Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  The next three rounds were a grueling exchange of body blows and head shots from both sides. Both warriors wearied themselves trying to grind their opponent down for a knockout punch, to no avail. Tkachenko’s left eye went from swollen to black and blood-filled. Kahless had suffered further injury and now two of his ribs were cracked on the left side. Kahless always seemed to be at his corner at the end of the round, and despite his injuries, he slowly got his second wind while the Soviet was slowly becoming spent.

  “Arkady, that is your forth vodka. If we don't eat something soon, we may experience time travel. It will not go well with us if it is found that we got drunk, instead of following orders concerning the transmission.”

  “But of course, Oleg.” MAJ Ivanov called the Mess Sergeant and ordered some food. He put the vodka bottle back in the desk drawer until they had eaten something.

  MAJ Jankauskas studied the ring with interest when the bell signaled the beginning of round twelve. The internal pressure was simmering within the Slavic warriors and as the pressure increased, demanded release.

  “The American is continuing that hiding technique, obviously afraid to be hit. He also looks as though he is beginning to tire before our colonel’s relentless attacks. This round should be the turning point for the American’s crushing defeat,” predicted SSGT Butkovsky.

  “I agree, Senior Sergeant. The American has attempted to clinch again and the referee has broken it up. Both are fighting real close again; our commander is working the midsection of his enemy. The American has landed another hard right to our commander’s left eye, but our colonel is continuing to press his attack, not letting up on his opponent.”

  MAJ Jankauskas and the Soviet pilots increasingly were becoming agitated as the fight became more intense. “The American is firing quick right jabs in rapid succession with his right hand to our colonel’s left ribs. Another blow from the American—our colonel blocks it and delivers a punishing overhand right, and COL Kahless’ nose is gushing blood!” exclaimed JSGT Pavlov.

  Kahless clinched his foe in an attempt to slow his momentum down while he could recover from the damage he’d just received. Kahless was bleeding on Tkachenko’s sweaty shoulder. The Soviet shook the American to make him let go. “You are finished, give up!” he snarled.

  As the referee broke the clench, with bravado he did not feel at the moment, he snapped back, “I’m just getting started.”

  The internal pressure at the Soviet bleachers had finally reach critical mass, redlined and blew. MAJ Jankauskas stood up with a shout, “Destroy the American dog, Colonel!”

  “Show him Kuzka’s mother!” shouted 1LT Ryzhkov.

  “Well, it seems that there certainly is sex in the Soviet Union,” quipped CPT Two Horses.

  “I stand corrected, Captain. It just appears that they are slower to arouse,” answered his junior partner. “And it looks as though our colonel is about to be saved by the bell. He looks like he took a pretty hard shot to the nose.”

  “And there is the bell ending round twelve,” said SSGT Butkovsky, not happy that it was ending with the American bleeding. He would have much preferred that COL Tkachenko capitalize on the bleeding American’s weakened state. “This appears to be the turning point of the match,” he reported enthusiastically.

  The American medic went to work putting Kahless’ nose in place and stopping the bleeding. His chest was heaving from being out of breath. His first officer sponged the parts of his sweaty brow and face that the medic wasn’t working on. In between mouthfuls of blood and sweat running into his eyes, Kahless explained. “I think I’m closing his left eye. It will alter his depth perception if he can’t see out of it. It is his dominant eye.”

  His medic looked him in the eye. “You have got to stop letting him hit you.”

  “I will keep that under advisement.”

  His cut man had the bleeding stopped in time for the bell for round thirteen. Kahless rinsed out his mouth and bit down on his mouthpiece.

  MAJ Ivanov answered the door and took a tray that the Mess Sergeant had sent them. There were two steaming hot bowls of borsch with sour cream to spoon in a dollop into the hot liquid. There was bread, sausage and plenty of mayonnaise to satisfy the worst Slavic cravings. Both started to eat their fill as round thirteen started.

