[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>