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WestHem Capital Building—Denver

The view was impressive from the large picture window in the executive council briefing room. The window looked east, out over the entire expanse of the thirty-eighth most populous city in WestHem; the sixty-third most populous in the solar system. The tops of innumerable high-rise buildings could be seen stretching away for kilometers in every visible direction. Each roof was dotted with landing pads and parked VTOLS, the transportation system for the elite. It was 0745, just fifteen minutes before the start of the workday, and the little craft could be seen buzzing and circling everywhere like flies, the computer systems that ran them delivering their corporate masters to their offices. Beyond the high rises of downtown were the housing complexes of the upper and then the middle class. Beyond those were the slums, which stretched to the horizon and beyond; thousands of square kilometers of unspeakably dangerous neighborhoods populated by more than eight million unemployed and unemployable. Every major city on the planet had similar ghettos of similar proportion.

Like most employed WestHem citizens, Admiral Jules got the screaming horrors at the mere thought of ever having to live in the squalor of WestHem's ghettos; the fate of those that suddenly had their income removed from them. They were the epitome of lawlessness and chaos. The cops themselves did not enter them in anything less than platoon strength; and even then they might take casualties. They only reason they did go in was to track down a person responsible for a crime against an employed person or to enforce the stringent breeding laws. Among themselves the unemployed were free to rape, kill, assault, rob, or even molest each other's children. They were an entity onto themselves with little chance to ever pull themselves free. They were not even counted in the census. As long as they stayed within their boundaries, obeyed the breeding law, and confined their crimes to each other, they were left alone, living on welfare money, free alcohol, free marijuana, free Internet, free substandard housing. He eyed the ghettos nervously from his chair in the briefing room while he awaited the arrival of the rulers of the western hemisphere. The TNB fiasco would be penned as his responsibility. Would they dismiss him for it? Remove his pension? Sentence him to live out his life in those ghettos? He vowed he would kill himself long before it came to that.

He was bleary from lack of sleep and his stomach burned from the three strong cups of coffee he'd consumed with his breakfast. He'd been up until well past 0400 researching and preparing his briefing; perhaps the most important briefing he would ever give in his career. He was dressed in his Class A uniform of course, all of his campaign and service metals neatly in place. Before him, at the large rounded oak table where the guests of the council sat, was an Internet terminal into which he'd already inserted the briefing disk he and his staff had created. At the front of the room, above the elevated seats that the executive council would soon occupy, was a larger screen, onto which his figures and the figures of the other briefers would appear.

Would there be other briefers? he wondered. Currently he and his staff were the only ones in the room besides the secret service team, who stood expressionless at their positions near the doors, the council chairs, and the window. Surely he would not be the only one called on the carpet for what had happened on Mars.

As if in answer to his question the door slid open behind him and General Wrath, the commander in chief of the Far Space marines entered. CINCFARMAR was his designation and Jules knew him well, on a first name basis in fact. The far space navy and marines, though full of the traditional animosity that had existed between the navy and the marines since the 1700s, worked closely together and relied upon each other. Wrath and Jules' jobs were closely entwined. The two were professional acquaintances, quite close in that regards, although not exactly friends.

"Richard," Jules greeted, offering a smile and an outstretched arm as the General and his staff entered the room.

Wrath, dressed in his own class-A uniform, little changed since the early twentieth century, shook his hand warmly. "Tanner," he greeted. "I see you're here for the same purpose as me."

Jules nodded his head cynically. "Yes I am. It seems our bosses want a few questions answered about what happened yesterday."

"Those fuckin' greenies," Wrath commented sourly. "Who the hell would have believed they were capable of this? And that bastard Sega." He shook his head. "He'd better hope the greenies kill his ass. Can you imagine? Surrendering all of the forces with barely a fight? He must've been mad."

The men took their seats, Wrath taking the chair next to Jules, Wrath's staff taking the seats on the other side. The marine general inserted his own briefing disk into the Internet terminal before his chair.

"Were you up all night too?" Jules asked, noting the bags under his counterparts' eyes.

Wrath nodded wearily. "This clusterfuck pulled me out of a formal dinner party. Not that that was upsetting; I hate those fuckin' things. But I spent the next five hours on a flight from Buenos Aires getting briefed in. We then stayed up all night researching and planning how to take that planet back from the greenies if it comes to that."

"Do you think the greenies will really vote for independence?" Jules asked him. "I mean, Whiting didn't exactly make it sound too hopeful in her speech or anything. She actually told them that they might not win. What kind of propaganda is that?"

Wrath shook his head. "I think they just might," he said. "Greenies are not like Earthlings. They don't think the same way we do. Think about where they came from; the unemployed. They actually like speeches like that, they actually like to fight the odds."

