Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars (28 page)

“I’m not asking you your real name, but where did you serve?”

He thought for a second. “I’m not going to be able to hide this from you, being my roommate and all.” Pulling his shirtsleeve up, he revealed a Seawolf tattoo from Det Four on his upper right bicep. I responded in kind by showing off my Seawolf tattoo. He smiled like a kid in a candy shop. “We’re going to get along just fine. In case you wondered why you got the invite to this party here, this place is run by SEALs, and they love the hell out of Seawolves.”

I asked for directions and followed them to the post commander’s office. The outside door to the commander’s office led to COL Squid’s aide’s office, which served to keep anyone from bothering the commander unless the business was specifically with him.

“COL Squid is expecting you,” informed PVT Gray Eagle. The young private looked as though he may come into puberty any day now and ask someone to teach him how to shave. He had high cheekbones, dark eyes and hair: Choctaw or maybe Cherokee, I surmised.

The inner door to the commander’s office was an oddity here, real polished oak with nice grain. I knocked on the door to hear, “Just a moment.” I heard a thunk sound hit the door.

“Come on in,” beckoned the deep, resonant voice from within. I wasn’t entirely prepared for what I saw. The man before me was holding a four-foot long blowgun. He looked beyond me and pointed to the door. “Not bad, huh?”

I turned toward the door and saw six blowgun darts stuck into a cork dartboard. All six darts were either in the center or very close. “Not bad,” I agreed. He motioned for me to retrieve the darts and try it. I did so and came nearly close to equaling his, to which he appeared pleased. CPT Chainsaw’s description of a man who likes to compete in games was accurate. Good to know my intel so far was straight.

Before me was a very muscular man in his mid-thirties, about six-foot tall. From his accent, I suspected he was from the northeastern US, probably Maine. Dark brown eyes and short brown hair accented his square face and Greek nose. He met my gaze evenly, and then dropped his eyes to read something else. “Son, do you know why you’re here?”

“I’ve heard some of what’s going on here.” He pointed to the picture on the wall showing a field of alloy-x scrap being gathered by some utility vehicles, guarded by tanks.

“This is the reason we stay here. This resource is extremely precious and neither side is willing to let the other side have any of it. The rest of the space race is soon to be carried to other worlds, but we remain here. Just the alloy-x scrap that falls on Mars alone could cause the rise of the next superpower. We patriotically defend this planet and fight for every piece of scrap. We call it scrap because it is either pieces of the original Ktahrthian’s colonization vessel that exploded in space, or scraps of exploded tanks or other structures here. Any questions?”

“Just when do I start?”

“That’s the spirit.” He smiled at me as though I was his new best friend. I would learn later that though he was tough, he inspired men to follow him because he cared for them as if they were his sons. He looked down at the report in my file and looked up. “I personally handpicked you for this post from the recruiter’s list. As a Seawolf pilot, you had a good record, kept your nose clean, did your job and never let the other sailors down. I see your detachment flew support for SEAL Team One. In addition to the ribbons and medals you were previously awarded, you have also been “posthumously” awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross,” he said, with an easy smile and glint in his eye. “That was one hell of an engagement. It takes a lot to impress me. That’s what brought you here.” He handed me the medal. “I think we’ll get along fine. The inventory of your personal stuff has listed a pair of Colt forty-five pistols. Do they have sentimental value or are they tools only?”

“Both, I used to wear them over my zoom bag and they were my grandfather’s.”

“Can you shoot?”

“I’m not as good as my grandfather, but I like to think I’m ok,” I said, frowning a bit.

“What’s wrong?”

“MAJ Callahan let me have my pistols but wouldn’t let me bring any shells.”

He smiled at the mention of the major. “MAJ Carnage made a name for himself on Luna. He is the one who “killed you” with a rubber stamp.” But shells are not a problem.” He opened his desk and handed me the three boxes of shells I had to give up to MAJ Callahan. “I want to see you shoot. If you’re any good, I’ll order you all the shells you can shoot. Oh, and I suppose you’ll want this,” he said as he handed me my parents’ and grandparents’ pictures. Then he presented me with a box and bade me open it. It was leather-bound King James Bible. “Church services are Sol Mercurii at nineteen hundred, Sol Solis at zero nine hundred and nineteen hundred. Karate classes are at eighteen hundred on Sols Lunae, Mercurii and Saturni.”

