"We're down," Walters' voice announced. "Ramp going down."
The rear of the aircraft opened and the ramp extended downward. There was nothing visible outside since the dust from the landing was obscuring everything. The restraint harnesses released and at an order from Lon, everyone got to their feet and began to move in the careful, orderly way that they had practiced hundreds of times before. Within twenty seconds everyone was belly down on the Martian soil fifty meters from the aircraft, their weapons pointed outward. The ramp went back up on the Mosquito and its powerful semi-rocket engines pushed it back into the air and sent it accelerating on its way.
Back at the landing ship, where a sensor array had been extended upward from the ship to a height of nearly a hundred meters, the heat from the landing and take off had shown up on a technician's screen as dim flares in the high infrared spectrum. The technician dutifully reported this development to his commander, who replayed the brief episode on his own computer screen. Since the flares were bearing only and had not been accompanied by a detection of any kind on the active sensors, he concluded that it must be either a sensor glitch or some sort of Martian atmospheric condition. He did not inform his superior and the detection techs all went back to the boring job of watching their blank screens.
None of the WestHem marines on duty would have any idea that a squad of heavily armed soldiers had just been dropped less than five kilometers from their position.
The landing ship at Libby was the second of the four to touch down. It came down neatly in a flat valley 324 kilometers north of the city. The third ship touched down in the rolling plains 356 kilometers south of the industrial and manufacturing city of Proctor in the mid latitude. The last of the four came to rest 316 miles west of New Pittsburgh in flatlands that had once been a river delta in the days when Mars had featured flowing water. At these three landing sites, just like at the Eden site, the marines exiting the ship looked more comical than fierce as they learned to negotiate in the reduced gravity. A total of sixteen injuries, two of them quite serious, were attributed to falls in the first hour of the WestHem presence on Mars.
In all, more than a thousand troops were deployed at each landing site. They fanned out in four directions, occupying high ground around the perimeter of where the main landing zones would be. They began to dig in so that machine gun and mortar nests could be set up. Almost to the man, they thought they were doing nothing more than going through the motions in order to satisfy the requirements set down in their doctrine. Meanwhile, engineers scoured the rest of the landing zones themselves, setting up navigational beacons for the remaining ships that would soon be coming down.
And, at each site, Mosquitoes dropped off MPG special forces teams just outside of the perimeter. On three occasions sensors were able to pick up the heat flash of the landing Mosquitoes. In none of the cases were these flashes recognized for what they were. None of the troops were sent out to investigate the phenomenon, nor were they informed of it. By the time two hours had gone by since the first touchdown, each landing site had four squads of special forces troops on the ground and moving in towards them.
Corporal Carl Jefferson was Lon's electronics and communications specialist. In addition to his M-24 he carried a powerful communication receiver and transmitter set that was capable of making contact with their command center and receiving radio, infrared, or radar signals from the enemy forces. He was atop a large boulder near the base of a small hill half a kilometer from where they had been dropped. Lon was crouched just below him, clutching his weapon. The rest of the squad was spread out in a circular pattern that had a perimeter of two hundred meters, their eyes alert for enemy patrols.
"What are you getting, Jeffy?" asked Lon as he watched Jefferson peruse the display on his screen.
"All kinds of shit, sarge," Jefferson replied. "I'm getting radar sweeps of the sky every ten seconds, active IR every four seconds, and a shitload of radio waves coming from bearings 96 through 120."
"Can you interpret any of the radio waves?"
"Negative," Jefferson said. "It's all encrypted. I'm just getting bursts of signal that come across as static. The frequency suggests that they're probably biosuit combat computer communications between individual field soldiers. And they're sure chattering a lot out there too. Those communications sets that they use are a lot more powerful than they need to be."
"Well, you know how the Earthlings are," Lon said. "They think more power is better. We should thank them for making their signals strong enough for us to pick up."
"I guess we should," Jefferson agreed.
Of course the Martian forces were communicating with radio signals as well, signals that could potentially be detected by passive sensors in the hands of the Earthlings. The difference however was that the Martian engineers who had designed the MPG tactical sets had made them extremely low power and short range. Tests in the field had shown that even the most powerful receiver could not pick up the radio signals if it was more than a half of a kilometer away. And that half-kilometer distance was under ideal atmospheric conditions and with a direct line of sight.
"Can you lock onto a com sat from here?" Lon asked next.
Jefferson checked his map display for a moment. Unlike what the Earthlings were experiencing, the Martian combat computers were receiving GPS data from the satellites in orbit and, as such, geographic and elevation data, accurate to within fifteen centimeters, were showing. "Yes, we should have a direct line with the 11-C bird from here," he said. "I'll get it set up."
Lon gave him a thumbs-up instead of verbally responding. Despite the fact that the Earthlings wouldn't be able to pick up their transmissions, special forces doctrine was to speak as little as possible in enemy territory, just in case.
Jefferson set his radio down on a relatively flat portion on the highest part of the boulder. The set was twelve centimeters square and plugged into the front of Jefferson's suit. Small legs on the bottom automatically leveled the device. Once level, a tiny laser transmitter extended from the top. Speaking softly to his combat computer, Jefferson commanded the device to lock onto communication satellite 11-C, which was in geosynchronous orbit over Eden. The communications set, utilizing the GPS data, spun the transmitter around to the correct position.
"Ready to go, sarge," Jefferson said.
"Okay," Lon said. "Tell them that we're down safely and in position. Moving in for recon now. Will report composition of enemy forces and make attacks if conditions are favorable."
"Got it," Jefferson replied. He repeated this message to the computer and ordered it transmitted. His words were converted into binary code and then the laser flashed for four tenths of a second. The message hit the dish on the orbiting satellite six centimeters off center and was then transmitted to MPG headquarters in Eden. An acknowledgment was returned two minutes later by an encrypted radio signal from the same satellite.
"No further orders," Jefferson read once his computer decrypted the message. "Just 'proceed with mission, utilize best judgment. Free Mars'."
"All right then," Lon said. He flipped his radio to the command channel, so he could talk to everyone. "No change in orders," he told them. "We're getting a lot of chatter from our Earthling friends coming from bearing 96 through 120. Let's get a little closer and see what there is to see. Matza, you're on point."