Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars (32 page)

“And who is this?” the major queried.

“Blaze, my dog, or wolf-dog, as it were. She will be staying here with me. My duties are confined to the post for a few days while I get her settled in and figure out what to do with her when I have field maneuvers.”

The major’s interests didn’t include people, but this dog was a different story. “May I?” he asked. Cowboy handed Blaze over to the major, who took her into his arms. His awkwardness of touching another being melted against her warm, furry body.

Until now, her new master had not allowed anyone to touch her, not even the alpha male of his pack. She had been sure that he regarded her as special, and now he had handed her to one of the subordinate members of his pack. Realization dawned on her that this pack member was very important to her master. She trusted her new master completely; she trusted his subordinate pack member not just because her master did, but because she knew his heart to be guileless toward her. She licked his face, and the major immediately sought to establish a joint-custody arrangement.

“Colonel?”

“Yes, Major?”

“I think I can help you with your problem.”

“Go on.”

“Well, you go on routine patrols six days a week, twice a day, and sometimes unscheduled field maneuvers, which are unpredictable, both in their timing and duration. I think Blaze could stay here in tac ops with me. I am a former dog owner, you see. I am quite familiar with the care and feeding of a dog.” The major’s pleading eyes revealed that this was more than just an offer; it was an earnest request.

Cowboy had never seen this side of the major before. He had made an emotional connection with something right before his eyes. He studied the man and the revelation came to him that this would benefit the man more than the dog.

“Major, that is quite generous of you, and I accept. Where would she stay?”

“I would put her bed, food and water bowl next to the desk in my office, and she could stay out here unless she has to eat or take a nap.”

“Very good. I have been working on the potty angle. I am short on newspapers.”

“No problem, sir. I have paper reports I shred every month. The ones that are not sensitive, I can turn over to you for “target practice.”

“Very good. We can start a trial this afternoon. I will bring her stuff and leave her here two hours a day for the next three days.”

“You can leave her now if you like.”

Cowboy looked at the major, still holding his pup, and decided that it might cause the man some emotional distress to pry her loose from him at the moment. “Okay, two hours.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Blaze fit in perfectly in tac ops, and by the end of three days it was clear she could stay with the major when needed. Cowboy noticed that the major was calmer and more content than he was before the visits began. Blaze grew in size and Cowboy taught her to heel and to walk beside him, now undaunted by the foot traffic of the outer ring of the complex. Cowboy had a spacesuit made for her for walks outside of the building complex. He felt like he was no longer alone. True, she was not a wife, but a companion who took the edge off of his loneliness nonetheless. The major wasn’t the only one calmed by her presence—Cowboy had fewer bad dreams.

WYATT EARP’S SYNDROME

Commander’s Log: COL SEAL—Earth date: June 27, 1979—Martian year 196, Sol Veneris, sol 23 of the Martian Month Libra—sol of the Martian year 583

We have been hard on the Soviets over the last six months since COL Squid’s death. The tide is beginning to turn in our favor. If we continue to enjoy success on the battlefield, it is conceivable that a siege on the Soviet post may be possible in the future, perhaps by year’s end. Morale among the men is good, and our fleet strength is strong and improving with each engagement.

COL SEAL,

Camp Freedom, Mars

The dark-haired haired commander closed his computer log, opened his desk and retrieved his Navajo flute. He cleared his mind and played a tune passed down to him by his father. A white man may have characterized the tune as mournful and lonely, but to a Navajo, it was spiritual.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted his song. “Come in, Cowboy.”

“Don’t stop playing on my account. I haven’t heard that one before.”

“It’s called the “Warrior’s Song.”

“Would you teach it to me?”

“Sure.” COL SEAL played the piece through twice and looked up.“Got it?”

“I think so.”

Cowboy’s mentor handed him the flute, and he played the piece through twice, looking to his teacher and friend to see if he had made any mistakes.

“Very, very good,” his teacher said, his voice brimming with pleasure.

“Ready to go shooting?”

“Just wrapped up the last bit of business.”

“Good.”

“I have a riddle for you,” said COL SEAL, grinning mischievously.

“Is it a SEAL or Soviet joke this time?” his first officer deadpanned.

“Why can’t it be both?”

“No reason. Okay then—shoot.”

“What’s the difference between a Navy SEAL and a Soviet politician?”

“Other than the obvious?”

“Yes, other than the obvious…”

“Dunno.”

“SEALs earn their medals.”

“I’ll have to remember that one the next time I do some pre-battle trash talking to the Soviets. I got one for you. When we go out on a recreational outing, like today, shouldn’t we be called playing ‘Cowboy and Indian?’ ”

“It might, if Cowboy was the boss. I prefer to call it playing ‘Indian and Cowboy,’ ” he said, an easy smile playing on his lips.

