Lisa slashed at the hand before her, sheering off three fingers as zapping-sounds and sparks emitted from the shorn digits. The sheered finger-parts hit the deck like lead shot. Lisa stabbed, and the tip sank into the armored body. Then Toll Seven chopped. Lisa moaned as her wrist snapped. She staggered away. The cyborg drew the knife from his chest, and he crushed the hilt so the blade quit vibrating.
“Stay away from me!” Lisa shouted. She groped left-handed for a communicator.
Toll Seven lifted his good hand and pointed a finger at her. Something flew out of the tip. Then something sharp hit Lisa in the chest. She stared down and saw it was a dart. She looked back up at Toll Seven. She wanted to ask what it had been. Then Lisa’s legs crumpled and she was falling. She opened her mouth as waves of nullity washed over her.
The last thing she remembered was Toll Seven lifting her and carrying her. She knew not where.
***
For five days, Marten and Omi had trained ten carefully selected security personnel.
In that gym five days ago, Marten had spoken with each assassin in turn, asking random questions. He’d stared into their eyes, searching for indefinable qualities. It had been more than a gut feeling. If anything, he’d searched for a core of stubbornness and a sense of calling, of duty, if you will. All the men had killed before. Some had shot PHC police in the back. Some had stepped up and stared PHC officers down as their needler sprayed its deadly slivers. Others had beaten traitors to death with their fists, held fast by other enforcers. None of the chosen team members was pleasant. With more than a few, Marten had Omi engage them in hand-to-hand combat. None of them could match the Korean’s skills or withstand his Earth-powered strength.
During those short bouts, Marten had searched each man’s reaction to his defeat. Only two security men had the fortitude to drag themselves back up each time. One had snarled and charged fiercely, only to land on his back a second, third and a fourth time. The other one had picked himself up slowly, glaring at Omi and then ploddingly circled the Korean yet again, trying to pierce Omi’s deadly martial arts. Those two, Gutierrez and Rojas, were now squad leaders.
Ten men, plus Omi and he, were enough to fill three skimmers. Three skimmers loaded with long-range gyroc rifles could hit hard and fast and do some real damage to the strike-craft parked on an airfield.
During these days, Marten used his Highborn training, speaking HB battle maxims and showing each man a critical trick. On the fourth day, he took out the open-topped skimmers and practiced raids. On the fifth day, they bounded out of the skimmers in their environmental suits and hit the red Martian sand. Each man fired his gyroc rifle at distant targets that Marten had set up on the previous day.
The gyroc rifle was an interesting weapon. It fired a .75 caliber spin-stabilized rocket shell. After leaving the rifle barrel, the rocket ignited, giving the bullet the majority of its speed. The rifle acted like a recoilless weapon, which meant that even though it fired high-caliber bullets, it was of light construction and didn’t slam the shooter each time and thus weary him out. The various rounds meant that gyrocs were highly versatile.
The Armor Piercing Explosive round (APEX) had a big motor and a heavy projectile. There were shrapnel rounds that acted like a line-of-sight mortar, a smart rocket that could fly around objects and sabot rounds where the outer shell burned off to add deadly velocity against hardened targets.
Marten watched the men, shouted corrections into their helmet’s headphones and cursed their stupidity. He raged at their Martian weakness and the impossibility of achieving anything with morons like them. He used the techniques used on him in the Free Earth Corps boot camp by the HB.
Later, back at the barracks at the base of Olympus Mons, Marten showered and played cards with Omi in their room. It was an old deck from Highborn days, the edges worn and frayed. They played at a small table, their equipment sprawled on their bunks.
“What do you think?” Marten asked Omi.
“Gutierrez is deranged.”
Five days ago, Gutierrez had charged Omi each time during the hand-to-hand testing. The big Martian still had bruises around his eyes from Omi’s blows.
“Gutierrez reminds me of the kamikaze troops we faced during the Japan Campaign,” Marten said.
“Seeing that PHC ran this planet for so long,” Omi said, “I’m surprised he’s still alive.”
Marten drew a card, examined his hand and slowly pulled another card. In disgust, he threw his hand down. “I’m over by one.”
