The column went down the other side, winding and twisting back and forth until they reached a raised plateau that would have been a meadow had it been on an earthly mountain range. The tanks began to assemble into columns and rows once again. When the assembly was complete, the shut their engines off and powered everything but their communications gear down. Ahead of them was a gap between two of the Sierra Madres foothills. Beyond that was the Valley of Death, as the WestHem marines had come to call it.
Zen looked at his mapping software one last time before powering it down. They were two kilometers from the valley, sixteen kilometers west of the Martian main line of defense. As far as he could tell, they had arrived here completely undetected. On his enemy forces screen — which was constantly updated by encrypted satellite transmissions sent out from MPG headquarters in New Pittsburgh, he could see that the main thrust of the marine's forces were gathered just beyond the Red Line. That would soon change.
"What now?" Belinda asked, unstrapping her restraints and opening the hatch above her head.
"Now," Zen said, "we maintain strict radio silence except for inter-tank communications, and... we wait."
"That is what we do best," Xenia said.
"I have a question?" Belinda asked.
"What's that?" Zen replied.
"General Jackson never gives names to operations, right?"
"Right," Xenia said.
"So why did he decide to name this one 'Operation Hannibal'?"
Ten kilometers east of the Eden main line of defense
1500 hours
Captain Callahan was feeling the familiar nervousness he remembered so well from the first phase of the war. He was sitting in the command seat of his APC and the booming of artillery fire from the Martian positions went on and on outside, sometimes far away, sometimes close enough to rock the APC on its springs and send a pattering of shrapnel against the armor. It was relentless and had been for the past six hours, making him wonder just how many 150mm shells those Martians had. But it wasn't the artillery that was bothering him, it was the Mosquitoes and the special forces teams hiding in the hills.
Two hours ago they had suddenly lost interest in killing the artillery guns and had gone back to their normal tactic of targeting the APCs. Since then, every five minutes or so, three or four would be exploded by laser shots from these platforms, killing everyone inside. There was nothing that could be done about this. The troops could not dismount because of the artillery fire and the APCs could not move around even if that would have done any good. They were stuck here, sitting and waiting, hoping that the specter of random death would not fall upon the vehicle they were currently sitting in.
Callahan was confident that his APC would not be specifically targeted for destruction because it was one of the command APCs. Strict orders that were said to have originated from General Browning himself stated that absolutely no communication that was not urgent in nature would be transmitted from any APC. This would keep the special forces teams from zeroing in on the officers. But that random chance — that possibility that one of those aircraft or one of those hidden, ghostly AT holders would happen to pick his APC — worried him greatly.
Oh well, he was forced to conclude. If it's my time, it's my time. Nothing I can do about that. At least we made it through the refuel and re-arm process.
That had been a bit hairy in and of itself. The Martian artillery had been deliberately targeting the refuel points all day long, sometimes doing tremendous damage, causing nasty, messy death. It was during this process that troops were exposed, that fueling hoses were exposed, that live ammunition was out in the open just waiting to be prematurely detonated by a close explosion. But again, someone up above — General Browning it was said — had come up with a procedure that had minimized the attrition during the process. The APCs, tanks, and artillery platforms would pull up as close as physically possible to the supply car and the supplies would be tossed across from one hatch to the other. Though tossing eighty-millimeter shells over a distance of a meter and a half was dangerous, it had proved to be not as dangerous as keeping the four meters of seperation that protocol dictated. This closer distance had also reduced the amount of fueling hoses damaged by shrapnel and had kept the amount of troops out in the open as few as possible too. When it had been the turn of Callahan's APC to go through the process a few pieces of shrapnel had come pinging in, causing a slight injury to their driver, but that had been it. They had pulled away and sat in wait ever since.
The minutes ticked by and Callahan watched the time display carefully. They had been scheduled to pull out and begin their assault on the main line by 1430 at the latest. The measures taken to protect the armor crews had slowed that down considerably.
An explosion rocked the APC, the concussion so violent that Callahan knew it wasn't merely another arty shell going off. "Who got it?" he asked the driver, who was looking out through his camera.
"Third squad of second platoon just bought it," the driver told him. "They were two APCs over from us in the line. Blew them to bits."
Callahan nodded, feeling his anxiety to get on with it pushing at him. He wondered again why the Martians had abandoned their attempt to take out the artillery guns. Was it because they realized they wouldn't be able to kill enough of them to neutralize the weapons in the coming battle? Was it because they realized they'd better start taking out some of the ground troops instead? Or was it... was it something else? Something more sinister?
He didn't know, couldn't know, but the question itself made him uneasy. The Martians were clever bastards, led by a man who had proven himself to be a military genius. Was it possible he had a few tricks left up his sleeve?
While he was still pondering that thought the last of the APCs finished the fueling process and the fueling trains began their long, slow turn that would take them back towards the Jutfield Gap where they would stage — hopefully not to be needed again. The word came over the command net, transmitted from the ship instead of from one of the APCs.
"All units," the voice said. "Prepare to start moving in. The time has come to liberate Eden once and for all."
Engines began to start one by one and, after less than twenty minutes, the next order came and the tanks and APCs began to move forward, heading for the main line and the final battle.
Meanwhile the mobile artillery guns separated from the camouflage they'd enjoyed amid the tanks and began to assemble into their own formations. Their loaders and gunners prepared to begin firing on pre-determined points, their goal to destroy the concrete reinforced anti-tank bunkers of the main line. A battalion of tanks remained behind to guard them. This was not because any trouble was expected — after all, what kind of trouble could there be? — but because it was standard doctrine.
And from high above a group of peepers under the control of the MPG noted all of this movement and tracked it, the take being sent to the highest levels of MPG command.
General Jackson sat in his office, an open link to General Zoloft appearing on one of his computer screens. Another was showing live shots from the peepers. Yet another was showing a composite view of the entire Eden theater of operations, including the tanks that were now sequestered just beyond the foothills.
"Lead elements are moving in," Jackson said. "What's their speed?"
"Twenty-five klicks," Zoloft told him. "Arty is setting up in position and will start firing soon. Supply trains are moving west at twelve klicks."
Jackson nodded, smiling predatorily. "It would seem the time is right. Get the Hannibal tanks moving on their targets, full speed ahead. They have the telemetry and they have their orders."