FOURTEEN

MONDAY, 28 MAY: 0030 HOURS GMT

Kinkakuji Temple garden
0930 hours Tokyo time

It had been eight days since Kaitlin had seen Yukio, since he’d left for his base way to the south on Tanega Island, and now her v-mail was being flagged as undeliverable. She’d placed a long-distance call to the base, but all she got was a recorded vidloop, saying that no calls were being accepted at this time. She wished she knew whether the Japanese military routinely closed their bases to outsiders during a drill…or if this was an indication that something serious was brewing. There’d been nothing in the papers or on netnews to help her make sense of the situation. It was very puzzling…and a little disturbing.

She’d come to the temple this morning looking for a quiet restful place in which to think. To think about herself and Yukio, about their future…if they had one. They’d had a few days to travel around Japan before Yukio had to report to his base, and as she had feared, he’d become only slightly less formal away from Kyoto than he had been in his father’s house. It wasn’t just the absence of sex—she’d experienced dry spells before, and she could live with that. It wasn’t even the lack of those public displays of intimacy that she’d become accustomed to back home, holding hands, walking arm in arm, calling each other pet names. Being in Japan and speaking Japanese constantly made her almost feel Japanese. The day after they arrived, in fact, they’d seen a young couple holding hands on the maglev to Tokyo, and she’d been shocked…as well as amused at her own reaction. No, the problem went deeper than that.

She feared that Yukio was seeing her now as hen na gaijin, as someone who would never fit in, no matter how well she spoke the language or understood the customs. She remembered times before, back in the States, when they had discussed the difficulties that a mixed couple would face. He’d been the practical one, pointing out the problems foreigners still had in Japan, and the provincialism of large parts of the United States. She’d always countered with her belief that anything was possible…if they’d loved each other enough. And that was probably it. Yukio must have realized that his love for her wasn’t strong enough.

A high bamboo fence bordered the path to the temple. She ran her fingers gently along the bamboo as she walked along, head down. Abruptly the fence came to an end as the path ran along the edge of the lake. She saw it first in its reflection and caught her breath, as she suddenly knew why it was called the Golden Pavilion. Three stories high and covered with gold leaf, the temple gleamed with a dazzling brilliance both above and below the water. She found a spot next to the water and sat down, thinking how strange everything was. Her love for Yukio was stronger than ever…just when it seemed that his love for her was fading.

She unclipped her PAD to check the netnews again. Nothing. More rumblings with Mexico. Anti-American and aldetech riots in Quebec and Paris. A new messiah in Rome who promised the aliens would soon return for the faithful. Nothing, though, to indicate why Japanese military bases might be going on alert. Well, time to check her v-mail. Something from CMU, her grades. Hey, all right! She grinned. Too bad Yukio wasn’t here. They’d always had a friendly rivalry going with their grades, even though he was taking graduate-level courses. Of course he always tried to claim that a B for a grad course was equivalent to an A for an undergrad, but she never bought that line. Not that he often got anything less than an A anyway.

What else? Hmm, something from her dad. Funny. She’d just gotten a long vid from him yesterday, and he usually didn’t comm her more than once or twice a week. Strange, too, it was text only…and the whole thing was in code. What the…? As she opened her Beale routine to decode the message, she found herself hoping it wasn’t something stupid-like that silly mix-up with the two archeologists.

It wasn’t.

She had to read the message through three times before she grasped it. Her mouth was hanging open as she worked her way through her father’s circumlocutions. “Blue boys” would be the UN. Pearl Harbor…a sneak attack? Forcibly relocated…as in imprisoned?

But the Marines obviously didn’t believe in staying where they had been put. A strange and unfamiliar feeling welled up inside her as she read about their escape. It took her a moment to recognize it as pride, both in the Marines…and in her father.

Something had happened to her father. The man who’d written this was not the same man who’d been planning to arrange an out after the Mars mission, the man who’d been just marking time doing his job…but not really caring. The man who’d written this was a man who was taking charge. She wondered what had happened to Colonel Lloyd; the message sounded as though Major Mark Garroway was the one in command.

She grinned as she figured out his cryptic reference to Heinlein Station. So, Dad, she thought, I guess all that science fiction I gave you did some good after all.

So now, what to do about this message? Obviously she needed to pass it on as soon as possible. But how?

Uncle Walt, of course, was Colonel Walter Fox. He and her dad had been buddies since before she was born, and she’d grown up thinking of him and his wife as uncle and aunt. In fact, it was Walter and Melanie Fox who’d taken care of her after her mother died, whenever her father was stationed overseas. The question was, could she risk sending this message in the clear? She had several other encryption programs, including one of her own design, but she didn’t know what Uncle Walt had.