"They can't possibly beat us though," Jules pointed out. "What the hell are they thinking?"

"I don't know," Wrath answered. "She told them in her speech that we would send troops to take the planet back and you can bet your ass that we will. She can't possibly think that their little civilian soldier force and their cute little airplanes are going to stop us when we land a half a million troops with tanks, full hover support, artillery, and APCs on that flying shithole. We'll have them routed and mopped up in two days."

"Maybe she is mad," Jules suggested. "Maybe she's trying to go down in Martian history as a martyr; the first woman who ever tried to make Mars free or some shit like that. Who knows what she is thinking but I've been over the figures time and time again and I can see no conceivable way that they can prevent us from landing and taking that planet back."

"There is no way," Wrath agreed. "But whoever said the greenies were smart?"

The door opened once again and yet another briefer entered. This time it was a man that neither Jules nor Wrath had ever met personally though both recognized him on sight thanks to his frequent appearances in Internet news clips. It was FLEB director Stanley Clinton. He was dressed in a neat, conservative suit and had bags under his eyes similar to the two military officers'. He had no staff with him, simply walking alone to a seat well away from the military leaders and their staffs, making not so much as a nod of greeting, and sat down. He inserted a disk of his own into a terminal.

Silence prevailed until 0804 when the set of doors near the front of the room slid open, signaling the entry of the council. Everyone in the room quickly stood to attention as the nine men and three women of the council, all dressed in business suits of their own, strode into the room. Their faces were grim as they took their chairs, taking their time making themselves comfortable. Finally one of them, Loretta Williams, spoke. "You may be seated," she said stiffly.

With a shuffle, everyone resumed their seats.

Williams, as the representative of Mars, was still acting as the spokesperson for the council in this matter. "Begin recording," she told the room computer system. Digital cameras and audio microphones clicked on.

She stared at the assembled group of military officers and the single civilian. Her expression, matching the other council members, was of barely concealed rage. "Gentlemen," she said coldly, "yesterday an unprecedented event took place on the WestHem possession of Mars. An event with such far reaching and cataclysmic implications that, even if the situation is resolved quickly in the next two days, an issue which is doubtful, we will be left unable to predict the long-term consequences." She shook her head angrily. "What in the hell happened here, gentlemen? How in the hell could something like this have been allowed? These are questions that I want you to answer only briefly in as few words as possible before you start explaining to this council how we are going to rectify this situation." She stared at the two military officers in particular. "I trust that we can rectify this situation."

"Yes ma'am," spoke Jules and Wrath in unison.

"I certainly hope so," she said. "I don't need to tell you that the entire WestHem economy is fully dependant upon that little red planet. Ninety-eight percent of our steel comes from there. Forty-six percent of our food, our food, comes from there. The profits from that planet account for more than twenty-nine percent of our tax base. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, more than a third of our navy is in dock under Martian control right now. Admiral Jules, I trust you have prepared a side-briefing on the implications of that."

"Yes ma'am," Jules answered, grateful that he'd taken the time to do that. He almost had not.

"Very well," Williams said. She turned her gaze to Clinton. "Director," she said, "we've already been over the fact of Laura Whiting's election to high Martian office in the first place time and time again with you. We will skip re-hashing that part. But if you will please begin our briefing by explaining how the circumstances of her removal went so badly wrong?"

"Yes ma'am," Clinton replied, standing and activating his Internet terminal.

He explained the fiasco of the previous day in short, concise statements, occasionally using news clips or transmissions from his disk to illustrate some point. The council listened without interrupting. They knew most of the story anyway. When he finished they had only a few questions.

"How many agents do you have on Mars?" Asked one council member.

"Six hundred and forty-three," Clinton replied. "Of course twelve of them were killed at the capital building yesterday."

"Are the whereabouts of all of these agents on Mars accounted for?" was the next question.

"Not officially," he answered. "I know that all ten of my field offices were occupied by Martian troops and that all ten surrendered to them. We can presume that all of the agents in those buildings at that time are in Martian custody. As to the fate of those agents that were either off-duty or out in the field at that time I have no information, nor even a guess as to how many that might be. Unfortunately though, the number of off-duty agents is probably pretty low. When news of the events in New Pittsburgh reached Director Hayes he mobilized the entire force. Many of them were probably inside the buildings when they were taken."

"In any case did the FLEB offices under attack by the MPG request assistance from the local police departments?" asked Williams.

