Bored to tears, and unwilling to strike up a conversation with anyone, Berkson tried to kill the hour before they made the Mars orbit by reading the briefing.

The IDF had provided them with a detailed background on where they were going and what they were supposed to do there.  The IDF thought of everything.

Mars, (or, if one preferred contemporary Israeli astronomy, Hammah IV Ma'adim) 4th planet from the sun (no kidding), diameter: 6,788 kilometers.  Mass, a large number in grams, mean density....what?  Rotation period: 1.02 days.  Revolution period: 1.881 Earth years.  Two moons: Phobos, Deimos. And nothing about the data on those two flying kidney stones really caught his attention.  He scanned down to the subheading: DESTINATION.

The report said they would touch down in the Hellas Plains as close to the tracking drone as best estimates allowed.  Apparently, about 3.8 billion years ago, a big hunk of something had struck the Martian surface.  What was left now was an impact basin over 1,600 kilometers in diameter and centered at 293 degrees west, 42 degrees south.  Within the basin were some 2,600 smaller craters and three channels: Dao Vallis, Harmakhis Vallis, and Reull Vallis, the biggest channel in the southern hemisphere.  Some of the oldest recognizable volcanoes on the planet were supposed to be near Hellas.

As for local weather, the temperature would be a balmy minus-30 degrees Celsius by day, and one should take a sweater along if going out at night, when it dropped to minus-80 degrees Celsius.  The report provided an atmospheric breakdown, all of which was to say that if your suit was breached, you'd be gasping to pull .1% oxygen out of 96% carbon dioxide environment.  Mazeltov!

"Hey, Jon.  Put that down and take a look at this," Cross beckoned.

he rosed and crossed to the porthole near Cross's bunk.

Mars's red and orange surface features rolled slowly by.  Berkson spotted a canyon that he remembered was about the size of the United States.  Vast craters and channels pockmarked and grooved the surface around the canyon.  How close was the transport now to Hellas?

"I didn't realize it'd look this bright," Cross said.

Her excitement was contagious.  Berkson felt a smile come over his face. "Huh. It's....."

"Almost time to fold 'em up and prepare for the final approach," Waxman finished.

Berkson sent a glare the hotshot's way, then crossed back to his bunk.  He rolled up the briefing and, as did the others, proceeded to make his bunk, sheet-in hospital corners, blanket pulled shekel-bouncing tight.  He lifted the bunk up into the wall, then squirmed into his restraints.

Laura stood directly across from him.  She pretended not to notice him, but every once in a while, he caught her looking.

Mr. Hotshot Waxman started a conversation with her.  While watching Laura giggle over Waxman's pathetic wit, and barely hearing the pilot's twangy notification that they were entering Mars's atmosphere and were in for a little chop, Berkson made a decision about the way things were going to be down on the planet.

Seargent Steinberger had told them that the mission was to be a joint effort, commanded by the whole squadron.  Berkson had wondered what had happened to the military chain of command.  Then he had reasoned that not assigning a team leader was likely part of the test.  Steinberger had told them they still had not learned to work together.  Indeed, leaderless they would all be at fault for whatever happened.

But Waxman was carving out a leadership position for himself. His authoritative tone was sufficient to make Berkson realized that Mr. Hotshot thought of himself as team leader, in spite of the fact that the position supposedly did not exist.

If, for whatever reason, Berkson felt that Waxman was overstepping himself on the planet, then a little war would be fought on Martian soil.

The chop wasn't as bad as the pilot had made it sound.  Berkson had experienced rougher rides aboard El Al stratoliners.  The bad news came a few moments before touchdown.

"The wind's blowing a little too hard over by the tracking drone.  I'll have to get you guys in as close as I can, but you're still gonna have a little hike."

A chorus of moans followed.

"I'm trying to think of something vital to say when I set foot on Mars, something I'll always remember," Batra said.  "Anyone have any ideas?"

"Aw, c'mon," Spitzer groaned, splashing water on Batra's fire.  "It's not like you're going to be the first man to step on the planet.  You're making a mountain out of a molehill, my friend."

Berkson usually kept to himself during most of the bantering, and the present conversation was no exception.----especially as there were no famous "First Ao Prime on Mars" speeches for him to emulate.  And, truthfully, the entire affair was a total bore.  Yes, there was an element of suspense and adventure associated with coming to a new world, but the fact of the matte was that they were here to fix a broken tracking drone.  They weren't well-muscled or buxom heroes embarking on a great quest to save the Jewish homeland.  They were repair persons with sagging tummies and underwear that failed to conceal their big cracks.

"I got it!" Batra announced. "I'll dedicate each step to all the gods in the Hindu pantheon."

"Two can play at that game," Cross said.  "This step is for Moses.  This step is for Joseph...."

