8 - Rusted Trucks, Sharp Tongues, and a Mission No One Talks About

You are reading Scene 8 of Icarus, a novel unfolding within The Mars Chronicles—an epic story of the first human settlements on Mars.

After the collapse of the Russian outpost, both Chinese and American crews rushed to help—despite rising tensions and the threat of war back on Earth. While diplomacy falters planetside, solidarity survives in the dust.

This scene follows a disguised American mission, rolling deep into the Martian canyons. Officially, it's just a supply run. But in the silence of Valles Marineris, nothing is ever that simple.

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“Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.” – Shakespeare, Hamlet

A caravan of twenty trucks thundered through the lower canyons of Valles Marineris—organized in four chains of five dusty, aging vehicles. Engine noise echoed off the weathered cliff faces, carved by wind and sand over eons. These weren’t sleek, AI-driven machines—instead, they were rugged, retrofitted beasts built for survival. Each cab was outfitted with retrofitted, old-school controls—built from salvaged components pulled from "recycled" depot stockpiles over the years. They were dusty, battered... but this was a joyful mission: the opening stretch of a “Mad Max-style rally,” a four-day trek that would eventually veer toward the nearby Russian outpost.

At the head of the first line was Ian Everhart, hands steady on the wheel of the lead truck. Just past thirty, his calm confidence and effortless cool drew attention wherever he went. Right behind him was Hannah “Hawk” Griffith, a seasoned Mars operations veteran nearing fifty, whose playful banter concealed razor-sharp instincts. The third line was led by Ava Kalogrias—half Greek, half American—the logistical lynchpin of the colony’s infrastructure team, known for working miracles with obsolete hardware. Bringing up the rear was Caleb “Tank” Coleman, whose steady, unshakable presence earned him his nickname.

The convoy had just reached a newly dug shelter—a compact hideout carved into the canyon wall—when the sky shifted into a deeper rust hue. Faint portable LED strips glowed above the entrance: the signature mark of the Americans’ covert supply route network.

Ian (over radio): “Hawk, Tank, Ava—go slow. Loose rocks up ahead. I’ll hold a point at the entrance.”

A sharp reply cracked back:

Hawk (playfully): “Copy that, hotshot. Just don’t dent your golden boy ego before the fun even starts.”

Ian chuckled quietly, guiding the truck around a jagged outcrop with practiced ease. If anyone had earned bragging rights behind the wheel, it was him—but it was these jabs that kept the mood alive. Hotshot, huh?

The convoy’s radio channel buzzed with lively chatter. A few trucks behind Hawk, Ava Kalogrias chimed in—her deep, husky voice carrying a teasing lilt:

Ava (needling him): “Hope you give us a little show during the derby, Ian. Don’t tell me you’re bailing for something personal.”

Behind the cracked visor of his helmet, Ian smiled. Classic Ava—half flirt, half challenge. But this time, he dodged the bait with ease.

Ian: “I’ll swing by for a beer at least. You’ll be too busy smashing trucks to even notice I’m there.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the comms. Then Tank chimed in: “If one of you flirts hard enough to overheat your engine, don’t come crying to me. I’ll be in the maintenance pit doing actual repairs.”

Ava let out a low chuckle and promised: as long as she was around, there’d be no “meltdowns.”

Soon, the first carved shelter came into view—a half-arch dug into the canyon wall, where soft light reflected off newly mounted steel braces and a roughly smoothed basalt floor. The lead trucks began to slow, brakes hissing into the dust-heavy air.

Inside the Martian Shelter: Makeshift power lines, salvaged crates, and steel reinforcements—this is where survival begins, one cable at a time.

Ian jumped out of his truck, his suit feeding him air. The lighting rig above the shelter lit up a wide entryway in soft flickers—tall enough to fit a full-sized truck if needed. Two older boring machines rested to one side, motionless, joints stiff from their last dig.

Ian (calling out): “Fan out in a half-circle. Keep the entrance clear. The place is stable, but I don’t want a jam at the door.”

Hawk dropped from her cab and gave Ian a once-over, a playful glint in her eye. “You look way too clean for a full day of driving. Are you sure you were behind the wheel?”

Ian flashed a crooked grin. “Maybe I’m just that good.”

Nearby, Ava adjusted her harness, sweat beading at her temple. She glanced at Ian and gave him a wink before walking off to inspect her vehicles. Show off,” she muttered. There was more warmth than bite in it.

They headed inside, carrying tools and small cargo crates. The shelter was much larger than it looked from outside: a wide main chamber, gently sloping corridors, and half-finished side rooms branching off in every direction.

As the airlock door sealed shut behind them, Ian stepped up to a recessed panel in the wall and tapped in a few commands. With a soft hiss, pressure equalization began, followed by the low hum of heaters and the oxygen flow system. Temporary lights cast a warm glow across the rough-hewn stone, and a green indicator blinked across their visors: 

SAFE TO REMOVE HELMETS.