"Ma'am," Clinton replied, "in every case they did and in every case the assistance was refused on orders from the various police chiefs. I have information that in three of the cities; Eden, Dow, and Triad, the mayors attempted to override the orders of the police chiefs in question. The mayors of each Martian city, as you are aware, are subjected to the same scrutiny that legislative and gubernatorial candidates are." By which he meant that the corporations owned them. "In all cases, obviously, the orders were disregarded and no assistance was given. As far as I know not a single Martian police officer lifted a finger to prevent this revolt from occurring. As to the fate of the mayors and city councils involved; I have no information. I suspect they may have been taken into custody but we are currently completely out of communication with Mars; even the Internet feed has been severed from their end."

"So we are no longer receiving Martian Internet transmissions?"

"That is correct; although they are still monitoring our Internet. I ordered that the feed not be cut to Mars on the hope that some of the citizens will be able to access our point of view in this thing; to see the preparations we will be utilizing if they do not surrender themselves. It may assist in having Whiting's proposal voted down."

There was some quiet murmurs among the council at this. Finally Williams said, "That seems a wise move, Director. You may continue to allow outgoing transmissions. Since you brought up this vote that Whiting has asked for, what would you say the chances are that it will be successful? Also do you think there is any possibility of fraud in the vote?"

This was a trick question. Voter fraud and false results were a patent impossibility with the current system of ballot casting. It was done on the Internet by social security number and fingerprint identification. The programs that ran the voting were unalterable and would not allow such a thing. But if the vote were to be in favor of revolution, then the WestHem authorities would of course issue propaganda stating that the election had been rigged and was meaningless. Clinton knew this and knew how he was expected to answer.

"I believe that fraud is the most likely possibility and that we will be unable to trust any election results they send us," he said. "There is no way that Laura Whiting is going to back down now. If the Martians do not vote this measure in — and I don't believe that they are so mad as to do so — then her conspirators will simply change the results to look as if they did." This was of course a bald-faced lie. He knew it, the council knew it, any thinking person would know it; but it was how the game was played. If the Martians voted down Laura Whiting's proposal then WestHem would demand that she abide by her promises. But if the Martians actually did vote for independence, then WestHem would claim the election was rigged and demand she surrender. Of course it didn't matter one way or the other which way they voted. The vote itself did not carry any legal weight under the constitution. But politically, WestHem would never admit that the Martians actually wanted to be independent in overwhelming numbers. They would have to portray the vast majority of the Martians as innocent, loyal WestHem civilians caught up in a conspiracy by a few radical elements acting in self-interest.

There were a few more meaningless questions, which Clinton answered to the best of his ability. Williams then said, "Thank you, Director. You are dismissed. I would like your office to begin immediate research and author some recommendations as to who should be prosecuted and charged after this little revolt is over and done. Should we prosecute every police officer? Every MPG soldier? Every citizen that voted for independence? Please be firm in your recommendations, with an eye towards ensuring that our Martian friends never get any cute ideas like this again. I would also like recommendations as to what we should do with those Martian citizens on Earth or Ganymede at the moment. How many such people are there? Should we take them into custody until this is over? Do they represent an espionage or sabotage threat? Can they be used as leverage?"

"Yes ma'am," Clinton said, standing and gathering his briefing disk. "My staff will get to work on this immediately."

"Fine," she said. "We will expect a briefing on these matters by early next week at the latest."

Once he was out of the room, the council's attention turned to Admiral Jules.

"Admiral Jules," Williams said, staring at him, "you are the current commander in chief of WestHem far space naval fleet, correct?"

"Yes ma'am," Jules answered, not caring at all for the way in which she'd emphasized the word 'current'.

"Please enlighten this council on the events that transpired yesterday on Mars. After this we will have many questions for you I'm sure."

"Yes ma'am," Jules replied, standing up.

His initial chronology of the attack on TNB took nearly thirty minutes. Like with Director Clinton before him, the council simply stared at him or his presentations on the screen; asking no questions, making no comments. Jules knew how the game was played too. He already sensed who the fall guy in the Martian revolt was going to be, General Sega, and he placed blame heavily upon him.

"That last communications we received from TNB stated that the arming and detonation programs for all of the stored nuclear torpedoes, both onboard the ships in dock and in the storage facilities on base, had been wiped. This will, of course, make it impossible for those weapons to be detonated." He spoke a few commands into the screen before him. "You can see here a complete list of all naval ships that were in dock at Triad during the takeover. You will note that it includes nine California class warships, fifteen Owl class attack ships, and our three pre-positioned container ships full of marine landing equipment and supplies. We are formulating a list of the naval personnel captured there. As for the MPs killed in action; we will not know their identity unless the Martians provide us with that information."

