Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  “We’re warriors. Death could claim us anywhere: in the jungles of Vietnam, the barren Martian landscape, or on the plane back home.”

  “You’re right, and his was a good death.”

  The colonel’s aide brought the two men a cup of hot tea. Blaze calmed down a bit, and Cowboy was able to manage his cup. The wolf cub studied the body language of the two men. She learned, that though her new master was important, he was the beta wolf of this new pack, not the alpha. Never mind, he was important to the pack, and she was important to him. Though she had no words to articulate these thoughts, she knew and felt them as all animals know their place in the world.

  Cowboy carried her to his office, which was between tactical operations and the hangar deck. His role on the post was to be the point man for his commander for all the departments, but especially these two. His usual job when he was not on maneuvers in the field was to be available for the heads of the other departments, do inspections, and keep up detailed reports to submit to his commander.

  He arrived at his office and put the pup down beside his desk, so she could explore a bit. COL SEAL had granted Cowboy three days of exemption from patrol duty, to get the pup settled. He could have started as soon as the pup arrived, but he didn’t have the heart to tear her away from CPT Ripsnort. Normally being confined to post was akin to punishment, but this was a very kind gesture on his part. It was something Cowboy hadn’t expected from the colonel, and he appreciated it.

  After catching up with all of the routine paperwork, Cowboy put his teapot on to boil for a cup of tea, and took the time to contemplate how he was going to have his dog cared for when he was on maneuvers. The hangar deck and tac ops did have some personnel who worked the night shift. Maybe one of them could care for Blaze in their off-duty time. It wouldn’t be a good permanent solution as off-duty personnel mainly just wanted to sleep. The teapot whistled its invitation to take a break. Setting the cup to steep, he pondered what to do. When his tea had finished steeping, he picked up the cup, inhaling the pleasing aroma of black currant, black pekoe and cinnamon. He sipped the hot liquid, slowly at first while he considered any and all possible answers. Still no good solution came to mind. If he had an aide it would be easy, but no executive officer in the ASDC had one.

  It was not yet lunchtime, so he decided to take the pup on rounds with him. He skipped the hangar deck, as it was a loud and noisy place and may spook the pup. Tactical operations was a different story. Geeks liked quiet, and tac ops was geek territory. They were the brainy types that were more comfortable with cerebral endeavors, like literature and music while his pilots were more likely to pursue sports and more physical things in their off-time. He knew it was a generalization. CPT Cipher loved basketball and boxing while Cowboy painted and played the Navajo flute for enjoyment, when he wasn’t playing basketball or one of the other physical pursuits.

  Of all of the tactical operations personnel, none fit the geek stereotype quite like MAJ Norsemun. When the major, then known as Erik, was seven years old, his mother told his father that their brilliantly gifted son could not seem to make connections with people. With an IQ over two hundred, his math skills astounded his teachers, even then. His mother pressed his father to buy him a dog, and he complied. The boy immediately fell in love with the border collie pup and named him Pi. He seemed to endure all the social awkwardness of his gift/disorder as long as Pi was waiting at home with his wagging tail. The unfairness of dogs aging seven years to the boy’s one caused him to succumb to old age by the time the Erik was ready for college. His gifts caused him to excel, and he became the youngest cryptanalyst the CIA ever had. But Washington was too busy with people, so when the offer to go to Mars came up, he gladly accepted. His life became ordered around numbers and facts, and he felt safe. His gift and disability was known by the company shrinks as Asperger’s Syndrome. He was the indispensable master of numbers at the post that kept all things statistical and mathematical in order and running smoothly.

  Cowboy carried Blaze in his arms to tactical operations. The foot traffic in the corridors on the outside ring of the complex was too heavy to let her down. MAJ Norsemun was debugging a computer program, with his eyes fixed on the monitor. CPT Cipher was checking satellite data from a recent flyby, and two junior technicians were doing routine number crunching on Soviet fleet and arms strength.

  MAJ Norsemun looked up and acknowledged the first officer’s presence, businesslike as usual. He and his staff rose and gave the customary salute, and when Cowboy returned the salute with an “as you were,” all but the major went back to what they were doing. The major wasn’t much for socializing. His unusual interests in puzzles and obscure literature and his inability to share the interests of others kept him from connecting with people. In social situations that weren’t work related he often got anxiety attacks. It was not that he lacked the desire to interact with people. He did. He just lacked the ability to “read” people in regards to their needs and perspectives, mostly because his narrow focus did not include being interested in them on a personal level. His inability to connect with people caused him frustration and sometimes anxiety attacks.

  But here in tac ops, he was in charge, and in the structured work environment of the TOC, he adapted well and was high-functioning. Being in charge of tac ops, he developed a coping mechanism of being a stickler for process and strict adherence to the smallest detail. His team all knew of his issues, and though they found him a bit odd, the discipline of military life made it easier to keep business and interactions at the major’s comfort level.

  The major’s eyes caught sight of the wriggling white bundle under the first officer’s arm. His eyes softened at the sight of her, opening a door to his heart that had been closed since Pi died.

