"So what have we got? Something like eight full regiments, each with its own strategic and tactical doctrines, different weapons, equipment, procedures. Just re-programming everybody's IFF is going to take weeks.
Focht and the others expect this hodgepodge of wildly different units to jell into an effective striking force in the space of a few months of training? Not likely.
"Then, this band of warriors will set out on a mission that will take God knows how many months even to reach the target, strike a technologically, and possibly numerically, superior foe, destroy his military, industrial, and logistical base, incidentally damaging his morale. Then, assuming the task force survives up to that point, it has to hold out against certain reprisals and counterattacks by every Clanner that Kerensky ever spawned.
"One of our mission objectives, as I understand them, is to drive home to the Clans the idea that war is neither a game nor a ritualized series of 'trials.' In effect, we are to teach the Jaguar homeworld the full horrors of war. I understand that, even agree with it. Wasn't there some ancient general who said, 'War to the knife, and the knife to the hilt'? That is what we are being told to visit upon the Smoke Jaguars, and that is good. If one is going to fight a war, nothing can be held back, no target can be declared off limits. One must strike first, and without mercy.
"But, at the same time, we are told that we are to avoid unnecessary civilian casualties. I am even told that the Knights of the Inner Sphere are to accompany us to ensure that a wholesale slaughter of supposedly 'innocent' Clan non-combatants does not occur.
"What will happen when the realities of war collide with the Knights' high moral tone? Which course of action will be followed? The highway of victory, or the footpath of mercy?
"Begging the Coordinator's pardon, but it sounds like the devil's own circus."
Suddenly, a horrified thought leapt into Ryan's mind. He had just delivered a gritty, line-soldier's opinion, in all its colorful glory, to one of the most powerful men in the Inner Sphere. And to the man who was his lord to the death. With a jerk, he sat up, assuming the stiff, formal posture dictated by the complex rules of Combine society.
Theodore stood quietly, watching Ryan with a veiled expression. Then, a smile creased his lips and he broke into quiet laughter.
"I asked for an honest opinion. I guess that will teach me to be careful what I ask for.
"If it is any comfort, Tai-i, I thought the same way when I first heard this plan, though I was a bit more diplomatic in my response. Precentor Martial Focht has assured me that the other Clans will be very slow to aid the Jaguars, if at all. He tells me it has something to do with their strange sense of honor. The Clans as a whole will not intervene in events affecting only one specific Clan, or in events between two separate Clans.
"Remember that Clans Wolf and Jade Falcon have recently concluded a long intramural war. 'A Trial of Absorption,' I believe the Precentor Martial called it. None of the other Clans interfered in what was essentially a squabble between two Clans. Add to this 'hands-off policy the fact that Focht's intelligence agents report that the Smoke Jaguars have become so ruthless in both their internal and external policies that the rest of the Clans are beginning to consider them as somehow tainted, and I don't think we'll have much to worry about concerning the other Clans getting involved.
"I, like you, was more concerned with the rather diverse makeup of the task force, especially, as you say, mixing together troops who have up until now been bitter enemies. Now, having discussed it thoroughly with Prince Victor, the Precentor Martial, and the others, I believe that the diverse mix of troops is exactly what this operation needs to succeed.
"That, and the special talents of a few friends of mine."
Ryan wasn't sure if he should ask, but did so anyway. "Who do you mean, Tono! The yakuza?"
The Coordinator smiled politely, shaking his head.
"You will understand in time."
6
Brandtford Heights Spaceport
Kikuyu, Tamar March
Lyran Alliance
05 January 3059
1330 Hours
The low gray clouds were a perfect match for the bleakness of Ariana Winston's mood as she watched the second of a pair of massive Mammoth Class DropShips slow to a stop over landing bay fifteen of the Brandtford Heights spaceport. It hadn't taken much time for her to travel the few kilometers from Fort Telemar to the planetary capital, arriving just in time to witness the landing of these huge ships.
