Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  I went back to my flight bag and pulled out my leather banker’s cap, white shirt and armband. I may not win, but I was dressed for the part. That put me on a different table from COL Ice Man and that came with the added benefit of him not being able to put me out early. Heck, I may even not survive the first table. I may never play him at all. Both of us had fought Tkachenko and neither of us had beaten him down. I think that he wanted to beat me to prove he was the better man. We played my table for a grueling four and a half hours. I lost some, won some, going back and forth until finally one by one, players on my table were eliminated. First CPL Good Wrench, the tank mechanic from Titan, then CPT Luv2bomb, then CPT Ripsnort, and his chief mechanic, SGT Grease Monkey.

  Finally, it was down to 2LT Pale Rider, 2LT Warthog and me. It went back and forth for a while, and my sniper lost on a bluff. Three hands later I got lucky with a flush to 2LT Warthog’s three kings. I’d won round one and left the room for a short walk to stretch my legs, and brewed myself a strong cup of tea. An hour later the other three tables were done, and we were down to four players. COL Ice Man had survived and was pleased I had, too. The other two winners were CPT America of the transport freighter America and CPL NutzNWrenches, a tank mechanic from Europa.

  COL Ice Man looked at me and smiled a big, toothy grin. “Finally we play!”

  “So it would seem. It is a good thing there’s a wager limit, I’d hate to send you back to Earth without a shirt!”

  “I assure you, I have a spare shirt. Let’s play.”

  Three more hours passed before we eliminated another player. CPT America left in good spirits, glad to have lasted so long. CPL NutzNWrenches was an excellent poker player, who seemed able to alternately bluff us and then come back with good hands. COL Ice Man had the best poker face I’d ever seen: his eyes revealed nothing, and he didn’t seem to have any “tells.”

  Two more hours later, we were at a turning point. COL Ice Man was dealing. I kept three cards, all hearts. He dealt me back two nines, which matched my nine of hearts. I’d amassed a great deal of cash up to this point and lost to COL Ice Man’s full house, but CPL NutzNWrenches wagered his way out of the game on a pair of tens. Now it was just COL Ice Man and me.

  We played for another hour, going back and forth, back and forth. Since I was already overdue for my bunk rotation when the game started, I was hoping it would soon end. Even though I was getting sleepy, I refused to throw in the towel. It was my deal—I gave him five cards; he gave me four back and kept one. After reviewing the hand I had dealt myself, I was beginning to think this was the last hand. I kept two, both of them kings, dealt myself three cards more, and then four to him. Carefully I turned up the corners of my three new cards, an ace and two more kings. Four kings! My heart was beating like a drum, and it took all of my discipline to try to mask my body language so as not to betray my good hand. I’ve never in all the years I’ve played gotten four of anything, and the single ace I held meant he couldn’t have four aces. It was unlikely he would have a straight flush or royal flush. If he had a real good hand, then I could make him bet the full amount so I could clean him out. Looking at our piles of chips, I couldn’t tell who had the most. The piles looked the same.

  “Let’s start wrapping this up,” said COL Ice Man.

  I peered over my cards. “What do you have in mind?”

  “No limit.”

  I could feel my grip tighten on him, like the coils of an anaconda. With my four kings I could clean him out. “Okay, no limit.”

  “Good!”

  Mostly up to now the average winner of a hand had been one pair, two pair or three of a kind and that was with several players. It was common in a two-player hand to win with one or two pairs.

  COL Ice Man counted out his chips and pushed them forward. “I raise five thousand dollars.”

  “I see your raise and I raise you ten thousand dollars.”

  COL Ice Man shoved all of his remaining chips forward. “Count them.”

  I counted eight thousand nine hundred and seventy-five dollars. I counted my own and I was fifty dollars short of meeting it. I suddenly realized my error in agreeing to no limit! If I didn’t have as much as he did, he could wager me off the table. I looked up and knew that I’d been outfoxed. He must have been keeping track of his chips. His weren’t all stacked up and mine were. No doubt about it; he knew what he was doing.

