[FH] Breaking News - Chronicle of Operation Colossus 1-of-6

Chronicle of Operation Colossus

New Guardian Times, Margaritifer Sector, March 14th 2194

As of the 3rd of January I was reinstated to imbed status. I intended to
file the same kind of short sharp reports that made my name. The Krak
blitz of the airwaves shot that idea to hell. Rather than consign my
clips to the memoirs bin, I've decided to try and tie them into a single
piece on my time in the Arda. After I finished my Rim stint and took up
lead reporter status I didn't think my editorial skills would ever see
the light of day again. If you're in the Core, not a section head and
not in the retrospectives department why on Earth would you need them in
this day and age of instant coverage? Live shots from the frontline
direct to the public, an accepted operating procedure for nearly two
centuries. Not in this war, there is so much that is different about
this war. Thus I beg your forgiveness as I put my rusty editing skills
into practice and try and explain how we lost Arda.

Nirgal transformed

I'd landed in Nirgal on the 5th with a bunch of other reporters that had
come with the troop transports from Earth. I'd expected some big space
battle on our approach, with the Krak stopping us from resupplying Mars.
It didn't happen, I don't know why, may be they blinked, may be they had
some devious plan, and may be alien minds think so differently we just
don't get it. What ever the reason we transited and landed unmolested.
We did get jostled by some Krak atmospheric fighters on the way down,
but it was really just cage rattling and nothing of significance.

We came down from the troop ships in orbital shuttles. It's usually a
much smoother faster ride than the equivalent anywhere on Earth, but
this time round it was bumpy, wind storms buffeting the descent. From
the landing grid we were grav-sledded across the heaving landing port to
the terminal where we boarded a shuttle bus for the town centre.

Carrying all my own gear I was rather unceremoniously dumped out of the
shuttle in the middle of a bustling hive. Tents and easi-mades had
sprung up in the gardens, parks and sporting fields of the city centre;
people in uniform were everywhere. The odd one or two were sitting
quietly, drinking or chewing, but the majority were heading this way or
that at speed; a sense of purpose pervading the scene. The fact that the
uniforms seemed to include an example of every major national or racial
group only added to the impression of chaos. The typical spread of
Terran builds jostled with tall Martians; there was even a unit of
squat, broad shouldered, thick thighed assault troops from Barnard's
star and a small group of spindly asteroid-born fighter pilots. 

It was nosey, dusty, chilly and really rather unforgiving. My head began
to pound. Between adrenaline, fear and the throb typical of a lot of
people in a small area I hadn't gotten much sleep in the previous 48
hours and was desperately tired. I was looking about trying to figure
which was the likeliest route to a decent hotel when an all terrain jeep
screeched to a halt a few feet away, kicking up a choking cloud of grit.
The contradiction between the sophisticated centre of culture that I
knew of as Nirgal and this place where the roads weren't even sealed was
beginning to aggravate me. I'm never in the best of moods when tired. My
irritation only grew as an overly enthusiastic young lieutenant jumped
from the jeep and started fussing like a tour guide on stims. He was
decidedly too perky and familiar. Before I could decide whether the kid
was intensely nervous or just plain annoying he was handing out billet
assignments and mud maps to the general media centre. Then he was gone
again in another screech of tires and ever expanding cloud of grit. 

I checked my sheet. Margery's Bizarre. What the hell kind of name was
that for a hotel? Fearing I may be headed for some kind of brothel I
swung my bag on my back and headed toward my hotel. The map showed it
was about a 5km walk away. Not too bad normally, unfortunately it turned
out to be through the steepest of Nirgal's cliff-side alleyways. I eyed
off the skyway sliding up the cliff face, it'd be nice. The queue of
raucous fly-boys snaking out of the lift house and around the corner put
me off though and I turned to the stairs on the roadside. If it weren't
for my interminable headache I would've quite enjoyed the climb up to my
accommodation. 

I found myself walking up a broad rock paved alley cut into the cliff
face. As I ascended the modern plastibond multistorey buildings that
dominated the town centre gave way to shorter solid houses, most of
which were probably underground hidden from view like rocky icebergs.
Many of the houses were white-washed, others were painted quite vividly
(like canary yellow with blue edging), but the remainder were the rich
reds and browns of the rock and dirt they were made from. It reminded me
of the Mediterranean hill towns in Greece or Spain.