  “And who is this?” the major queried.

  “Blaze, my dog, or wolf-dog, as it were. She will be staying here with me. My duties are confined to the post for a few days while I get her settled in and figure out what to do with her when I have field maneuvers.”

  The major’s interests didn’t include people, but this dog was a different story. “May I?” he asked. Cowboy handed Blaze over to the major, who took her into his arms. His awkwardness of touching another being melted against her warm, furry body.

  Until now, her new master had not allowed anyone to touch her, not even the alpha male of his pack. She had been sure that he regarded her as special, and now he had handed her to one of the subordinate members of his pack. Realization dawned on her that this pack member was very important to her master. She trusted her new master completely; she trusted his subordinate pack member not just because her master did, but because she knew his heart to be guileless toward her. She licked his face, and the major immediately sought to establish a joint-custody arrangement.

  “Colonel?”

  “Yes, Major?”

  “I think I can help you with your problem.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, you go on routine patrols six days a week, twice a day, and sometimes unscheduled field maneuvers, which are unpredictable, both in their timing and duration. I think Blaze could stay here in tac ops with me. I am a former dog owner, you see. I am quite familiar with the care and feeding of a dog.” The major’s pleading eyes revealed that this was more than just an offer; it was an earnest request.

  Cowboy had never seen this side of the major before. He had made an emotional connection with something right before his eyes. He studied the man and the revelation came to him that this would benefit the man more than the dog.

  “Major, that is quite generous of you, and I accept. Where would she stay?”

  “I would put her bed, food and water bowl next to the desk in my office, and she could stay out here unless she has to eat or take a nap.”

  “Very good. I have been working on the potty angle. I am short on newspapers.”

  “No problem, sir. I have paper reports I shred every month. The ones that are not sensitive, I can turn over to you
for “target practice.”

  “Very good. We can start a trial this afternoon. I will bring her stuff and leave her here two hours a day for the next three days.”

  “You can leave her now if you like.”

  Cowboy looked at the major, still holding his pup, and decided that it might cause the man some emotional distress to pry her loose from him at the moment. “Okay, two hours.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Blaze fit in perfectly in tac ops, and by the end of three days it was clear she could stay with the major when needed. Cowboy noticed that the major was calmer and more content than he was before the visits began. Blaze grew in size and Cowboy taught her to heel and to walk beside him, now undaunted by the foot traffic of the outer ring of the complex. Cowboy had a spacesuit made for her for walks outside of the building complex. He felt like he was no longer alone. True, she was not a wife, but a companion who took the edge off of his loneliness nonetheless. The major wasn’t the only one calmed by her presence—Cowboy had fewer bad dreams.

  WYATT EARP’S SYNDROME

  Commander’s Log: COL SEAL—Earth date: June 27, 1979—Martian year 196, Sol Veneris, sol 23 of the Martian Month Libra—sol of the Martian year 583

  We have been hard on the Soviets over the last six months since COL Squid’s death. The tide is beginning to turn in our favor. If we continue to enjoy success on the battlefield, it is conceivable that a siege on the Soviet post may be possible in the future, perhaps by year’s end. Morale among the men is good, and our fleet strength is strong and improving with each engagement.

  COL SEAL,

  Camp Freedom, Mars

  The dark-haired haired commander closed his computer log, opened his desk and retrieved his Navajo flute. He cleared his mind and played a tune passed down to him by his father. A white man may have characterized the tune as mournful and lonely, but to a Navajo, it was spiritual.

  A sharp knock on the door interrupted his song. “Come in, Cowboy.”

  “Don’t stop playing on my account. I haven’t heard that one before.”

  “It’s called the “Warrior’s Song.”

  “Would you teach it to me?”

  “Sure.” COL SEAL played the piece through twice and looked up.“Got it?”

  “I think so.”

  Cowboy’s mentor handed him the flute, and he played the piece through twice, looking to his teacher and friend to see if he had made any mistakes.

  “Very, very good,” his teacher said, his voice brimming with pleasure.

  “Ready to go shooting?”

  “Just wrapped up the last bit of business.”

  “Good.”

  “I have a riddle for you,” said COL SEAL, grinning mischievously.

  “Is it a SEAL or Soviet joke this time?” his first officer deadpanned.

  “Why can’t it be both?”

  “No reason. Okay then—shoot.”

  “What’s the difference between a Navy SEAL and a Soviet politician?”

  “Other than the obvious?”

  “Yes, other than the obvious…”

  “Dunno.”

  “SEALs earn their medals.”

  “I’ll have to remember that one the next time I do some pre-battle trash talking to the Soviets. I got one for you. When we go out on a recreational outing, like today, shouldn’t we be called playing ‘Cowboy and Indian?’ ”

  “It might, if Cowboy was the boss. I prefer to call it playing ‘Indian and Cowboy,’ ” he said, an easy smile playing on his lips.

  “Roger that. Well, we’re burning daylight. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  The white-haired man with bushy eyebrows and a glowering expression read the report of the last failure in a series of failures on Mars. He removed his reading glasses and placed them back in his pocket. His anger rose like the mercury in a thermometer placed in boiling water. GEN Kuznetsov slammed his fist on the desk. “Svetlana, connect me to COL Tkachenko on Ganymede!” he demanded.