Williams looked at him for a moment and then asked, "So it is your opinion Admiral, that had General Sega not ordered the surrender of your MPs, the base might have been saved?"

Again politics was at work here. He knew that the defense of the base had been hopeless. A few hundred lightly armed naval MPs stood no chance of standing up to a battalion of trained, well equipped special forces soldiers. Had Sega not surrendered them, the base would have fallen in the next thirty minutes anyway, only with more dead MPs to add to the list. But that was not what the council wanted to hear. They wanted the blame shifted off of surprise and overwhelming superiority and onto a single man; a traitorous man. They wanted Sega to be blamed for the loss of Mars. The MPG did not take Mars, Sega gave it to them. By the time this made it to the Internet they probably would have "evidence" showing that Sega had been in collusion with the Martians the whole time.

Jules was only too happy to go along with this. He felt a twinge of sorrow for Sega, who had only been doing what he thought was right under the circumstances, but it did serve to shift the blame off of him. WestHem could not admit defeat after all. Someone had to be responsible. He suspected that had they not found Sega as a convenient target, he himself would have been cast in the role. He suppressed a shiver as he realized how close he'd come to becoming a federal scapegoat. They would have said that he'd been criminally negligent in his anti-terrorist preparations for TNB. They probably would have manufactured evidence suggesting that multiple warnings had been issued about an imminent attack on the base and that they'd been disregarded.

"Admiral Jules?" Williams, clearly irritated, barked at him.

"My apologies, ma'am," Jules said with a start, realizing that he'd been so lost in his near-demise that he'd forgotten to answer her. "In my opinion the base would undoubtedly still be in our hands had Sega not surrendered its defenders. At the very worst, the MPG might have eventually taken the base but we would have been able to scramble all of the ships out of docking; keeping them in our hands."

The council members actually smiled at this statement; reinforcing Jules' belief that it was exactly what they wanted to hear. He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling himself slipping off of the proverbial hook.

"Thank you, Admiral, that is as we'd suspected."

There was a brief conversation between the members for a moment, their words whispered. Finally Williams said, "Now that we have a good idea what happened at TNB, I would like to address our primary concern. Will the Martians be able to man any of those ships they have captured and use them against us?"

"Absolutely not," Jules said firmly, grateful to be speaking what he thought was the truth. He spoke a command to the Internet screen and a row of figures appeared on the main screen. "As you can see here I have compiled statistics on all Martian citizens with naval experience. This would be, obviously, experience gained in the WestHem navy. The population of Mars, not including WestHem citizens living there, is just over eighty million as you can see. I asked the Internet to give me a count on all Martian citizens, currently living on Mars, that have naval experience and are between the ages of eighteen and sixty years old." He pointed to one of the figures with a laser pointer. "There are twenty-six thousand, four hundred and sixty-two people who meet this category."

"That certainly sounds like enough to man some ships," Williams replied to this. "If your intent is to make us feel better about this, you're doing a poor job."

"Yes ma'am," Jules nodded, licking his lips nervously. "I know the initial number sounds like a lot, but allow me to explain the other factors involved here. Just to account for the absolute worst scenario, I instructed the computer to assume that all of these Martians are loyal to Mars and will go along with Whiting. Of course I do not believe that will be the case; I believe that many of these are actually loyal WestHem citizens who will..."

"Admiral," Williams interrupted. "Please save the patriotic bullshit for the Internet cameras and continue your briefing."

Jules jumped as if slapped. "My apologies," he said. He took a deep breath to gather his thoughts and then went on. "Of the twenty-six thousand, four hundred and sixty-two, fourteen thousand, five hundred and eleven are over the age of forty and have not served aboard a ship in more than ten years. The technology involved has changed considerably since then and it is unlikely that those people will be of any help to the Martians. That leaves us with a core group of eleven thousand, nine hundred and fifty-one. Of this group only nine hundred and twelve have ever served aboard an actual combat ship capable of doing any harm to our forces. Of that nine hundred and twelve only thirty were ever officers and only sixteen of those were ever officers that had conning responsibilities. Twelve of them on a California, four on an Owl. None of these sixteen except for one — the infamous Lieutenant Commander Matt Belting — has any command experience."

"Belting is still alive?" one of the other council members interjected at this point. "I thought he'd died years ago."

"He's still alive and living in the ghettos of New Pittsburgh. He hasn't held a job of any kind since his release from federal prison five years after the Jupiter War armistice. My guess is that he is an alcoholic or a dust addict that probably doesn't even remember his navy time. In any case, it is quite inconceivable that the greenies could put together enough people to effectively use one of those ships in any manner. And even if they could, they have no pilots capable of operating the F-10s or the A-112s on the Californias and the nuclear torpedoes they've captured are useless to them. Without the torpedoes, the Owls are useless as anything other than a monitoring platform anyway."