Just before I reached my lofty roost I came upon a small square, or over
large intersection, where two alleys snaking up the cliff face meet
another coming down and two more running across. I wasn't as out of
breath as I would've been if I'd just made the same ascent on Earth, but
I was breathing hard and took the opportunity to have a brief rest. The
square made a good vantage point for surveying the city. 

Looking out across the vista it struck me how changed the city was by
the war and how beautiful it must be when at peace. Like many cities on
Mars, the entire settlement was built within the walls of a crater. In
the centre of my view was the hubbub of down town Nirgal: a
kaleidoscopic mesh of five and six storey plastibond buildings; flitting
skimmers, moving like hard shelled beetles along invisible mid air
roadways; below that swarming flows of people and ground cars kicked up
fine red dust, which was giving the whole scene a faint rose tinge. In
the centre of all this, looking for all the world like a sugar cube
being attacked by gnats is the hospital. My stomach sinks to see how
busy it is. Just short of this frenzy sits Eos Stadium, looking more
like an ancient circus of pitched tents rather than the home of the most
successful groundball team on Mars. Even the stately edifice of the
Cathedral of St Paulo has not escaped untouched. The quiet sanctuary
that it usually provides replaced with the non-stop flux of people
making sure to remind themselves of religious protocol in case they
should suddenly find themselves in an immediate audience with their god
in the near future. I understood their desire to make sure everything
was set right; I was planning to visit St Paulo myself before we left
Nirgal, but still the sight of the great windows marred by hordes of
passing flitters added to my general sense of deepening melancholy. Not
for the first time since this apocalyptic confrontation began I was
forced to acknowledge I was getting to old or introspective to be a war
reporter. This just wasn't any fun any more.

I let my eye pan east out of the dusty greens of King William Park, the
tallest of its crowns still sitting above the sprawling military
undergrowth. As I'd expected the university buildings had also been
swallowed by the war effort. Though the site of the white washed walls
being daubed with unit colours by dot sized people hanging from what I
knew to be balconies and ledges was actually reassuring - being not too
different from the riot of activity typical of that locale and its
regular inhabitants.

I then tried to pick out the ordered deep red buildings of Eridania
Manor, but the NAC HQ had thrown up some disruptor field and I was
feeling ill just to look at it. Pity, the Manor was a magnificent site
normally. I wondered if Lord Fitzroy-Mornington's would regret his
decision to voluntarily give over his estate to the command and
communications groups. He had only done it once it was painfully clear
that the existing military infrastructure in Fort Alten couldn't cope
with the sudden and immense influx of troops and equipment, but still
the NAC military wasn't renowned for its deft touch and respect for
lawns. 

With most of the rest of Nirgal hazing into the distance there was not
many more particulars I could pick out for sure there, though I fancied
I could see the farm sector as a dark green smear against the far crater
wall. I let my eyes slide west, trying to spot the leading edge of Lake
Mary and King Charles Gardens. I let my eyes wander the ground where I
thought the southern arch of the Gardens should be, repeatedly reaching
Wentworth Gaol without success, the easi-mades thrown up to house the
Swabians effectively hiding the grand arches and sweeping lawns. The
spidery frames and injected gel sides mimicking in miniature the
cathedral ceiling capping Nirgal crater itself. Giving up on the
greenery, my gaze crept westwards trying to pick out the check point
entrances to Fort Alten, nestled in a secondary crater inside Nirgal's
main walls. The extra skyway carriages and shuttleport traffic did a lot
to obscure the Forts walls, but I did eventually settle upon the
familiar lines of the tower marking the fort's eastern gate. I tried to
imagine what the scene inside must be like. No doubt Blakley Ponds was
far from the tranquil spot I had dallied fishing with a young Lieutenant
during a lull in the Third Solar War (TSW) twenty years ago. 

As I completed my visual traverse of Nirgal, the distinction between the
lower bustling city and the higher, older more constrained city streets
lining the crater edge was strikingly clear. Up in the higher streets,
where the ground cars seldom ventured and the flitters were in a single
layer rather than three, the cleaning bots were still active. The hard
surfaces of the roads and street edges clear of the fine red rubble the
big trucks were spreading in the streets below, as they rumbled in from
beyond the walls, their tires coated with regolith grit.