  “The bell for round thirteen has sounded and both fighters are advancing, though the American has barely covered half the distance to the center of the ring,” proclaimed SSGT Butkovsky.

  “Yes, Senior Sergeant, I think the breaking of the American’s nose was the turning point. It is all but over now!” the junior sergeant zealously exclaimed.

  Round thirteen found two battered warriors meeting on the American’s side of the ring. Gone was the bobbing and weaving and dancing. Both men were tired enough and hurt enough that they did not waste energy on fancy footwork and evasive body movements. Tkachenko took Kahless’ reluctance to go all the way to the middle as a sign that he was too tired for the trip. Kahless appeared to have checked out of the fight, so intent he was to stall, clinch, and employ delaying tactics that Tkachenko was sure that victory was within his grasp. The American appeared as though he was half asleep, but every fiber of the man was waiting for his chance. Like a bear awakening from hibernation, the American suddenly propelled a lighting paw to the Soviet’s jaw and he went down like a rock. The referee pointed to the neutral corner, and as Kahless complied, he began his count.

  “One—two—three.”

  “Get up, Yuri!” his second shouted.

  “Four—five—six.”

  Tkachenko stirred, rising to one knee, but staying down for most of the count to get the most of his rest.

  “Seven—eight—nine,” announced the referee.

  Tkachenko was fully on both feet, and steeling himself to bring the wrath upon his rival. He made sure he got himself set, then grinned and motioned to the American to come and get some. Kahless moved toward him and found that the momentum he had gained was lost. The Soviet was much composed and pressed hard against him, firing right-left-right combinations, looking for an opening. Kahless subtly turned and led his opponent to his corner by ever so slowly backing up. The bell sounded the end of round thirteen. Kahless sat right down, while the Soviet walked across the ring.

  “Yuri, what are you doing out there?” his second challenged.

  “I can defeat him!” he exclaimed. His chest heaved with his gulping of air while he caught his breath. “In the last end of the round, he appeared slower and weaker, as if he used up a lot of his strength early in the round, hoping to end it. I can defeat him!”

  Tkachenko’s medic touched up the cuts on his face and looked at his eye again, shaking his head at the Soviet first officer.

  “You did good, Colonel. Stay focused and make sure you keep cutting his breaks short by making him walk across the ring,” the American first officer exhorted.

  “I expected him to go down hard that time. I used up a lot of strength to get that knockdown, and he got back up. He doesn’t seem to get the message and stay down!” grumbled Kahless.

  “Keep your hands up and stay focused. If your hands are up, he can’t hit you,” his first officer advised.

  Kahless’ medic was touching up some cuts on his face. Kahless looked at him. “Yeah I know, don’t let him hit me.” His medic smiled as though he had just taught a child to finger-paint.

  The bell sounded the beginning of round fourteen. The American let the Soviet walk most of the distance to meet him. Tkachenko was glad to oblige him. He was determined to put this American dog down for good in this round. When he collided with the American, he fired six hard rights as though they exploded from a cannon. Kahless was not ready for the assault. Tkachenko followed up with a right-left-right combination, watching Kahless’ right hand drop. It was the opening Tkachenko was looking for. He put his whole body weight into a powerful twisting left hook to the American’s jaw. Kahless kissed the canvas. The Soviet was directed to the neutral corner b
y the referee and Tkachenko complied.

  “One—two—three.”

  Kahless stirred, trying the clear the dark clouds from his head and raise himself up.

  “Four—five—six.”

  Kahless heard his second shouting to get up. His mind was starting to clear, but his every pore of his body and head ached and petitioned him to give up. With the heart of a warrior, he rose to one knee.

  “Seven—eight—nine.”

  Kahless stood up, and the Soviet made a beeline to meet him. The American put up his arms peek-a-boo style and kept him from hitting his face again. Kahless evaded, stalled and clinched for the rest of the round, artfully directing his adversary to finish the round again in his corner.

