Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars

by Morris Graham

  Two hunchbacked, bleary-eyed warriors called in a loan on the last bit of borrowed strength they could summon with the force of their sheer wills. Kahless launched a hard right hook to the jaw at the same time that Tkachenko launched a left hook. Both fighters connected to the other’s jaw; they both went down like two trees felled by the same axe.

  The referee started the count, “One—two—three.”

  Kahless could not stand aright and clawed his way to the corner to get help from the ropes. The fog covered his brain like a mist and he was no longer aware of why he was trying to get up. He heard his second’s voice and the voices of his men calling like the voice of many waters flowing, but he did not recognize them. He grabbed the bottom rope, raised himself to one knee, placed his hand on the second rope and then sunk into a pile of spent flesh without any conscious awareness. The American spectators were on their feet, shouting for their champion to get up.

  “Four—five—six,” continued the referee.

  Tkachenko was no longer political, and was no longer trying to prove his pride or manhood. His descent into oblivion was complete. He was what was left of a man that was spent in animal passion trying to destroy his adversary; his shell trying to stand on his feet. With his hand on the bottom rope, he was unable to to raise himself up. No amount of encouragement from the Soviet bleachers or the red corner could cause their champion to rise.

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

  The counting house of both men’s strength called them to account and found them both insolvent, immediately calling in all loans of strength. Both fighters were bankrupt of all endurance and vigor and could not arise by the end of the ten count.

  “Ten!” MAJ Luv2bomb signaled that the fight was over and the bell tolled, calling the match to a close.

  The Soviet medic broke a vial of smelling salts and placed it under his colonel’s nose. Tkachenko awoke with a start and clocked his medic with a hard left, knocking him down. The American medic took notice and put his smelling salts back into his bag. He stood back and poured a pail of water on his commander’s head from a safe distance. Kahless awoke a bit startled but was not swinging. Both medics checked the eyes of their men for concussions and other damage.

  Tkachenko and Kahless both slowly and with great difficulty stood unassisted to their feet as the ring announcer, MAJ Volkov stepped into the ring. He motioned to the two fighters to join him in the center of the ring. “In the fight between COL Tkachenko and COL Kahless, lasting forty-seven minutes and twenty-two seconds, neither fighter was able to stand to the count of ten. This match is hereby declared a draw. According to the agreement, both sides will divide the alloy-x material equally and return to their posts unmolested.”

  The men in MAJ Norsemun’s office were both disappointed and proud. Though disappointed that their colonel did not defeat the Soviet, he did not lose, either. They were proud that he fought with courage and heart.

  “Major, I suppose you can play the fight over the 1-MC at normal volume,” concluded CPT Black Ice. MAJ Norsemun nodded and contacted CPT Cipher.

  “Captain, rewind the recording of the incoming transmission to the beginning and play it on the 1-MC at normal volume.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  Two minutes later the recording came over the 1-MC loud and clear. “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…”

  “MAJ Savenkov sighed. We missed good opportunity to prove Soviet superiority today.”

  “It is true, Oleg, but our enemies did not get to show American superiority, either. I think we should play the recording now, yes? We can show Soviet courage in the face of adversity. It will still be good propaganda.”

  “Yes, yes, Arkady, by all means play it on the intercom.” MAJ Ivanov rewound the recording and transmitted it “live” over the intercom. “Camp Lenin, this is SSGT Butkovsky. We are broadcasting to you from Hellas Planitia. The fight will soon begin…”

  “Okay Colonel, raise both arms so I can tape up your ribs,” 1SGT Specialist said. Kahless slowly and painfully raised both arms. The medic retrieved an ace bandage from his medical bag and wrapped it around Kahless’ ribs. He placed tape on his patient’s nose and he thought he would pass out again.

  “What is that old Russian saying when somebody says they are going to beat you mercilessly to teach you a lesson?” Kahless asked.

  “I will show you Kuzka’s mother!” The medic smiled. “Did you see Kuzka’s mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Ugly! UGH-ly!”

  “I’d say you must have seen her. You look like a raccoon with a broken nose and a busted lip. That is just what is visible: three of your ribs are broken and you have a boxer fracture on your right hand. If I were you I wouldn’t waste any money on a Halloween mask; your face will do nicely.“

  “Do you know why I put up with your insolent attitude?”

  1SGT Specialist smiled. “Battlefield 101, shoot the medic first. I am the highest priority target in the field and the first one to save your life if you are bleeding out.”

  “So I take it that you won’t have a change of heart and start being more respectful?”

  “I’m your surgeon. Do you want respect, or my putting my life on the line to save yours?”

  “Can’t I have both?”

  “Just this once—good fight out there. I didn’t lose my watch to the Soviet field surgeon,” he said, dryly. “Do you want a painkiller?”

  “I’d like nothing better, but I want my head clear until the Soviets leave.”

  “You don’t expect be doing anything as a command officer at the moment, do you?”

  “I was going to wait until the Soviets were well out of range before handing over the reins to my first officer.”