"There is no way they can reprogram those torpedoes?" Williams asked.

"It's impossible," Jules said. "Once the computer that controls the detonator has been wiped, it is impossible to reprogram it. It is nothing more than junk after that."

They seemed satisfied.

"The pre-positioned marine ships," another council member spoke up. "What of those? Will the Martians be able to utilize the equipment inside of them?"

Jules replied, "I think that there is a good possibility that they may not even be able to manage the unloading and transfer of this equipment to the planetary surface. It is quite a complex procedure after all. The landing craft that contain the equipment must be launched from the Panama class ship itself and then piloted down to the surface. However I believe it may be prudent..." He cast a glance at his Marine counterpart for a moment, "... and I am actually stepping into General Wrath's briefing here, but in my opinion I believe in assuming the worst; to assume that they will in fact manage to utilize this equipment."

"Do you agree with that assessment, General?" Williams asked him.

"I have taken into account the faint possibility that they will be able to unload those ships," Wrath replied.

Williams nodded. "Very well." She turned her attention back to Jules. "Do we have any assets in the area at all?" She asked him.

Jules nodded. "Yes we do, ma'am. We have an Owl that had been returning to TNB from Ganymede at the time of this revolt. They were in their coasting period between acceleration and deceleration burns, about halfway between the two planets. I ordered them to take up position as close to Mars as they could get without detection. That should be close indeed, probably inside of twenty thousand kilometers. They will be on station in less than a week and able to send us data on what the Martians are up to with the ships at TNB. They should also be able to monitor communications. They are low on consumables and on refrigerant for the anti-detection systems but with rationing they will hopefully be able to remain on station until our forces can get there. We have other assets in place in the Jupiter system; two California groups and two Owls, but frankly, they are needed there in case of trouble with EastHem; particularly with the loss of our marines and their equipment. I'm quite hesitant to break them loose and I don't see what good they would do anyway."

They nodded. "Any other points that you would like to add, Admiral?"

"Yes ma'am," Jules said. "As you are probably aware, we have a number of Martian citizens enlisted in the Navy. Three thousand, nine hundred and forty-six of them are on ships that were not captured by the Martians or on Earth shore stations. I have ordered all of them removed from duty and kept under house arrest for the duration of this crisis and pending a decision on what to do with them."

"Good thinking, Admiral," Williams said. "I want all of them removed from our ships as soon as possible. They are not to be trusted and they are never to be allowed to enlist in our navy again. We will decide later what to do with them when this little revolt is over."

"Would you like my briefing on our naval situation as it stands with the loss of the far space fleet?" Jules asked next.

"Not just now, Admiral," Williams replied. "We'll hear it after General Wrath gives his briefing. You may have to modify your calculations when he tells you what equipment will be needed for the retaking of Mars."

"Yes ma'am," Jules agreed, not mentioning that he already had anticipated the equipment that his counterpart would need.

General Wrath began his briefing in the same manner. Like Jules, he placed the bulk of the blame on the traitorous General Sega, claiming that his Marines could have easily faced off anything the MPG threw at them. Like Jules he knew it was a lie; but he knew how to play the game too. He apologized sincerely for allowing such an incompetent traitor to achieve a position such as commander of Martian marine forces. In a particularly dramatic bit he even proclaimed that he was indirectly responsible and offered his resignation if the council so desired.

"I don't think that will be necessary just yet, General," Williams responded, smiling at him. She seemed quite touched by his offer however. "I would like to hear you plan for regaining control of the planet though."

"Yes ma'am," Wrath responded. He called up some maps and plans on his screen. "My staff and I worked well into the morning hours on this plan, taking many things into consideration. Chief among them is the avoidance of WestHem casualties during the operation. I have taken the liberty of naming the operation. I would call it 'Martian Hammer'."

The council exchanged pleased glances as they tossed the name around. It had become customary back in the late twentieth century to give a catchy name to military operations; all the better to ensnare public support for it.

"Now I could undoubtedly retake that planet with one hundred thousand troops complete with hover support, tanks, APCs, and support troops. We are dealing with a poorly trained civilian force after all. But I believe that unacceptable casualties may result." By this he meant more than two hundred or so WestHem soldiers killed. Enough to displease the masses. "So the plan I have developed, though it may seem a bit excessive, will ensure that minimal WestHem casualties are taken, while at the same time, heavy damage is inflicted upon the MPG. Damage that they will remember for generations if they are so foolish as to not surrender immediately."