"How will you lure the Oriente Protectorate to Kwamashu?"
The ghost knight chuckled. "This is the old Free Worlds League, remember? First off, there are SAFE spies everywhere—and because the region is so fractured politically, even if the Protectorate doesn't learn about it from its own agents, someone will sell them the information. There are also potential contacts in Breezewood that I can pass the word to. We're setting up a 'Mech production facility right on their border. This is something they can't afford to ignore. They'll have to send a strike team in to take it out." As usual, Mannheim found Chin to be annoyingly confident in his opinion.
He expressed his biggest concern. "There will be no civilian casualties, right? This is a fake disaster."
The ghost knight paused and rubbed the datacube in his hand. His eyes drifted from Mannheim to the cube. "There shouldn't be," he said quietly. "If we do this right, there will be minimal risk to the people of Breezewood."
Mannheim stared at the image of Kwamashu that hung in the air in front of him, Starting a war was not as simple as staging a fake raid, he knew that much. This plan had a lot of moving parts, any one of which might go wrong. "How can you guarantee the timing of the Protectorate raid?"
"If we leak the date that the assembly plant will be ready for production, chances are pretty good they'll hit on that day or just before. They'll want to take it out when the money has already been spent to rebuild it but before it has a parking lot full of BattleMechs ready for combat."
Hunt paced around the glowing image of Kwamashu, keeping his eyes on the ghost knight at the controls of the holotable. "When we met two years ago, Paladin Redburn indicated that you, as a ghost knight, might receive additional mission objectives that supercede my orders. Do you have any such orders, and if you do, will you share them with me?" There, he'd said it out loud. If Chin was honorable, he would be honest with him.
The question seemed to embarrass the young man.
His face turned red. He seemed to be suddenly aware that he was rubbing the datacube and stuffed it in his pocket as he spoke. "I have several orders that augment this mission. One is a secondary target that I must achieve when the Protectorate makes its move. I can't share that with you right now. The other orders I have are"—he paused, searching for the right word— "inconsequential to the success of this mission."
"I'd like to be the judge of that."
"I understand. But I'm still not telling you my orders."
"Why?"
Chin smiled. "Because they don't impact anything we've just discussed."
Those words did not put Hunter Mannheim's mind at rest. If anything, they made matters worse.
* * *
Damien Redburn stood at the window, looking out over the spaceport. He's aged a lot since he stepped down as exarch, Mannheim thought to himself. He had requested a meeting with the paladin in hopes of learning about Chin's orders. It might be a wasted effort, but it was worth a try. Redburn was scheduled to depart soon; it was now or never.
"Hunt," Redburn greeted him, reaching out and shaking his hand. "I trust the planning goes well now that you finally know where you are going and why."
He nodded. "It does, sir. It feels good to move forward." He hesitated, then continued with a deliberate understatement. "I have to say, this ghost knight you've teamed me with has proven to be quite different from any other I have met."
Redburn grinned. "Jeremy is a good young man— 'young' being the operative word. He's headstrong and self-centered, and though he may seem a little cocksure, I've been assured that he's very capable. His record shows him to be a little hard to control, but highly effective."
"I'm going to cut to the chase, sir," Mannheim replied. "In my experience, you have the best chance for success in an operation of this type when you have all of the data up front. Chin has separate orders from you. I believe I need to know those orders if we are to have the best chance of succeeding."
Redburn's grin faded. "I knew you'd feel that way, Hunt. Hell, if I was in your shoes, I would feel that way too. Unfortunately, it doesn't change anything. Chin's got two sets of orders that he cannot share with you."
"Sir—"
"I wish there was another way. His secondary target is so sensitive in nature that we simply can't risk even your knowing what it is. And I specifically requested that he not reveal his other mission parameters to you."
"May I ask why?"
Redburn looked out the window again. "These Fidelis troopers I assigned to you. Hunt, they're quite remarkable, aren't they?"
"Sir? Uh, yes." The deliberate change of subject caught him off guard.
