Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  “We will radio the fight live to you in about and hour.”

  “Yes, comrade Sub-Colonel.”

  LTC Voronin turned to walk out. One of the things that made him a great leader was his ability to remember details about his men. He fixed his eyes on SSGT Vasily Butkovsky. “Sergeant, you were Olympic boxer, yes?”

  “Yes, comrade Sub-Colonel. I was an alternate, but did not get to fight.”

  “Then you will make a good sports commentator. The Americans have two commentators. Choose someone to help you.”

  “Yes, comrade Sub-Colonel.”

  “Good! Bring radio equipment and report to the bioselter that the Americans are building. You will be commenting and transmitting the fight via radio to Camp Lenin for live transmission over post intercom.”

  “Yes, comrade Sub-Colonel!” he said as he moved quickly to gather up the equipment he would need.

  MAJ Oleg Savenkov lifted an eyebrow as he heard only half of the conversation. “Comrade Major, what is going on?”

  MAJ Ivanov looked around the room and considered the spot he was in. He just received a direct order that was passed down from the first officer from the camp commander. The order was a direct concern to MAJ Savenkov, since he was the chief political officer on the post.

  “MAJ Savenkov, we should speak privately.” The chief of tactical operations led the political officer to an empty room and closed the door.

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

  “What if he loses? Is he mad? No! I am the chief political officer here, and I say no!” MAJ Savenkov thought about the other side of the issue. “But then again, if he beats the American badly, it will be very good propaganda, yes?”

  “Yes, comrade Major.”

  “Record the fight, but do not broadcast live. We will wait until fight is over. If our colonel wins or at least fights to a draw, then we will broadcast fight over intercom. Our people here cannot tell if it is broadcast in real time or if it is recording.”

  “Yes, comrade Major.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” asked the American first officer.

  “Are you volunteering to take my place?”

  “You know I would, but he challenged you. You let him trick you into broadcasting this live over our 1-MC.”

  “Yes, I know. You’ll need to call the post and inform them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tkachenko tricked us concerning the live transmission. Let’s return the favor. When you build the ring, loosen the ropes and canvas. He appears as though he is a little stronger than I am and I want to be able to make like a turtle if I need to.”

  “Gonna rope-a-dope, then?”

  “Maybe. I just want to make my arsenal larger. I hope Tkachenko didn’t see the Ali-Foreman fight in Zaire or the Ali-Frasier fight in Manila.”

  “Do you want me in your corner?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, I’ll be on my way, then.”

  LTC Killer Instinct took a walk to the American’s constructor. Chief Hardcase yielded the radio to him.

  “MAJ Norsemun, this is LTC Killer Instinct.”

  “Yes, Colonel, what can I do for you?”

  “It seems our battle on the field was a draw, and COL Kahless and the Soviet colonel have agreed to duke it our over the scrapfield.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No. COL Kahless has agreed to have a fight announcer radio back the fight to our post for you to broadcast live over the 1-MC.”

  “Do you realize what this will do to morale if COL Kahless loses?”

  “Yes, I do, but that is an order, and he is not going to lose.”

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  “That’s all, Killer Instinct out.”

  “I need to speak with you privately in my office.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Close the door, Captain.” CPT Black Ice complied.

  The post’s security chief took the offered seat. “What’s up Major?”

  “I just received an order to broadcast a live fist fight between COL Kahless and COL Tkachenko over the 1-MC.”

  “This is not a security issue, unless COL Kahless gets hurt or killed. However, it would be bad for morale if he lost. I wouldn’t worry. The colonel is in my karate class and he can take care of himself. You have no choice, though, right?”

  “It was a direct order. I must broadcast the fight over the 1-MC live.”

  “Major, you don’t want to do this, do you?”

  “I will follow orders, of course. I will also record the fight in case of technical difficulties.” CPT Black Ice wondered what kind of technical difficulties the major might be planning.

