Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  He was the Soviet’s closer. His transfer here now meant that the SCA was desperate to dominate Mars. It was the most desirable planet in the solar system as its climate was closer to Earth’s than any other. It has its own water, which makes it very, very valuable. It is close enough to Earth to be used as a refueling station and to move parts, supplies and personnel to points beyond. Sometimes the orbital alignments of the planets make it easier to ship parts, fuel and water from Mars instead of trying from Earth, though sometimes we have to wait a month or so until the orbital alignments are more favorable. Using Mars as a storage and shipping relay works very nicely. The ASDC prized this planet as well, and most officers and commanders wanted to serve here. I was anxious to talk with Tkachenko, but a good bargainer never makes the first move. I’d wait him out. Next I opened the file on Voronin.

  Subject: LTC Vladimir Sergeyevich Voronin

  Approximate age 30

  Weight: 172 lbs.

  Height: 5’, 9”

  Hair: black

  Eyes: brown

  Place of birth: assumed Russia

  Marital status unknown

  No data on Earth military service

  Personal details: Quiet, very studious in any setting, excellent pilot and sniper. He rose up the ranks on Titan and refused command of Titan when Tkachenko accepted the post on Ganymede. Considered absolutely loyal to Tkachenko and his right-hand man. Little is known of his personal life. No DNA, fingerprints or bite pattern acquired.

  He was Tkachenko’s right-hand man and went with him everywhere. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be his executive officer. He was a quiet man who from all reports never quit calculating his next move. His greatest attribute as an executive officer was his absolute loyalty to his commander and honesty with him. He was just as dangerous, in a different way. It seems he leaves no leftovers. He had pizza with Tkachenko at the accord on Titan and we failed to get a DNA sample or bite pattern.

  Unless a Soviet or American is captured, we don’t give up our fingerprints. In social situations as when we sign accords, both sides are extremely careful to protect their fingerprints. We both use clear, thin plastic coverings over our fingertips so that fingerprints cannot be lifted. We have false fingerprints impressed in those covers so even if they lift one, it matters not. The only way to get the real thing is to capture a pilot. My XO and I have never been captured, and neither have Tkachenko or Voronin. Oh, we’ve both been shot and hurt, but never captured.

  COL TKACHENKO’S FIRST CALL

  Three sols later as I was contemplating what to do next, I got a comm. call from the Soviets. COL Tkachenko’s image materialized on the screen, and immediately I was struck with the feeling that I was staring into the eyes of an apex predator.

  The predator spoke. “I am COL Yuri Tkachenko and I would like to speak with the commanding officer.”

  “That would be me, COL Kahless.”

  “I am the new commander of the Soviet forces here. I would like to discuss the signing of a new accord.”

  “We weren’t the ones who broke the accord first. The cowardly assassination of COL SEAL is what provoked our actions.”

  “That was regrettable. You will find I have no need to violate any treaties. I am capable enough to defeat you without violating any Rules of Engagement.” His eyes showed the confidence of years of successful battles and his face playing host to a cold, calculating smile.

  “Careful, boasting is for the one who takes off his flight suit, not the one putting it on.”

  Tkachenko let out a deep belly laugh, making sport of my verbal counterattack and making me feel foolish. Typical Russian, I thought. Russians were loud and they laughed louder. “What I have heard is true. You have no sense of humor. Surely you understand American trash talk. I learned from Mohammad Ali. Seriously, I do very much wish to renew the accords. I will send a copy of the old accords to you with some proposed changes.”

  I looked him over and measured him. I didn’t trust any Soviets, much less this one, but he seemed to be in earnest. “COL Squid discussed the original accords with COL Kiknadze, halfway between our posts, at the place you Soviets refer to as the Lenin Plain.” (We refer to the locale as the Eisenhower Plain, but it was an irritation to the Soviets to bring that up) “All of both side’s ships were ordered to appear halfway between each post and stand-down. This is so our satellites could account for everyone and to ensure there wouldn’t be a trap. If we were to talk, I’d insist on the same. Just the two of us, our first officers and one aide each would meet. We could meet tomorrow at twelve hundred. If all goes well and no treachery is found, we can negotiate a new accord like civilized men.” I offered to meet at twelve hundred hours because the second Soviet satellite blackout occurs between fourteen hundred and eighteen hundred and they would never agree to a meeting then.

  “Dah, very good. I hope to build trust between us.”

  “Colonel, I doubt I’ll ever trust you, but if your word is good, I might respect you. I wish the agreement to be known as the SEAL Accords.”

  “This is acceptable. Oh, I have an officer of yours to bring to you tomorrow.” According the old accord and the new one we proposed signing, he wouldn’t have to bring him without a trade. It appeared as he was showing a measure of good faith.

  “I have one of yours to bring, too.” He looked surprised. He’d obviously not known that any of the pilots survived the ambush at the canyon. No more information could be extracted from the pilot. Keeping him wouldn’t help any longer. He didn’t trust us, and we felt he couldn’t be won over. I decided that one day I’d capture one of their pilots and take my time converting him.

