf or whatever she was anyway. The post would have a lot more room, and a dog needed some open space, he told himself.

  The Odyssey acquired an orbit around the planet named for the god of war, and the captain keyed his mike. “Camp Freedom, this is CPT Ripsnort of the shuttle Odyssey requesting permission to land.”

  “We read you, Odyssey. Permission granted.”

  “Roge
r that, bringing her down.”

  The Odyssey broke orbit and descended amidst a shower of sparks on the vessel’s heat shield. The captain kept an eye on his external and internal heat sensors, and watched his angle of descent very carefully. The post at first was a small dot, and then grew in size, looming larger as the shuttle grew nearer. The captain lowered his landing gear and slowly cut the power to his engines to manage the “fall” of his vessel to the ground. The shuttle landed, and the aircraft conveyer moved the freighter through the transitional airlocks, and then into the freighter hangar.

  LTC Cowboy had been informed of the shuttle’s arrival and was waiting at the shuttle dock. Several pilots made their way down the loading ramp carrying duffle bags. For some of the pilots this was their final destination; others would layover here until the shuttle was finished with routine maintenance and refueled, and then continue to their posts. Finally, CPT Ripsnort descended down the loading ramp with his duffle bag over one shoulder and a white ball of fur cradled against his chest. The post’s executive officer greeted him.

  “She any trouble on the trip?” Cowboy queried him.

  “Only trouble is giving her up. We’ve become quite close. You’ll find she’s house-trained, good-natured and probably the smartest animal I’ve ever met. Hadn’t gotten her to heel yet—but she does sit and lay down when I tell her to. I had to eject your newspapers out of the airlock with the rest of the garbage.” Cowboy nodded that this was an acceptable price for her care, studied the captain and thought about asking for his pup, then reconsidered. The captain was still holding the pup, hoping perhaps that Cowboy would tell him to go ahead and keep her.

  “Thank you, captain.” Cowboy could see that parting with her was hard on the man. “Tell you what. You don’t leave until morning for Titan, and I have afternoon patrol to go on in five minutes. Keep her with you and bring her to my quarters for supper. I’ll feed her well and when she goes to sleep you can slip off. That way the anxiety of changing masters will be lessened. She’ll simply wake up and you’ll be gone.”

  The captain was relieved that he had the rest of afternoon to say goodbye. “What time?”

  “Nineteen hundred.”

  “Very good, we’ll be there.”

  At nineteen hundred sharp, man and dog arrived at Cowboy’s quarters, with her bed, food and water dishes, and her chew toys. Cowboy loved to cook; when he wanted to show favor or gratitude, he always cooked his guest the finest meal that he could. Tonight he was cooking the last three steaks in his freezer. Meat was a precious commodity; it had to be imported from Earth. He also added some not so rare, but hard to get baked potatoes and some salad greens that were plentiful from the greenhouse. Captain Ripsnort’s affinity for apple pie and a good cup of coffee was well-known, so some favors from the mess sergeant were called in to round out the meal.

  “Here, let me have those,” Cowboy said, taking the pup’s items and placing the food and water dishes on the kitchenette floor, and the bed and toys in the small living room. He took his t-shirt off and placed it in her bed to help get them acquainted. Cowboy disappeared into his bedroom and grabbed another shirt. Returning, he motioned to the man to let the dog down to wander. The pup walked around, sniffing each item in the small living room. Satisfied by her inspection and soothed by soft music from the stereo, she settled down with one of her rubber chew toys.

  Cowboy placed two salads on the table and motioned the captain to have a seat while he checked the oven to see if the baked potatoes were done. Not quite, he decided, and closed the oven door.

  “How do you like your steak?”

  “Medium rare.”

  “Well, then, this one is done. I like mine to stop breathing first,” he chuckled. “Does the pup have a name?”

  “I’ve been calling her Blaze.”

  “Why?”

  “My daddy owns a horse ranch. When there is a streak of white on the head of a horse, it’s called a blaze. With her being white all over, it suited her.”

  “I see. Then Blaze she shall remain.”

  Finally, the last steak was grilled to suit Cowboy. He arranged the steak and potatoes on the two plates, cut the third steak into pieces and placed it in Blaze’s food dish. He brought the bowl into the living room, and held it up for her inspection. She took an immediate interest.

  “Come, Blaze.” She followed him to the kitchen, and submitted to being petted and talked to while she ate. Cowboy took it as a good sign, washed his hands in the sink and joined the captain. Dinner was a time of sharing news of both Mars and other posts, and sure enough—Blaze curled up on Cowboy’s shirt and fell asleep.

