Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  “What a fight! Each fighter looks about the same height and weight, both athletically built, and about the same arm length-reach, wouldn’t you say, Captain?”

  “From here they look like equals, but as you know, heart is what counts. We will see who has heart.” CPT Black Ice moved closer to the receiver so as not to miss any details.

  The Soviet was determined to show the American that he was to be feared, early in the match. His jaw was set in a resolute and menacing fashion, looking for an early win. The American was using his footwork and bobbing his head back and forth to keep from getting hit while he looked for an opening.

  MAJ Ivanov drained his glass of vodka and poured another. “COL Tkachenko lunged forward with his left foot assuming right-handed stance, firing a stinging left and following by a right cross. The American side stepped the right cross by moving to his left. Our colonel turned his body right to follow his movement, left-handed stance again, and caught the American unexpectedly with a hard left cross to the mouth,” reported SSGT Butkovsky.

  “He appears to be bleeding. It is like American movie with James Bond, From Russia With Love,” mocked JSGT Pavlov.

  CPT Black Ice cursed under his breath at the news of first blood going to the Soviet. “It looks as though COL Tkachenko has made a statement that he is here to fight,” said CPT Two Horses.

  “He certainly has, and this may be a long, hard fight,&rdquo injected 1LT Pale Rider. The young sniper rolled up a piece of paper into a tube and looked at the Soviet through the hole.

  “Don’t worry, someday your time will come,” consoled CPT Two Horses.

  “So close and yet so far away,” the young sniper sighed. “I’ve been looking for this chance ever since I got to Mars. Here is my target less than thirty feet away and I have no rifle!”

  “Have patience, my young friend.”

  COL Kahless backed up and gave his opponent a congratulatory salute for scoring first blood. The two warriors continued their probing into the other’s weaknesses with right jabs and an occasional left until the bell signaled the end of round one.

  “He bleeds. See Yuri, he is quite human. Keep up the pressure and do not let up,” counseled the Soviet first officer.

  “He is stronger and faster than he looks,” confessed COL Tkachenko. His medic gave him a water bottle. He rinsed his mouth out and spat into the offered bucket, then bit down on his mouth guard.

  “You are more than enough to vanquish him.” The colonel nodded to his first officer in agreement.

  “Don’t worry about it, Colonel. So he got off a lucky punch. Keep focused and keep your guard up,” said the American first officer. The American rinsed his mouth out and spit into the bucket. 1SGT Specialist examined the cut on his lip and closed it.

  “It wasn’t a lucky punch. He is smart and very strong. He reminds me of one of the lumberjacks back home in Louisiana, not very big in size but hard as an oak. I feel like I’m hitting a tree,” said Kahless.

  “Then be the axe, and cut him down,” encouraged his first officer. Kahless’ medic put the mouthpiece back in, and Kahless bit down.

  “And there is bell for round two,” SSGT Butkovsky reported.

  “Watching the Soviet bleachers is like studying Soviet society. When their man drew first blood, they were stoically unmoved. I guess the old saying that there is ‘no sex in the Soviet Union’ is true,” concluded 1LT Pale Rider.

  CPT Two Horses looked at his junior partner with a quizzical look. “I guess I haven’t heard that expression. What are you getting at?”

  “Well, if our guy had drawn first blood, what would our bleachers look like?”

  “They’d be up on their feet shouting.”

  “Exactly my point. In the Soviet Union, they are trained to keep their thoughts to themselves. Individual expression is not encouraged. People in a repressive society bottle up their feelings and keep their emotions in check for the collective good. They are ever careful of their Soviet ‘big brother’. So they watch stoically.”

  Being cooped up with CPT Black Ice in a closed-in space made MAJ Norsemun uneasy. It was not because he didn’t like him. He did, but the major was socially ill-at-ease with people. MAJ Norsemun felt the air in his office getting tighter. MAJ Black Ice knew him well and recognized the early symptoms of a panic-attack. He accessed the comm. “CPL Gray Eagle?”

  “Sir, yes sir?”

