“I’m Supreme Commander James Hawthorne of Social Unity. My com-officers tell me that your designation is Jovian.”

  “Yes,” said Marten.

  “Does the alliance still hold?”

  “It does.”

  “Good,” said Hawthorne. “It’s time we humans began to truly work together before the Highborn and cyborgs annihilate us.”

  “That’s what I think,” said Marten. “But Grand Admiral Cassius might not see it that way.”

  “I’m sure you have an interesting story….”

  “I’m Force-Leader Marten Kluge.”

  Hawthorne nodded curtly. “Well, Force-Leader, I’d like you to rendezvous with our warships. We need to mass what little strength we have. Then you and I need to talk face-to-face.”

  Marten chest tightened. Earth, Social Unity—he nodded. “That sounds like a good idea. Do you have the coordinates of your warships?”

  “I’ll have one of my officers give them to you. I look forward to our meeting.”

  “As do I, sir.”

  “I would talk more, Force-Leader, but I have much to do. The Earth—” Hawthorne eyes tightened. “It’s time we humans banded together…before we’re extinct.”

  “I agree, sir. It’s time we went on the offensive.”

  “I like your attitude, Kluge. Do all Jovians think like you?”

  “…not yet,” said Marten. “But the war isn’t over.”

  “No,” Hawthorne said. “For me, this war has just begun.”

  The End

  The war-torn adventure continues with

  Star Fortress

  Read on for an exciting excerpt from the next book in the Doom Star Series.

  -1-

  Defensive satellites ringed the Red Planet in geosynchronous orbit. A few of the satellites were armored with particle shields. Most were half-built structures still under construction. Three were battered wrecks, masses of junk from damage sustained during the Third Battle for Mars.

  Station Santa Anna presently orbited the night-side. It boasted an operational laser, a completed hull and a full array of sensors. Inside the satellite on the bridge, an alarm sounded.

  “What’s going on?” the commander asked. He sat up from where he’d been dozing.

  A warrant officer checked his screen. “It appears the computer has picked up an anomaly, sir.”

  “Where?” the commander asked as he buttoned his uniform. He was a one-armed man, which might have made the buttoning difficult, but he deftly completed the task. “Give me specifics.”

  The frowning warrant officer bent over his sensor equipment, making swift adjustments. “I’m putting the image on the main screen, sir.”

  The commander shoved a cap onto his gray hair as he looked up at the screen. Something black and round plunged through the Martian atmosphere. Even as he watched, the object deployed massive chutes.

  “Give me an—”

  “Sir!” the warrant officer said. “The capsule is composed of an anti-radar polymer, and those are stealth-chutes we’re witnessing. Computer analysis gives it a ninety-three percent probability of being a cyborg vessel of unknown design. It’s obviously attempting a landing.”

  “This is a code eleven emergency,” the commander said, his voice steely. “Activate our laser.”

  “I’m tracking,” the warrant office said. “Sir, the object is headed for a sandstorm.”

  “Weapons!” the commander shouted.

  “Just a minute, sir,” the weapons officer said nervously. “There seems to be a glitch in the system.”

  The commander leaned forward as he stared at the main screen. “Is this their first infiltration or simply the latest of an ongoing effort?”

  People stared at him in horror. Several years ago, there had been a cyborg converter in Olympus Mons. The volcano was Mars and the Solar System’s largest.

  “The object is entering the sandstorm!” the warrant officer shouted.

  “Fire the laser!” the commander roared.

  The stricken weapons officer looked up, shaking his head.

  The commander’s eyes widened as two red spots appeared on his pale cheeks. “Prepare a Chavez Seven missile.”

  “Sir,” the weapons officer whispered. “Those are nuclear-tipped missiles.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” the commander asked in a harsh voice.

  During the Third Battle for Mars, the Highborn had exploded a Hellburner on Olympus Mons. The missile’s devastating effect had turned the idea of nuclear bombardment into a taboo subject. The fractured moon Phobos had also rained chunks onto the planet, killing even more millions.

  “We dare not let the cyborgs get another foothold on Mars,” the commander said. “Launch now before it’s too late.”

  The weapons officer’s forehead was shiny with sweat as he tapped his screen.

  Through camera five, the bridge personnel watched the missile expel from its tube. In seconds, an orange contrail made it the brightest object against the planet’s dark surface.

  “It needs to accelerate faster,” the commander whispered.

  The seconds ticked away as the race absorbed everyone’s attention. The warrant officer tapped a command. A split-screen appeared, showing the sandstorm that had swallowed the capsule and beside it, the missile headed down.

  “Give me a radar fix,” the commander said.

  The warrant officer shook his head. “Cyborg stealth technology is better than our sensors, sir.”

  Five minutes and forty-three seconds later, the missile entered the sandstorm.

  “They could have landed by now,” the commander groaned.

  Thirty-eight seconds later, there was an explosion, hopefully, detonated by a proximity detector. In any case, cheers erupted on the station.

  “We got it!” the weapons officer shouted.

  “Can you confirm that?” the commander asked.

  The warrant officer hunched over his screen, finally looking up. “No, sir. I cannot confirm a kill, although it seems likely.”

  The commander cursed under his breath. He’d lost his wife and grandchildren to the cyborgs during the Third Battle for Mars. “Maybe this secret vessel launched escape pods, scattering cyborgs before the missiles hit.”

  “That seems highly unlikely, sir,” the warrant officer said.

  The commander took off his cap, setting it on an armrest. As he agonized over his choices, he scratched his scalp. “We must saturate the possible landing zones with nuclear weapons.”

  Three seconds of stunned silence ensued.

  “Respectfully, sir,” the warrant officer said, “that’s a High Command decision.”

  Fitting the cap onto his head, the commander scowled. “Then let’s hope they make the right decision. Patch me through to Satellite Defense HQ. Time is critical.”

 

 

  Vaughn Heppner, Planet Wrecker (Doom Star 5)

 

 

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