  Captain Ripsnort finally arose to leave and looked evenly into Cowboy’s eyes. “Take care of “my dog”.”

  “I certainly will. You are welcome to spend time with her every time you come through.”

  “Thank you.” He took one last look at the sleeping bundle and went back to his guest quarters.

  MAJOR NORSEMUN

  The alarm clock gave its irritating report—its buzzing sound designed to rouse even the most resistant from slumber. Its horrible noise could be used to interrogate victims into revealing state secrets. Cowboy hit the snooze button, rolled over on his left side and buried his face into the pillow. His consciousness was slowing climbing the stairway from deep REM sleep to fully awake. He had purposely set his alarm clock to go off ten minutes earlier than he wished to get up, preferring a slow journey from the world of dreams to the world of reality. The second alarm intruded into his dream world. He hit the snooze again and quickened his pace up the staircase to consciousness. His eyelids opened to survey the clock’s time and gauge how much time sack time he had left. Three more minutes, he told himself, and closed his eyes and rolled over. The sleek and quiet figure climbed up into his bed and crawled to the head beside him. The white wolf-dog pup nuzzled and licked the man’s sleepy face, and he opened his eyes in wide-awake surprise. Recognition dawned upon him. He cradled Blaze into his arms, attempting to keep his wake-up routine. The alarm clock signaled its obnoxious sound for the third and final time.

  Cowboy opened his eyes fully, and the pup licked his face again.

  “Well good morning, Miss Blaze.” The pup wagged her tail and washed his face some more with her wet, pink tongue. “We definitely have to do something about your morning breath.” He picked her up in his arms, regarding the taste in his mouth, and realized he was the one with “doggy breath.” The man put the dog down, used the head, washed his face and brushed his teeth. Ah, more like it, he thought.

  The pup followed her new master to the kitchen, where Cowboy was pleased to learn that she had hit the newspaper target he had laid out for her. He was going to have to find a solution for her necessary breaks before he ran out of newspapers since he was now a stack shorter than he expected. He made them both a breakfast of leftover fish and soy from his small fridge. A dog wasn’t allowed in the officer’s mess, and he hadn’t quite made arrangements for her yet.

  He shaved, put on his uniform and picked the dog up to carry her first to COL SEAL’s office on the way to his own.

  The pup was now in a different world, in a different pack, with a different master. She studied the others in the new pack and concluded that she was as special to this new master as she had been to CPT Ripsnort. The others showed deference to her new master. She carefully studied the sights and sounds about her new environment and the body language of every member of her new pack. Not only was this hunting area much larger than the one she had just left, but the pack was much larger.

  PFC Gray Eagle rose and greeted the first officer with a salute. “The colonel is in.”

  “Thank you, Private, as you were.”

  Cowboy shifted his dog under his left arm and knocked on the oak door with his right hand.

  “Come on in,” the smooth baritone voice from within called.

  “Good morning, Colonel.”

  “Good morning.” He smiled. “I see we have a VIP among
us. I have never seen you carry anyone around the post before.”

  Cowboy grinned ear-to-ear. “Yes, sir—and thank you for the time to get her adjusted.”

  “She’s a beautiful pup. I guess now that you have a companion I won’t expect to see you desert us to go home and get married.”

  “That was the idea. I am a career officer, and this is my post.”

  “Good. She reminds me of one of my dogs back home, Betty.” The colonel looked thoughtful. “Do you remember the orientation film on the shuttle over here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you remember the way this whole secret arms race started?”

  “Yes, the alien ship crashed on the Navajo Reservation, some kid found it.” Light dawned in Cowboy’s eyes. “Did you know that kid?”

  “I was that kid.”

  Cowboy straightened up abruptly and Blaze squirmed in his lap, and he tightened his grip. “You?”

  “Yes, me. What was not known was that I found one of the aliens still alive and he spoke to me, presumably telepathically, before he died.”

  “Incredible! What did he say?”

  “Something about failing to do his duty and crying for his dead wife—as a military man, I understand the first part. I’ve had dreams about space ever since that day.”

  “Do you find it curious that your journey came full circle and that you joined the service that your discovery helped to start?”

  “I find it too coincidental to be by chance. When I was in Vietnam, COL Squid and I were approached by ASDC recruiters. I don’t know if they knew I had prior knowledge of the aliens, and then again, maybe they did. I learned just enough to know it had something to do with that spaceship that I had I found. I was hooked, and talked COL Squid into taking the position.” His face displayed a shadow of sadness and regret as if it were a floating object that he had held under water until he lost his grip on it, causing it to rise to the surface and bob atop the troubled waters tellingly. “I am the one responsible for him being here.”