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  Chief Hardcase had completed the bioshelter, bleachers, ring, two tables for the sports commentators, and two dressing rooms for the fighters. Both fighters were readying themselves for the fight.

  Most of the senior American pilots were somehow involved in the fight: COL Kahless, LTC Killer Instinct, MAJ Luv2bomb, and CPT Two Horses. The American spectators comprised of four combat pilots, constructor crewmen, scavenger crewmen, and medical ambulance crewmen. The ranking American spectator sat on his side of the bleachers, flipping his challenge coin bearing his unit information between the back of his fingers, lost deep in thought. The challenge coin was typically awarded combat personnel to help identify them as friendlies to local civilians. Mars had no civilians, but the tradition ran deep and the men took pride in their challenge coins. CPT Janus Dread looked over at the Soviets on the other set of bleachers and addressed his men. “Look—we may not be able to get a beer here, but nothing says we can’t gamble a little.” He arose, and the other men followed him to the Soviet bleachers. The bleachers were each twelve feet from the ring on both sides, and the ring was twenty feet across. The Americans closed the distance of forty-four feet before security could arrive. Security from both sides moved to intercept them. They were too far away from the Americans to get there on time.

  The Americans reached the Soviet bleachers and CPT Janus Dread addressed the ranking Soviet, MAJ Pavils Jankauskas. “We would like to make a friendly wager with you concerning the fight.” Just then the security teams arrived.

  “We are not going to have any trouble here, are we Captain?” 1SGT Justice and SSGT Zhukov tensely watched the group for signs of trouble.

  “Nyet, our American hosts have come to make a friendly wager. All in the spirit of sportsmanship, yes?” asked MAJ Jankauskas. Both security teams relaxed a little.

  “So what do you want to bet that our commander beats your commander?” queried the Soviet.

  CPT Janus Dread realized that they probably only had script or at best, rubles. He noticed the Soviet glance at his flight watch. Time was short; the match was soon to begin. He pulled his sleeve up and showed his watch. “My watch for your watch.”

  “Dah, I agree,” said the Soviet with a cold, mocking smile. No doubt he imagined being in possession of a genuine American pilot’s watch by the end of the match.

  One by one the Americans and Soviets paired off with their Soviet counterparts, and bet their time pieces against the outcome of the match. Finally, even the security teams got in on it.

  Kahless put on his blue boxing trunks that bore the dove on an American flag crest of the Keichu-Ryu dojo he was affiliated with he was in high school and college. He had removed his shirt and finished stretching and getting mentally prepared for the fight.

  1SGT Specialist finished wrapping Kahless’ hands with tape, and he smeared a light coating of grease on the colonel’s cheeks under his eyes. Finally, he took a syringe out of his medical bag and prepared a shot.

  “I can’t be doping up,” Kahless protested.

  “This is not dope. It's just a shot of vitamin C and B-12. The ‘C’ will ke
ep your legs from cramping late in the fight, and the B-12 will give you some extra strength when you need it.”

  “Very good.” Kahless’ medic gave him his shot, and he was ready.

  “There you go, Colonel.”

  “Thank you, it’s good to have you in my corner.”

  Ring announcer MAJ Volkov and referee MAJ Luv2bomb examined the tape on COL Kahless’ hands, then once the Soviet was satisfied, the American’s second laced on his gloves. The two men went to the Soviet dressing room to perform the same inspection on the Soviet fighter.

  His executive officer returned from making his call to MAJ Norsemun, and laced his gloves on his commander. The two men prayed together, and his first officer broke the silence. “Sir, it’s time. You know what you have to do.” He nodded and walked to the ring with his first officer and his medic.

  “Camp SEAL, we are broadcasting live from Hellas Planitia. This is CPT Two Horses, and I will be your commentator for this fight, assisted by 1LT Pale Rider.”

  “This is MAJ Norsemun and we read you loud and clear.” The major started the recording, and put the fight on the 1-MC. He turned the volume control almost off. He had complied with the order, he thought. No one told him how loud to broadcast it.

