Operation Crimson Storm. Robert Reginald

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      Alex Smith, 15 Bi-March, Mars Year vii

      U.S.S. Armageddon, in Orbit Around Planet Earth

      “‘Beware the Ides of March!’” I said, pulling myself into the Colonel’s office.

      I’d come aboard just a week earlier, one of a group of advisers assigned to the multinational expedition that was currently being mounted against the Red Planet. I was still trying to get used to the absence of gravity, although the officer “sitting” before me certainly made up for it. He was actually roped into a kind of hanging chair.

      “And I suppose ‘All of Gaul is divided into three parts’.” Timlett replied, quoting the ancient military genius, Gaius Julius Cæsar.

      He was a middle-sized man with a wiry physique and close-cropped hair; like Cassius, he had that “lean and hungry look.”

      I chuckled.

      “So you know some history after all,” I said.

      “Well, I did read the great military minds back in school, not that any of them has really prepared me for what we’re about to face here.”

      “I don’t think that anything would, except surviving the damned war. And if we don’t get the job done, and soon, the Martians will continue pounding poor Earth back into the Stone Age.”

      “We’re still on target, Doctor,” he said. “We’ll make our launch date two weeks hence. If some of the supply vessels aren’t ready, we’ll go without them. We have to.

      “Now, do you have something specific in mind, or can I get back to work?”

      “I, uh, I would most respectfully request once again that you leave my wife and daughter on Earth, sir. This is no place for civilians.”

      “Well, Doctor Smith, ordinarily I would be the first to agree with you,” he said, “but I have no choice in the matter. My orders are explicit. The so-called ‘Sensitives’ are here because they may offer the only hope we have of communicating with the aliens—or of understanding their motives. I’m sorry your womenfolk are among them, truly I am.

      “Me personally, I don’t really believe in all this crap, and I certainly don’t like the idea of having to watch over and feed some additional mouths that I think will contribute very little to our expedition. But, as I said....”

      “You have your orders.”

      “Yes, sir, I do, and I would remind you that although you’re also a civilian, you still come under my direct authority as Captain of this vessel. Now, is there anything else?”

      “There is.”

      I floated over to the little porthole, one of the few privileges of rank accorded the officer. I never tired of looking down at the blue-green vistas sliding below us. From this height you would never guess what Earth had gone through these past dozen years. Over a hundred million men, women, and children dead or injured, many more millions displaced, dozens of cities completely wiped from memory, major damage to shipping and industry—the toll went on and on and on.

      The Martian bombardment had continued, year after year, even when we’d developed the first of our planetary defensive systems and created the United States Space Force. There were always a few rocks that slipped through the net, despite our best efforts. We had to stop them at the source. We had to conquer or destroy Mars any way possible, even at the cost of our own lives. It was us or them, and I was damn well determined that it would be us that walked away from the fight.

      While I was contemplating my next question, the Colonel’s com phone buzzed.

      “Yes,” he said.

      “Col. Morris, sir,” the orderly said, “line two.”

      “Put him through.”

      “Beau!” came the voice of the Thunderbolt’s captain.

      “What’s up, 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. СКАЧАТЬ