  “Please bring Blaze to MAJ Norsemun’s office, and two more near beers.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  CPT Black Ice looked at the major and then his watch. “Corporal, make that two real beers. I’m off-duty.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  The major smiled at CPT Black Ice sheepishly and said, “Thank You.”

  The captain smiled. “Always ready to oblige, Major.”

  CPL Gray Eagle arrived with Blaze five minutes later and handed CPT Black Ice the beers. He directed his question to the major. “Should I leave her for a while, sir?”

  “Yes, Corporal, give her a couple of hours.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  Major Norsemun's heart rate returned to normal with the cold wet nose of the dog pressing into his hand. He petted her and turned his attention to the fight which was already in progress in round two.

  The Soviet catapulted himself from his corner like a stone in a medieval war machine hurled at his American rival. The Soviet continued to capitalize on his earlier first blood score, getting right down to business early in round two. He brought all of his fighting skill to bear on his American adversary, systematically attempting to grind and wear his opponent down. He landed two blows to each one of his opponent’s, firing straight rights and an occasional punishing left. The American bade his time and waited for an opening. His opening came, with twelve seconds to spare in the second round. He launched a whipping left uppercut that lifted the Soviet off of his feet and put him on the canvas. Kahless withdrew to a neutral corner while the referee started the count.

  “One—two—three—,” started the referee. He was very conscious that a fast count would cause the Soviets to cry foul. The Soviet was clawing at the canvas to try to get on his knees and get up. His foggy brain was only conscious of the hot ring lights on his back and the canvas resin on his knees. Had the punch been one-half inch to the right and it would have been “lights out.” “Four—five—six.” Tkachenko’s brain ascended though the fog and he was aware of his second shouting to get up. The Soviet was now on one knee, making the most of the count. “Seven—eight—nine.” Tkachenko was on his feet. His American antagonist moved from the neutral corner toward the Soviet as the bell rang announcing the end of round two.

  “The American got in a lucky punch. It should not affect the outcome at all,” said SSGT Butkovsky. MAJ Savenkov did not like the outcome of round two, but approved of the way SSGT Butkovsky commented on the reversal. It was a very “politically correct” way for a socialist to view the round.

  “And that is the end of round two!” announced CPT Two Horses. “Our colonel showed the Soviets that he is a force to be reckoned with.”

  “He certainly has, Captain. Now the Soviets can’t assume that Tkachenko will dominate the match and do with our commander as he chooses!” exclaimed 1LT Pale Rider.

  MAJ Norsemun and CPT Black Ice had nearly cheered themselves horse with the excitement of the knockdown. Blaze joined in and barked excitedly.

  “Very, very nice, colonel. You know you can do this—and now he does, too. He is a volume puncher, but that doesn’t mean anything because you’re not fighting for points. Every fighter has just so many punches in him before he’s punched out. You have great footwork; fight him peek-a-boo style. Keep focused and choose your shots carefully,” advised the American first officer. Kahless nodded while his cut-man removed his mouthpiece and washed his face with a wet sponge.

  “What happened out there?!” the Soviet first officer asked. His medic took his mouthpiece and examined his face for cuts.

 
“He got a lucky punch in. He hits hard, and I did not expect him to be that strong. I will not overestimate him again!” His medic put his mouthpiece back in, and he bit down as the bell signaled the beginning of round three.

  “The Soviet came out of his corner with guns blazing, firing six quick hard right jabs in succession at our man. COL Kahless, assuming a peek-a-boo stance has blocked half of them, deflected two more but got a stinging jab on his left jaw. Kahless stepped back, and then moved forward to get himself set,” reported CPT Two Horses.

  “Our commander is engaging the Soviet again, playing peek-a-boo with his adversary, keeping him from effectively scoring against his face. The Soviet is switching to working on our man’s ribs,” said 1LT Pale Rider.

  CPT Janus Dread watched the round at the edge of his seat, crouched and leaning forward like a tiger, ready to pounce. The American bleachers were alive with excitement.

  “Beat hell out of ‘em, Colonel,” shouted 1LT Scourge.