She took another look at the second part of the message, translating to Tokyo time. The UN forces had taken over at 2107 Sunday…yesterday. Her last message from Yukio was dated Saturday, and yesterday her messages started getting bounced. That was too much to believe of coincidence. The Japanese government must have closed the base in response to word from the UN. No, she didn’t dare put this message on the net from inside Japan. She would have to go back to the States…and fast.

She thought about splurging on a taxi to get back to the youth hostel but then decided that the subway would be quicker. It didn’t take her long to pack her bag and check out, and then another subway ride got her to the maglev station, where she got on the first direct car to Kansai. She immediately shut herself in one of two enclosed comm stations to check out flight times. Damn! By the time the maglev got to Kansai, she’d have less than ten minutes to make the next Star Raker for the States, and the first one after that wasn’t for another four hours…all of that assuming she could get a seat. The Star Raker coming over had been pretty full; she hadn’t seen any empty places.

So. What other options did she have? It probably wasn’t all that urgent to get this message through quickly. After all, what could they do…send a message back saying, “Reinforcements on the way, ETA six months”? Still it would be important for them—she wasn’t exactly sure who she meant by “them”—to know what the UN had done.

Besides, ever since she’d put the timing of the attack together with the closing of Yukio’s base, she’d had an increasing feeling that it wouldn’t be healthy for her to stick around here much longer. The words “enemy alien” came to mind, and she shivered.

So was there anything sooner than that second Star Raker? Ah, that would do it. It was only going as far as Los Angeles, but maybe she would stay with Aunt Melanie and Uncle Walt down at Camp Pendleton for a few days before heading back East. She checked the price and whistled. Well, what’s the point in having an American Express account if you can’t use the thing when you really need it? She connected to Reservations and pressed a button on her wrist-top to send her AmEx code through. Now she was all set…except for one more little chore.

She’d decided to wait and do this on the maglev rather than in the train station because she’d wanted an enclosed comm station where she could take her time recording the message…messages, actually. The first one was no problem; expressing thanks for hospitality received and sorrow for an unexpected but necessary departure was easy to do in Japanese. The second one, though, that was another matter. There was no established custom for what she had to say to Yukio. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, but she also wanted to set him free. Between his feelings of obligation and loyalty to his family and his country and whatever of love he still felt for her, he was being pulled to pieces. She wanted…she needed to release him.

Several times she broke down in tears and had to erase the message and start over, but finally it was done. She played it back one last time, nodding in satisfaction. Yes, she had walked the tightrope successfully. Making sure her smile was in place before she pressed RECORD, she added, “Look me up when you get back to the States. We can have a cup of cha and talk about old times. Sayonara, Toshiyuki-san.” STOP

The messages complete, she took a deep breath, opened her address book, and selected the Ishiwara household. The minister would certainly not be in at this time of day; probably his private secretary—what had Yukio said his name was? Nabuko?—would answer. Just as well. She wasn’t sure she could face Yukio’s father right now.

The screen in front of her dissolved into an image of a young man sitting cross-legged on a tatami behind a low table with a PAD. She thought she’d seen him the night she had dinner there, and he obviously recognized her. Of course, it would be a large part of his business to remember names and faces. After the initial pleasantries, she made her request.

“I find I must leave this beautiful country and return to my home. I have recorded a message of farewell for the Honored Minister. May I transmit it now?”

Nabuko bowed in assent, and she selected SEND. She had embedded the message to Yukio inside the one to his father, asking the senior Ishiwara to pass the message along when it became possible to do so. As a government minister, he might even be able to get around the difficulty of the base being closed.

“I hope your journey will be a pleasant one, Garroway Kaitlin-san.”

She bowed and ended the connection, then slumped back in the seat. Done. It was done.

0143 HOURS GMT

Heinlein Station, Mars
Sol 5636: 1320 hours MMT

He didn’t want to see the Corps die.

Garroway had been a Marine for twenty-three years, now. He’d seen the Corps during the frenzied build-up during America’s involvement in the Colombian Civil War, in ’27, and again during the disastrous intervention in Andhra Pradesh six years later. He’d seen the BCs—the slang pejorative variously meant budget cutters, bean counters, or things less savory—come that close to strangling the Corps, particularly in the years since the fighting in southeastern India. The argument ran to the effect that amphibious operations were a thing of the past; indeed, the last large-scale combat amphib deployment had been at Tavrichanka in 2012, when the First Marine Division had waded ashore to save Vladivostok from the invading Chinese. The other major Marine interventions in recent years had been by helicopter or Valkyrie. The Army Special Forces routinely deployed the same way, and they had better and more modern equipment.