“Roger that. Well, we’re burning daylight. Ready?”

“Ready.”

The white-haired man with bushy eyebrows and a glowering expression read the report of the last failure in a series of failures on Mars. He removed his reading glasses and placed them back in his pocket. His anger rose like the mercury in a thermometer placed in boiling water. GEN Kuznetsov slammed his fist on the desk. “Svetlana, connect me to COL Tkachenko on Ganymede!” he demanded.

“Yes, Comrade General,” hurrying to her task in an attempt to
manage
the general before his anger boiled over into her office.

It was zero two hundred on the Soviet post on Ganymede when Svetlana made the conference link. The fairly petrified young officer that received the video conference request rushed to get COL Tkachenko to take the call.

“Yes?” answered a sleepy COL Tkachenko.

“Comrade Colonel, GEN Kuznetsov is requesting video conference immediately.”

“Advise comrade general that I will take the call in my quarters in five minutes—no, make that two minutes.” Tkachenko knew that the general would not be calling at this hour unless he was angry, and it was not good to make an angry general wait.

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

COL Tkachenko washed his face and quickly got dressed and made it to his workstation desk in time to take the call as promised. GEN Kuznetsov’s face was bright red, like a boiling tea kettle soon to whistle to let off steam: angry at someone, hopefully not Tkachenko. When generals weren’t happy, colonels weren’t happy.

“Greetings, General… And what do I owe the honor of your call?”

“You and your first officer pack your things. You are being transferred to Mars. That fool Kiknadze is losing us Mars,” he spat. “You will relieve Kiknadze. LTC Matulevich will return on your shuttle to Ganymede and take your post there.”

“With the present orbital alignments, the trip will take eight months.” Tkachenko knew better than to ask the fate of COL Kiknadze in the general’s present frame of mind.

The general’s eyes widened, lifting his white, bushy eyebrows from his angry blue eyes. “Then you had better leave right away.”

“Of course, Comrade General. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, make it your highest priority to kill both the American commander and his first officer. Then destroy all of the Americans.”

“Of course, Comrade General.”

“Colonel, what pistol did you bring from your collection?” I asked.

“German Luger, I like to try them all. You need to try something new.”

“I think I’ll stick to my colts.”

“Spoken like a true cowboy.”

I spotted a familiar rock formation, placing us about ten clicks from Valles.

COL SEAL and I weren’t only karate enthusiasts; we shared a passion for collecting, shooting and throwing pistols and knives. He made me his confidante and friend. Whenever we could, we would hop into our tanks and go to Valles Marineris, the Martian Grand Canyon, to shoot pistols and practice throwing knives. Valles is just over three thousand kilometers long with a big collection of canyons, and four times as deep as Arizona’s Grand Canyon, and is just south of our post. We liked to practice at a favorite canyon, which was reasonably safe from ambush. Of course, we always made sure the area was clear according to satellite and radar before we went in. It was during those times that he shared with me the secrets of command that he never revealed to others: how much to let your men know, how much to keep to yourself, and various philosophies of war and peace.

Nearing the canyon, I glanced at my radar, surprised to see five blips materialize on my screen. Only stealth devices could have concealed the enemies’ radar signature until we were right near them. It was the only explanation why we hadn’t detected the enemies’ radar signatures until we were right near them. The only thing that could hide them from radar was the redfield generator, which had been outlawed by treaty nearly four years earlier.

“Redfields,” I shouted as Soviet tanks surrounded us. They must have been hidden here all night after slipping in during our satellite blackout window. We assumed a back-to-back defensive position like we’d done many times before, but this time I knew there were too many. Two tanks decided to converge on me while the other three attacked the colonel. The thought flashed through my mind that they knew who we were, and they knew that COL SEAL was in the other tank. The adrenaline started pumping and my heart pounded in my chest like a double-action steam locomotive driving up the Rocky Mountains. Quickly I strafed left and did a vertical lift hop. Two bright orange pairs of particle beam cannon blasts fired right under me, missing me cleanly while I scored a direct hit off-center with both barrels to the tank facing me on the right. This caused it to turn slightly to the right so it couldn’t shoot me back.

I fired again, severely damaging the ship, but couldn’t finish it off. The other tank scored a direct hit on my ship. The impact force thrust me back. It shook me so hard that I bite my tongue. With the taste of blood in my mouth, I hammered his tank with a couple of cannon blasts of my own. I kept the enemy tank I was fighting between me and his partner, using the first one as a shield so the second tank couldn’t shoot at me. I took another grazing hit the port skin of my tank. Firing a volley, I struck the first tank slightly off-center, turning his whole tank to my starboard side and moving his cannon barrel, so it pointed away from me. One more quick blast and the first tank exploded into flames. The second tank was too close to the blast and the explosion damaged it further, the sound reverberating across the Martian plane.