Omi put the discards under the deck and flicked himself two cards from the top and Marten two.
“There will come a time when we need someone like Gutierrez,” Marten said as he examined his cards.
“You don’t care if he dies?”
“If he fights under my command,” Marten said, “I’m going to do my best to bring him back alive. I’m just saying that it’s good to have at least one madman along. That makes him a treasure compared to the rest, a treasure I plan to horde.”
“Gutierrez is a walking dead-man and he doesn’t even know it,” Omi said softly.
“I don’t agree. Sometimes it’s the madman who makes it through everything.”
“There’s only one Marten Kluge,” Omi said dryly.
“I’m nothing like Gutierrez.”
“No,” Omi said, “of course not.”
Marten scowled.
Omi drew a card and spread out his hand. “Twenty-one,” he said.
Marten’s scowl intensified. He grabbed the deck to reshuffle. Halfway through the shuffle, someone rapped against the door.
The two men exchanged glances. Marten reached to his bed and grabbed a gun. Omi stood up, moved onto his bed and sat down amidst his sprawled equipment.
The knock came again, harder.
“Enter,” Marten said as he shuffled cards.
The door opened as Major Diaz entered. Behind him followed Secretary-General Chavez.
“This is a surprise,” Marten said.
Diaz scowled, and he opened his mouth.
“No, no,” Chavez said. “Their customs are different than ours.”
Marten raised an eyebrow.
“Usually, people stand as a superior enters a room,” Chavez explained.
“Ah,” Marten said.
There was a pause.
“…may I?” Chavez asked as he touched Omi’s vacated chair.
Marten nodded, and he wondered how long Major Diaz would stand there, upset and glaring at him.
Chavez sank into the chair as if standing had wearied him. His eyes were haunted today and more red-rimmed than during their meeting five days ago. Marten was glad the Secretary-General didn’t pull out any stimsticks. He hated the mildly narcotic smoke.
“I will be brief, Mr. Kluge,” Chavez said. “My intension was that you train all fifty of Major Diaz’s men. I only learned about this oversight an hour ago. I decided a face-to-face encounter would be more productive. I flew here exclusively to speak with you.”
“I’m honored,” Marten said.
Major Diaz moved a step closer. He seemed angry.
“You have a problem?” Marten asked the major.
Chavez cleared his throat. “Mr. Kluge, we all have a problem. The SU Battlefleet has engaged in odd behavior. My chief military officers suggest that something fateful will happen this week. If that is true, I can no longer allow Social Unity the possession of the planetary aircraft. I’d hoped to send a demolition team. I realize fifty men can achieve little compared to our planetary scale. Yet fifty men can achieve much more than ten can.”
“So that’s what has you worried,” Marten said, thinking fast. “Maybe I should have explained myself better to Major Diaz. I need to train those most able to absorb what I’m trying to teach. Then, when I take on the rest of Major Diaz’s men, the trained ten will help teach the rest.”
Secretary-General Chavez looked up at Major Diaz. Diaz’s scowl had lessened so he almost seemed abashed.
“You said the Battlefleet is moving,” Marten said. “Does that mean my shuttle is in danger?”
“Your shuttle?” Chavez asked. “Mr. Kluge, there is a war going on, or about to erupt. Your shuttle hardly matters in the equation of planetary freedom.”
Marten’s kept his features the same, but his heart-rate increased. He didn’t agree with the Secretary-General.
“I cannot allow Social Unity to choose the time of its attack,” Chavez was saying. “The Planetary Union must strike first. Unfortunately, our space assets are minimal. Thus, we must strike where we can. I wish you to hit four of the seven airfields and destroy all the aircraft you can.”
“Ten men—”
“Not ten men,” Chavez said stiffly, “but fifty. You will take the rest of Major Diaz’s soldiers—”
“I’m sorry, sir. But they’re not soldiers.”
Chavez leaned back, the closest to glaring at Marten that the Secretary-General had ever been. The force behind his eyes was considerable. His stare also said that he had ordered the death of many enemies. Quietly, Chavez said, “They’re the most loyal fighters Mars has.”
“That’s fine,” Marten said. “But they’re not soldiers. They’re killers, gunmen, assassins. A soldier is something different.”