The DropShips bore the logo of Black Swan Lines, a low-cost shipping company that was a wholly owned subsidiary of White Swan Trans-Stellar Inc. Despite the fact that it was now mid-spring, the temperature had yet to reach eighteen degrees centigrade. After the false thaw two weeks earlier, which had made graduation somewhat bearable, the weather had degenerated into a series of cold, rainy days. The foul weather darkened Winston's normally positive disposition.
Slowly, ponderously, the enormous ship drifted to a halt. It seemed to be balanced on top of a pillar of silver fire and billowing smoke as its powerful engines strove to keep the fifty-thousand-ton beast aloft. Gradually, the ship began to settle toward the steel-reinforced ferrocrete surface of the landing bay.
The term "bay" was something of a misnomer, as it would seem to indicate a kind of semi-recessed area in which the ship landed. In some of the older spaceports, this was the case. Ferrocrete rings, some as much as three hundred meters across and twenty high, had been constructed at the spaceports on Terra, Mars, New Earth, and other places settled during the early days of interstellar travel. These installations were capable of handling even the largest Mammoth Class ships. Here on Kikuyu, a landing bay was nothing more than a wide expanse of pavement, with special laser-trackers installed at various places. Information from these devices, developed by the technical support arm of the Eridani Light Horse, added to the DropShip pilot's knowledge of exact altitude, heading, and speed. This aided in performing their landing maneuvers. The laser-trackers were especially critical to pilots of the larger spheroid or ovoid ships, since the bridge of those vessels were usually located at the top of their superstructure. From that vantage point, the bulk of the ship blocked the pilot's view of the ground, forcing him to rely on his instruments and navigational aids in order to accomplish a safe landing.
When at last the ship touched the ground, and the smoke of her drives began to blow away on the damp cold wind, Winston felt an unusual tightness in her chest. She realized that she'd been holding her breath as she watched the aerodynamically impossible spectacle of a huge steel egg flying through the air and touching down safely on a ferrocrete landing pad.
"Bu-uh!" Her breath came out in an amazed half-laughing exhalation. She shook her head in amusement. For a few seconds, she stood gazing out through the glass front of the observation lounge while her breathing returned to normal. Quietly, she laughed at herself for getting tensed up over a scene she'd observed hundreds of times before.
As the distant DropShip began to open its cargo bay doors—a scene displayed on a bank of flatscreen television monitors at the north end of the observation lounge—she could see the figures of heavy and assault class BattleMechs debarking from the vessel's darkened bowels. The monitors were necessary to pick out any but the grossest details of the grounded ship, because landing bay fifteen was a kilometer away from the spaceport's main terminal building. At that distance, in this foul weather and with her naked eye, Winston could distinguish the movement of the ten-meter-tall war machines, but could not identify the particular color or even model of the 'Mechs.
The tap of footsteps in the empty observation lounge announced the visitor's arrival before he spoke. Winston knew who he was. The Lyran Alliance Armed Forces liaison had pestered her a dozen times before that day, informing her of every petty detail of his landing and off-loading operations. Studiously, she ignored the man's presence, studying instead the gloom-shrouded, uninteresting vista of the Brandtford Heights spaceport.
&n
bsp; "Excuse me, General."
Let him wait, Winston told herself. It's not very professional, or military, or even courteous, but this little toad is really beginning to irritate me.
"General Winston?" A pause, "Ma'am?"
Winston looked over her left shoulder at the LAFF officer, as though noticing him for the first time.
"Oh, General Jolar, I didn't hear you come in." The lie felt somehow satisfying.
"I'm sorry to intrude, General..."
Then why do you do it, you officious little pain in the neck?
"... I just wanted to inform you that the ships carrying the last of my troops has just touched down, and we'll be ready to go on line in a couple of hours."
Winston nodded and turned back to the window. Even the ugly weather was better than having to deal with this moron.