"Effective and mysterious at the same time. You don't know this, but Devlin Stone himself told me about the Fidelis. It wasn't until just before the Fortress walls went up that I had the opportunity to tell Exarch Levin about this hidden resource. I carried that secret for years—and there are parts of that secret, such as their origins, that I still haven't revealed to a soul. You know why?"
"No," Mannheim said, looking out the window himself as the workers far below unloaded a transport ship.
"Revealing some secrets can do more damage than good. What I've asked Jeremy to do is something I don't want him to share with you right now. What I've asked him to do would only burden you and might place the mission at risk. This burden he alone must bear for now."
Hunter said nothing, but looked his former leader straight in the eyes. If Redburn says it's risky for me to know what the orders are, I'm going to have to trust that. "I understand, sir."
The former exarch turned his gaze once again to the dock. "Tricky business . . . starting a war."
Hunter almost laughed at the understatement. "I have had two years to reflect on the possibility of this mission, and it still keeps me up at night." It was as close to a complaint as he allowed himself.
"We are living in strange, stressful times. I've had to ask many knights to shoulder heavy burdens that stretch our code of honor to the breaking point." Redburn put his hand on the window. Hunter did the same and felt the glass leach heat from his skin. "This may be hard for you to accept, but I feel for you. I know I'm asking a lot from you. I have been asking men and women to make heroic sacrifices for two years now, and it never gets any easier. But the need for such efforts doesn't seem to diminish."
Hunter bowed his head. Putting the Oriente Protectorate and the Duchy of Andurien at each other's throats was good for The Republic: If they focused on each other, they would not spend their resources attempting to carve up those worlds outside the Fortress' protection. At the same time, there was a weight associated with these orders. Because of his actions, thousands, hundreds of thousands, would suffer and die. This knowledge woke him several times each night.
"I find myself thinking of my family, the kids—my wife. I'm not sure what they'd think of me given what I have to do in this operation."
"It would change nothing," Redburn assured him. "You're still the man they love. You're simply being asked to do something that is extremely difficult, and extremely worthwhile." He reached into his pocket as if to reassure himself that something precious was still there.
Hunter shook his head. "There's a price for this service, sir, and that price is a piece of my soul."
Redburn rested his hands on Mannheim's shoulders. "Rest assured that your soul is not the only one being paid as part of the cost." His meaning was clear: Redburn himself was putting his life and soul on the line as well.
Mannheim wanted to plead with him to reconsider the mission. Redburn understood how difficult this was—he had just said so. With that thought, however, came a sudden understanding that the mission couldn't be changed. The realization left him stunned for a moment: If Redburn accepted that the sacrifice was truly necessary, then it must be so. He straightened his spine. "Thank you for your time, sir."
"Thank you for your service," Redburn replied, firmly squeezing his shoulders. The gesture triggered a memory of Lady Crystal Synd, who had parte
d from him the same way two years ago. He wondered if his fellow knights were dealing any better with their orders than he was.
Interpretation of Duty 8
Brandenburg, Callison
Former Prefecture VIII
Fortress Republic (+36 days)
"Harbinger, this is Squirrel." Sir Erbe was speaking from the cockpit of his Hellstar as he angled slowly and carefully along the edge of the intersection. The area of Brandenburg in which the target warehouse was located was run-down. Older buildings lined the streets, most no more than four stories tall, many abandoned years ago. Kristoff was not concerned about the buildings. What bothered him was the lack of people. Since they had pushed off at 0430 hours he hadn't expected a lot of people on the streets, but there should have been someone. So far, not a hovercar and not a soul.
This mission should be quick and simple. But nothing on Callison yet had demonstrated either of those attributes. Someone, probably some low-level clerk, had moved the DropShip engines his unit had come to recover. They had been moved before he had even landed on Callison (otherwise he would have suspected the governor's hand in the situation), relocated nearly a kilometer away from their original warehouse near the spaceport. Facing an angry mob at the spaceport perimeter fence, a governor who was leveraging events to increase her own power, and partnered with a ghost knight with her own agenda. Sir Erbe felt that he had been dealt a bad hand. But he was determined to play the game with the cards he had been dealt. That translated into a stealthy raid into the city to recover the engines.
