Revelation, p.21
Revelation, page 21
“Lieutenant James! Sir?” Umani broke in; he was obviously giving orders to someone else.
“Sergeant Umani? We thought you were dead.” His voice came across much louder for some reason.
“Not today, sir!” She smiled despite her cramping butt muscles. It had only been moments, she decided. Mathison was still making his way down the line passing out her orders. Everyone would be pissed when she had to cancel the order.
“What’s your SITREP?” James asked, almost completely drowned out by the sounds of artillery fire. Umani could hear the echoes of it through her external microphone. Moreover, she could feel the shuddering ground beneath her from the impacts.
“An update was pushed from higher-up; this is an obsolete rendezvous point, sir. We’ve got one injured. At least one whole squad is up and ready for orders.”
There was some garbled yelling between a couple of soldiers, and only then did Umani realize what was going on. James had his helmet off and was talking directly through the comms. Shit must be real bad down there if he couldn’t even orchestrate via comms. The idea made her wince.
“Would you two shitheads quit your bitching and focus on shooting those reds?” James roared over the sound of explosions and debris raining around them.
Then he continued speaking to her. “Roger that, Sergeant. You have any explosives personnel with you?”
Reflexively, she glanced over at the waxen Nguyen being tended by the medic. He was dying, that much was clear even from a distance. Hopefully, he had enough life left to finish the mission. At least they hadn’t been forced to wait too long in connecting to James for orders. Would’ve been a different game altogether if Nguyen had died while they were all sleeping.
“Yes, sir, I do.” That was technically true, though for how much longer was anyone’s guess.
There was a pause as more gunfire rained down from HMG nests situated along the wall of the base. The sound was nearly deafening for her; she couldn’t imagine how intense it must be for the rest of them.
“Your orders are to head up to the surface and scuttle that ADA battery. We need to give our boys topside a chance to land before this dust storm turns the damn operation into a soup sandwich. I’ve got the ID so far up my ass, I can’t seem to cough without smelling farts. You get me, Sergeant?”
Great, a dust storm on the surface to contend with as well?
This day just keeps getting better and better!
Keeping her thoughts to herself, she said, “Copy that, headed topside. Our tech is going to repair the encryption so we can communicate without the Whisker.”
“Copy, out.”
She flipped her comms back to the unit. “Get us connected, then everyone should prep to move. If you’ve got a meal out, wolf it down. We’re going topside.”
Thankfully no one protested.
Umani eased herself to her feet and stretched. Even just those few minutes on the ground had been enough for her to notice the soreness in her legs and back. The armor they wore helped slightly, some mechanical wizardry that assisted with a bit of the physical burden of being a soldier. Still, it took a toll on the body, even with the AI-driven assistance.
All around her, soldiers were hastily eating meals or readying gear. A few were still sleeping from the looks of it, but they had a few minutes.
Her GAUNTLET indicator beeped in her helmet, and several new tactical channels were suddenly available. She glanced down at the wrist-worn computer screen and punched the option for a tactical map of the area.
It took everything in her power not to gasp audibly.
This whole operation was a clusterfuck.
At first glance, it didn’t look too bad. They’d landed in overwhelming numbers at strategic points around the city, but almost all those landings were unconfirmed. More than half their forces were unaccounted for. Updated enemy strength calculations had closed the gap considerably, as well. Slightly less than three-to-one, but the enemy had the fortifications.
Altogether, it made for a terrible day if you happened to be wearing dove gray.
Nothing to do but get to it.
“Okay, folks,” she said with mock joy into the comms, “anyone for a picnic up top? I hear the weather is lovely this time of year.”
Her body was already itching from the thought of the fine Martian dust getting into highly inconvenient places.
* * * * *
Chapter 19: Trent
Nothing was going according to plan.
Not one fucking thing!
The expansive room surrounded him in a way that made Trent tug at the tight collar around his throat reflexively.
If any of the delegates seated around the glistening metal conference table noticed, they gave no indication.
Thinking about the delegation made him glance at the bank of empty chairs directly to his left. As it was considered a high honor to be adjacent to the serving president, the absence of the five AGM representatives sent a strong message, and not one he was thrilled with. They were voicing their waning confidence in him and his administration.
A course correction was desperately necessary.
Unfortunately, as the presenter droned on, the battlefield report was bad, heaped upon even worse news. A nonstop barrage of bullshit streamed from the Council on Military Action.
“As you can see from troop heat-maps in the fourth, seventh, and eleventh sectors of the city, we’ve narrowed their activity significantly, and tightened the noose with Operation Eclipse. All in all, the Martian Field Command Unit is quite happy with the containment activity. However, several of our espionage contacts have been neutralized in the field, so our ground intel at present is somewhat lacking. MARFCOM plans to rectify that situation as soon as is viable, given heightened security at all the insurgent-held installations.”
MARFCOM was the laughingstock of closed-door meetings. Those same commanders didn’t seem to know their assholes from their own elbows!
