Operation Crimson Storm. Robert Reginald
Bill?”
“We need to borrow one of your engineers again.”
One of the very few pieces of Martian technology that our scientists had successfully adapted for our own use was the ion drive from the alien spaceships, but it was a tricky piece of work, requiring constant readjustment.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll send him over through the pipeline”—both ships were connected via a giant umbilical cord with the space dock—“Anything else we can do for you?”
“Throw in a how-to manual, and I’ll feel a whole lot better. I just keep wondering if we’re going to be able to launch on schedule.”
“The main fleet is pretty much ready,” Timlett said, “although we still have some supplies we’re waiting for; but the other ships are lagging behind. They’re concentrating on finishing the main armada first. I talked with Fritz yesterday, and he says that we’re a ‘go’ on April the First no matter what else is ready. If necessary, they’ll send the rest of the boats on later.”
“How far can they stretch the window?”
“A month, maybe two; anything beyond that, and we start running into fuel problems with the shuttles, not to mention delivery issues at the other end. I think they’ll keep launching them anyway, trusting that most of the pods will get through sooner or later. Even later is better than never.”
“True,” Morris said. “I trust the lovely ladies are keeping you pleasantly occupied.”
“Shit,” Timlett muttered, looking over his shoulder at me. “The eggheads are bad enough, but the women….”
“Be happy with what you’ve got, my friend. They started bringing up the Marines and Special Ops forces yesterday, together with the regular Army boys. Today one of them rigged a zero-G toilet so the next person who used it got stuck to the damned thing. We had to dismantle the seat to get the poor slob loose.”
Timlett started laughing.
“What did you do to him?”
“I thought about sending him downside, but that was probably what he was looking for in the first place. His file indicates that he was included on this mission because of his extensive experience with the Martians during the War. So I just took one of his stripes instead. Oh, yeah, I’m sending him over to you as staff liaison.”
“Oh, thanks a whole lot.”
“I have another little fly I’d like to buzz your way too. Our new Chaplain, the Very Reverend Captain Lesley, is a royal pain in the butt. She keeps complaining about the lack of facilities and the cramped working conditions and just about everything else. I have to remind her each and every time that this is a military vessel. I think she’d fit right in with your little group of ladies.”
I perked up immediately on hearing the minister’s name. This couldn’t be the same person, could it? The Lesley I knew had been killed in the War, harvested by the Martians during my two-week imprisonment in the demolished house in Marin County.
“Uh, don’t think so, Bill. I’ve already got enough on my plate. You can barter with God, if you want.”
“Gee, Beau, I’m so blessed.”
I could hear another buzzing somewhere off in the distance.
“Got to sign off,” the Captain of the Thunderbolt said. “Keep on flying, partner!”
“You too, Bill. Take care of yourself.”
The two colonels were both good men from what I’d seen. I wasn’t as sure of Major General Fritz Burgess, Commander of the expedition: I just didn’t know him personally, had only met him once, in fact, at a planning session at the Pentagon. He had the reputation of being a real hard ass, but given the nature of our mission, perhaps that was just as well. Still, I was glad that the designated flagship vessel and primary military transport of the fleet was the Thunderbolt and not the Armageddon.
“What else, Smith?” came the query, waking me out of my reverie. “I do have a few other things on my plate.”
I cleared my throat.
“Do you know anything about Reverend Lesley? I met somebody by that name during the War.”
“No, sir, but you can access the public portions of her file through the ship’s library database. The ship rosters can be reviewed by anyone.”
“Thanks, I didn’t know that,” I said. “On another matter, I’ve been selected by my colleagues to represent their interests on this mission. They’re concerned about the absence of any formal mechanism by which they can both receive intelligence about the Martians and provide feedback to you and your colleagues. I realize that you have no choice about including us on this trip, but I do think you could take some better advantage of our cumulated experience and knowledge.”
“You do, huh?” the Colonel said. “Look, Doctor, I’m trying to get this boat launched on time. That’s all I’m interested in right now. Once we actually get going we’ll have more leisure in which to discuss what happens when we finally reach Mars.
“All of you should understand at least this much, however: I and my superior officers have the ultimate decision-making authority on this mission. Yes, I will attempt to consult with you people whenever it seems appropriate. Yes, I may even listen to you on occasion. Right now, though, we have a job to do. I can’t let anything else interfere with that. Any other questions, comments, or issues, Doctor?”
I shook my head “no.”
“Then you’re dismissed,” he said, and went back to his screen, using his wand to approve the various dispositions pending before him.
I was left to pull myself through the door hole. The guard stationed in the corridor outside didn’t even bother to salute.
CHAPTER SIX
CROSSING THE RIVER
Let us cross over the river, and rest under the trees.
—Stonewall Jackson
Alex Smith, 1 Bi-April, Mars Year vii
U.S.S. Armageddon, in Orbit Around Planet Earth
The day had at last arrived. Everything that I’d worked for during the previous years was finally coming to fruition. We were going to launch the main assault fleet in just over an hour.
This wasn’t the first manned journey to Mars, of course. During the most recent pair of oppositions between Earth and the Red Planet, we’d sent several small groups of probes and weapon ships and observation platforms there, just to learn what we could expect in response. All of the brave men and women on Expedition I had died very quickly in Bi-April of Year Five. Half of those on Expedition II had perished within months of their arrival in Bi-June of Six, and another half of the survivors had perished in the interim; but the remaining fifty or so veterans were waiting for us at their bases on the Martian moons of Phobos and Deimos.
Phobos is the larger of the satellites, and since it orbits relatively close to the planet (about 5,600 miles from its surface), it provided our forces with a fairly safe and secure hideaway once they managed to dig in. A small automated Martian observation station there was destroyed by our sappers. We also established a second, smaller base on Deimos, the outer moon. Both camps had extensive laser and missile defensive and offensive systems. Curiously, the aliens had made no attempt to assault either facility. Also, neither base had reported any additional or unusual activity on the surface of Mars in response to the construction of our fleet.
What these two previous raids had also established, however, was the type and scale of weaponry we would have to face once we arrived at the Red Planet.
The first of these was a long-range adaptation of the Martian sting-ray (essentially a souped-up laser); this development had been predicted by the engineers who had salvaged and analyzed these weapons from the great striding tripods abandoned by the aliens during the War of Two