“Sir, is that an order, sir?”

“The karate classes, yes. But you shouldn't have any trouble with that. You are listed as being a first-degree black belt in Keichu-Ryu Karate. I've heard of that style. You will be expected to share your style with us. We follow Bruce Lee’s philosophy of adapting what is useful, rejecting what is useless and adding what is specifically our own, so that our style is continually evolving. SGT Samurai shares Aikido techniques with us.

As for the church services… no, it is not mandatory. But, I’d be disappointed if you died not knowing God. Everyone here has the freedom of religion. But true courage and wisdom comes from God above.”

I nodded. “I’ll be attending both.”

“Excellent! Now, I suppose you would like to know what’s expected of you. You’re to be CPT Chainsaw’s shadow from now on. As wingman your primary responsibility is protecting him and performing any mission duties that you’re assigned. Keeping him alive is a direct order. Do not disobey this order! I have lost eight pilots in the two months we’ve been here. If you survive until the end of your four-year tour, you will no doubt be on my senior staff, or offered a job as an instructor back home.”

After being dismissed I found CPT Chainsaw back at our quarters.

“Okay, it’s time for the tour. Do you intend to wear those pistols outside of your space suit?”

“If it’s practical, and doesn’t cause me any issues, yes.”

“I see you got some shells. Well, load your pistols and bring them with you.”

After I loaded my colts, he took me to the hangar deck, where he gave me a tour of our equipment and gear.

“You have three weapons once you’re outside of your ship, the sniper rifle, your service revolver, and your combat knife. The sniper rifle is a scoped, bolt-action Winchester .308. We’ll be spending a lot of time making sure you are proficient in that. Your standard issue revolver is a .357 Colt, but you can use any revolver you like. Semiautomatics jam too easy because of all of Mars’ ever present dust, so we don't use them. Finally, this is your combat knife.”

I was unimpressed as he showed it to me. It was just a double-edged knife with a five-inch blade. “I’ve seem bigger knives in ‘Nam.” He unsheathed it, walked over to an old flight suit that had failed safety inspection and sliced the oxygen hose off of the helmet, then cut a slash in the suit. He tapped his head with his finger, indicating I should use my head.

“You don’t have to stab anyone here.”

“Understood.”

“The Martian environment is harsh and unforgiving. Mars demands respect and will try real hard to kill you. Always keep that in mind. This is your flight suit. It is designed just like a spacesuit as it has to keep you warm, provide air and maintain the proper pressure inside. It will take a while to get accustomed to walking in it. The center of gravity is on the outside of your body now instead of your body-center. This suit is very resistant to rips and punctures, but it isn’t perfect. Don’t let your flight suit get ripped. Your flight suit has hot patch kits in your left sleeve pocket, and it is imperative you fix a leak quickly. If you get shot, the wound isn’t your first concern, patching the hole is. You have to get a hot patch from your utility pocket or your suit will start the decompression process. You will suffer great pain in a matter of seconds. Getting a case of the bends isn’t pleasant, I assure you. With complete decompression of your suit, your mucous membranes and surface fluids in your eyes, nose and lungs will boil, and you’ll experience severe abdominal pain from trapped gas pockets in your intestines.

Being gunshot is another story. Your suit has packets next to your skin. If punctured, these packets release medicine that kills pain, stops bleeding, and fights infection. Nothing can stop an alloy-x sniper bullet, though. A surgeon will have to get the bullet out if the wound isn’t fatal.”

“Will I die if my suit decompresses and I can’t patch it?”

“Yes. Your suit decompresses in about fifteen seconds. Then you develop the bends, fall into unconsciousness and suffocate, long before you freeze to death. Did they teach you how to use a hot patch in basic training?”

“Sure.”

“Suit up.” After I was fully suited up, he helped me strap my pistols on over my flight suit. He retrieved a stopwatch from around the neck of a mannequin that was wearing an old flight suit. Before I knew what was happening, he unsheathed one of my pistols, and fired three shots into the mannequin. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM! I was a bit stunned that he took such liberties with my piece. But as I was to learn later, the captain felt that important lessons needed to be visual and action oriented.