  “Hit him, Colonel. Hit him for the U S of A,” hollered CPT Boneman.

  The tension of the normally stoic Soviets was like an internal pressure cooker. Though they watched in relative silence, a cauldron of Slavic passions was slowly boiling. MAJ Jankauskas watched the match, outwardly appearing to be utterly detached, but inwardly his blood pressure was climbing. To be defeated by an American was unthinkable! The Soviet military was supreme, and their commander was a great man. He absentmindedly glanced at his watch and frowned.

  Majors Savenkov and Ivanov leaned forward to strain their ears for every detail. “Our commander seems to be very effective in firing punishing blows to the American’s left side. The American countered with a right hook to the head—and another—and another! And there is the bell to end round three,” reported SSGT Butkovsky.

  “COL Tkachenko will soon start dominating the match,” predicted JSGT Pavlov. He looked at his watch and over at the American commentators. He had bet his watch against 1LT Pale Rider.

  The next three rounds were very much equal, each man landing punches on the other and trying to maneuver his opponent into position for a knockout punch. None came, and the bell for the end of round six sounded. Both fighters moved to their corners a little slower, with a little less bounce to their step than at the start.

  CPL Gray Eagle knew something was wrong. MAJ Norsemun and CPT Black Ice were hiding something. CPT Two Horses was his father and he was COL Kahless’ aide. He was worried about them both. COL Kahless maintained a mysterious godlike reputation of being everywhere—hearing and knowing everything. His aide knew the truth, and so did MAJ Norsemun and CPT Black Ice. The only common areas without listening devices were MAJ Norsemun and CPT Black Ice’s personal offices. They were both part of the technical process of the colonel’s godlike mystique. CPL Gray Eagle just had to know what was going on. He slipped into his commander’s office and got a small listening device out of his desk drawer, grabbed two more beers and headed to MAJ Norsemun’s office. He knocked on the closed door to MAJ Norsemun’s office, and the major turned the radio’s volume knob off.

  “Come in,” said MAJ Norsemun. He was anxious to get rid of CPL Gray Eagle before round seven started. The young corporal set the two beers on the major’s desk with his right hand. As he leaned over the desk, he slipped the listening device under the edge of the major’s desk with his left hand. CPT Black Ice was not distracted by the beer. He had been in security for too many years to let an amateur place a bug in his presence.

  “Thank you corporal. You can put that thing back in your pocket. If your daddy and your commander weren’t in the field, you would be in the brig. I know you are worried. Sit! You will serve out the time for your crime in here until the fight ends,” lectured CPT Black Ice. MAJ Norsemun scowled at him for the invasion but didn’t say anything.

  The young corporal lit up and said, “Thank you, sir.” MAJ Norsemun turned the volume knob back up.

  Kahless bit down on his mouthpiece as the bell announced the beginning of round seven. Sweat ran down his face, dripping down his shoulders like anointing oil, confirming him king of the blue corner and contender for the crown of Mars’ squared ring. He stood ready to exercise his “divine right” to pound the king of the red corner into obeisance.

  Tkachenko reminded himself that he was fighting for his socialist principals, once and for all proving that socialism was superior to capitalism. But a realization deep down in his heart was surfacing: the greater reality and with crystal clarity. The fact was this wasn’t about politics at all. This was about two men, and though he would not admit it, he was fighting for himself. His reputation and pride were on the line, and he would not be disgraced by losing to a weak American.

  The two gladiators squared off again and started their dance. Kahless opened up with two quick and well-timed right jabs to the left eye of the Soviet. Tkachenko flinched and then countered with a bone-jarring hard right hook to the left ribcage of the American. Kahless pulled back, painfully aware of bruised ribs. Tkachenko’s vision in his left eye was not as clear as it was before the swelling started.

  “Both fighters are infighting up close, avoiding being hit by blows with their opponent’s whole body weight. They are working the bodies of their opponents over closely, capitalizing on the closeness with jabs to the body and uppercuts. The referee has had to break up clinches now on both sides,” commented CPT Two Horses. CPL Gray Eagle leaned forward and was relieved to hear his father’s voice.