  “I guess you’ve beaten me.”

  “Not yet, you can still meet my raise,” he said, smiling with a crocodile smile.

  “It is against the rules to bring in more money.”

  “It’s not about money. There are no rules about adding the assignment papers of your new sniper.” He gave me a smug look, and I wanted to clean him out more than anything. I considered my four kings and realized that this young sniper was probably going to make the difference in the balance of power with the Soviets on Mars. Only two hands could beat mine, and it was highly unlikely he had either. There was one more thing. If I broke the promise to the young sniper, word would get around the ASDC that I was not to be trusted, and it would be difficult to recruit the caliber of men I was used to getting. I hated doing this, but I had no choice.

  “I fold.” I laid down my cards face down. COL Ice Man was unprepared for that answer. It appeared to me it wasn’t about money. He’d undoubtedly lost some of his first choices to my command. And too, he was trying to appear the better man.

  COL Ice Man wanted to see the hand I’d folded, so he laid down his card, face up. I looked across the table, and I saw the hand he used to bid me off the table, with two black aces and a pair of eights. I stood up and let out a low whistle. “You have Wild Bill Hickok’s hand, a dead man’s hand.” I knew him to be slightly superstitious, and I was enjoying the turn around. He had the look of a man who’d seen a ghost. It looked like he wasn’t the complete winner he’d hoped to be.

  “COL Kahless, I want to see your hand,” he said, wanting to know if he truly beat me or if he just wagered me off the table.

  “That would be negative, Colonel,” I said, picking up my cards. “I don’t have to show them unless I play them.” I turned to leave and was face to face with 2LT Pale Rider, who was looking directly and searchingly into my eyes. I slipped the cards into his shirt pocket. “Keep this to yourself.”

  “CPT Ripsnort, the party’s over; I’ve got a war to fight.”

  “Aye sir,” quipped CPT Ripsnort. CPT America, his crew and passengers of the transport freighter America started for the exit. COL Ice Man cashed his chips in and put the money into a fat wallet. He stopped on the way out and gave me a last look, but I smiled and went to bed.

  Blaze’s pups were weaned now, and since the freighter America was going past Luna on the way back to Earth, I sent COL Red Fangs his pup, true to my word. After a videoconference to Luna, COL Red Fangs chose his pup and CPT America agreed to deliver the young male. The rest of the pups save one were given to various passengers of the two transport freighters for transport to the new owners.

  It was time for my rack rotation, and I was exhausted. I awoke after a good sleep. I had fifteen minutes to vacate before the next occupant would take possession. Through sleep filled eyes I noticed that I had company. 2LT Pale Rider was standing beside my bunk. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I sat up.

  “Son, did they make you the next shift in this bunk, or do you have business with me?”

  “I have something to ask you. It is usually hard to talk privately on this vessel, being kind of crowded. I wanted to ask you a question or two.”

  The occupants of the other racks were stirring, and it looked as if we wouldn’t be getting any privacy.

  “Let’s have our conversation in the cargo bay. Give me a minute to get dressed.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I rolled out of bed and got dressed, brushed my teeth and combed my hair. My sniper followed me to the cargo bay, and seeing it unoccupied, I closed the door.

  “Okay, shoot.”
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  “Colonel, you had four kings, why didn’t you take his money?”

  “Lieutenant, the Corps taught you about honor, right?”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Was it honorable to gamble with a man’s career and break a promise? I mean, can a man be bought or sold with money?”

  “No, sir. I see. So it was an honor decision for you?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. I refused to trade a dog for a man, and I won’t gamble with a man like property, even if he’s assigned to me. No, make that especially if he’s assigned to me.”

  “I see.”

  “Son, you are a marine. Why was your first choice Mars?”

  “There have been scores of novels about Mars going back to before Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote about John Carter of Mars. It seemed to go there would be the adventure of a lifetime. But more than that sir, I heard that honor is expected of everyone that serves there.”