Jolar had arrived a full week earlier, with the Donegal Guards' advance party. For the first couple of hours, he'd been tolerable. By the end of the day, his constant presence had begun to wear, first on Colonel Antonescu, then on Colonel Barclay. By the time thirty hours had passed, even the good-natured Edwin Amis had wanted to stake Jolar out on a landing bay slated for an incoming Drop-Ship. It wasn't just the man's incessant questions that made him unbearable. It wasn't his grating nasal voice, made even worse by the head cold he had developed immediately upon setting foot on Kikuyu. It was his obvious military incompetence. He was a political officer, pure and simple. The Sixth Guards' real commander, Marshal Seamus Kinnell, told Winston that Jolar had been an albatross to him ever since the general's brother-in-law, Clarence Astra III, the Duke of Poulsbo, had finagled a post for the man to get him out of the palace.
Political officers had been the bane of professional soldiers throughout the history of warfare. Most often, they were incompetent fools with more imagination than brains. As a rule, they were incapable of any real battlefield decisions other than a valiant, glorious charge straight into the enemy's guns, and a hero's grave. Of course, it wasn't the political officer who would end up in the hero's grave, it was the men under his command.
As political officers went, Leftenant General Hiram Jolar was not at the bottom of the list, but Winston had a hard time remembering anyone lower on that lengthy roster. She was sure there had to be somebody less competent and more annoying, she just couldn't bring him to mind at that moment.
Jolar was still behind her. She could hear him shuffling his feet, like a little boy wanting to ask his mother a question. Might as well get this over with.
"What is it, General?" Winston did not turn around.
"Frankly, Ariana, this entire operation has me puzzled." The use of her first name irritated her, but she made a conscious decision to let it pass. "The Sixth is a good unit, not an experienced one, mind you, but a good one. My question is this: Why are we replacing elite, battle-hardened troops with a Combat Team full of relatively inexperienced recruits? I mean, it just doesn't make sense, does it?"
Winston rolled her eyes in amazement, glad that her back was to the LAAF colonel. For a long time, she didn't answer. When she heard the Colonel take a breath to restate the question, she turned to face him.
"We all have our orders, Colonel. Dismissed." Winston sketched a vague wave of her hand, which could have been interpreted as a salute, and turned back to the window.
His curiosity apparently unsatisfied, Jolar remained where he was for a few more seconds. Winston could practically hear the wheels spinning in his head as he debated pressing her further for an explanation of the extraordinary events. She continued to stare out the window, pretending to be lost in thought. Her lack of response finally sent him shuffling out of the lounge.
For a long while, Winston remained at the window, gazing out across the puddle-infested tarmac. Most of the Sixth's 'Mechs had been broken out of their cocoons, and were lumbering their way across the tarmac toward their assembly point. On the monitors, she could make out the individual 'Mech types.
A pair of sharp beeps sounded from her wrist chronometer. A glance at the instrument told her that if she left the spaceport right away, she'd be able to make it back to Fort Telemar in time for evening mess. With a sigh, she turned away from the rain-streaked window and left the lounge.
Now, if I can just get to my car before .. .
"General Winston."
"Dammit, now what?" Her patience snapped as she whirled to face the officer who had just called out her name.
"Geez, Ria." Scott Hinesick sounded stricken. "I just wanted to tell you that Antonescu reports the One hundred fifty-first is nearly finished loading, and is preparing to leave Mogyorod for Kikuyu."
"Oh, Scott, I'm sorry." Winston touched her friend on the shoulder. "I thought you were Jolar. He's been in and out of the lounge all day, bugging me with every petty detail and problem with the Sixth's offloading."
"I don't know if that makes me feel better or not, thinking I was Jolar." Hinesick pulled an exaggeratedly hurt expression. "Besides, I just saw him climb into a runabout and head out across the landing stage. Maybe one of the Guards will step on him."
Winston laughed in spite of herself.
"Now, Scott, that's one of our allies you're talking about. Where've you been all day?"