"Squirrel, this is Harbinger. I read you five by five," Adamans replied from his Goshawk two blocks away. At least, the warbook on Erbe's battlecomputer said it was a Goshawk. The Fidelis had a habit of modifying hardware to fit the skills of the MechWarrior piloting or driving the tank or 'Mech. In this case, the result was that Adamans' Goshawk lacked the shoulder armor plates common to the design, and instead carried antipersonnel pods near the knee actuators and some additional armor plating on its torso.
The Fidelis had modified his Hellstar, removing the four Ripper Series A1 particle projection cannons and replacing them with two extended-range large lasers and a pair of large pulse lasers, along with an improved targeting and tracking system. He'd liked the new configuration when he had trained in it on New Earth.
"Any word from Infiltrator One?" Infiltrator One was the designation of a special squad of troops that Adamans had created. Equipped with Oni battle armor, these troops were scouting for the advance force.
"Stand by," he replied, pausing to change channels. "Infiltrator One reports no sign of any hostiles between us and the objective. Target is clear: no civilians, no militia."
Damn strange. He was moving through the streets with a reinforced company of infantry, BattleMechs, tanks and other gear. They had moved out several blocks from the spaceport, and so far no one had even bothered to call the police. It didn't make sense. "Hold up, all units hold position." Sir Erbe looked at his tactical display. The grid of streets and buildings didn't offer him a clue. Infiltrator One was eight blocks to the north and two to the east. The original plan had called for a direct penetration to avoid attracting attention. His mind shied away from the thought that kept coming at him. This smelled like a trap. But how was that possible?
"We should be running into something, local law enforcement at the least."
"Affirmative, sir," replied Adamans. "I suggest we shift to our right flank, deploy three blocks to the east. If someone is moving to cut us off, we can find them by changing our plan."
"I concur. All units, redeploy due east onto Woodward Avenue. From there we will proceed north."
The comm channel came to life a moment later as he angled his 'Mech to the east. "This is Grinder Two. I have a roadblock at the Woodward intersection." Erbe checked his tactical display. Three blocks north.
"Wiper Three on discreet. I have obstructions here as well as some protestors stepping out onto the street. Wait—small arms fire. Taking evasive." Wiper Three was a Shamash recon vehicle, a lightly armed hovercraft built for speed. Others began to call in. The shift to the east was not going to work except for the 'Mechs. He saw a roadblock of hovercars, four deep, blocking the street ahead of him. Rock-throwing protestors emerged from around the corners, and he heard the pinging of small-arms fire. Kristoff could punch through easily; stepping on a hovercar with his 'Mech would leave a small fire behind but cause him no damage. But if they busted through, people—citizens of The Republic— would die. That was not why he came to Callison. In fact, killing civilians would play right into Governor Stewart's hands. Time to turn that knowledge to his advantage. Alright, Chubby. Do you expect me to retreat? Sorry, this boy doesn't do what his father did. I don't give up so easily.
Time to change plans. He had no doubt that they would encounter the same situation to the west. He could move forward to the warehouse, or back to the spaceport. A typical commander who recognized that his plan had been compromised would fall back. They would count on his making that decision, which was a darned good reason to not do it. "All units, fall back to the original plan. Move north and secure the warehouse." I refuse to cut and run.
He turned his Hellstar and heard the thunk of a bullet hitting his cockpit windshield. The impact didn't even mar the ferroglass, but it did remind him that the dangers outside were real.
"Flash, flash, flash," called a new voice over the comm channel. "This is Angelfire One. I have multiple contacts closing the rear door. Repeat, rear door is being engaged. Relaying sensor data now." This trooper was part of a unit assigned to keeping the route to the spaceport open. This contact was not protestors. Angelfire One was painting vehicles and a Mangonel BattleMech closing in. The Light Horse was on the field.