“I don’t follow you, Mr. Kluge. Soldiers kill. Major Diaz’s men have all killed the hated enemy. Therefore, they are soldiers. Perhaps they lack your training. But that’s why I hired you. Now that we have an emergency, we cannot afford the luxury of taking our time. We must strike with what we have and hope to forestall a combined attack.”
Marten thought about that and finally nodded.
“You will leave tonight,” Chavez said. “The skimmers are loaded and the men are waiting. By tomorrow night, I wish you to strike the first airfield.”
“I’ll have to inspect the skimmers and the loads,” Marten said. “And we don’t dare skim straight there. We will use some subtlety in order to achieve surprise.”
“You’ll do exactly what the Secretary-General orders you to do!” Major Diaz snapped.
Marten stared at Chavez. “You hired my expertise, sir. That means I have to do things my way. Attack tomorrow? I’ll do what is militarily wise. First, I’m going to make sure we have the needed equipment to ensure success. Your men are killers, but they’re not soldiers. The two soldiers you have need to make sure that this operation is run properly. Like a real, military operation.”
Chavez forced himself to his feet as he wearily waved a hand. “Yes, yes, inspect the skimmers. And make certain my supply officers give you everything you need. I feel the weight of oppression, as if something terrible is about to happen to Mars. I hope you can understand my position. I need you to attack tomorrow, or if not then, in two days time.”
Marten suddenly felt sorry for the Secretary-General. The man used what he had. Chavez and his Martian Union were cornered. The fact that the ruler of a planet personally came to speak with two Highborn-trained soldiers showed that Chavez understood his grim situation fully.
Marten stood up, and he saluted crisply.
Secretary-General Chavez asked, “What was that for, Mr. Kluge?”
“You have earned my respect, sir.”
“Ah,” said Chavez. “Thank you.” He turned to Major Diaz. “Make sure you follow his orders, Juan. He is a soldier, and he knows what he is doing. However it is done, we must destroy those attack-craft.”
***
Three hours later, a convoy of open-topped skimmers flew across the Tharsis Bulge, an enormous volcanic plateau. Olympus Mons dominated the west behind them as they traveled eastward paralleling the equator. Before them in the hazy distance towered the Tharsis Montes. It was a chain of spectacular volcanoes: Arsia Mons, Pavonis Mons and Ascraeus Mons. The skimmers used the plains between the volcanoes, which was a barren desert of blown red sand. Over the years, the Martian wind had created huge dunes similar to those in the Western Desert of Egyptian Sector on Earth.
The silver skimmer in the lead wobbled. It sank lower toward the dunes. Its engine whined. The two suited men in back half-rose as if they would leap out just before the skimmer crashed. Then the skimmer stabilized. A great puff of sand blew upward, and the silver skimmer rose back up to twenty meters above the desert floor. The two men settled back in their seats. The soldier on the left leaned forward until his helmet touched the seat in front of him. Maybe he was asking himself why he’d agreed to this mission. Maybe he was already tired.
The moon Phobos shone brightly in the night sky. Despite being a fraction of the size of Luna, to Marten and the others, Phobos appeared as half the size of Earth’s moon. It was because Phobos was so much closer to Mars than Luna was to Earth.
It had been a long time since Marten had seen a moon in a night sky from a planetary surface. The months of training on the Sun-Works Factory and then later the death-like existence in the Storm Assault Missile—
Marten shook his head. Like everyone else, he wore an environmental suit. It was plugged into the skimmer and was presently heated and energized by the craft’s rotary engine. The skimmer whined as it flew twenty feet above the Martian sands. Those sands were too fine and found their way into everything, even Marten’s suit. The dust gave his suit an odd smell. It was a sterile desert, a dry and sterile world. To the north, he noted a vast, low dome, one of the farms that dotted Mars.
Marten commanded twenty skimmers with fifty-some raiders. Marten wasn’t under any illusions. Major Diaz could order any of the men to do anything and they would obey. So Marten realized he was only in nominal control. He had a plan for that. If Diaz gave him real trouble, he would kill the man. Afterward he would have cow the men so they wouldn’t mutiny. Marten hoped it didn’t come to that. His other problem was quite different. Despite Chavez’s disinterest concerning the Mayflower, Marten was very interested in its fate. Was the SU Battlefleet about to move? If not now, when would it? He had to leave the Mars System before the space fighting started.