  “I think he is wearing out, but not enough, and my strength is almost gone,” confessed the American to his first officer.

  “How many rounds you got left in you?”

  “One, and he’s still too fresh.”

  “Then let him do all of the fighting. Save yourself for round sixteen.”

  “Time to rope-a-dope?”

  “Time to rope-a dope!”

  “He is mine!” he gasped, chest heaving, gulping down breathes of air. “I could feel the strength leaving him when he was in the clinch. I will take him this round!” exclaimed Tkachenko. He spit water into the bucket while the medic worked on his badly blackened left eye, which was now swollen shut.

  “I’ve been watching him closely; he is done,” concluded LTC Voronin. “Make sure you stay focused! He is sly as an old fox. Wear him down until he can’t hit you and then finish him off.”

  Tkachenko nodded, bit down on his mouthpiece and prepared for the last battle. The bell sounded announcing the start of round fifteen.

  Kahless moved slowly toward the center of the ring, making the Soviet cover more ground. He was using all the ringcraft he had to make the Soviet waste his energy reserves. The Soviet didn’t seem to notice, so sure he was that the American was too weak to make the entire journey to the center of the ring. Kahless perceived that pride might be a weakness to exploit to help him with his plan to drain the strength out of the Soviet.

  “Hey, you commie! Your mother is a fat pig, and she wears combat boots!” Kahless taunted, making a face at the Soviet. He was trolling for the right insult, to provoke him to anger. He’d hit pay dirt on his first attempt. Little did he know that Tkachenko’s mother had died the previous year and he could not attend her funeral because he was on Mars.

  “You bastard!” Tkachenko roared, his voice a blazing fire searing the air.

  Kahless circled to the left and put his back to the ropes while the Soviet charged him like a mad bull. The Soviet collided with the American and pushed him hard against the ropes. Kahless put his hands up, covering his face and ribs. He peeked between his fists and said, “Fat pig.” The Soviet swung hard alternately with both hands, his face set with murderous intent. The American blocked every blow, getting bruises on both arms, but was otherwise unscathed. Every time Tkachenko slowed down, Kahless insulted his mother again, which caused his to redouble his efforts to try to pound the American lifeless.

  With thirty seconds left in the round, LTC Killer Instinct shouted at his commander. Kahless came off the ropes and started infighting, slowly turning the Soviet so that his own back was to his corner. Now that he was off the ropes and in position, Kahless resumed his peek-a-boo style and stopped swinging. Tkachenko pressed his attack until Kahless was nearly in his corner. At the last moment, Tkachenko swung hard around Kahless’ block and stuck him with a devastating right hook to the left ribcage. Three metacarpal bones in Tkachenko’s right hand broke at the same time that three of Kahless’ left ribs broke. The bell announced that round fifteen was over. Both fighters were “saved by the bell.” The American sat down in the folding chair and Tkachenko walked the long journey back to his corner.

  Kahless’ medic’s hands ran over his ribs and confirmed the bad news, three broken ribs on his left side. He pulled out a small flashlight and checked his eyes for signs of a concussion, but found none. In addition to his broken nose, broken ribs, and busted lip, he was sporting two black eyes. “If we had made a jigsaw puzzle based on your likeness before the fight, your face wouldn’t match the picture on the puzzle box. Seriously Colonel, you could puncture a lung if he hits you hard on this side again.” He sponged his face with water and touched up some cuts on his face and eyes.

  “Colonel, this has gone far enough. You could die out there,” said his first officer.

  “Take the towel and tie a knot in the middle,” Kahless instructed. His first officer did so, and Kahless motioned to give it to him. He threw it to his former wing man, CPT Janus Dread. “Captain, no surrender!” he shouted. The Captain held it up, and the men on the bench cheered. Kahless turned to the men in his corner. “Just removing the temptation—so I won’t have to kill you both.”