  “That it is.”

  “Sir, you left forty eight thousand dollars on the table.”

  “Then make sure you are well worth it,” I said, smiling.

  He smiled in return. “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Son, let me catch a shower. Have you had breakfast yet?”

  “Sir, no sir.”

  “If you wait until the regular morning breakfast shift is over, I’ll pull out a couple of mako shark steaks, and we’ll eat them with whatever is available for breakfast.”

  “Yes sir, that sounds great.”

  Climbing into the shower, I turned on the faucet and the water fell like warm rain. Resisting the impulse to shower for pleasure, I quickly wet down my front and then my back, turned it off, soaped up and then rinsed off. We took sailor’s showers to conserve water. Even the shower water and dishwater around here is filtered and recycled. I dressed and spent a few minutes in morning prayers and read from Psalms 1.

  “Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, or stands in the way of sinners, or sits in the seat of the scornful… but his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in his law does he meditate day and night.”

  I pulled out my sealed stainless-steel container, where I kept a portion of mako shark steaks and ribeyes to share with the other passengers on the long trip home. It had sealed sections, which contained sets of two shark or ribeye steaks, wrapped in plastic, with dry ice in each section. Generally I shared a steak with each passenger onboard during the flight. It is amazing how much networking and friends that can be made that way. Treating corporals and colonels alike, I remind them I have no real command function on this vessel, and we need not observe fraternization rules here. I haven’t had a command very long, and I was experimenting with how far I could go with fraternization without damaging my ability to command. However, I’m a rarity. Most command officers don’t like to let go of that dominant position, even for a little while.

  I was moved when I saw a foreign president once, with an apron on, serving his soldiers Christmas dinner. It was probably a photo op, but it made a lasting impression on me. After all these years, I can’t remember who that president was, but I remember what he did. This was my first leave as a commander. On these trips, I didn’t intend to pay any attention to fraternization boundaries unless necessary. This is a situation on our transport freighter trips where obviously my command rank has no function on this transport. The transport freighter captain in most instances retains authority. In general, I don’t play poker on Mars with enlisted men or drink socially with them, with the exception of ChiefWolverine. I reserve playing of poker and an occasional drink for my officers.

  After grilling the shark steaks, I spent some time getting to know my new sniper. I outlined the plans I had for a sniper school and a sniper team, led by him, to increase our field effectiveness. He listened intently and asked a few questions but was very excited about the new idea.

  I got to know my new bomber pilot and felt we were going to have a good working relationship. He turned out to be second-generation Chinese. His parents were loyal Americans, wishing nothing more than their son to serve his country honorably. He spoke Chinese fluently, and I mentally noted I might need his language skills someday.

  The rest of the trip was pretty much routine. We arrived exactly three and a half months to the day that we left Utah. Everything was pretty much in order, which just reaffirmed that my executive officer was indeed the man for the job. Upon arrival, we parted with the pup that looked like Blaze’s great pyrenees parent. He was going to COL Exit Wound on the freighter to Europa.

  HELL FROM HELLAS PLANITIA

  June 7, 1984—Martian year 199, Sol Martis, sol 3 of the Martian Month Gemini—sol of the Martian year 336

  “Engine critical, twenty seconds to destruct,” reported the computer’s sweet sounding female voice.

  “My engine is redlining and about to blow,” reported LTC Killer Instinct. With that, he ejected from his doomed hovertank and drifted to safety. The American snipers were keeping the Soviet snipers busy, denying them their prize.

  We’re halfway around the globe, at Hellas Planitia, the largest impact basin in the solar system. The Hellas impact basin was a two kilometer feet deep impact crater spanning 2,300 kilometers—formed long ago before my ancestors were sticking mastodons with pointed sticks.