So who needed the Marines?

And that, Garroway was increasingly convinced, was what had been responsible for his ROAD-like behavior, his determination to put in his time and get the hell out. He could do a lot better on the Outside; hell, he had a standing job offer from Vince Mayhew at Moravec. He didn’t need this shit.

Only now he was finding that he did…and that his dedication to the Corps had less to do with his oath to the country or the reason the Marines existed than it did with the people who were depending on him for leadership right here, right now.

Maybe the country didn’t need the US Marines, but he did.

The entire group was gathered once again in the main room of the Heinlein Station hab, the Marines in rows seated on the bare floor, the five scientists by themselves off to the left. Garroway had started, an hour earlier, to try to put together some sort of inspirational speech, but nothing he’d written down had worked. He would just have to ad-lib this one.

“People,” he said. “In the absence of specific orders from the military command authority, we have to assume that, as of this morning, we are at war.”

He had their full attention now. There was not a sound in the hab, and every eye in the room met his.

“Our orders were to safeguard American interests on Mars and, specifically, to protect the civilian research outpost at Cydonia, which, as I’m sure you all know, was somewhat, ah…controversial in certain quarters. That outpost has now been taken over by the UN. Two of our people were hurt. In the absence of specific orders from Earth, I must assume that that action was a hostile one. By capturing the Mars cat this morning, we have made our first strike back against the enemy. We now have the means to leave our prison and to carry the battle to the UN forces occupying our facilities.

“I’ve discussed my intentions with a number of you this morning, so you know what I have in mind. It is my intention to take the Mars cat and march on Candor Chasma, 650 kilometers east of here. I intend to leave this afternoon, within the next hour, if possible.”

A babble of voices rose from the Marines and from the scientists as well. Garroway raised both hands, motioning the room to silence. “The march,” he continued, “will be difficult…and dangerous. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before, and we have only a very spotty knowledge of the terrain between here and there. Our biggest problem is going to be water, because, as I understand it, permafrost tends to be kind of patchy along the Valles Marineris, and we can’t count on finding drill sites that will come up wet. We’ll carry as much water as we can manage, but I’m afraid we’re going to be on short rations for most of the trip.”

“Now just a damned minute!” The protest came not from one of the Marines, but from Dr. Kettering, standing off to the side with the other scientists. “You can’t seriously be thinking of dragging us all across four hundred miles of Martian desert!”

“You are welcome to stay, Doctor,” Garroway replied. He turned to face the Marines. “In fact, this is strictly a volunteer-only mission. Any of you who want to stay behind may do so. There’s plenty of food, and we’ll leave the drilling equipment.”

That brought a startled reaction from some of the Marines. “Sir!” Ostrowsky said, raising her hand. “You mean we’re crossing the desert without water?”

Garroway exchanged glances with Devora Druzhininova, who silently nodded. “I’ve discussed the plan with Dr. Druzhininova,” he said. “Maybe I should let her tell us about that.”

Druzhininova didn’t leave the group of scientists. She simply folded her arms and began addressing the entire group. “You all know that most of Mars’s water—a whole ocean of it, in fact—exists beneath the planet’s surface as permafrost…essentially frozen mud buried beneath anywhere from two to twenty meters of regolith.

“The permafrost layer is not uniform over the entire planet, however. It’s much thicker in the north polar regions, especially north of about forty degrees north latitude, where the Boreal Sea existed once. Cydonia Prime depends on the permafrost left when that sea froze, billions of years ago. It’s almost nonexistent around the equator, though. Here in the Mariner Valley, most of the ice was melted a billion years ago by the raising of the Tharsis Bulge to the west.”

“We’ve got water wells here,” Lance Corporal Julia Higgins called out. “What do you think that drill out back is for?”

“Subsurface fossil water. There are deep pools kept liquid by volcanism, even yet. Heinlein Station and Mars Prime are both positioned over fairly large water traps, but we can’t expect to find more between here and there. I’m afraid we’ll be limited to what we can carry…and what our suits and the life-support gear on the Mars cat can recycle.” She looked at Garroway. “I wish I had happier news.”

“That’s okay, Doctor,” he replied. “Lieutenant King and I have gone over the numbers. We’ll be able to carry enough with us to last, if we’re careful.”

He paused a moment, taking the time to study the expressions on the faces of the men and women before him. Some looked afraid or worried, some determined. Most simply looked attentive, as though this were simply another briefing at the start of a rugged but routine training exercise.

He suddenly felt incredibly, inexpressibly proud of these people.

