"If we're wrong," Jackson said, "then all is lost anyway. The WestHems will defeat us and our cities will be captured."
Bright nodded. That too was a good point. Perhaps the best one. "I'll brief the teams personally today," he said.
"I would expect nothing less," Jackson said. "I'll make sure the air wing is ready to do their part."
Bright certainly hoped the air wing would be ready. They were the key to the success of stage two doctrine. Without them, the WestHem hovers would smash his perimeter teams to pieces one by one.
Eden Landing Zone, aboard the primary landing ship
0710 hours
The combat information center, or CIC, was a much different place than it had been a week ago. Then, it had only been staffed by a skeleton crew — a few technicians to monitor instruments, a few gunnery officers pulling shit duty, and a lowly commanding officer to fill out protocol. Now, after a week of having their asses kicked up and down the perimeter by the greenies, every terminal was staffed, every feed from every instrument was constantly monitored, and the command staff consisted of the most senior and experienced combat officers available. A huge map display lit up the main screen on the front of the room. It showed the landing zone and the surrounding ten square kilometers of Mars, with friendly units showing in blue, their positions constantly updated by radio signal, although, of course, that information was only as accurate as the inertial navigation data being provided.
The commander of the CIC at the moment was Major Jonathan Sparks, second in command of 2nd Battalion of the 314th Armored Cavalry Regiment, the unit currently deploying its armor and men outside. He sat in a padded leather chair in the center of the room, his workstation raised above all the other positions. From there he had a view of the main map and, by spinning his chair around, all of the monitoring terminals. He looked at the time display on the main screen and then checked it against his wristwatch. 0710. If the greenies were going to get in the game today, they would begin appearing any minute.
"Status check," he said. "Are all of my units ready?"
"Checking," replied several voices at once. Each officer began utilizing his individual radio link. The air operations liaison was the first to reply.
"Air wing is ready," he reported. "Forty-eight attack hovers in eight flights of six are staffed and ready for take-off in five minutes."
"Copy that," Sparks said. "Orders are to keep them on the ground until the armor is deployed to the battle area. At that point, the air patrol will launch and one wing of hovers will support each area of engagement."
"Understood," reported the air liaison.
"All tank crews are formed up and ready for deployment," reported the armor liaison.
"Infantry squads are all loaded into the APCs," reported the infantry liaison.
Sparks nodded in satisfaction. "Very well," he said. "All we need now are some greenies."
As if on cue, one of the detection technicians suddenly spoke up. "Thermal plume," he reported. "Bearing 246. Range unknown."
"The signature?" Sparks asked.
"Ground level, high infrared range. The same thing we've been seeing all along."
Yes, that was it, Sparks knew. The signature of a greenie Hummingbird utilizing its thrusters to land on the surface. "Anything on active?" he asked next.
All stations reported negative.
"That's the first landing. Get me a estimated range and start plastering the area with artillery."
Estimating range without getting a hit from active sensors was an iffy science at best, particularly in the variable atmosphere of Mars. Still, the computers did their best, utilizing red shift data and triangulation between multiple sensors. Within six seconds of detecting the thermal plume, they had a fix that was accurate to within one kilometer. This information was given to the gunnery officer who immediately ordered an all-out barrage starting in the center of the most likely area. If only they had some accurate gunnery, they might have actually hit something.
"Rounds are outgoing," the gunnery officer reported.
"That's good to know," Sparks said sarcastically. He turned to the armor and infantry liaisons. "Hold in place for now. Let's see where the rest of the greenies land, then we'll go out and get them."
The first thermal plume spotted had come from the Hummingbird Lon and his squad was assigned to but the squad didn't get out. The ramp didn't even come down. Instead, the aircraft merely sat on the ground for twenty-four seconds — the amount of time it usually took to offload a team — and then launched back into the air, creating exactly what the technicians back on the marine landing ships were expecting to see, another thermal plume. The Hummingbird flew on, circling around a few hills, doubling back, doubling back again, and then coming in for yet another landing some four kilometers from their first touchdown position, creating yet another thermal plume for the technicians to detect and chart, another empty place for them to call down an artillery barrage. The ramp remained closed, the special forces team remained in their restraints. Twenty-eight seconds went by and the aircraft took off again. It went through another series of turns and dives, doubling back and forth for the better part of five minutes. Finally it reached the real deployment area six kilometers northwest of the marine perimeter forces. There was another bright flare, another jerking halt, and this time the ramp did come down and the nine men and one woman jumped out onto the rocky Martian surface.
All around the perimeter the other six Hummingbirds involved in dropping off the various teams for the coming battle did the same, some making three false landings prior to the real deployment, some making as many as six. The Hummingbirds then retreated at top speed, heading back to their base where the aircraft would be quickly refueled and then staged for immediate take-off.
"How many of those fucking Hummingbirds do they have?" Callahan asked after watching his map display light up with landing after landing of suspected enemy forces. On the west side of the perimeter alone sixteen thermal plumes had been detected and charted, each prompting a yellow circle to appear. On the east, north, and south, another twenty-eight had been charted as well.
"Intelligence put it at thirty," said Sergeant Bickers. "That was supposed to have been solid information."
Callahan shook his head in disgust. "Fucking Intelligence assholes. What else are they gonna be wrong about?"
"That's an ass-load of greenies they're disgorging out there," said Sergeant Bender, yet another replacement.
"All the more for us to kill," Callahan said. "I say, send every last fucking one of them."
From behind them the artillery guns atop the landing ships continued to fire, sending a rain of high explosive shells off in all directions. The thumping was audible from this close but only barely so. Callahan was encouraged by the sheer volume of fire they were unleashing. Sure, the gunnery sucked ass, but with that much outgoing they were sure to score a few hits by sheer chance, weren't they? Of course, he had no idea that most of the landing zones they were firing at were completely empty, mere deceptions staged by an enemy who liked nothing better than for the marines to waste precious ammunition in an environment where it could not be re-supplied.