  The Soviets and Americans have both suffered serious losses. We’d lost three pilots to snipers, the Soviets three. There were only two tanks intact, one on each side. Both were damaged heavily, and our particle beam cannons were completely discharged. Both American and Soviet rearm vehicles had been destroyed. Tkachenko and I’d both survived to the end, with our tanks intact and both realized the problem. Neither side was able to collect the scrap without cooperation from the other side. We were a long way from home, and there would be no reinforcements today.

  I opened up a link to the Soviet commander. “We’re at a stalemate, it seems.”

  There was a pause from the Soviet. “We could fight together, you and I. Whoever wins takes all of the alloy-x scrap; the other side returns with nothing. In the event of a draw, we split it all.”

  “I accept. I get to choose weapons, as it was your idea. I choose pistols.”

  “I disagree. You are an expert pistol shot from what I hear. Let us use our hands to see who is the better man.”

  “Agreed.” Shooting him would have been my preference, but getting a chance to beat him down would be almost as enjoyable. If I beat him to death, I would be done with him forever. If I only beat him down, it would change the tone of all future interactions.

  “This is COL Kahless, all Americans stand-down.”

  On a loudspeaker into the battlefield and on the Soviet unsecured channel, I heard, “All Soviets cease hostilities.” This was said in English, for my men’s benefit. The only two offensive units on the field were Tkachenko’s and mine. My only concern was that one of our men might put a sniper bullet in one of us when we got out of our tanks. I must admit; shooting him would have solved a lot of problems.

  “Our constructor will put up a bioshelter large enough to fight in and for all of the men to watch. First man who’s down for the count of ten loses—there will be no decision or points. Bouts will be three minutes, break clean and return to your corner, and one minute’s rest. We’ll observe international boxing rules. We’ll flip a coin to determine who the announcer is and who the referee is. Each of us may be attended in our corner by one corner man and a medic.”

  “Of what purpose are these rules? If the referee is Soviet or American, he will be suspected as biased. Any disqualification would be suspect, yes?”

  “Will you agree, on your honor, to fight by the rules?”

  “Dah. I agree, on my honor as a Soviet officer.”

  “I also agree on my honor as an American officer. There will be no disqualification. Each side will be allowed one armed security attachment. No other personnel can carry weapons into the bioshelter. Our security team will search your men and yours will search mine. I will hav
e a bioshelter made with a ring, two dressing rooms and bleachers for both sides. It will take about thirty minutes to build the bioshelter.”

  “Agreed. We should also have thirty minutes to dress, stretch and prepare.”

  “Then it is agreed.”

  “One more thing, my men will be broadcasting fight live to Camp Lenin over satellite radio. I assume you will be doing the same.” He was obviously convinced that he would win, and was looking forward to scoring a propaganda victory. If we did not broadcast the fight live to our post, it meant that I was afraid he would win.

  “Absolutely, my men love a good sporting match.”

  “Comrade Voronin!”

  “Yes, comrade Colonel.”

  “I will be fighting the American in a boxing match in one hour in a bioshelter they are building. Get one of the men to broadcast the fight to Camp Lenin. Tell them to air the fight live over the Camp intercom system.”

  “Comrade Colonel, what if you lose to the American? It would be very bad for morale if this was broadcasted live.”

  “We are fighting in front of all of our men here. We will not be able to hide anything. Besides, I will not lose. I will break his body and then his spirit.”

  “Yes, comrade Colonel.”

  LTC Voronin walked to the Soviet Constructor to use the radio. He was greeted by the constructor chief and given access to the radio.

  The Soviet officer hailed his post. “This is LTC Voronin. Patch me through to tactical operations.”

  “Yes, comrade Sub-Colonel,” answered the young radio operator and transferred the call.

  “Yes, comrade Sub-Colonel?” asked MAJ Arkady Ivanov, chief of tactical operations.

  “COL Tkachenko will be fighting the American colonel in a boxing match. COL Tkachenko wants us to radio a commentary of the fight while it is occurring. You will air it over the post intercom, for all to hear.”

  “Yes, comrade Sub-Colonel.”