Hinesick shook his heavy gray overcoat. A thin spray of rain water spattered the tiles beneath his wet boots.
"On the observation deck, mostly. It seemed like you wanted to be alone today. And, after the third time I saw Jolar come out of the lounge, I figured you wouldn't want any witnesses when you killed him." Hinesick chuckled, but there was a note of uncertainty behind his banter. He paused. Then came a rush of words. "General Winston, I respectfully request permission to join the combat arm."
The unexpected seriousness of his tone took her by surprise.
"Say again?"
"Ria, the Light Horse is going off to war. I don't want to get left behind."
Winston knew it was breaking his heart. It would have broken hers not to go, but she'd made the only decision possible.
"Scott, you know that all noncombat personnel are to remain at Fort Telemar, to help ease the transition between the real Light Horse and the Sixth Guards." Winston laid a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder and smiled gently. "You're the commandant of the training academy. You, above anyone else, are the best-equipped to make this thing work.
"And remember, the Light Horse is going to take a pounding on this mission. There's no getting around that. I need you right here, doing what you do best—training new recruits. When we get back, we're going to need every trooper we can lay our hands on. I'm counting on you, Scott. There's no one else I can trust to teach them right."
"I know all that, Ria. But, this might be my last chance to pilot a 'Mech. I scored an eighty-seven on my last simulator run. That's aggregate—time, accuracy, and piloting. I can handle it."
"Scott, I saw your scores. I know what you're capable of. But the Light Horse needs you here." Winston stepped close to Hinesick and lowered her voice. "I want a combat-experienced officer here, on-planet, who can command the training cadre."
"Why?" Hinesick caught the note of concern in her voice. "You aren't expecting any trouble out of the Sixth?"
"Expecting it?" Winston shook her head. "No, but Fairfax was right. I can't leave the safety of the Light Horse dependents in the hands of outsiders. I want you right here to protect them, just in case."
"Very well, General. And thank you." There was a hitch of emotion in Hinesick's voice.
She returned his salute, formally correct to the millimeter, all the while smiling broadly at her old friend.
With a last look at the Guards' 'Mechs, Winston sighed again, turned, and stepped out into the steadily falling rain.
7
Jerseyville
Defiance, Crucis March
Federated Commonwealth
27 January 3059
1415 Hours
"Incredible." The single word, breathed out as though it were a curse, carried with i
t more meaning than a thousand profanities. "How can anybody live here?"
"I know what you mean," the portmaster replied. "I've been stationed on seventeen worlds since I got hired by the Ministry of Commerce, and this is by far the ugliest, hottest, smelliest, all-around nastiest post I've ever had."
Kasugai Hatsumi chuckled politely at the man's bitter humor as he accepted his passport back from the clerk.
"And what did you do to get yourself assigned to this garden spot?"
"Do? I didn't do anything. That was the whole problem. I was on New Syrtis. I was planning on being there until I retired. Just two years to go, this little skinny guy comes up to me and offers me half a million C-Bills to let a couple of crates go through customs uninspected. At first, I turned him down. Then I got to thinking about it, y'know? I mean half a mil. I'd been pullin' freight for House Davion for twenty-three years and what did I have to show for it? Retirement, a half-salary pension, and two grand in the bank, so I figured, what the heck? I let the crates slip through."
Like the Ancient Mariner, the customs inspector seemed compelled to recount the tale of his transgression to any stranger who would listen.
"Anyhow, I got the cash, and thought that was the end of it. I found out later that the crates were full of guns and bombs for Liao terrorists. When they blew up that 'Mech plant, back in '49, there was an investigation, and the Fox Fives traced the explosives back to my part of the yard. Somebody had to take the blame, and I got picked. Suspension, probation, reduction in grade, the whole nine yards. Then, when I tried to bid up again, the big bosses shuffled me off here. And here I'll stay for the next four months, twelve days, two hours, and fifteen minutes. After that, Prince Victor can kiss my feet."
Twilight of the clans III: the hunters Page 6