“What of the efforts for airspace control?” Trent sighed the question while rubbing at his eyes.
He had not been sleeping much as of late. Too much seemed to be going wrong too quickly. There was no way to calm the mind enough to find rest.
As the advisor rummaged around on his tablet for the pertinent reports, Trent watched him. Maybe ten years his junior, weasel-faced with pinched dark eyes. Try as he might, Trent couldn’t remember the man’s name. He looked like a Jim, or more appropriately, a Jimmy, perhaps. He’d call him Jimmy from now on.
“TACCOM reports a complete blackout of the airspace and upper orbit around the major cities, as expected. The insurgents hold all the major orbital defense systems in those regions, and until we can reclaim them with ground ops, unfortunately, we won’t be able to provide much in the way of orbital support. However, it’s been noted that the electronic attack initiated at the time of the orbital insertion, in coordination with Operation Eclipse, was an isolated incident. The subsequent vulnerability has been addressed, and TACCOM and Homeland both confirm all systems are safeguarded and five-by-five.” “Jimmy” had the audacity to smile after that.
As if anything in there was worth smiling about.
Not for the first time, Trent decided he was surrounded by idiots.
“Thanks, Jimmy,” he said, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand.
“Actually, my name is Stevens, sir. Peter Stevens.”
“Peter” was even more fitting than “Jimmy” was. He smiled, hiding the laughter that threatened to burst out of him. “My apologies, Peter. Thank you for your efforts.”
Such as they were, anyway.
After he left, there were rustles and murmurs from the union and corporate reps who’d actually decided to show up.
The awkward silence stretched on while Trent pondered his next steps. He sat thoughtfully, regally, as he weighed options.
“Well,” a voice called from the end of the table, from the least important of the delegation, “that couldn’t have been much worse.”
Mumbles of agreement erupted from everyone.
He’d have none of it.
“And yet we’re still here.” His voice was calm, confident, if not overly stern. “Despite all the setbacks—and there have been many—we’re still in operational control on Mars.”
“But are we?” another voice called out, this one about half the distance down the table from him. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to see exactly who’d made the comment.
“Of course.” He chuckled darkly. “Do you really think we’d still be sitting here if we’d lost control of Mars? Earth may be a much more relaxed and traditional population, but they sway with the winds of change just like every other group of people. Were we to lose Mars, we’d have more trouble than we could handle here within a week.”
There were already rumblings about discontent over the way the Martians were being treated, calls for an immediate ceasefire and restoration of the Martian Independence Accords. Those same rumors were likely what had undermined the relationship between him and AGM. If he lost that, he’d lose the funding he’d come to rely upon, from both a presidential and personal finance viewpoint.
The time had come to turn up the heat.
He was the commander in chief of the largest, most advanced, and most highly-trained military force that had ever existed in human history. Up until this point, he’d tried to be nice.
So much for that.
He’d hoped the assassination of former Governor Chu would diminish both the public sentiment and the rebel efforts. Instead, it had caused an unprecedented outcry of support. What the population saw in the woman was beyond his imagination. Not only was she not much to look at, but her policies were so pedestrian. The woman had no subtlety or cunning at all. A blunt-faced instrument at best.
“What about sending in a SPECOPS detail to capture or eliminate McAaron?”
There was another hilarity. A conman and small-time criminal turned leader of an interplanetary movement. Who would’ve thought? When Trent had selected him as the patsy for the Motwani assassination, he’d laughed until tears stained his cheeks. Edward McAaron had been the perfect fall guy. The spoiled progeny of a self-made man who wasted his days on women, designer drugs, rare and expensive alcohol, and dabbling in criminal enterprise as a damned hobby. He was the poster boy for everything the public hated about the wealthy.
Yet, somehow, he’d dodged every trap that had been set for him.
So much so that Trent had pivoted to place the blame on the senior McAaron. That hadn’t been popular, either. That was when he’d learned how useful Castor could be. Not only had she eliminated Martin’s voice, she’d cleaned up her tracks expertly. The truth had died with him.
Until that ghost broadcast had shared the footage of his assassination system-wide.
“Sir?” a voice asked.
Startled, Trent realized someone had been speaking to him, and he’d been lost in his own morose thoughts.
“Yes, sorry,” he said, straightening his suit around him as he stood. “I’m afraid I’m late for another meeting.”
The delegates stood as one. Not a single face reflected the confidence he was projecting to them.
“We will overcome this,” he said, trying to will them to have faith. “The population knows what’s best for them. This is a trend that will subside, and soon. You have my word on that.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he spun on his heel and exited the conference room.
His assistants swirled around in his wake like flotsam on the sea, fingers tapping on datapads.
The walk to the operations center was brisk, but not far. When the doors opened into the large room, he immediately called to the security guard he knew would be stationed just inside. “Get me General Mirov.”
Not quite a yell, but only just missing the mark.