  “Okay, cover your ribs and don’t let him pop you there. Switch to right-handed and end it now!” stressed his second. Kahless nodded, bit down on his mouthpiece, and went to meet his enemy. He did not tell his second that he was bone-weary, hurting so badly he wanted to quit with all of his being. He had exhausted his strength and spent his reserves. He approached with courage the counting house of strength beyond what a man is and has, with only heart as his collateral. He would borrow strength he did not possess to finish one last round.

  “He manipulated you to spend your strength fighting on the ropes,” the Soviet first officer lectured. “Make him fight in the center of the ring.”

  Tkachenko took a drink, rinsed his mouth and spit it in the bucket. He nodded, and realized in retrospect that he had been played.

  Tkachenko’s medic was examining his left eye, which was black and swollen shut. He shook his head at Tkachenko’s second.

  “I felt the bones in my right hand break when I hit him. It’s useless,” confessed Tkachenko.

  “You are left-eye dominant. One more blow to your eye and you could be permanently blind in it and end your career as a field officer. You only have only one good hand, and one good eye. We have to throw in the towel.”

  Tkachenko erupted like a volcano, bolted up straight in his folding chair, and glared angrily with eyes like pools of lava at his first officer and medic. “Nyet! I will have whoever throws in the towel before a firing squad and buried at Hellas Planitia,” he hotly declared as if spewing hot gases, ash, and lava. Neither man doubted it and weighed their concern for him against the threat.

  Tkachenko watched as Kahless threw the towel away and proclaimed, “No surrender!”

  “You see, Yuri. He will not give up! You would have to kill him before he will quit,” his first officer said.

  Tkachenko’s smile was as cold as the East Siberian Sea in winter. “Then he will die!”

  The ringing bell announced the beginning of round sixteen. Both men slowly moved to the center of the ring. The strength of both men was running out, like the sands of an hourglass. Both fighters were standing on wobbly legs, arms heavy as lead, faces swollen and hurting all over. Kahless begrudgingly offered a final boxer’s handshake out of respect for the battle already fought, and Tkachenko touched his gloves against his adversary’s. Blood and sweat stained the ring canvas, bearing witness to fifteen rounds of merciless combat between two embattled warriors.

  Tkachenko pointed his gloved left hand at his American antagonist. “Finish now!”

  His American rival nodded his weary head. “All or nothing, leave it all out here.”

  Both men could stand, but barely, and they lacked the strength to keep their hands up to defend themselves. Boxing was done. What was left was a slugfest to see who would remain standing at the end and be the champion. Gone were the artful strategies of the sweet science of boxing from the earlier rounds. Primal instinct replaced training and technique. The nuclear essence of each man resembled that of cavemen with knotty clubs, beating each other senseless for their own survival and that of their tribe.
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  “This will probably be the last round,” reported CPT Two Horses.

  “They look as if they are either sleepwalking, or some undead creatures from some monster movie,” added his junior partner.

  Kahless switched to right-handed and kept his left down, protecting his broken ribs. Tkachenko kept his broken hand down to keep from injuring it further. Tkachenko landed a hard left cross across Kahless’ chin, and Kahless momentarily stumbled but did not fall. The Soviet looked like that took all the strength he had, and he stood there, arms down. Kahless commanded all of his strength and landed a right cross hard to the jaw of the Soviet. The punch rocked the Soviet and his legs felt like rubber, but he remained standing. Both men stood and stared, dull-eyed and slack-jawed at the other. Their seconds both shouted to get on with it. Tkachenko swung a vicious left hook with his whole body, tearing into his opponents right ribs. Kahless flinched at the impact, hesitated and delivered a hard right straight to his opponent’s forehead between the eyes. The Soviet was dazed, but the American had no strength to follow up with a second punch. The fighters clinched each other, each man hoping to gain more strength than the other by the time the clinch was broken by the referee. MAJ Luv2bomb broke the clinch and Kahless wished that Tkachenko would let him take him to the ropes again.