One by one, they unlocked their helmets with fluid, practiced movements. The air carried the subtle scent of fine dust and freshly cut basalt—Mars, raw and unfiltered, but for now, at least… breathable.

Caleb "Tank" Coleman led two drivers over to a half-assembled control console to unload an electronics crate. His steady gaze swept the interior—nothing escaped his attention.

“We’ll run the motion sensor updates for the door controller here,” he said, handing out a few worn circuit boards. “First, pull that old panel off the grid. Let’s not fry the circuits in here.”

Hawk joined them, dropping a box full of cables. “When we’re done here, maybe we break out the field grill,” she grinned. “Heard some folks are planning test runs if we’ve got time to kill.”

Her eyes tracked Ian as he passed by. “Assuming someone can spare a minute between his ‘classified errands,” she teased.

Ian pretended not to hear, but the faint curve of his mouth gave him away. He crouched by a rusted steel beam, inspecting its fasteners carefully.

“Tomorrow morning, we roll out,” he reminded them. “Still a ways to the plateau.”

Officially, the plateau was the race staging ground. Unofficially, it was where their paths would diverge—Ian’s chain of trucks heading toward a very different, real destination.

Ava was recalibrating a small generator powering the overhead lights, fiddling with a mess of patched wires plugged into an outdated junction point. A spark popped—she flinched.

“Damn it,” she hissed. “Nothing works right the first time in this place.”

But moments later, the lights stabilized, casting clean light over a freshly installed comms panel slated for activation on the next run.

Meanwhile, Tank was patching a busted connector box—sealing tiny cracks with a layer of epoxy.

“Still using half-spent glue sticks to hold things together…” he grumbled, hands moving with practiced precision as he lined up the repair plates.

Somewhere deeper inside the shelter, Ian was testing the inner door with manual overrides. Everything seemed to work. The shelter had come a long way since it was first carved out—now it just needed finishing touches… and a cover story to fend off unwanted questions.

Amid the muffled clangs of tools and the hiss of pressurized seals, laughter and banter filled the air. Even Hawk and Ava were trading jabs about who’d reach the finish line first in tomorrow’s dry run. The political tensions and Ian’s hidden objective still loomed large in the background—but in these hours, they clung to the one thing that made life on Mars bearable: each other.

Ian (wiping the dust from his brow, exhaling): “We’ll finalize the logs tonight. We say we tested the trucks down in the canyon, did some drills. Then at dawn tomorrow, we move on to the plateau.”

He deliberately left out his own detour. Everyone knew or at least suspected—but no one said it. As the conversation drifted toward food, the team started cleaning up, stacking tools in the corner. The generator’s steady thrum filled the shelter like a background heartbeat—a symbol of the Americans’ steady, relentless advance.

Outside, long shadows stretched across the canyon walls. The thinning air fell silent, a reminder: night was coming. After final system checks, they began prepping for the evening.

At the end of the day, Ian, Hawk, Ava, and Tank gathered in a makeshift common area—just a few crates pushed together to serve as a table. Overhead, a rough scaffold of metal beams supported a partial pressure regulator—enough to breathe without helmets, though the oxygen was thinner than usual. A few kept their breather units clipped around their necks—just in case the generator faltered.

“This half-in, half-out setup is weird,” Hawk said, tapping a plastic tarp that sealed off one of the side chambers. Beyond it, the rock tunnel faded into pressureless darkness. “Definitely not five-star accommodation.”

Ava laughed, setting down a small can of food on the makeshift table. “Our rations beat the lodging. Dig in.”

She popped the lid: inside, vacuum-sealed, rehydrated stew steamed lightly. The earthy, spiced aroma wasn’t fine dining—but it beat the classic MRE bricks by a mile.

“Still better than the old frozen ‘surprise puree,’” Ian quipped, tasting from one of the pouches with a plastic fork. He leaned back and looked up at the still-unfinished ceiling. The shelter was carved out just a few weeks ago.

“Anyone in the mood for a proper campfire vibe?”

Tank grinned and started digging through one of the crates. “Out here?” He raised an eyebrow. “Alright—this lamp’s our Martian bonfire.”

He flicked on a folding heat lamp, casting a warm, yellow glow around the group.

They passed around canteens of Mars—the water had a faint metallic taste, straight from the outpost’s filtration system. Hawk took a long sip, content.

BARE MINIMUM A glimpse into the silent lifelines of Mars

Want to keep reading?

ICARUS isn’t a traditional book—it’s a new kind of storytelling.

Each chapter is broken into short scenes, enhanced with images, cinematic teasers, and links to supporting content: character profiles, technology breakdowns, and backstory threads.

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