  “I thought so! As chief field medical officer, I am informing you that you are temporarily relieved of your command for medical reasons. Now, hold still while I give you a shot for pain and one to sleep.” 1SGT Specialist retrieved a vial and a syringe from his medical bag, took the cap off of the syringe and inserted the needle into the vial. He carefully drew the liquid into the syringe, turned it needle-point up and tapped the syringe with his finger to get all the air bubbles to float to the top. He pressed the plunger on the syringe until all of the air was gone and a single drop trickled from the needle’s hole. He was doing this slowly, because Kahless hated needles worse than Soviets and he was getting a bit of perverse enjoyment out of it. Kahless’ eyes grew big as he envisioned the medic as Captain Ahab looming over him with a harpoon, ready to spear the great white whale. The two were interrupted when security escorted a Soviet courier to see COL Kahless. Kahless lifted his hand to inform he was asking for a reprieve. His medic sighed and put the cap back on the syringe.

  The Soviet messenger stood before the battered American at attention. “You have a message for me?” Kahless asked the courier.

  “Sir, yes sir.” Normally he would refer to an officer as comrade, but he understood that this was how American military would be addressed. “COL Tkachenko and LTC Voronin request to meet with you and your first officer over a cup of tea, to commemorate the agreement.”

  Kahless hurt all over so badly that he did not want to get up. It was a matter of pride now. Tkachenko no doubt had gotten his injuries cared for and wanted to try to convey to Kahless that he was hurt less than he was. The American decided to play the game and try to pretend he was not hurt very badly. Kahless pondered it for a moment, “Tell Col Tkachenko I must get dressed first, but to meet us here in twenty minutes.” The courier left him, and despite his injuries, pride took Kahless over. Kahless’ wingman 1LT Janus Dread had been hovering nearby.

  “Lieutenant, find my first officer and get him here ASAP.”

  “Sir, yes sir,” he replied and headed for the exit.

  “Medic! Take all of the visible t
ape of me ASAP! You can tape me up again later.” The tape came off of his hand with little trouble. Kahless slipped on a shirt to conceal the ace bandage.

  “Sorry, Colonel” he said as he carefully peeled the tape from his broken nose. Pain exploded through his nose like a fourteen pound rocket and tears fell to his shoulders like mortar fire. “You do realize that Tkachenko was present when your nose was broken? I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten.”

  “I know. I just don’t want to appear like a fugitive from the hospital.”

  “Officially that is what you are. Remember, I declared you relieved of duty for medical reasons and was about to treat you. You should be glad I am an understanding sort and will let you have your little tea party. As soon as it is over, I have a couple of shots for you and some bed rest.”

  “Understood.” The medic was giving him a pathetic look. “I know what you’re thinking. Am I considering taking up prize-fighting full time?”

  “I wouldn’t quit my day job, sir.”

  “Duly noted. Help me up and back to the meeting room quickly.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  It was a good thing Kahless had been treated in the bioshelter. The American commentator table was still up and had two chairs, so they would have tea there. Kahless did not want Tkachenko to see him walking, so he had his medic help him to the table. He fully intended to remain until the Soviet left so he could not see Kahless walk out. The battered American sat down at the table and advised the medic to keep an eye out for Tkachenko. He wanted to keep the ice pack on his face until the last possible moment. LTC Killer Instinct arrived five minutes later with Kahless’ wingman in tow.

  Fifteen minutes later the medic announced that Tkachenko and his first officer were coming and Kahless put the ice pack under the table. Kahless’ wingman showed COL Tkachenko and LTC Voronin in. Tkachenko walked in without any difficulty it seemed, but gone was the arrogant swagger he had before the fight. With all of the discipline the American possessed, he arose and motioned for them to take a seat at the table. Tkachenko’s whole face appeared swollen, sporting a black eye which was swollen shut, and a split lip. His right hand was still taped up after the fight, so Kahless assumed he’d broken it. He almost smiled at the humor of the situation; Tkachenko had damaged his hand on Kahless’ ribs. Whatever other damage he’d incurred, he was no doubt concealing it to save face, the same as the American was.

  Kahless’ wingman did the honors and poured each man at the table a cup of tea, and retreated discreetly and stood against the wall behind his commander. Tkachenko took a sip of hot tea, and it was evident that it bothered his busted lip. “You know, you saved the lives of some of your men today, by settling it this way.”

  “And you saved some of yours.”

  “Perhaps, maybe there’s some lesson to be learned here.” They continued with diplomatic politeness and elevator talk until our teacups were drained. Tkachenko announced it was time to go, and Kahless nodded.

  Kahless rose to satisfy diplomatic courtesy, but was using all of his discipline and strength to show no pain. He experienced a bit of difficulty as the he arose, but steeled himself to show no emotion. “It has been an honor,” the American offered as the Soviets nodded in agreement. “I’ll remain here and speak with my executive officer. My junior officer will show you both out.”

  Tkachenko looked as he had been robbed of being able to survey Kahless’ walking out, but said nothing and left. The way he moved indicated Kahless was right when he thought he’d broken or cracked some of his ribs. The American made a show of sitting at the conference table with his executive officer until the Soviets left.