  “It looks as though both men are getting a little tired,” observed the junior American officer.

  “Yes, this looks as though this is a real test of endurance and stamina, and who has the most heart,” said the senior commenter.

  “And there is the bell and the end of round seven. This has been a close but exciting round!” exclaimed 1LT Pale Rider.

  “It certainly was,” agreed CPT Two Horses.

  Tkachenko's aide was examining his left eye while sponging his face with water.

  “I have been watching the American. He is tiring faster than you are. Control the pace and keep up the pressure. When he runs out of steam, you can finish him,” his first officer said.

  Tkachenko nodded his agreement.

  Kahless sat down in the folded chair while his medic examined his ribs.

  “Tkachenko is still too fresh. Me? I’m getting tired,” the weary fighter confessed.

  His second nodded. “You remember the Jack London book, Boxing Stories that I loaned you?”

  “Sure.”

  “What did the old ‘un do against the stronger young ‘un in “A Piece of Steak?” ”

  “Sorry, haven’t gotten to it yet.”

  “Just this, he worked the end of each match, so it ended in his corner. All he had to do was sit down, while his opponent had to walk the distance each time across the ring to sit down. He got his full minute’s rest and his opponent got at best, forty-five seconds. You do the same.”

  CPT Black Ice decided to order some more beer and some snacks. He didn’t want to send CPL Gray Eagle because he might somehow reveal what was going on. Security people strongly believed that “loose lips sink ships.” He called the mess hall.

  “Yes sir,” answered Mess SGT Gutshot.

  “Sergeant, can you send one of your boys over to MAJ Norsemun’s office with a six-pack of real beer and a snack for Blaze?”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “What else do you have that goes with beer for us?”

  “I have some roasted soy nuts seasoned with garlic and cayenne, and some sweet rolls I just pulled out of the oven.”

  “Sounds good, send them up.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  The bell sounded for round eight, and Kahless moved only one-quarter of the distance to meet Tkachenko, capitalizing on the new strategy of strength management. Tkachenko took it as a sign of weakness and launched his attack like a pair of scud missiles flying at his enemy’s face. Kahless braced himself for the onslaught, blocking most of the b
lows. Tkachenko connected with a nasty straight right and blackened the American’s other eye. Kahless shook it off and fired right-left-right combinations and backed his opponent up to the ropes. Both fighters continued with close infighting until Kahless smacked his adversary with an uppercut to the solar plexus. Tkachenko could not breathe and was bent over. Before he could recover, Kahless twisted his whole body weight into a devastating right hook to the Soviet’s jaw, propelling him through the ropes like some discarded rag doll placed in a giveaway box for Good Will to pick up. Tkachenko landed on the padded floor at the base of the squared ring on the American’s side. Security quickly moved to form a shield between the fallen fighter and the American spectators.

  The referee directed Kahless to the neutral corner, and he complied. MAJ Luv2Bomb, ever conscious of a fast count being called foul, began the twenty count. “One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten,” he began. Tkachenko stirred and found his way to one knee. Twice the American had surprised him, and twice had he paid for it. “Eleven—twelve—thirteen.” The Soviet approached the ropes and pulled himself up. “Fourteen—fifteen—sixteen,” counted the referee. Tkachenko slipped his leg through the ropes and was standing fully upright by the nineteen count.

  For a man knocked completely through the ropes and onto the floor, Tkachenko didn’t show it. He redoubled his efforts to regain lost momentum. He fought like a man unafraid, undaunted by the setback. Kahless was surprised by the strength and vigor his opponent still had. The American swapped blows with the Soviet and slowly let Tkachenko move him toward the American corner. It was slowly, artfully and carefully done, so much so as the Soviet never questioned for a minute why he was three feet from the blue corner when the bell announced the end of round eight. Kahless sat down in his chair and watched his antagonist walk the distance back to his corner. It was a small thing, but in the strategy of strength management, small things add up.