  “Yes, Comrade General,” hurrying to her task in an attempt to manage the general before his anger boiled over into her office.

  It was zero two hundred on the Soviet post on Ganymede when Svetlana made the conference link. The fairly petrified young officer that received the video conference request rushed to get COL Tkachenko to take the call.

  “Yes?” answered a sleepy COL Tkachenko.

  “Comrade Colonel, GEN Kuznetsov is requesting video conference immediately.”

  “Advise comrade general that I will take the call in my quarters in five minutes—no, make that two minutes.” Tkachenko knew that the general would not be calling at this hour unless he was angry, and it was not good to make an angry general wait.

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

  COL Tkachenko washed his face and quickly got dressed and made it to his workstation desk in time to take the call as promised. GEN Kuznetsov’s face was bright red, like a boiling tea kettle soon to whistle to let off steam: angry at someone, hopefully not Tkachenko. When generals weren’t happy, colonels weren’t happy.

  “Greetings, General… And what do I owe the honor of your call?”

  “You and your first officer pack your things. You are being transferred to Mars. That fool Kiknadze is losing us Mars,” he spat. “You will relieve Kiknadze. LTC Matulevich will return on your shuttle to Ganymede and take your post there.”

  “With the present orbital alignments, the trip will take eight months.” Tkachenko knew better than to ask the fate of COL Kiknadze in the general’s present frame of mind.

  The general’s eyes widened, lifting his white, bushy eyebrows from his angry blue eyes. “Then you had better leave right away.”

  “Of course, Comrade General. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, make it your highest priority to kill both the American commander and his first officer. Then destroy all of the Americans.”

  “Of course, Comrade General.”

  “Colonel, what pistol did you bring from your collection?” I asked.

  “German Luger, I like to try them all. You need to try something new.”

  “I think I’ll stick to my colts.”

  “Spoken like a true cowboy.”

  I spotted a familiar rock formation, placing us about ten clicks from Valles.

  COL SEAL and I weren’t only karate enthusiasts; we shared a passion for collecting, shooting and throwing pistols and knives. He made me his confidante and friend. Whenever we could, we would hop into our tanks and go to Valles Marineris, the Martian Grand Canyon, to shoot pistols and practice throwing knives. Valles is just over three thousand kilometers long with a big collection of canyons, and four times as deep as Arizona’s Grand Canyon, and is just south of our post. We liked to practice at a favorite canyon, which was reasonably safe from ambush. Of course, we always made sure the area was clear according to satellite and radar before we went in. It was during those times that he shared with me the secrets of command that he never revealed to others: how much to let your men know, how much to keep to yourself, and various philosophies of war and peace.

  Nearing the canyon, I glanced at my radar, surprised to see five blips materialize on my screen. Only stealth devices could have concealed the enemies’ radar signature until we were right near them. It was the only explanation why we hadn’t detected the enemies’ radar signatures until we were right near them. The only thing that could hide them from radar was the redfield generator, which had been outlawed by treaty nearly four years earlier.

  “Redfields,” I shouted as Soviet tanks surrounded us. They must have been hidden here all night after slipping in during our satellite blackout window. We assumed a back-to-back defensive position like we’d done many times before, but this time I knew there were too many. Two tanks decided to converge on me while the other three attacked the colonel. The thought flashed through my mind that they knew who we were, and they knew that COL SEAL was in the other tank. The adrenaline started pumping and my heart pounded in my ch
est like a double-action steam locomotive driving up the Rocky Mountains. Quickly I strafed left and did a vertical lift hop. Two bright orange pairs of particle beam cannon blasts fired right under me, missing me cleanly while I scored a direct hit off-center with both barrels to the tank facing me on the right. This caused it to turn slightly to the right so it couldn’t shoot me back.

  I fired again, severely damaging the ship, but couldn’t finish it off. The other tank scored a direct hit on my ship. The impact force thrust me back. It shook me so hard that I bite my tongue. With the taste of blood in my mouth, I hammered his tank with a couple of cannon blasts of my own. I kept the enemy tank I was fighting between me and his partner, using the first one as a shield so the second tank couldn’t shoot at me. I took another grazing hit the port skin of my tank. Firing a volley, I struck the first tank slightly off-center, turning his whole tank to my starboard side and moving his cannon barrel, so it pointed away from me. One more quick blast and the first tank exploded into flames. The second tank was too close to the blast and the explosion damaged it further, the sound reverberating across the Martian plane.

  “Warning, your hull integrity is forty percent,” reported the familiar voice. Quickly I dropped a splinter mortar in front of the tank, fired both of my particle beam cannons, and then backed up. Between the mortar and two more blasts with my particle beam cannon, his ship exploded, too. Being dangerously close to the explosion, the concussion wave rocked my tank but my tank sustained no further damage. I knew the dogfight with the two tanks couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, but with the adrenaline pumping, everything seemed in slow motion.