Marten sighed. He was tired. He needed sleep. He hated sleeping in this suit, however. With the skimmer whining and trembling, it reminded him too much of the Storm Assault Missile. That brought back horrible memories.
Despite those memories, he slid lower in his seat until his pack jammed against his back. He had to twist half sideways before he was comfortable. That put pressure on his right shoulder, and over time it would irritate an old shoulder-pull. Even so, he shut his eyes. Major Diaz said he knew a path down the eight-kilometer canyon. Twenty skimmers with fifty security personnel and about as many gyroc rifles and three plasma cannons—that’s all Marten had to take out four airfields and seventy fighters. If everyone did what they were supposed to and obeyed his orders instantly, they could likely do some serious damage. But they would take losses. Even the ten he’d trained for several days—
“It’s amateur hour,” Omi whispered to him. “We’re a mob.”
Marten silently agreed. The chief factor for success would be surprise. If they lost surprise, it would all be over. Therefore, it would at least be two days before he made his first attack.
Marten opened his eyes again. He stared up at Phobos shining half the size of Luna. The moon looked like a Cyclops staring down at him with its single eye. What was happening up there? Was the Mayflower safe? Had anyone tried to break into his shuttle?
What a way to buy fuel. He was risking his neck, unsure if the Martians were genuine or if they would have the ability to pay when the time came.
-14-
The moon Phobos was a fortress, the best circling Mars. Six months ago, the Highborn had taken it with battleoids. Otherwise, it would have given the Doom Star trouble. It had merculite missiles and heavy laser batteries dug deep into the moon’s surface like gigantic pillboxes. Before the Highborn had left six months ago, they’d given the moon to the Planetary Union, along with the other surviving orbital stations.
The key to Phobos were the giant fusion plants that powered the lasers.
Those fusion plants were deep in the moon that was about 27 kilometers in diameter. A Doom Star was over a kilometer sphere, a gigantic space vessel. The Martian moon had greater mass than any Doom Star, although it was not as lavishly armored. Phobos’ armor was its mass.
The name Phobos meant ‘fear.’ In ancient times, Fear had been a companion of Mars, the Roman god of war. Deimos meant ‘panic,’ another of Mars’ companions.
The range of a laser depended on several factors. One of them was the size of the focusing systems. All beams of light lost coherence over distance. A common flashlight lost its brilliance because of diffusion or the spreading of its light. A laser beam was no different. Its light was more tightly focused and that was the source of its dreadful power. Therefore, a long-range beam needed to start with a large diameter focusing system. The larger the diameter, the bigger the beam one could use. The bigger the beam, the longer it took for the beam’s light to diffuse into uselessness. The second factor for long-range beams was power. Power needed a source. A small orbital fighter lacked a power plant to supply it with a battle-worthy laser. That’s why orbitals used cannons and missiles. A SU Battleship was big. That size allowed it massive fusion engines. Those engines supplied its laser batteries with enough power for long-range beams.
One of the reasons the Doom Stars were so deadly, was that their lasers could fire farther than any SU warship. The experimental beamship Bangladesh had trumped the Doom Stars in range and therefore had been superior in many ways.
The heavy lasers embedded on Phobos were of Doom Star range and power. That made Phobos a dangerous fortress to tackle. Unfortunately, the Highborn battleoids had not been able to storm Phobos six months ago fast enough. Knowing they were losing the moon, the SU defenders had destroyed many of the key components for the heavy lasers. Day and night, Martian Unionists labored intensely to fix the lasers. Two lasers were operational and a third was weeks away from being ready.
If those two lasers had been ready when the SU Battlefleet began to gather at far orbit, Chavez likely would have ordered strikes against the individual spaceships. Those two laser cannons were ready now and the fusion plants were online. They targeted SU Battleships over 350,000 kilometers away, but held their fire.
Doom Star: Book 03 - Battle Pod Page 16
