Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  “Well, you left and made it clear you could not call or write. She went home heartbroken, quit college, married a loser, had two kids and is now divorced from her loser husband.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. She deserves better.”

  “Do you remember her last name?”

  “Wycliffe or Whitfield, I think.”

  “Whitacre.”

  Kahless looked down, then away, and then sighed. “To wait four years to get at me means he’s been planning this for some time.”

  “Apparently you’re not the only one who can plot revenge. He’s been watching your career with interest and waiting for you to screw up. You’ve provided him that opportunity. He wants to humble you for what he feels that you did to his little girl. You can give him something now and save yourself the wear and tear of a long legal process. If he is satisfied, maybe you can work for him next year without losing your eagles over something else.”

  “What is your recommendation?”

  “Take the deal. You know how high-ranking spots are like musical chairs. He may get the position he wants, he may not. In any case, six months from now you will be a full-bird colonel again.”

  Kahless absentmindedly stroked his chin. His eyes held the look of a man locked in a room and told there was only one door out and searching to see if it was true. “All right, we have a deal.”

  “Here’s the paperwork.” He laid the papers on the table and handed his client a pen.

  “Sign here, here, and here.”

  Kahless signed the papers. “When will I get back to work?”

  “In the morning, I assume. I have to file this with the prosecutor. You’d better polish your old silver palms and put your eagles up for a while. Security will dismiss your guards as soon as I submit this paperwork to the prosecutor.”

  The attorney arose. “Off the record, Colonel—I’m glad you shot him.” Kahless arose and offered his hand. “I’m getting a lot of off the record appreciation lately. He gazed intently at his attorney. “Night Hawk, I thank you for defending me.”

  His lawyer warmly shook his hand. “My pleasure, Colonel.” The lawyer left with briefcase in hand, and headed to return the post back to normal.

  SIEGE OF THE SOVIET POST

  As promised by my attorney, I was reinstated as post commander the next morning, with a lieutenant colonel as my first officer. This was highly unusual—my first officer now outranked me because he had more time in grade as a lieutenant colonel, but I still held the position of post commander. The court order had established a true military paradox. Two weeks later and with the full agreement of my first officer, I submitted a mission plan to lay siege to the Soviet post. Our intelligence reports showed that the enemy’s alloy-x was at an all-time low. Their fleet strength and their defensive grid were weaker than ever. Never in the history of our struggle here had either side attempted a post siege. Central Command approved the action, and tomorrow morning we would head out. I ordered the pilots on second shift to meet me in my ready room.

  My ready room was filled with expectation, like a dam overflowing, ready to burst when I addressed the men. “Men, first I want to apologize for using poor judgment on my excursion three weeks ago. I let my personal feelings taint my judgment concerning COL Kiknadze. I didn’t allow my wingman to do his duty and failed to file a flight plan so that anyone knew where I was. I promise you won’t have to worry about me anymore. From now on, I’ll do my soldier’s duty and leave God’s business to God.” My decision to play it by the numbers was in line with what Central Command had so ordered. There was something about what MAJ Sawbones said made it easier for me to comply without chomping at the bit.

  I looked around, and I saw relief on my men’s faces. I knew that many commanders would never think of apologizing to their men, but I’ve always tried to show respect to the men that may have to die under me. I took a deep breath and continued.

  “Men, we will be starting an offensive on the Soviet post in the morning. COL Kiknadze is dead, and we estimate the odds of taking their post are better than they’ve been in a long time. You men have done a great job waging war against the enemy, and we’ve determined that the enemies’ strength and morale are low enough to start an offensive. We will position eighteen howitzers behind our line, and start pounding on their infrastructure. The enemy will respond and challenge our gun positions. That’s where we come in. We will provide support for the howitzers while they’re doing damage to the post. If all goes well, we will enter the post and destroy the rest of it. Any questions?” There were none. “Good, we depart at zero six hundred tomorrow.”

