always been breeding grounds for crime, dysentery, and insurrection. Mars was no exception.
I was in one of the fifteen transports preparing to launch when Admiral Cutter contacted me from the bridge. He andTravis Watson would remain safe on his ship while I went down among the heathen.
“Harris, are you sure you want to run this mission?” Cutter asked. “The empire might be better served…”
“When I come back, we should have a conversation about renaming our government,” I said. “We’re not an empire. We don’t have an emperor and we only have one planet. I think ‘republic’ would be a more accurate term.”
“Harris, you could direct this mission as easily from the ship,” Cutter said, not acknowledging my attempt to change the subject. “You are a general, not a platoon leader. When they talk about boots on the ground, they don’t mean boots with stars.”
“I want to make sure Governor Hughes gets the message,” I said. “If I’m there, he will know we mean business.”
“Call him and tell him,” said Cutter.
“I don’t think it would have the same impact.”
“Do you want me to send Watson down once the area is secured?”
“No,” I said. We were sending fifteen hundred Marines into a hostile population of seventeen million. Nothing short of destroying the spaceport would secure the area.
If it came down to a fight, we didn’t stand a chance. We were going into a battle zone in which tanks, gunships, and air support would be out of the question. Marching like an early-twentieth-century army with only small arms for weapons, we would try to intimidate an enemy that could simply trample us; but we didn’t have a choice. The spaceport was a civilian structure, a thin bubble of life support on a planet with a carbon-dioxide atmosphere. Firing a rocket could cause the spaceport to explode; even a grenade might cause enough added pressure to burst the outer walls.
“Have you told Colonel Riley that you are coming?” he asked.
As the head of the spaceport security detail, Riley had a right to know I was on my way. He was an officer in the Marines, which placed him under my command. Military courtesy dictated my warning him about the mission as a formality. Three-stars do not drop in unannounced.
“Yes and no,” I said. “He knows that I am coming, but he doesn’t know when. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“Do you have a problem with Riley?” Cutter asked.
“Not at all,” I said. I didn’t. “This is a diplomatic operation, Riley and Spaceport Security should not be involved.”
Watson asked, “What if you run into trouble?”
“I won’t,” I said.
“Harris, if things get hot down there…” Cutter began.
“Just be ready to pick us up when we’re done. I don’t want to bring any indigenous Martian life home with me in my hair,” I said. I signed off.
Our transports had two compartments…three if you included the head. They had a two-man cockpit up front. The rest of the bird was all cargo hold. Most people referred to this area as the “kettle” because it was somewhat domed like an oblong teakettle, made of metal, and had no windows.
We loaded the maximum recommended number of Marines in the kettle of each of our birds—one hundred killing machines in combat armor. Some stood, their bodies attached to harnesses in case we came under fire. Some sat on the bench that ran around the wall. Almost all of them would try to occupy their minds with thoughts about R&R as we flew down to the planet. They’d need that, the accommodations were dreary on the transport, and the destination did not give them much to look forward to.
As we prepared to launch, I climbed the ladder that led to the cockpit. Like every man on board, I wore standard-issue Marine combat armor though I did have one additional piece of equipment built into my helmet—a piece of communications equipment known as a commandLink. Using the commandLink, I could address every man,
I was in one of the fifteen transports preparing to launch when Admiral Cutter contacted me from the bridge. He andTravis Watson would remain safe on his ship while I went down among the heathen.
“Harris, are you sure you want to run this mission?” Cutter asked. “The empire might be better served…”
“When I come back, we should have a conversation about renaming our government,” I said. “We’re not an empire. We don’t have an emperor and we only have one planet. I think ‘republic’ would be a more accurate term.”
“Harris, you could direct this mission as easily from the ship,” Cutter said, not acknowledging my attempt to change the subject. “You are a general, not a platoon leader. When they talk about boots on the ground, they don’t mean boots with stars.”
“I want to make sure Governor Hughes gets the message,” I said. “If I’m there, he will know we mean business.”
“Call him and tell him,” said Cutter.
“I don’t think it would have the same impact.”
“Do you want me to send Watson down once the area is secured?”
“No,” I said. We were sending fifteen hundred Marines into a hostile population of seventeen million. Nothing short of destroying the spaceport would secure the area.
If it came down to a fight, we didn’t stand a chance. We were going into a battle zone in which tanks, gunships, and air support would be out of the question. Marching like an early-twentieth-century army with only small arms for weapons, we would try to intimidate an enemy that could simply trample us; but we didn’t have a choice. The spaceport was a civilian structure, a thin bubble of life support on a planet with a carbon-dioxide atmosphere. Firing a rocket could cause the spaceport to explode; even a grenade might cause enough added pressure to burst the outer walls.
“Have you told Colonel Riley that you are coming?” he asked.
As the head of the spaceport security detail, Riley had a right to know I was on my way. He was an officer in the Marines, which placed him under my command. Military courtesy dictated my warning him about the mission as a formality. Three-stars do not drop in unannounced.
“Yes and no,” I said. “He knows that I am coming, but he doesn’t know when. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“Do you have a problem with Riley?” Cutter asked.
“Not at all,” I said. I didn’t. “This is a diplomatic operation, Riley and Spaceport Security should not be involved.”
Watson asked, “What if you run into trouble?”
“I won’t,” I said.
“Harris, if things get hot down there…” Cutter began.
“Just be ready to pick us up when we’re done. I don’t want to bring any indigenous Martian life home with me in my hair,” I said. I signed off.
Our transports had two compartments…three if you included the head. They had a two-man cockpit up front. The rest of the bird was all cargo hold. Most people referred to this area as the “kettle” because it was somewhat domed like an oblong teakettle, made of metal, and had no windows.
We loaded the maximum recommended number of Marines in the kettle of each of our birds—one hundred killing machines in combat armor. Some stood, their bodies attached to harnesses in case we came under fire. Some sat on the bench that ran around the wall. Almost all of them would try to occupy their minds with thoughts about R&R as we flew down to the planet. They’d need that, the accommodations were dreary on the transport, and the destination did not give them much to look forward to.
As we prepared to launch, I climbed the ladder that led to the cockpit. Like every man on board, I wore standard-issue Marine combat armor though I did have one additional piece of equipment built into my helmet—a piece of communications equipment known as a commandLink. Using the commandLink, I could address every man,
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