Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars (55 page)

“Camp SEAL, we are broadcasting live from Hellas Planitia. This is CPT Two Horses, and I will be your commentator for this fight, assisted by 1LT Pale Rider.”

“This is MAJ Norsemun and we read you loud and clear.” The major started the recording, and put the fight on the 1-MC. He turned the volume control almost off.
He had complied with the order
, he thought.
No one told him how loud to broadcast it
.

“CPT Cipher.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Leave the 1-MC alone and do not fool around with the incoming transmission from the field. I am privately listening to the transmission in my office.”

“Sir, yes sir.” CPT Cipher was very curious about what was going on, but the icy expression on the major’s face told him to mind his own business.

“Camp SEAL, this is CPT Two Horses reporting live from Hellas Planitia. COL Kahless is approaching the ring with his corner man and his cut man. He looks serious. COL Tkachenko is moving toward the ring. That is one pissed-off looking Soviet.”

“Camp Lenin, this is SGT Vasily Butkovsky. We are broadcasting to you from Hellas Planitia. The fight will soon begin. Our colonel is accompanied by his first officer and a medic. He has look that would melt steel. Our colonel is left-handed, and the American will certainly have much difficulty.”

“And this is JSGT Pavlov; I will be assisting the senior sergeant in this telecast. It should be a good fight. For Soviet motherland!”

The Americans won the coin toss and the referee would be MAJ Luv2bomb and the announcer would be Soviet MAJ Volkov. The announcer entered the center ring with a microphone.

MAJ Norsemun closed the door to his office and put the transmission on his desktop speaker. CPT Black Ice was carrying two hot sandwiches and a pair of cold
near beers
. “Mind if I join you for lunch, Major?”

“You do realize this makes you a co-conspirator?”

“If we divide the blame in half it will sting less if we get into trouble. Besides, I’d take a demotion to lieutenant just to listen to this match live,” he said, grinning like a ‘possum eating persimmons.

“Quiet, they are announcing the fight.”

Chief security and political officer MAJ Oleg Savenkov had the fight routed to his office. The head of Soviet tactical operations knocked on the closed door. “Come in, Major, they are announcing the fight.” MAJ Savenkov opened his bottom desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of vodka and two glasses, poured two drinks, and handed a glass to MAJ Ivanov. “Sit down Arkady, please.”

As per agreement, all personnel except security were to remain seated while the security teams led the fighters, their seconds and their cut men to the squared ring. The American security team set up their video cassette recorders to record the fight. They usually used the recorders to document events of interest following a field engagement. If Kahless won, it would make for a great showing to the rest of the post when they got home. The Americans on their bleachers remained seated but applauded loudly while the Americans approached the ring. The American’s second lifted the ropes while COL Kahless stuck his leg through and entered the ring. The American team approached the corner with a blue turnbuckle. COL Kahless was wearing his flight boots and a pair of blue trunks, with the crest of his old Keichu-Ryu dojo on the right thigh. The American was solid: lean and well-built for a man in his mid-thirties; symmetrical as a Greek god, strong arms from lifting weights and strong legs from running five miles a day. His only imperfection was his slightly crooked nose he’d earned in a college karate tournament. He exuded the confidence of a warrior tested in many challenges and not found wanting. He meditated on his men that Tkachenko had killed and the communist threat to his country. The stakes were very personal, both idealistically and in a practical sense. Losing the alloy-x would severely weaken his position on Mars to the point that eventually a post siege could be possible. He stretched his muscles on the ropes with a cool sense of detachment as his Soviet antagonist approached the ring.

The Soviet team followed suit. The very stoic Soviets spectators looked unmoved but were very focused on their leader’s approach. Tkachenko wore his flight boots and a bright red pair of trunks with the gold hammer and sickle, the Communist symbol on the left thigh. He was the embodiment of the Soviet ideal: strong, hard and aggressive. He cut a formidable figure: strong in his loins and upper body with sledgehammer fists, not a large man in size but hard as Ukrainian maple. The nickname “Ukrainian Wolf” suited the predator who hunted the American today. He had been waiting a long time to punish the American for killing COL Kiknadze. The Soviet Central Command had high expectations when they transferred him to Mars to assume command. Part of the expectation was the killing of COL Kahless. His second likewise lifted the ropes for his man and Tkachenko stepped into the ring.

MAJ Volkov entered the center ring with a microphone. “I am MAJ Volkov, and I will be announcing this fight. He pointed to the pride of the SCA, his countenance beaming like a light beacon and his voice gushed with enthusiasm like a new strike at a Russian oil well. In the red corner, standing at 175 centimeters, weighing in at seventy-four kilograms from Ukraine, U.S.S.R. is COL Yuri Tkachenko!” COL Tkachenko raised his hands to bask in the support of his men. The Soviets cheered for him while the Americans keep silent or booed. Professionally, but with the air of a businessman declaring some unpleasant business, he pointed to the American. “And In blue corner, standing at 176 centimeters, weighing in at seventy-six kilograms, from U.S.A., is COL Kahless,” he said, professionally, but not so enthusiastically. COL Kahless showed off a series of punches and raised his hands above his head for his men. The Americans cheered for their commander while Soviets observed with contempt.

MAJ Luv2bomb entered the center of the ring. He motioned to the two fighters to join him. “This is a boxing match with international rules observed by the contestants on their honor, with no disqualification. There is no set number of rounds. This match will be fought until one man is down for the count. Rounds are three minutes long and one minute’s rest. If a man is down, you must return to a neutral corner while I count. At the end of each round, each fighter will break clean and return to his own corner. I have been advised that I cannot stop the fight if I think one of you is in danger of being seriously hurt. Your seconds and medics will have to throw in the towel. Watch the rabbit punches, kidney punches, and hitting below the belt; let’s make it a clean fight,” admonished the referee.

The Soviet gave the Chinese-American referee a look of contempt, then stared at his rival. The only thing he despised worse than Americans were Chinese-Americans. “I will beat you like curr dog!” the Soviet sneered.

“Fight first; brag later, bigmouth!”

The two fighters touched gloves together in the customary boxer’s handshake. The air was filled with the expectation of the violent storm brewing. Both men returned to their corners and awaited the bell. The American XO offered the mouth guard to his commander, and he put it in his mouth and bit down.

“Colonel, the Soviet is a southpaw; he shoots a sniper rifle left-handed. His left eye is the
dominant
one. Stay away from his left hand and try to break his ribs on his left side—close his left eye if you can. You’re ambidextrous, so fight him left-handed until I tell you to switch.”

COL Kahless bit down on his mouthpiece and glanced at his medic. “Any medical advise?”

“Yeah, don’t let him hit you.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”