Without so much as a backward glance, he stalked to the small conference room.
The room was empty, with the one-way windows blacked out from the exterior, while giving a clear view of the entire operations room from the interior.
Naturally, he didn’t have to wait long.
General Elena Mirov was tall, considerably taller than he was. Her lean, athletic build had been honed by years of military discipline, which was perfectly paired with her intense steel-gray eyes. While not exactly pretty in the classic sense of the word, she was equal parts imposing and alluring.
Her salute was crisp, picture perfect, and perfunctory. He noticed she only held it as long as was absolutely necessary.
“How may I be of service, Mr. President?”
Mirov was known as a stoic person. As a leader, she’d always been described as firm, but fair—not exactly the type of person Trent would’ve recommended for the job. He was more likely to work with someone like Laura Castor. Someone who was keen, cunning, and savvy enough to get the job done, no matter what got in the way. Someone as principled as Mirov might buck at the task he was planning to level on her.
“We’re losing operational control on the ground, General Mirov.” He stated it flatly, leaving no room for debate. This was the only truth he was willing to accept. No excuses or explanation would be welcomed into the conversation.
Those steel-gray eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking and unflinching.
When it was apparent she wasn’t going to comment, he continued as if it was his idea. “I’ve been with my top advisors, working the situation. We think it prudent to make an attempt on the insurgent leadership. Attack the head of the snake and watch the body die.”
Again, she stared ahead.
It was obvious he’d get nothing from her, so he pressed on. “I want you to eliminate McAaron. Frankly, if we could take out Brennan as well, that would be ideal.”
There was another thorn in his boot. Why hadn’t Brennan just gone away like he was supposed to after the Massacre? That had been so artfully calculated, yet a complete failure.
Seconds ticked by, and with the passing, his frustration grew.
“Well?” he finally flung at her.
“Of course, sir. We’ll begin planning our operation immediately.”
That was it. No opinion, no nothing, just acknowledgement.
It took everything in his power not to sigh in her face.
“Is that all, sir?” The question was asked as flatly as her previous comment, completely and utterly devoid of inflection or emotion.
“Yes, fine.” His words came out tiredly. Why was it so hard to find good help these days?
She saluted and, with a tight spin on her heel, stalked back out of the room. Her gray-suited back disappeared into the crowded operational room within a matter of seconds.
Trent took a moment to collect his thoughts while watching his assistants twitch and ready themselves outside the room. Several whispered back and forth quickly.
It felt as if he was losing support. Obviously, that couldn’t be true. There was nothing reasonably wrong with what he was doing. Everything he was undertaking was for the good of the UNIC. The threats on Mars needed to be put down. Independence on Mars would have a disastrous impact on the overall system economy. Several studies had predicted a massive shift in wealth should that emancipation take place.
If it wasn’t broken, why try to fix it?
He pulled himself up to his full height, straightened his back, and walked out of the room.
Again, like satellites being pulled in by a planet, his aides swirled around behind him.
What he should have done was march directly to the secure communications room and call his contact at AGM. Instead, he found his feet taking him back to the Presidential Office. His office.
At the door, he motioned behind him for the aides to remain in the foyer. Their desks lined the walls alongside his office manager’s. She watched him warily.
Once inside, he closed the door and set the privacy lock.
The crashing waves far below the cliffs were violent from an incoming storm system.
He couldn’t help but relate to the battered rocks below.
Where was all the support for him? He hadn’t gotten to where he was alone—far from it, in fact. A perfectly orchestrated dance had been necessary to place him in the seat of power, spanning a decade or more of secret collaboration with AGM and their proxies.
Now they were hanging him out to dry.
It wasn’t right.
Nothing about it was fair.
And he’d be damned if he’d go down without taking a few of the assholes with him. He knew things he shouldn’t. He wasn’t above shouting it all from the rooftops.
He’d go down swinging, if it came to that.
* * * * *
Chapter 20: McAaron
There was nothing worse than delivering bad news over radio. Being in space made it exponentially worse. The significant delays involved ratcheted up the anxiety.
Ed watched the clock from his transmission with mounting dread.
Estimated delivery time, -32:18:35 and counting up.
That indicated Brennan had already received the message.
It had taken forty minutes to arrive, which presumably meant it would take forty minutes for a message to return. That was, of course, assuming he sent a response back immediately.
Knuckling his forehead, he couldn’t decide whether he should lean back and take a nap or stand up and pace. His default was to sleep stress away. Get into a pickle, sleep, and let the problem solve itself! It was a lovely way to avoid drama of all types.
This one felt different. He wasn’t sure avoidance would save him in this situation.
On the list of bad news he’d rather not deliver remotely to someone as intimidating as Keith Brennan, his girlfriend being shot ranked pretty damned high. Oh, and let’s not forget that he was the person accused of pulling the trigger.
One thing was certain; good ol’ Edward McAaron couldn’t win for losing.