  They’d been anticipating this moment for months. All that was left was to finish the job.

  I arose at zero four thirty the next morning to pray and examine my motives for today’s actions. Careers were made with successful post sieges and broken with failed ones. To win was everything, to lose usually meant the loss of enough men and alloy-x scrap to turn the tide of the war to the enemies’ favor.

  I checked our latest intel once again and decided it was time. The enemies’ post defenses and fleet strength was estimated as weak, but we’d bring every unit and artillery piece we had. I was able to field thirty-five tanks and an artillery battery of eighteen pieces.

  After the post chaplain lead us in prayer for our success and safety, we left for the Soviet post at precisely zero six hundred. Morale was high among the men and there was a feeling that today we’d make history. We moved through the Kennedy Pass into the Eisenhower Plain and into Soviet territory unopposed. Even with the slower artillery pieces, we arrived at the Soviet post by eleven hundred. CSM Hammer was the NCOIC over the artillery battery, and LTC Ricochet was the OIC over the line. I keyed the mike and radioed MAJ Norsemun.

  “Major, are we still a go?”

  “Sir, the last American satellite went over fifty minutes ago. It was still a green light, but wait another five minutes for another look.”

  “Affirmative, Kahless out.”

  I decided it was time to contact the Soviet commander. I most likely would be talking to LTC Oleg Menshutkin.

  “This is LTC Kahless. I’d like to speak with the Soviet officer in charge.”

  “This is LTC Menshutkin. What do you want?” he asked, with the cold hostility of a Siberian blizzard.

  “We will be laying siege to your post in five minutes. I’m sure that you’ve seen us coming and already know your answer. We’re offering terms for your surrender.”

  “What are the terms?”

  “Unconditional surrender, we will spare your lives, and take possession of your post and all of your equipment. You’ll be transported back to Earth to a neutral country as soon as possible. You must also swear that you’ll never return.”

  “This is unacceptable. We must decline your offer. We will stay and fight.”

  “Very well. I did warn you.” It occurred to me that considering all of the savagery with which I’d fought the Soviets in recent months, they may not trust me to honor the terms. “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Any survivors who surrender will be given medical attention and treated under the terms of the old accord.”

  The ice in his voice thawed slightly. “Thank you. You have our word that we will do the same.” With that, the Soviet officer terminated the transmission.

  We were now taking artillery fire just short of our position. It was estimated to be eight artillery pieces firing. This agreed with our previous intel. It would take us a little over a half minute to deploy each artillery piece. The Soviets apparently were inviting us to come and play. MAJ Norsemun called back.

  “Still a green light, Colonel, but we have five more minutes we can observe before the flyby is over—I’ll keep a watch. Confirmed eight enemy artillery pieces on their line with barrel lengths fifty calibers long.”

  I waited out the five minutes. MAJ Norsemun confirmed that there were no other artillery pieces besides the eight.

  �
��Very well, Kahless out.” I gave the order to my XO. “LTC Ricochet, deploy the line.”

  “Aye, sir. CSM Hammer, deploy the line,” echoed my XO.

  “Aye sir.” With that, the American artillery battery approached the line within range of the Soviet artillery battery. Satellite footage showed Soviet artillery barrel length was the same of ours, fifty calibers long. This meant that our ranges would be the same with a 155mm HE shell. We knew that the defender drew the opening advantage because they would be firing while the attacker would be setting up. This would cost us a couple pieces, it always did. We started setting up the line so we could dismantle the Soviet defenses prior to our tank charge.

  Alpha Battery, gun four was the first to be destroyed, along with Charlie Battery, gun five. Two of the members of Charlie gun five were rescued, but the chief gunner and the crew of Alpha gun four were all killed.

  “LTC Kahless!” called MAJ Norsemun on the radio.

  “Yes, Major.”

  “It’s a trick! They have eight artillery pieces deployed and are bringing up more from three underground elevators, and we haven’t seen the end of them yet. Get out of there! The first three that popped out of the elevators have a barrel length of fifty-five calibers.”

