"Very good," Hayes said, smiling for the first time. "Once that base is secured I'd like them all turned over to the FLEB so they can be held until this crisis is over."
"It will be done," Sega assured him. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a base to capture. I'll get back to you once it's in our hands." He looked at his watch. "Should be less than an hour I'd imagine."
"Thank you general," he said. "And good luck."
"We don't need any luck," he scoffed. "We're WestHem marines."
General Jackson was still at his command post in the capital building, monitoring the various operations that were taking place around the planet. The entire operation was at its most vulnerable right now since the bulk of the MPG members were still in transit to the bases. His greatest worry was of course the security of the Eden MPG base, which stood less than two kilometers from ten thousand WestHem marines. His worry was increased by a call from Sprinkle.
"What's up, Jack?" he asked, seeing the intelligence chief's face on his computer screen.
"The marines are moving a little faster than we'd thought," Sprinkle told him. "I just got a call from a few of my contacts that are part of the fast reaction division. They say that all of the Martians have been rounded up and are being held in their dorms but that the rest of the troops are gearing up for deployment. Estimates are that they'll be on the move within fifteen minutes or so."
"Great," Jackson said with a sigh. He looked at his tactical display and switched the view to a map of the military corner of Eden. Macarthur Avenue was the street that gave access to both the MPG base and the marine barracks. The barracks had two pedestrian entrances, which were located two blocks apart, and a wider, delivery truck entrance in between. He only had one single platoon of infantry troops to cover all three of those entrances. Forty men with small arms, light machine guns, and a few grenade launchers to hold back God knew how many marines who would be trying to egress from those doorways. They would be able to hold them for a little while by virtue of the fact that the marines would have to exit from a narrow corridor. Eventually however, the MPG would be as overwhelmed as the fabled Snoqualmie defenders back in World War III, that single American battalion that had tried to keep an entire Chinese army from descending out of the Cascade Mountains onto the plains of Washington. The Snoqualmie defenders had ultimately failed in their task, more than three-quarters of their number killed while buying the WestHem alliance no more than eighteen hours of time. Jackson had no intention of allowing the Macarthur Avenue defenders to share this same fate. He needed more troops there and he needed them now.
"Get me Colonel Cargill," he told his communications terminal.
Cargill was the commander of the Eden division. Like all of the high commanders of the MPG, Cargill had been briefed in on the plot to eventually seize the planet from WestHem some years before. He was an outstanding leader and an enthusiastic supporter of the plot. He came online within seconds of his hail. "Cargill here, General," he said.
"How many troops do we have on the base, not including those in Dealerman's command?" Jackson asked him.
Cargill consulted another screen for a moment. "About two hundred have arrived," he said. "Not all of them are combat troops however. Probably about half are admin and support people."
"Get them armed up and moving towards the marine barracks entrances," Jackson told him. "The marines are going to be trying a breakout any minute now."
"You mean the combat troops only?" he asked.
"Negative," Jackson replied. "I mean everyone. Get them guns, form them up into squads, and send them out there."
"But, General," Cargill protested, "a lot of those troops are women. Surely you don't mean to..."
"They've been through basic training haven't they?" Jackson interrupted. "Get them armed and on the move. Right now."
"Yes sir," Cargill said.
"Be sure to let them know what they're up against and that they will be in fact rebelling against WestHem, but get those that will go out there. And we'll need some armor on those entrances as well. As soon as you get some APC crews ready, get their vehicles moving. Send them out through the main entrance like we did Dealerman's people that went to the capital. Those entrances have got to be covered."
"Working on it now, General," Cargill said, signing off.
Lisa Wong was one of the female soldiers that were hastily assembled into a makeshift squad of infantry. Since the downtown area where she worked as a police officer was fairly close geographically to the MPG base, she and her partner Brian had been among the first to arrive. She had quickly suited up in the spare shorts and T-shirt that she carried in her locker and had been on her way to report to her duty station — the main administration office where she worked as a materials supply clerk — when her PC had gone off with an emergency tone.
"All available MPG personnel," announced Colonel Cargill, the base commander, "report immediately at best possible speed to the armory for combat load out. This means all personnel, regardless of sex or assignment. We need you over here, people, so let's move it!"
He repeated the message but by the time he was three words into it, Lisa had disconnected from the transmission and was sprinting through the hallways of the base towards the armory. His message had sounded urgent and the fact that he was asking for non-combat volunteers spoke volumes about the desperation of the situation. The materials allotment unit would just have to do without her for a while.
As she ran, others kept pace with her. Men, other women, some people still in civilian clothing, all trekked along, pushing through doors and making their way to a single destination. When they arrived there, huffing and puffing from the exertion, a group of supply personnel were hastily handing out weapons and equipment while an infantry lieutenant was forming them up into groups.
Lisa made her way to the front and was handed a helmet, a set of combat goggles, a radio pack, an M-24 rifle and five 100 round magazines. "You're C squad, part of Sergeant Jan's platoon over there," the lieutenant told her.
"Where are we going?" she asked, fumbling with all of the gear.
"Your sergeant will explain it in a moment," he said impatiently, his tone telling her that there was no time for questions. "Get outfitted and loaded up."
"What about armor?" she asked.
"No time for it," he told her, turning and grabbing another set of equipment for the man behind her.
She carried her equipment over to where a tough looking sergeant was standing with about twenty other people. There was a mix of men and women, a few of whom she recognized as being admin personnel, most she had never seen before. Sergeant Jan was dividing them up into squads and placing those few people he had that were part of the combat arm as the leaders.
"You," he said, pointing at Lisa and reading her name from her shirt, "Corporal Wong. Get that weapon loaded and those extra mags stowed. You'll be in second squad under private Zink's command. Your radio frequency for squad operations is 7-C. Got it?"
"Got it," she replied, feeling overwhelmed and more than a little confused. Just what the hell was going on here anyway? Nevertheless she put her helmet on her head and attached her throat microphone just above her shirt. The radio pack — a small plastic transmitter about half the size of her PC — she tuned to bank 7, channel C and attached to her waist. Though her entire career with the MPG had been spent as an office worker, she knew how to run the radio as well as any of the most hardened combat troops. Likewise she was familiar with her weapon, combat goggles, and other gear as well, and not just because of her job with the Eden Police Department. Ever since the earliest days of the MPG, General Jackson had made it a part of the training requirements that every member, no matter what their rank or assignment, qualify as expert with the combat gear at least twice a year. Though he had been derided many times in the Earthling media for this alleged waste of money, had had stuck to his guns and now, at what seemed a critical moment, all of that training and expense seemed to be paying off. She, as well as the other non-combat soldiers in her understrength platoon, were ready for action in less than five minutes, with weapons loaded and calibrated to the goggles.