  Tkachenko asked, “Do you play chess?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  “Very good. I’ll meet you on the plain as you asked, tomorrow at twelve hundred—and bring a chessboard. Tkachenko out.”

  I called LTC Killer Instinct into my office. “Jim, have a seat.” I motioned to the coffee tray I had my aide bring in earlier. He accepted a cup and added cream and sugar. My mess sergeant supplied real cream at my request, not soy today, as a treat while I take the time to visit with my new executive officer. As my former wingman 1LT Dutchman, he had been good at backing my play on the battlefield and would make a fine first officer.

  My new executive officer was a very good blend of all of the qualities a combat officer needed to have. A natural leader, he’s very organized, hates inefficiency and incompetency, and is unquestionably loyal. A great pilot, sniper and team player, he’s also quite intelligent, understands strategy, hard-working and follows through with his assignments. Men looked up to him and followed his lead. They respected his strength and courage in battle. However, it was more than that. A straight arrow, he’s honest to a fault and unafraid to tell me what he thinks, but respectful enough to keep criticisms private. He cares for the men as if they were family, but is still able to make hard decisions when the need arises. LTC Ricochet was a very good leader, but our unit dynamic had improved since my new XO’s promotion. I surveyed the man before me. An athletic man of medium height and build, he had reddish-blond hair and green eyes with a straight nose, a mixture of his Connecticut–Dutch descendants and his Irish national mother. “We will be meeting the new Soviet commander to renegotiate the old accord at twelve hundred tomorrow. Has the Soviet prisoner told us everything he knows?”

  “I examined all the files that LTC Ricochet kept, and I talked with him before the assault. I’d say yes, I believe so,” he said, taking a sip of hot coffee and then blowing it to cool.

  “Inform him we will be returning him to the Soviets tomorrow and tell him if he doesn’t want me to tell the Soviets what he revealed to us, he’ll act like it didn’t happen. And Colonel, he may tell them what he’s told us. Keep any information that he told us that’s changeable or damaging if they know we know, under suspicion.”

  I outlined how and when the meeting would take place, and he pledged his support. Dismissing him, I called
1LT Janus Dread and promoted him to captain.

  On Sol Martis, the tenth day of Aries during the Martian summer, Earth year 1980, my aide, CPL Gray Eagle and LTC Killer Instinct traveled with me ahead of the others. All of our satellite reconnaissance indicated we weren’t heading into a trap. My first officer, my aide and I met with our counterparts at the agreed location. We’d set up a bioshelter in the center of the Eisenhower Plain three hours before the meeting. The Soviet security officers examined it before the meeting. COL Squid signed the first accord before I arrived on Mars. Today I was the commander negotiating the Rules Of Engagement with our adversaries. I took some comfort knowing that at least I wasn’t sitting across from COL Kiknadze or LTC Matulevich.

  The meeting was cordial, and a certain politeness was observed, which was uncharacteristic of Russians. My long hours of being coached on how to deal with the Soviets in negotiations seemed as if it had been a waste of time. Tkachenko did none of the usual table slapping, fit-throwing, bullying and threatening to walk out that I had been warned about by my coaches. This was no ordinary Soviet. The absence of the usual Soviet antics was a sign that he was a skilled hunter, patiently taking his time to stalk his prey.

  The meeting went well and there was no trap. We renewed the old accord and established the seven holidays in our agreement, May Day, October Revolution Day, USSR Constitution Day, Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Year, and the Fourth of July. On those sols, there would be no hostilities at all, and no more than two fighting vessels could travel together. Up to two ships could travel together to places outside of our territory, but they couldn’t come within one hundred kilometers from the other post. This made it possible for a pair of ships to go sightseeing outside of the Tharsis Plain for pleasure during a holiday cease-fire.

  The fair treatment and exchange of prisoners and a ban on all stealth weapons and protecting all of our agricultural projects were easily agreed upon. Scientific studies wouldn’t need an armed escort, but archaeological digs weren’t protected as we dug precious alien technology from some of them, and it was worth fighting for.

  We did, however, agree that all greenhouses and food processing plants be placed no closer than three hundred meters from any military target. We had to built another greenhouse complex three hundred meters from the one we had now. The complex we moved from became a storage facility for supplies, replacement parts, equipment and machinery. No weapons could be stored in the agricultural complexes. The logic being that even if the enemy post was totally annihilated, the victor wouldn’t have destroyed the food supplies.

  I didn’t get everything I wanted. COL Tkachenko balked at the idea of not shooting pilots in the air that ejected from their tanks when they blew. I thought about walking out of the negotiations but decided that, though we didn’t get everything we wanted, it was close enough.

  We exchanged 1LT Ryzhkov for 2LT Death Before Dishonor. Our man looked well, but so did the Soviet. Our prisoner looked fine, even though we had taken our liberties with him for a time. We concluded the meeting by signing the agreement, and followed with a hot pot of tea and sugar biscuits.