  “CPT Cipher.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Leave the 1-MC alone and do not fool around with the incoming transmission from the field. I am privately listening to the transmission in my office.”

  “Sir, yes sir.” CPT Cipher was very curious about what was going on, but the icy expression on the major’s face told him to mind his own business.

  “Camp SEAL, this is CPT Two Horses reporting live from Hellas Planitia. COL Kahless is approaching the ring with his corner man and his cut man. He looks serious. COL Tkachenko is moving toward the ring. That is one pissed-off looking Soviet.”

  “Camp Lenin, this is SGT Vasily Butkovsky. We are broadcasting to you from Hellas Planitia. The fight will soon begin. Our colonel is accompanied by his first officer and a medic. He has look that would melt steel. Our colonel is left-handed, and the American will certainly have much difficulty.”

  “And this is JSGT Pavlov; I will be assisting the senior sergeant in this telecast. It should be a good fight. For Soviet motherland!”

  The Americans won the coin toss and the referee would be MAJ Luv2bomb and the announcer would be Soviet MAJ Volkov. The announcer entered the center ring with a microphone.

  MAJ Norsemun closed the door to his office and put the transmission on his desktop speaker. CPT Black Ice was carrying two hot sandwiches and a pair of cold near beers. “Mind if I join you for lunch, Major?”

  “You do realize this makes you a co-conspirator?”

  “If we divide the blame in half it will sting less if we get into trouble. Besides, I’d take a demotion to lieutenant just to listen to this match live,” he said, grinning like a ‘possum eating persimmons.

  “Quiet, they are announcing the fight.”

  Chief security and political officer MAJ Oleg Savenkov had the fight routed to his office. The head of Soviet tactical operations knocked on the closed door. “Come in, Major, they are announcing the fight.” MAJ Savenkov opened his bottom desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of vodka and two glasses, poured two drinks, and handed a glass to MAJ Ivanov. “Sit down Arkady, please.”

  As per agreement, all personnel except security were to remain seated while the security teams led the fighters, their seconds and their cut men to the squared ring. The American security team set up their video cassette recorders to record the fight. They usually used the recorders to document events of interest following a field engagement. If Kahless won, it would make for a great showing to the rest of the post when they got home. The Americans on their bleachers remained seated but applauded loudly while the Americans approached the ring. The American’s second lifted the ropes while COL Kahless stuck his leg through and entered the ring. The American team approached the corner with a blue turnbuckle. COL Kahless was wearing his flight boots and a pair of blue trunks, with the crest of his old Keichu-Ryu dojo on the right thigh. The American was solid: lean and well-built for a man in his mid-thirties; symmetrical as a Greek god, strong arms from lifting weights and strong legs from running five miles a day. His only imperfection was his slightly crooked nose he’d earned in a college karate tournament. He exuded the confidence of a warrior tested in many challenges and not found wanting. He meditated on his men that Tkachenko had killed and the communist threat to his country. The stakes were very personal, both idealistically and in a practical sense. Losing the alloy-x would severely weaken his position on Mars to the point that eventually a post siege could be possible. He stretched his muscles on the ropes with a cool sense of detachment as his Soviet antagonist approached the ring.

  The Soviet team followed suit. The very stoic Soviets spectators looked unmoved but were very focused on their leader’s approach. Tkachenko wore his flight boots and a bright red pair of trunks with the gold hammer and sickle, the Communist symbol on the left thigh. He was the embodiment of the Soviet ideal: strong, hard and aggressive. He cut a formidable figure: strong in his loins and upper body with sledgehammer fists, not a large man in size but hard as Ukrainian maple. The nickname “Ukrainian Wolf” suited the predator who hunted the American today. He had been waiting a long time to punish the American for killing COL Kiknadze. The Soviet Central Command had high expectations when they transferred him to Mars to assume command. Part of the expectation was the killing of COL Kahless. His second likewise lifted the ropes for his man and Tkachenko stepped into the ring.