“Now, show me. Show me. Our lives depend upon it. You must be able to apply the patch quickly. Here, grab this bag full of patches, and we’ll practice on this old suit until I’m satisfied that you can do it right and quickly.” He motioned for me to demonstrate how to apply the patch.

I pulled out a number three hot patch. It had a clear backing that I had to peel off to activate the chemicals heating up the adhesive on the side. The peel-off backing protruded an inch past the patch to make it easier for a pilot with bulky spacesuit gloves to handle it. I had the patch securely applied in eighteen seconds.

“I regret to inform you that your son was killed in the line of duty for being too slow! We will be here all day if we have to, until you get it down to ten seconds or less.” It didn’t take all day. I got my speed down to nine seconds within fifteen minutes. He continued with my orientation.

“After you patch the hole you must send an encrypted distress signal before you lose consciousness. This helps your rescuers get to you before the Soviets do, and to get you medical attention. There’s very little atmosphere here. When ejecting away from the battlefield if your tank starts to blow, you have retrorocket boots that have just enough fuel to let you drift to the ground.

The helmet and suit maintain air pressure and help heat or cool you. We use a closed-circuit rebreather to breathe. The parts of the unit are a sealed facemask, a counterlung, a breathing bag and a carbon dioxide scrubber. You breathe through a sealed face mask inside of the helmet. When you exhale, the carbon dioxide is redirected to a carbon dioxide scrubber tank. If we didn’t have this setup, your only hope would to be rescued by the Americans or captured by the Soviets before your air runs out. If your suit is torn and you can’t patch it, your partner can help you before your suit decompresses. If no American is present and the Soviets are, it is preferable to be captured than to die from the bends. This isn’t a good idea, but it beats death. All prisoners are examined thoroughly. They may not know your real name, but they will fingerprint you, record your voice, x-ray your teeth, take a DNA sample and weigh and measure you. You’ll be catalogued to the last detail. It is good not to let that happen. It is best not to get captured, but it is better than death. Don’t give up any information about us. We will have a few bits of disinformation to give them in case you’re captured. We have an accord with the Soviets for prisoner exchanges, but sometimes they kill pilots instead. Sometimes it is a judgment call as to whether a pilot is killed in a battlefield situation or captured.

Oh, and you’re going to love this piece of equipment.” He grinned like a jackass eating saw briers and held up what looked like an adult diaper. We hadn’t had to wear them on the flight over because there was a proper head on the shuttle. When he saw that the idea of wearing my own excrement disgusted me, the captain gave me an amused look. It brought to mind the hazing we’d given new Seawolf pilots, and I realized the shoe was on the other foot, now. You may get accustomed to it, but trust me, you’ll never like it.” I rolled my eyes and wondered if there was a way avoid getting caught on missions taking a dump in my astronaut
skivvies.

“Oh, and another thing, you’ll probably collect sand and fine dust in the joints of your suit, if you get out of your ship. It is mandatory to vacuum all of dust off of you when you enter an airlock and come into the buildings. The dust here is ultra-fine and gets into the bloodstream if inhaled, which isn’t healthy.

A radio inside your helmet allows you to communicate with your fellow Americans. The speakers are in your helmet and the microphone is inside your rebreather mask and both are wireless. While you are flying, if you don’t receive a transmission or speak, you can listen to music from your ship’s music program.”

“What if I decide to sing along?”

“The music shuts off.”

“Okay, I guess communication is the most important thing.”

“Correct. To continue… There’s a voice-activated feature to switch to a common channel to talk with the Soviets if you need to. We’ll have to tweak the adjustments when you get suited up or you’ll get echo and feedback. Your helmet is very abrasive resistant and will withstand sand blasting from blowing dust and sand. Dust devils will kill you if one hits you while you’re outside of your ship. They’re often as tall as fifty kilometers and your space suit isn’t able to stand up to the abrasive effect of basaltic sand at high velocities. We’ve lost scientists and pilots to dust devils. They usually occur when Mars reaches perihelion, which starts dust storm season. The dust storms can be global sometimes and reach two hundred miles per hour and we’re unable to predict them. If it gets bad enough we’ll all get grounded until the storm is over.