"All right, we don't need the whole list," Spitzer said.

"Hey, Caleb.  What are you going to dedicate a step to?" Counter asked.

"My family and friends."

"Someone who was part of the Tammuz colony mission?" Laura asked Waxman.

Mr. Hotshot didn't answer her.  Interesting.  Waxman might know someone who was part of the Tammuz mission.  He had reacted strongly to PM Einhorn's announcement back at the bar. And maybe now he had a score to settle with the aliens.  Berkson would definitely have to watch this guy.  Maybe Waxman's private agenda would be his downfall.   Berkson could/would make sure of that!

Touchdown was simply touchdown, occurring without incident.  Cross, Batra, and a few of the others rushed to get out of their straps.  

Berkson took his time.  Once free, he looked around, then thought he'd try something.  "All right, everyone, suit up, then get a buddy and check equipment.  Don't forget about your links."

Surprisingly, the group complied, even Waxman, without so much as a double take.

Fully suited, Waxman crossed to the airlock.  "We'll go five at a time, take a look around, then haul out the gear," he said. "And yes, Batra, you can be in the first group.  Counter. Jacobs. You guys grab two equalizers for insurance. Rimal.  You're on PPS (Planetary Positioning System) duty."

"Covered," she said, tapping the little, rectangular, positioning device clipped to her waist.

Counter and Jacobs returned from the supply room, each toting an N-601 phaser rifle.  They joined Cross, Batra and Abebaw in the airlock, then vanished behind the door.

Through his helmet's link, Berkson heard them gasp, almost in unison.

"Incredible!" Cross commented.  

Batra began dedicating each of his steps, then Counter and Cross joined him.

Spitzer was annoyed and wasn't shy about it.  "You people shut off your links while you're doing that, okay!?"

The door opened and Berkson field into the airlock with the rest of the soldiers.  The inner hatch sealed, and the outer hatch slammed onto the ground, abruptly revealing the Hellas Plains.

"Join the service and see other worlds," Rimal muttered.

They crossed into the flat, indifferent Martian soil.  According to the briefing, high levels of iron oxide gave the landscape its rust color.  Beyond the other five camouflaged Israelis who had fanned out for a better look, Berkson could see faint columns of dust that swayed like charmed cobras above the dunes.  There wasn't much to view past the sand, save for the dimming, austere gray-pink sky that commanded the horizon.

Berkson turned and headed back toward the troop cylinder, his legs feeling odd in the weaker gravity.

"Berkson, where are you going?"

He stormed past Waxman without answering.  Then, a few steps from the airlock, he paused and looked back at the group, most of whom had their backs to him.  "Hey! What're you doing, looking to buy real estate?  There's a war on. Everyone back inside and break out the gear."

Then, as he had suspected they would, all of the soldiers looked to Waxman, and all of them likely couldn't believe that a tank was giving orders.

The visor of Caleb's helmet caught the sun and fired a dazzling reflection at Berkson.  He couldn't see Waxman, but he guessed that by now the soldier's face was flushed.  "First we secure our position.  Rimal...."

After unclipping the Planetary Positioning System from her waist, the short Asian woman aimed it at the horizon."

"Our position is out in the middle of nowhere," Berkson said. "There.  Secured.  Now.  Everyone back inside."

Caleb took a step towards Berkson, his helmet no longer reflecting the glint of the sun.  Waxman's face was red, all right. "The H.I.S.T. manual states...."

"The manual?! When they drop us in the middle of a hairy ass furball, you gonna take time to take the manual?"

Waxman appeared flustered, at a loss.  Perfect.  He threw up his hands.  "Do what you want.  I'd be happy to see you take one the second we're in battle.  We're doin' it the way we've been told."  Hotshot strode away, thinking he was going to get the final word.

"Go ahead, damn you.  Follow their rules.  They'll just keep takin' from ya....and you'll let 'em.  You ain't never gonna get to Tammuz that way."

Waxman froze and bowed his head.....

Waxman whirled and then charged at him.

"Caleb!"

"What's he tryin' to do?"

"Oh, man. Don't ruin this."

"Somebody's gonna get hurt."

"Don't do it, Waxman!"

"Counter!  Jacobs! Get the hell over here!"

Berkson lifted his gloved fists.  Waxman came within a yard but was bear-hugged from behind by Counter.

Suddenly, someone grabbed one of his wrists and twisted his arm behind his back.

A lock was opened in Berkson's brain.

And his rage stepped out, a free beast in the cell block.

And his rage stepped out, a free beast in the cell block.

Twisting to face the soldier holding him, Berkson tried to wrench his arm out of it---it turned out to be----Abebaw's grip.  "You will not escape me, Berkson," the big soldier said, his voice edged with exertion.

