World War Mars by Rick Partlow

Author:Rick Partlow [Partlow, Rick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aethon Books
Published: 2024-03-05T00:00:00+00:00

“You really think these things’ll work, sir?” Captain Lopez asked, staring at the view from the Morrigan’s ventral cameras.

Dull-gray dots dropped away from the ship, only the latest of dozens of the things still visible against the red curve of Mars, more still that had disappeared, blending into the blackness of space. Not that they were undetectable. Nothing could be out here. But someone would have to be looking for them, would have to understand they weren’t just bits of rock drifting in high orbit.

“They’re built the same as the warheads for our missiles,” Tom Bradstreet said noncommittally. “Nuclear explosives surrounded by the same sort of metal fuel pellets we use for reaction mass, with tungsten penetrator rods clustered around that. Remote detonating and some limited remote maneuvering. It’s the most effective space weapon we have.”

What he didn’t say, didn’t let show on his face for the benefit of the junior officers in the flight crew, was that he shared the Tactical officer’s doubts. Oh, the weapons would work… if they hit. But they were also only undetectable so long as they weren’t being remotely maneuvered. And without the maneuvering, they were mines rather than drones, and space, even the limited space of high orbit, was big.

“You think they can see what we’re doing?” Mia Pappas asked. The ship’s official pilot was subdued, perhaps sullen, if he was any judge of people. Maybe that was his fault, he reflected, since he’d given her little to do on this trip other than take her shift on the cockpit while the ship was basically flying itself. “If they can see us spreading out the drones…”

Before Bradstreet could reassure her, a light flashed on the arm of his acceleration couch, indicating a call from the Communications center. He frowned. If there was a call from the landing party, they should have just patched it through to his station automatically. He touched the control to answer the call.

“Bradstreet.”

“General, we have an eyes-only message from Washington for you. Regs say you have to take it in the Comms room or your office, sir.”

“I’ll be right there,” Bradstreet growled. He wanted to tell them he damn well knew the regulations because he’d written them, but they were just doing their job, and one of the biggest mistakes a general could make—and that too many had made—was to make their subordinates too worried about getting their heads bitten off to bring them unwelcome news. “Pappas, you have the controls. Keep us in this orbit. And Lopez, make damn sure you keep track of those drones. I know they’ve got safety interlocks to keep them from targeting us, but don’t depend on that.”

“Yes, sir,” the two officers said in chorus, but they said it to Bradstreet’s back as he pushed out of the cockpit.

Or off the bridge. He’d been resisting calling it that, insistent on keeping the Air Force roots of the Space Force, but he was beginning to wear down. Mostly it was the damn Marines, calling the fuselage the hull and the floor the deck.

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