"I will adhere to MPG doctrine even if it means we lose Eden," he told them. "If our position becomes untenable, if the casualties start to mount, if the arty is too much to bear, you will be withdrawn from the gap. That is my promise."
His promise served as the fragile glue that held military cohesion together. At least until now, when the announcement of 600 artillery guns moving their way slowly sank in.
"What do you think, Hicks?" Jeff asked him on the short-range channel as they stared out into the empty Martian wastelands. "Ready to call it a war?"
"I was ready to call it a war two weeks ago," Hicks replied. "But I hate to leave in the middle, you know?"
"Yeah," said Drogan. "If you do that, you'll never know how it turns out."
Jeff, who had been secretly hoping that his friends would decide to leave so he could follow them swallowed audibly and nodded. "I guess I'll hang out a little longer," he said. "No way in hell I'm gonna leave while a fuckin' Thruster stays behind."
The three friends looked at each other, their eyes glowing behind their faceplates in the infrared spectrum they were using. All of them looked scared but determined.
"So," said Drogan, "Xenia decide she loves you yet?"
Jeff chuckled. "Shut the fuck up, Drogan," he said. "I'll be in her pussy some day and you know it. Maybe I'll kiss you and give you a little taste of it."
"Maybe I'll get in it first and kiss you," she countered.
They stayed. Two members of their squad did not. Across the line guarding the Jutfield Gap nearly seventy other soldiers left as well — so many of them that a line actually formed to await their turns on the support APCs that would take them back to Eden.
Eden MPG base
2235 hours
Brian was nervous. Part of it was the fact that he had been shot down and forced to eject less than ten hours ago. Part of it was that the Mosquito they'd assigned him to was not the familiar plane he'd flown exclusively for the past three years — that one was a heap of debris scattered across the wastelands west of the Jutfield Gap. Most of it, however, was the sis they'd assigned him to replace the injured Matt Mendez. His name was Xavier Goodhit and he was forty-three years old, a former security guard at the Agricorp Building who had been selected late in the process for the Mosquito systems operator position.
"So you didn't actually finish the course?" Brian asked him as they stood side by side in the locker room, putting on their biosuits in response to a hastily assembled mission.
"All we had left was the practical and the final," he said, his voice trembling just the slightest bit. "I qualified in everything but they couldn't spare any planes to complete the last portion."
"I see," Brain said, looking him up and down. He was moderately overweight and unshaven, his body exuding the odor of one who had not bathed in a few days. Brian had only met him an hour before, when Jorgenson had ordered all possible planes into the air for around the clock strikes at the advancing column of WestHem marines. Up until that order he'd been promised a support position until Mendez returned to active flight status. "So how's your gunnery?"
"I had a lot of problems with it at first," Goodhit admitted. "I was starting to get better though — at least in the sims."
"But in reality?" Brian asked.
"Well... there weren't any spare MPG units for us to practice on. You see, they weren't planning on deploying any of us so soon. We were supposed to be the next generation... you know?"
"Jesus," Brian said. "How's your navigation?"
"They weren't able to concentrate on that as much as they wanted to," he said. "Look, sir, I can see that you're a little uncomfortable with this and, to tell you the truth, I'm really scared to go out there. I mean... you got shot down today, didn't you? Five or six other planes got shot down too. They told us that the WestHems couldn't hit us out there!"
Brian opened his mouth to suggest that maybe they should go have a little talk with Jorgenson about all of this, that maybe he'd been put out a little prematurely. Before he could do so, however, a familiar figure stepped around the corner.
"Hey, fuckhead," the figure said to Goodhit. "You're in my biosuit. Take it off!"
It was Matt, looking considerably worse for wear and dressed in the same bloody shorts and T-shirt he'd been wearing when the medics had spirited him off to Saint John Paul's Hospital after the Hummingbird had landed.
"Matt," Brian said, stepping forward and grabbing his hand. He gave it an enthusiastic shake. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"I'm here to do my fuckin' job, boss," Matt said. "That's all." He turned back to Goodhit. "Get out of that suit, fatty. You ain't getting my pilot that easy."
Goodhit was simply speechless, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide.
"Come on!" Matt barked. "There's a mission to run, isn't there? You ain't ready to run it, I am. So give me the fuckin' suit!"
"Sir..." Goodhit started. "This is most... unusual, isn't it? I mean... I mean... we haven't got any orders to..."
Brian ignored him. "Did they fuse your ass back together, kid?" he asked.
"Yeah, they fused it," he said. "Hurt like a motherfucker too. I'm all ready for some action."
"Did they clear you for flight status?" Brian asked.
Matt grinned. "I always hated going through the official computerwork, you know what I mean? Let's just say I made my way back here so I could go back to work."
"Let me see your ass," Brian demanded.
"Hey," Matt said. "I'm not that kinda guy. I told you that shit."
Brian didn't grin. "Let's see it," he said. "Turn around and drop 'em."
Matt sighed and turned around. He pushed his shorts down, revealing his bare ass. There was a bloody bandage on the left cheek. Brian reached forward and lifted the bandage, causing Matt to wince and tense up. Underneath was a ragged pulp of bloody flesh that was still oozing blood in several places.
"They didn't fuse shit," Brian said. "They just sprayed some gel in it and put the bandage on."
"Uh... well... yeah," Matt said. "They said since the skin was actually shot off I'd just have to keep it covered until it grew back."
"You can't fly like this," Brian said.
"Sure I can," Matt said. "Just but the bandage back on. I'll be fine."
"How long did they tell you not to fly?"
Matt sighed. "Six weeks," he said. "But them motherfuckers are always worried about lawsuits and shit. It ain't that bad, boss. I can fly."
Brian shook his head. "No can do, kid," he said. "You're not on flight status."
"I'll be fine, Brian," Matt said. "I'm not gonna sit out the most critical fuckin' part of this war just because of some skin off my ass. Now you can put the bandage back on and go up with me, or I'll go find some other poor slob who got assigned one of these under-trained newbies and offer my services to him instead. Your choice. But one way or another, I'm going up there."
Brian grinned. "Well... since you put it that way," he said. He put the bandage back on, tightening it the best he could. "Goodhit, give Mendez your biosuit. I've just relieved you of flight duties."
"But... but... is that legal?" asked Goodhit, who was actually looking something like hopeful at the prospect.
"Legal is as legal does," Brian said. "Give it to Mendez. I'll clear everything with Jorgenson before we go out."
"Well... if it's an order," Goodhit said.
"It's an order," Brian confirmed. "Hand it over."
He handed it over. Matt quickly began to put it on while Goodhit quickly made a relieved retreat. It was far from the right size, hanging loosely on his hips and stretching a little too much on his legs.