One tug, backed by his rage, and Berkson was free.  He aimed for Waxman, who had broken out of Counter's hold.  Berkson threw himself on Caleb, and the two of them went down, digging out a shallow crater.

Clinging to Berkson's suit, Waxman managed to roll him over and pin him, then jab him in the chest with a right, a left, another right, before Berkson could grab Waxman's suit near the shoulder and yank him off.

Berkson scooped a handful of sand and threw it at Waxman's helmet, blocking his view for a second---a second which he exploited by driving his elbow into Waxman's groin.

"Yaow!"

As Waxman began to curl into a fetal position, nursing his groin, Berkson climbed on top of the soldier, ready to pin him and speak the words Mr. Caleb Waxman desperately needed to hear; he was not, nor had he ever been, team leader.

But Waxman snapped out of his curl, sent a knee into Berkson's groin and kept it there, utilizing it and his hands to toss Berkson up and away.  One moment Berkson had been readying his victory speech, the next he was lying supine across the Martian surface.

"Now we're gonna finish this!" Waxman screamed.

Berkson bolted upright, growling, panting, his temples throbbing.  "Come on!  Come on!" As he leaned forward in an effort to stand, he saw Counter slip behind Waxman and seize his suit near the neckline.

Then Berkson felt someone grab his own suit in the same fashion.  Counter drove Waxman down into Berkson, their helmets hitting each other with such a force that Berkson was knocked flat and swore he heard his air supply hissing away.

But the hissing was coming through his link; the volume control must have been maxed out during the flight. He gazed to his left and saw Waxman lying beside of him, Mr. Hotshot's chest rising and falling.

Slowly, Berkson went up on an elbow.  He tried to blink off the dizziness, but it didn't want to fade.   Next to him, he heard Waxman moan as he sat up.

Laura circled around to stand in front of them.  Her gaze was directed at Caleb. "What the hell's gotten into you, bud?"

Then she scowled at Berkson. "And you, knock it off.  You think we're going to blow it because you two boys need to prove something?"

Berkson stared through her. Neither he nor Waxman acknowledged Laura.

"We're drivin' on," she added, her temper mounting.  "So you guys had better grow up real fast, or---and I promise you this---you'll both stay inside the vehicle while the rest of us get the job done.  Oh, and hey.  Your conduct will show up in all of our reports."

"Absolutely," Abebaw said. "They who act like children shall be treated as such."

Laura stomped away, and Berkson noticed that everyone was looking towards her, impressed.  She stopped, lowered her head for a moment, then faced Safala Rimal. "Now, Rimal, tell Waxman our position."

Like everybody else, the young woman wasn't looking at Waxman but at Laura.  Berkson felt the trace of a grin pass over his lips.  They wanted Laura to be their team leader.

Visibly shaken by the fact that everyone was staring at her, Laura looked away, plainly disgusted.

Berkson wouldn't mind Laura being the boss.  She was smarter than Waxman, and tougher.  Trouble was, she didn't want the job.  Berkson's luck.

Finally, Rimal made it known who she wanted to follow.  She took a step towards Laura, holding out her PPS.  "We're on the southeast rim, 45 by 271."

"I heard they were getting ready to terraform this sector.  That true?" Batra asked, in a weak attempt to lift everybody out of the awkwardness of the moment.

Counter withdrew a copy of the briefing from a hip pocket on his suit.  He unfolded it, studied it for a second, then crossed to Laura.  "The tracking drone is about four klicks east of here."

Laura nodded, then shut her eyes---as if preparing for the bad medicine of being leader---and said, "Okay. We will now gear up and move out." She kept her head bowed and started for the ship with Batra, Rimal, Laura, and Abebaw's following.

Then the others fell in line, including Waxman, who had miraculously managed to stand up.  Berkson rolled onto all fours, then tried once, twice, to stand.

A shadow passed over the primeval soil.  It was Counter, proffering his hand.

"I can do it on my own."

"You probably could.  But it looks like you could use a little bit of help and I'm offerin' it."

Berkson tried to read an ulterior motive in Counter's expression, but there seemed nothing but honesty there.  He glanced at the hand, then he took it.

On his feet, Berkson brushed dirt from his arms and knees.  "It's not easy for me to recognize a helping hand."

"If that's a thank you, don't worry about it," Counter answered.  "You'll return the favor someday, I'm sure."

Berkson didn't like owing anybody anything, but it was too late.  At least Counter didn't seem the kind who would call in a favor anytime soon.

It was odd, but for the first time since becoming a soldier, Berkson felt that he belonged. Someone had reached out to him, someone half-blind to who he was.  Maybe he wouldn't get himself thrown out of the IDF after all.  Maybe he'd stick it out.  Who knows what could/would happen then?