  The increased number of big gun volleys toward us confirmed the major’s report. The first three out of the elevators had set up beyond our range and were firing upon our line. Their elevators were beyond our range so we couldn’t stop the deployment of the longer firing Soviet artillery. We could move our line further up to reach all of their pieces, but we’d lose more pieces in the transition. Besides that, they could simply move their long guns further back, moving them out of our range again. Wasting no time waiting for the chain of command, I spoke to the radio so all could hear.

  “Pack up the artillery line, return to post, Kahless out.”

  “Aye, sir,” responded both my XO and NCOIC over the line.

  The Martian terrain we occupied was pockmarked with new craters, this time the variety made by the Soviet shells. We’d lost an additional two pieces, with all hands dead. While packing up, our artillery was still being fired upon, and we lost two more pieces. LTC Ricochet flew over to gun six of the Bravo Battery to help pick up two survivors. He took artillery fire, and his tank was on fire and smoking badly. He elected not to try and eject for fear of being hit by artillery fire in the air. He popped his hatch, jumped to the ground, and quickly moved away from his tank. MAJ Killer Instinct took note of my XO’s plight and flew over to pick the two survivors of gun six along with LTC Ricochet. The two gunners climbed into his tank as they awaited the post’s XO to arrive. His tank exploded with a deafening roar, sending chunks of hull outward with violent force. A piece the size of a man’s fist hit LTC Ricochet squarely on the lower spine, and he fell to the ground.

  CPL Blast and PVT Swab of gun six bailed out of their CPT Killer Instinct’s tank and moved quickly to their XO’s side. He was unmoving, lifeless. His suit was torn in the back, losing air and depressurizing. CPL Blast pulled a hot patch out of his utility pocket and quickly patched the tear. The two men carried him to the tank and out of further danger. I never saw my friend alive again. The autopsy later revealed that his lower lumbar spine was crushed by the piece of flying debris from his own ship.

  They say that hindsight is twenty-twenty. During our after-operations review, tactical operations rehashed all of the details and concluded that the unaccounted alloy-x scrap used to build the extra artillery units must have been imported from Luna, carefully landing the scrap transports during our satellite blackout window. Since all of the artillery was built and stored underground, we never saw what they had until we laid siege to the post. Our satellites saw only what the Soviets wanted us to see. Our count was badly off.

  We recycled all of our fifty caliber guns and built an all-new fifty-five caliber artillery battery. It looked as if we were deceived, but such is the art of war. Our losses overall were light for a failed post siege, but the personal loss of my executive officer and friend weighed heavily on my spirit. The Central Command review board concluded that I did nothing wrong, but my heart convicted me of the loss of my best friend. LTC Ricochet was the last of my teammates from ASDC Academy. “Brown” was my best friend, and now he was dead. I’d never felt so alone.

  We held a memorial service and paid honor to our dead. After the service, I called MAJ Killer Instinct into my office. I didn’t feel like talking, having lost COL SEAL six months earlier and my best friend very recently. I knew that my former wingman was the best choice for my executive officer. I was still officially a lieutenant colonel myself, so the promotion was green-lighted by ASDC command. I called him to my office and advised him of his promotion to lieutenant colonel. I tried my best to convey to him that I was pleased about his promotion, but my troubled heart got in the way, and I finally dismissed him. My new executive officer showed leadership skills and in time would prove to be invaluable to me, both as a comrade in arms and as my best friend. In time I would see and appreciate that.