Their plan had been compromised. He would be willing to lay even money that it wasn't any of the troops aboard the Onondaga betraying their operation would have put their own lives at risk. But there was someone else who could have done it: Ceresco Hancock. He discarded that thought almost immediately. She might be a ghost knight, but she still was a Knight of the Sphere. She wouldn't deliberately send Republic forces to their deaths. It couldn't be possible.
The instinct of any military commander would be to fall back to the spaceport. Erbe knew that's what the Light Horse would expect. But I'm not playing their game. "All units form up on my position. We will take the warehouse and set up a defensive perimeter. All units, double time!" Kristoff Erbe barely resisted the urge to break out his 'Mech into a full run, knowing it was too dangerous on the city streets.
* * *
Cheryl angled her Hellion around the block as if she piloted a BattleMech every day. In reality, it'd been a long time since she'd been in a cockpit. When Governor Stewart announced that Cheryl would lead the operation to ensnare The Republic forces, everyone assumed she would pilot Legate Leif's assault 'Mech. She chose to assign that 'Mech to Captain Natel and take over his much smaller Hellion. She joked that it was so small it might not attract attention—not that any three-story humanoid war machine bristling with weapons wouldn't draw a stare or two as it charged down the street. . . .
Her line hit the flank of the Republic forces. She'd laid a good trap. She made sure the roads to the warehouse were open. She'd even managed to relocate the civilian population away from the battlefield without protest the previous day by faking a natural-gas leak. She intended to pinch Sir Erbe's forces on the main road. Using protestors as one arm of the trap played to his sense of honor as a knight—a cheap shot on her part, but she didn't care. With even a minor threat of his rear route being cut off, he'd be forced to withdraw to the spaceport. A Republic retreat away from the local militia would open the door to negotiating a settlement and would give Governor Stewart her much-desired moral victory. She could force Erbe to the bargaining table and complete her mission.
Her Hellion turned the corner into the battle zone. In the darkness of the early morning hours, smoke curled up and obscured the white shimme
r of the streetlights. She saw a couple of fires, buildings set ablaze by missile or autocannon rounds that had gone astray. She saw the mangled remains of the Light Horse's lone Saxon APC falling back toward her. Its armor was crumbled, buckled and burned. It looked like an aluminum can that had been played with by angry children; she was shocked that it was still moving.
The Hellion reeled from a hit. Gauss round. She could tell by the kinetic force; it was like a punch. She staggered back a step or two to maintain balance and felt the Hellion struggle. Her damage display showed that the round was stuck in her right torso, immediately under the missile rack. She scanned the area, locating the towed artillery piece that had done the damage half- hidden around a corner three blocks away. The Fidelis had taken the shot at maximum range and hit: a testament to their skill.
She locked her long-range missiles onto the towed gauss rifle and listened as the Holly system churned a salvo into place and primed the warheads. The moment she heard the audible click, she fired. The ten missiles whirled around one another mid-flight then slammed into the target area. The building erupted in flames, smoke and debris, momentarily obscured. Now she could see that her Po tank also had suffered a few hits from the gauss. She concentrated her scans forward on the rifle, but could not find it. It had either been buried in the attack or moved at the last moment.
Her tactical display told her that Sir Erbe was redeploying—but not where she had expected. His rear guard, where she had applied only light pressure, seemed to be collapsing. She hadn't sent much against them, wanting to allow the knight a graceful exit back to the spaceport. But he seemed to be pulling back those forces, intent on moving forward to the north.
A rumble erupted to her right, in the vicinity of the Saxon. A barrage rained down on what was left of the armored personnel carrier and finished the job that had been started moments earlier. The vehicle stopped moving and the hatches flew open. The crew didn't make it out before the A PC became an inferno as secondary explosions lit off. She lost sight of it in the black smoke.
Surrender Your Dreams Page 10