  MAJ Volkov entered the center ring with a microphone. “I am MAJ Volkov, and I will be announcing this fight. He pointed to the pride of the SCA, his countenance beaming like a light beacon and his voice gushed with enthusiasm like a new strike at a Russian oil well. In the red corner, standing at 175 centimeters, weighing in at seventy-four kilograms from Ukraine, U.S.S.R. is COL Yuri Tkachenko!” COL Tkachenko raised his hands to bask in the support of his men. The Soviets cheered for him while the Americans keep silent or booed. Professionally, but with the air of a businessman declaring some unpleasant business, he pointed to the American. “And In blue corner, standing at 176 centimeters, weighing in at seventy-six kilograms, from U.S.A., is COL Kahless,” he said, professionally, but not so enthusiastically. COL Kahless showed off a series of punches and raised his hands above his head for his men. The Americans cheered for their commander while Soviets observed with contempt.

  MAJ Luv2bomb entered the center of the ring. He motioned to the two fighters to join him. “This is a boxing match with international rules observed by the contestants on their honor, with no disqualification. There is no set number of rounds. This match will be fought until one man is down for the count. Rounds are three minutes long and one minute’s rest. If a man is down, you must return to a neutral corner while I count. At the end of each round, each fighter will break clean and return to his own corner. I have been advised that I cannot stop the fight if I think one of you is in danger of being seriously hurt. Your seconds and medics will have to throw in the towel. Watch the rabbit punches, kidney punches, and hitting below the belt; let’s make it a clean fight,” admonished the referee.

  The Soviet gave the Chinese-American referee a look of contempt, then stared at his rival. The only thing he despised worse than Americans were Chinese-Americans. “I will beat you like curr dog!” the Soviet sneered.

  “Fight first; brag later, bigmouth!”

  The two fighters touched gloves together in the customary boxer’s handshake. The air was filled with the expectation of the violent storm brewing. Both men returned to their corners and awaited the bell. The American XO offered the mouth guard to his commander, and he put it in his mouth and bit down.

  “Colonel, the Soviet is a southpaw; he shoots a sniper rifle left-handed. His left eye is the dominant one. Stay away from his left hand and try to break his ribs on his left side—close his lef
t eye if you can. You’re ambidextrous, so fight him left-handed until I tell you to switch.”

  COL Kahless bit down on his mouthpiece and glanced at his medic. “Any medical advise?”

  “Yeah, don’t let him hit you.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Watch the American; he is a skilled martial artist. Do not underestimate him. Draw first blood and make him doubt himself. You appear to be stronger than he is. A long fight would favor you. Wear him down and finish him off,” counseled the Soviet first officer. Tkachenko nodded and bit down on his mouth guard.

  “This could be the the most memorable fight ever fought on Mars,” noted CPT Two Horses.

  “COL Tkachenko is a southpaw, and I’ll bet the Soviets assume they can screw up his rhythm with a mirror image stance. Hence the old boxing idiom, ‘southpaws should be drowned at birth,’ ” commented 1LT Pale Rider.

  “Then the Soviets are in for a rude awakening. We both know that our commander is ambidextrous and is likely to fight left-handed. This will give him a stronger lead hand as well.”

  “The bell has rung, and both fighters are approaching center of ring. The winner will be rewarded by recovering the alloy-x scrap, and the loser will go home with nothing. We’ll show them Kuzka’s mother,” said SGT Butkovsky.

  “It looks like the American is going to fight left-handed. Surely he will be at a disadvantage against a true left-hander,” speculated JSGT Pavlov.

  MAJ Norsemun was just finishing his sandwich when the bell rung, making him sit upright. His eyes were riveted to the radio as if staring at it would affect the outcome. “Both fighters have assumed a left-handed fighting stance and are now set. Each one is doing exploratory right jabs looking for a weakness,” reported CPT Two Horses.