  THE GREENHOUSE

  I had lied to MAJ Sawbones about having bad dreams, and I believe he knew it. He had no doubt cut me some slack on that last fitness report because the lawyers were trying to bury me. He would keep an eye on me and do his duty to protect the post and the men that served under me, now that the charges were no longer an issue. Killing Kiknadze didn’t cleanse me of my feelings of guilt, or stop the conflict within me. In addition to the turmoil I felt over COL SEAL’s death, my heart was heavy over the death of my executive officer. My inner struggles were taking a toll on me. I’d seen too much death. Guilt gnawed at my insides like a feeding lion every time I came back alive, and another man didn’t. There was no avoiding my annual physical if I wanted to stay in command. The wear and tear of all the stress I was under was revealed during my physical: irritability, stomach problems, and insomnia. When I did sleep, I had nightmares of dead comrades and murderous Soviets. The good doctor looked as though he’d been waiting for an opportunity to get me alone and examine me. I’d had been avoiding him since my fitness exam following my arrest. MAJ Sawbones poked and prodded me, drew blood and performed every test known to man. Returning to my office, I awaited the results. The next morning, I was summoned back to the doctor’s office, and I promptly returned. He motioned me to sit on the table and he sat in the chair next to me, not saying a word, just thinking.

  We were alone. It seemed that the major had dismissed his staff for my visit. I studied his face, trying to discern if I was in trouble or not. The doctor was as quiet as a librarian and seemed to be thinking of what to do next. “Well Doc, what’s the verdict?”

  “Colonel, you have what’s referred to as Wyatt Earp’s syndrome. The early symptoms were of course your rage and compulsion to kill the ones responsible for your pain. Now in the latter stages, you’re suffering from depression, brought on by feelings of guilt and anger, battle fatigue and headed toward breakdown. Of course, you probably knew that, if you were being honest with yourself. Our tests revealed nothing more than a man who’s carrying too heavy a load, and can’t physically bear it. If you don’t deal with what’s eating on you, you will die. My experience with you has shown that you aren’t the kind of guy to lie on a couch and bare your soul.” He reached into a cabinet and retrieved a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and two glasses, set it on the counter and poured two doubles. After handing me a glass, he called my XO on the comm. and advised him that he was in charge for the rest of the day and that I was taking the rest of the day off sick.

  “To your health,” he offered as he raised his glass.

  “Doc, you have an unusual way of practicing medicine.”

  He laughed. “That’s why they call it practice. I haven’t perfected my craft yet.”

  I was a bit apprehensive at his methods, but he refilled my glass a second time and I was starting becoming just a wee bit lit up. He must have been waiting for the walls I’d built over the years to fall befo
re the power of his Kentucky elixir.

  “Colonel, you came over here with eight other pilots from the Academy, right?”

  “Seven.”

  “Where are they all now?”

  “Dead, every last one.”

  “Your first wingman, what was his name?”

  “2LT Grim Reaper.”

  “Yes, I remember. He’s dead, too as I recall. Then there was COL Seal and LTC Ricochet. You’re suffering now from what I’d refer to as survivor’s guilt. This usually follows Wyatt Earp when all of his enemies are dead. You see, Colonel, you’ve killed almost every last enemy you have that’s caused your pain.” He rose from his chair and opened a drawer and handed me a mirror. “Look in that mirror, son. He’s the last one alive who’s causing your pain, and you’re trying to destroy him. You’re eating yourself alive from the inside out with guilt. I’m going to write you a prescription. If you don’t fill it, I will be forced to declare you unfit for duty and relieve you of your command. It isn’t an option,” he said gently but firmly. “Your welfare directly affects the welfare of all the men that serve under you.”

  I sighed. “And what does the good doctor order?”

  “You’ll report to the greenhouse at zero nine hundred each Sol Jovis and work under the authority of SGT Samurai until twelve hundred, where you’ll eat lunch with him. I’ll be making sure that you do. It’s for your own good.” I suppressed the urge to bristle up and try to buck his authority because I knew he was right.

  “Yes, sir.” I was the post commander and outranked the doctor, but still he could declare me unfit for duty. Such is the paradox of command. I set down my unfinished second drink and got permission to leave.

  Today was Sol Mercurii so it looked like I was in for my first therapy session tomorrow.