  Kahless complied with the medic’s orders, and command was passed over to his executive officer. After the scavengers cleaned up the American half of the alloy-x, LTC Killer Instinct commandeered his commander’s tank and took charge of the procession. All of the men doubled up in utility vehicles for the ride home.

  When the Soviets were gone, the medic taped his commander up again. This time, Kahless submitted to a shot for pain and one to sleep. It was decided that the American commander would sleep better in the medial ambulance. Kahless wrapped up in a blanket on a stretcher in the medical ambulance and put an ice pack back on his face and one on his ribs. His medic put one of the colonel’s favorite music discs in the player. The words of the song seem to summarize the day: “He was badder than old King Kong and meaner than a junkyard dog.” As he fell into a deep sleep, one thing became clear to him. He had met his nemesis, and one day one of them would surely die at the hand of the other.

  THE END

  Turn the page for a preview of the next book of this series, entitled - Warzone: Operation Wolf Hunt.

  COSTLY SKIRMISH

  Earth date: December 7, 1984—Martian year 199, Sol Solis, sol 15 of the Martian Month Virgo—sol of the Martian year 515

  “You are cleared for take-off, Colonel, reported MAJ Norsemun.”

  “First hangar airlock is open,” informed Chief Wolverine.

  My first officer approached me as I was getting into my tank. “You sure you don't want me to bring another squad?”

  “No, Jim. You get next patrol or other outing, weather permitting. I haven’t been in a tank for a month because of these infernal dust storms.”

  “Neither have I. Have a safe trip, and call us if you need us.”

  I visually inspected my suit and the exterior hoses, checked my air tank gauges and examined the maintenance seal, then suited up. I placed the rebreather mask on my face and turned the air valve on. The cool taste of the oxygen-nitrogen mix assured me my equipment was okay. Finally I put on my helmet. After running a preflight check on my tank, I fired my tank up and led my squad through the three transitional airlocks.

  It was dust storm season. I’d grounded the entire regiment for the last month. The storms had subsided, and the dust particles had settled enough so that we were now getting our satellite views of the surface back. Our morning satellite pass revealed that the dust storm had exposed a metallic object in the Eisenhower Plain. It was possibly an alien relic, so I took a squad to the plain to investigate. I’d been going stir-crazy for the last month and welcomed the reprieve from my prison.

  “A squad of Soviet tanks is crossing into the Eisenhower Plain now, sir,” reported MAJ Norsemun. “Sorry sir, we didn’t have a satellite view until they entered the plain. Their ETA and yours to the object is approximately sixty-three minutes.”

  “We’ll arrive at the same time?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Scramble all pilots to reinforce us.”

  “Aye, sir. Colonel, twenty-five Soviet tanks have just left the Soviet post and are headed your way.”

  “Understood.”

  Both our reinforcements and the Soviets’ were one hour and forty-five minutes from the object. The object of curiosity was partially unearthed and located in the Eisenhower Plain two hundred meters on our side. The imaginary line dividing our turfs existed halfway between the two posts.

  We coexisted with the Soviets because neither side was able to drive the other out. Engagements with the Soviets generally occurred for three reasons. The most common reason was the fight over alloy-x, either from destroyed objects turned into scrap or from meteor showers, which littered the Martian landscape with it. The second, less common but more important was to defend or attack an alien archaeological dig site. The third reason was less important than for scrap or technology, but important nonetheless. The third reason to fight was if one side had the sand to cross the imaginary line. To do so was the same as throwing down a gauntlet. If you tolerated the enemy crossing that line today, then he would cross the next line, and so forth until he was at your front door.

  The economics of a fight dictated who’d recover more or most of the scrap from the destroyed vehicles and how close your reinforcements were. In today’s case, there was no advantage to being closer to either post. If a Soviet patrol could make it here before our reinforcements co
uld, they might challenge us for the dig. This is a bad place for a dig, I thought. This was too close to the middle of the line to be easily defendable, with no mountains here for snipers. If both sides think that this is a viable dig site, this could force us into the bloodiest conflict I’d ever witnessed here.

  A Soviet patrol of five tanks was six minutes from the object; we were five. We arrived to see a piece of alloy-x metal sticking out of the sand. The Soviets were rapidly closing on our position. The Soviet commander opened a channel to me.

  “COL Kahless, this is COL Tkachenko. I claim the right to salvage that object.”

  “Why COL Tkachenko, I didn’t know we had salvage laws here.”

  “I will have that object. If I have to fight you for it, I will.”

  “You know we both have reinforcements coming, and if you choose to cross the line I’ll have to fight you. Then both of our reinforcements would arrive, and they would fight which would result in many deaths on both sides. Besides, it is probably just a small piece of metal with no real importance.”

  I was hoping to avoid a full-scale conflict over what may or may not be a dig site of importance. I couldn’t however, afford to allow him to have the object, no matter what it was. If it was a relic with the cipher containing the cloaking technology, then the Soviets and the Chinese would both have it, and America would be at a distinct disadvantage. The Soviet colonel was also aware of this.

  “If I could inspect the object, we could avoid the deaths of many of your men,” the Soviet officer offered.