  Afterward we played three games of chess. He bested me two games to one. We agreed to play one chess match a week via satellite uplink on Sol Saturni at nineteen hundred, unless we were in the field fighting that day or either of us lost any men in the last week. My ranking was only 1750 and I was determined to get better. One of our programmers was also a senior master with a ranking of 2450 and had created a computer chess game that would challenge me to become better. Wasting moves and bluffing were two of my faults. I broke myself of both habits. Bluffs don’t fool computers and wasting moves when playing them is fatal.

  I’d like to have said that the war wasn’t as tough after signing the accord. But even observing SEAL’s Accord by both parties, it was just as tough. The difference was that the Rules of Engagement were restored and a sense of respect had developed. Survivors breathed easier knowing they would be awarded humane treatment by their captors.

  COL Tkachenko made up for the civility of the Rules of Engagement with boldness and his sense of cold calculation in planning attacks. I had my hands full; my nemesis had arrived.

  GOING HOME ON LEAVE

  By the Martian month Mina, Earth year 1982, my confidence in LTC Killer Instinct grew. It was time for my leave back to Earth, so I called my XO into my office. “Jim, you’re soon to be in charge of this post for eight months. I’m going home on leave. I’ll be leaving on the next transport freighter.” He looked surprised that he would be in charge so soon.

  “Yes, sir. You can depend on me, sir.”

  “Good, I want you to me more involved in the administrative duties here so that the transition will be smoother. You will report here tomorrow and take possession of my office and begin doing my job. If you have any questions, just call me.”

  Going home for a while would be good for me, I thought. It was time to start packing for my trip and moving into the post commander’s quarters. I lingered over the pictures and awards that covered my wall. I stopped in front of a picture of Soke Marx presenting me my third-degree black belt in Keichu-Ryu Karate, my Louisiana College diploma, and my commission as a colonel. I dropped out of college in my second year to join the Navy, but was able to take correspondence courses through an ASDC program and get my diploma. It was not in Eugene Bordelon’s name, since he was officially dead. Finally, I stopped and considered my certificate telling the world I was Eagle Scout. Of all of my successes, this was my first. It set my path for everything that was to come.

  It was time to move into COL Seal’s old quarters. I hadn’t moved in yet, even though it had been more than six months since his death and my promotion. I hadn’t been fully ready yet to acknowledge his death. If I’d been a junior officer, the move would have been decided for me. As it stood, I was the only one who could command me to move. My new executive officer was waiting without a word or complaint for me to move. He was to inherit my quarters, and was extremely patient not to press the issue. My former executive officer never even asked. He sensed I had a problem with moving in. I completed moving all of my boxes into the commander’s quarters and unpacked enough so I could function until I left.

  I called up my executive officer. “Colonel, you can take possession of your new quarters. I got the last of my stuff out.”

  “Sir, very good, sir. Have a nice trip home.”

  I took a few of COL SEAL’s Navy SEAL pictures out of archive, along with personal letters from COL SEAL to his mother and sisters and made a package for his family. Two knives and two pistols out of the collection COL SEAL left me would make nice gifts for his sister’s husbands. I packed my travel gear as well as the naval officer’s uniforms that the ASDC directed me to wear when visiting family of my men who had died. My uniform bore the rank of naval commander and I had the papers and ID to back it up if needed.

  I stowed my gear on the Odyssey and called Blaze to enter. I’d packed all of Blaze’s toys and her bed to make her trip less anxious. She hadn’t been on the transport freighter since she was a puppy. She hesitated, but when CPT Ripsnort beckoned her to come, she entered the freighter and curled up next to the captain’s chair on the bridge.

  Eugene J. Bordelon, Jr. was officially dead, but I traveled as CMDR Eugene Martin on leave and also maintained pen pals with that alias. I had acquired Blaze from one of my pen pals from Missouri, an unplanned cross between his great pyrenees bitch and a wolf. She had dewclaws on the back feet that are common in wolves, but her ears stood up to a point then gave up and flopped over at the tips as if remembering her great pyrenees parent. The result was a snow-white female with yellow eyes, with the body and size of a wolf. This vacation was as much for her as it was for me. Blaze had not been on Earth since she was a puppy. She’d never chased a rabbit, or experienced all the smells and sights of a world full of life. Where I was taking her would be teeming with life and crawling with children.

  Based on the difference b
etween Mars and Earth orbits, it could be 54 million kilometers or 227.9 million kilometers, depending on when you attempted to leave. We always scheduled our trips home so I could have the shortest trip. We had a three month trip back, and one month of liberty. The trip back would be longer, as the Martian orbit was going to swing wider out on the way back.

  I brought my Bible and all the classic books that I’d never had time to read and set in for a long journey. I also packed a couple decks of cards and some cash for the inevitable poker games that would be played among the returnees.

  MAJ Ripsnort regarded me with the respect due my rank and didn’t refer to me as one of the children. He gave the returning pilots a great deal more respect than the greenhorns. They’d all earned it if they were still alive. This was a return trip to Earth from Europa, and I was able to chat with the pilots about the welfare of COL Exit Wound. He was still as tough as boot leather and ran a tight ship, which was no surprise. I didn’t envy him, though. Europa was an iced-over moon. Too high a percentage of pilots that bail out die from methane gas poisoning or freeze to death if their suit gets a tear.