The chiming of a distant clock tower reminded me I'd better get going if
I were to keep the briefing schedule. It transpired that Margery's
Bizarre was not nearly so bad as I had feared. I had a moment of pause
as the plump proprietor lead me past a succession of doors leading on to
rooms decked with red wall paper, dark cedar panelling and large beds
with copious cushions. Thankfully though she lead me through to a
second, semi-detached section out back, which had more Spartan rooms -
with single beds and white plaster walls reminiscent of the cells of the
gaol house hotel on the waterfront of old Capetown. She had obviously
taken pity on me and even winked promising I wouldn't return to find
ladies of negotiable affection besieging my room.

After a quick shower and shave (having long since learnt that in a war
zone you always avail yourself of these when you can as you never know
when you may be parted from such pleasures) I again took to the streets
- this time heading for a media briefing on the outskirts of Eridania
Manor. I opted to make use of the skyway rather than walk this time. The
carriages were filled to overflowing and I was forced to stand wedged
between two young men eager to share the details of their latest
feminine conquests in exquisite detail and exceptionally loud, liquor
tinged voices. Thankfully, or not, I had to change lines at the central
hub, which afforded me an escape from their educating company, but cast
me full tilt into the tumult possessing downtown. I had only a few
minutes to wait for another skyway car however. This was as overcrowded
as the first. I was rather happier to discover this time however that I
was sandwiched among a unit of young ladies from the Hegemony. While
their topics of conversation were far from genteel they did at least
undertake their discussion at decibel levels far below ear splitting.
They were also keen to swap tidbits about their time at the front for
news of the latest food, fashions and gossip in the coffee houses of
Lvov. Only two had been born on Earth, and even they hadn't been home
for years. Still they all yearned to hear of things that pass for
normality away from the war.

It was a short walk from the skyway station to HQ. Even if I hadn't been
familiar with the route it would not have been hard to find. The density
of military and media vehicles rising exponentially the closer I
approached. Being on foot can sometimes be a blessing, letting me walk
past the long queue of trucks waiting for clearance to enter the grounds
around the HQ. A series of official looking signs directed all media off
to a side entrance, where I was waved inside by a bored Sergent and
fastidious private, after a brief wait while my media chip and DNA print
were verified. As I crunched up the gravel drive I passed an excited
young man doing a live to air, "The Krak war machine is rolling over the
Tokalau Isthmus with savagery never before seen by man. By land and air
the brave forces of humanity fight to regain the security of our
civilisation, with the gallant bravery typical of our grandest
traditions...". The intensity of his voice suggested he was quite caught
up in the material, though I bet his earthside editors were swearing a
blue streak over the rose coloured streaks forming along his hairline as
the ubiquitous fine dust settled on his adrenaline sourced perspiration.
The kid needed to lighten up though or he wouldn't have anywhere to go
when the fighting really started. I also decided I'd avoid the form
fitting combat suit he'd opted for, I was in good shape for my age, but
I still doubted I had the right ripples to pull that off anymore on
tri-vids.

I kept walking up the Manor's main entrance, dodging between trucks,
until I reached a group of milling media lining the houseward edge of
front lawn. I recognised a few faces and my spirits started to rise as
we started joking around updating each other on new divorces, wives and
family additions since last we'd met. 

It wasn't long before we were shepherded into a large plasti-gel dome,
with some kind of cam net strung over the top. The place looked like
Lord Fitzroy-Mornington's country estate had been redecorated by
NAC-HQ's lead interior decorator. The sound level in the enclosure rose
as the place began to buzz with the tension of anticipation. Young
voices wondered how close to the front they'd get, older voices wondered
if they'd get a posting with comfy seats. A rippling hush spread out
once a squat Major climbed behind the podium and started the briefing.
It was quickly apparent that Operation Colossus was living up to its
name and there was space for everyone. A small group were being flown
tonight up to the forward VR fighter posts at Fort Willhays. A few
others had been posted to the airships that would sit up above the
battles and get a gods-eye view of the action. The rest of us would be
moving overland with our assigned units within the next week. 

As the briefing wound up and the younger and more zealous reporters
jockeyed to ask the "hard questions" and earn their network's keep I
ducked out for the Q-store. My years covering the TSW had taught me you
could gain a lot from picking up a few extra luxuries early than from
point scoring in the first briefing. Turned out the Q-Sergeant was an
old friend and he swung me some extra rations, ammo and some fancy HUD
patches. I'd also been lucky with my embed assignment. I was to be with
the 1st Royal Tank Regiment. Fear naught. What a relief, I'd ridden with
these guys before. They were top class; and with the kit I'd be wearing
I'd hate to have to walk.

<Continued in Part Two>