“I need to know,” he told them, “how many of you are coming along.”

Almost as one, people began standing up…Ostrowsky and Jacob making it to their feet first, but the rest within a second or two. They stood before him at attention, as though on the parade ground, and Garroway felt his pride swelling even more.

David Alexander and Dr. Druzhininova both crossed the floor and joined the Marines, followed a reluctant moment later by Edward Pohl; Craig Kettering and Louis Vandemeer remained where they were, arms folded, expressions shuttered.

Well, he hadn’t expected the civilians to embrace this madness. He needed either Alexander or Druzhininova—he’d discussed the matter with them an hour ago—and was pleased that both of them, and Pohl, would be coming along. The other two should be safe enough here until someone came by to pick them up.

He did know that he wanted no one along who wasn’t committed to the mission’s success.

“Thank you, everyone,” he said. “I knew I could count on you all. Be seated.”

“What we’re about to do,” he told them as they resumed their places on the floor, “is going to be difficult. It’s never been done. But it’s also not without precedent. How many of you remember Presley O’Bannon?”

Perhaps a dozen hands went up—mostly those of the older Marines, the NCOs and senior people. Some of the younger ones looked uncertain. Others wore blank expressions that suggested they’d read about the incident in their Corps manuals and promptly forgotten it. The O’Bannon saga was required reading for every Marine.

“Lieutenant Presley Neville O’Bannon was a twenty-year-old Marine from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Kentucky who, in 1805, commanded a detachment of seven US Marines on a march from Alexandria, Egypt, to Derna, in what is now the People’s Glorious Jihad of Islamic Revolution. The march was led by Thomas Eaton, the US consul to Tunis and, besides the Marines, included about five hundred Arab revolutionaries and Greek mercenaries.

“That was during our war against what were then called the Barbary States…Tripoli, in particular, the worst of the lot. Eaton had hatched a plan to help an Arab exile named Hamet overthrow his brother, who was pasha of Tripoli at the time, and install a government friendly to the United States, ending once and for all Tripoli’s habit of capturing American seamen and holding them for ransom.

“O’Bannon and his Marines helped Eaton achieve the impossible. They prevented an Arab mutiny along the way by seizing the expedition’s food stores. When they reached Derna, they led a charge that carried the defenses of the city, which happened to be Tripoli’s most important territorial holding. Two Marines died in the attack, and two more, including O’Bannon, were wounded. O’Bannon himself raised the Stars and Stripes over Derna’s fortress, the first time the American colors were raised in battle in the Eastern Hemisphere. The action won for the US Marines both the line in the Marine Corps Hymn referring to ‘the shores of Tripoli’ and the Mameluke design of the Corps officer’s curved dress sword.” He grinned. “And you Marines who didn’t know all that have some studying to do!”

He paused as the men and women laughed, then went on, more seriously. “O’Bannon and his men accomplished an impossible march, six hundred miles across the Sahara Desert in something just over six weeks. We’ve only got four hundred miles to cross, and we have a Mars cat to do it with instead of O’Bannon’s camels. I think we’ll be able to do a bit better than he did!”

“So how long is it going to take us, Major?” Corporal Hayes asked.

Garroway took a deep breath. He’d had two answers ready, a short one based on the assumption that everyone would be able to travel inside the captured Mars cat, and a longer one calculated on the need for some to ride—or walk—outside. If only six or eight had volunteered, it would have been possible to make the trip to Mars Prime in less than two days.

But that, of course, would have raised rather serious additional difficulties; taking on the UN contingent that was probably stationed at Candor Chasma with eight Marines would have been chancy at best.

“If we’re lucky,” he told them, “we’ll be able to complete the trip in about a week. Since we’ll be facing extreme conditions, however, and uncertain terrain, I’m planning on the march taking at least two weeks, and quite possibly more.”

“Major, you can’t seriously be considering this,” Vandemeer said.

“You two will be safe enough here,” he told them. “The UN soldiers in the cat were supposed to report in every so often. When they don’t report in tonight, someone will be on the way to check up on the place. When they get here, you’ll be able to tell them, quite truthfully, that you wanted nothing to do with this scheme.”

“We’ll tell them where you’re going!”

“Go ahead. They’ll know as soon as they find out we’re gone.” He grinned. “Even with us following the Mars cat’s tracks all the way to Mars Prime…well, it’s a damn big desert!”

“Damn it, Major!” Kettering said. “You could be starting a war!”

“Those people have already started it, Doctor,” Garroway said, nodding toward the airlock and the bodies of the UN troops now lying on the cold Martian sand. “All we’re going to do is finish it.”