Price of Service 2
New Bedford, Kwamashu
Duchy of Andurien
Fortress Republic (+787 days)
New Bedford was only a hundred and twelve kilometers from Breezewood, but the cities were light-years apart in the degree to which they'd recovered from the Jihad. New Bedford had undergone a renaissance; lush green parks and plant-bordered walkways lined the roads leading from the spaceport to the heart of the city, and there were signs of economic recovery everywhere he looked. From what he knew about Breezewood, it was considerably more run-down.
Chin adjusted his uniform. Made of a rather stiff material, it was a lighter green than the infantry uniforms of The Republic. The advantage of this uniform, however, was that it was a uniform of the Duchy of Andurien. He wore the rank of lieutenant colonel; that and the uniform, along with the fake set of orders he carried, was all he needed. Everything else was merely part of the show, an act he would put on for those he met. It was the part of being a ghost knight that he liked the most—creating the illusion of being someone else, living in another identity. He smiled, then the grin faded as he realized that with the mission orders he had to fulfill, he would most likely live under a false identity for the rest of his life.
It had taken some work to obtain the uniform and falsified identification papers. The character he was playing, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Gelder, hadn't existed until a few weeks ago. Now, he possessed a rich and detailed history in the military databases of the Duchy of Andurien; life details and background that Chin had thoroughly memorized. The real test would be selling his character to the planetary garrison commander.
The hovercab pulled up to the military headquarters, and Chin paid his fare. He got out of the car and walked briskly to the building, just like any other officer reporting for duty. Guards stopped him at the door, checked his ID and scanned him and his dull brown leather satchel. He was unfazed by this activity. He presented his falsified orders and was delivered to the planetary garrison commander. Colonel Daum.
A sergeant escorted him through a maze of gray corridors. He was taken down an elevator, dropping at least four stories underground, and through more twisting, poorly lit hallways before reaching the colonel's office. The receptionist's desk was empty. The sergeant knocked on the interior door and stood aside for Chin to enter at the colonel's invitation. So far, so good. The ID held water, since they didn 't lead me to a holding cell.
Colonel Daum was as expected based on his profile in the ghost knight archives. He had lost more hair since the last holoimage of him had been placed in the file; the top of his head seemed to shine in the dull fluorescent lights of the windowless room. He was skinny, in his mid-fifties, and had a firm handshake. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and introductions. Chin sat down on the far side of the dreary government-issue desk that was covered with piles of papers and forms awaiting the garrison commander's attention. Jeremy handed over his orders to the colonel and watched him read through the materials.
"Command is really going to do this to us?" Daum asked, laying the forged orders on his desk.
"Yes, sir. I probably don't have to tell you that everything about this mission is classified, including your orders regarding it."
Daum seemed unmoved. "Why am I only now being told? We're going to be reconstituting a BattleMech assembly facility on my planet and I only get word of it now? Seems a little strange, doesn't it. Lieutenant Colonel?"
For the first time since he had taken on this role, he felt challenged. Chin's experience and training kicked in, and he responded calmly. "Sir, I think we can both agree that military secrets are some of the hardest to keep, and Kwamashu is positioned very near the Oriente Protectorate. How do you think they would react if they knew we were going to open this facility?"
"I know how I would react."
"There you have it. We need to establish the facility quickly, so that by the time their spies pick up on what we are doing, it will be too late for them to interfere."
"Sounds like a neat package, all wrapped up, easy for you and the rest of the upper command staff," Colonel Daum said, leaning back in his chair.
"I'm not following you, sir."
"Of course not. You're coming here to execute a little sea gull leadership: You fly in, crap all over the place, then leave. That's all I ever get from high command. Meanwhile, I'm left here with this new factory and, as you so kindly pointed out, the Protectorate ready to pounce on Kwamashu. Bottom line. Lieutenant Colonel Gelder: It's my people who have to defend this world and pick up the pieces long after you are gone." By the end of his speech, the colonel was leaning over his desk and tapping a blunt finger on Chin's orders. He was angry; Chin heard years of experience and bitterness in his voice.
"I understand, sir."
"Do you?" Daum challenged. "Based on your age, I doubt you've had the experience to really understand." Anger still tinged his words, but Chin had other concerns. Does he see through my cover?
"Sir, that is precisely why a company of special troops is being sent down to garrison Breezewood and the assembly plant. For security reasons, they will remain in Breezewood and will not intermingle with your force. The last thing we need is for word to leak out prematurely about the plant. They will provide local security in Breezewood and be available to coordinate with you in the event of an attack by a hostile government."
Daum flicked the edge of the orders and the paper slid across the table toward Chin. "I saw that in the orders. I notice that no one saw fit to have these troops actually report to me in the event of hostilities. This 'coordination' that you assume will happen will be tricky. The priority of these special troops is to protect that plant. My responsibility is to the people of the Duchy who live on Kwamashu."
"Sir, this new assembly plant is a key piece in the future of the Duchy. Defending Kwamashu and defending the plant are one and the same."
Daum grinned. "Junior officers. You all see it the same way. So simple on paper. Tell me, Lieutenant Colonel, have you commanded men in battle?"
His cover profile said that he had led troops in battle only once. It was not an impressive part of his character's background. "Yes, Colonel Daum, I have."
"How many times?"
"Once, sir."
"Pahh—" He brushed the air dismissively. "You're still wet behind the ears. I've led men and women into battle a dozen times. I've learned that orders like these, left to interpretation, will cause more problems than they solve. If the Oriente Protectorate does come, mere coordination isn't going to be enough. And you can tell your superiors that I will do what is necessary to protect the people of Kwamashu—regardless of this assembly plant."
Chin heard the message loud and clear. "That won't be necessary, sir. I doubt the Protectorate will even dare strike at us here."
Colonel Daum cocked his eyebrow. "Then why bring in additional troops just to protect the plant?"
"Point taken, sir."
The Duchy commander seemed satisfied that he had gotten his point across to the younger officer. "Very well. Per the orders you delivered, I will not do anything to attract attention to Breezewood; you and your forces will land there, set up this plant and garrison it."
"Thank you, sir," he said, rising.
"Don't thank me yet," Daum replied. "You've never been to Breezewood, have you?"
"No."
Daum chuckled. "You'll see that you have your work cut out for you."
"Sir?"
"That abandoned industrial complex you're planning on reactivating? It's the worst part of Breezewood, which enjoys a reputation as the armpit of Kwamashu. After the Word of Blake's bombing runs destroyed the city during the Jihad, most of it was left to rot. We've been shipping our industrial waste down there for years and storing it in that plant. You'll have your work cut out for you getting it operational again."
"I appreciate the heads-up," he said, offering a salute. Daum returned it.
"Don't take this the wrong way, Gelder
," the colonel added as Chin reached the door. "But I hope I don't see you again."
"Sir?" he turned back.
"If I do, that means the Protectorate or someone else has landed on planet."
"Yes, sir," Jeremy replied. "Let's hope that never happens."
Training Center Opal Bernardo
Former Prefecture VI
Sir Mannheim watched as the Sylph battle-armor troops came swooping down on the Locust. It was only an exercise, but he was consistently impressed by the focus and effort the Fidelis put into everything they did. He had seen Sylph armor in action before, but these troopers handled the flight-capable armor with a degree of skill he would not have thought possible. Two of the Fidelis troopers landed right on top of the moving Locust, their augmented hands scrambling to find something to hold on to, ripping at armor to get a toehold. They planted simulated charges on the cockpit and hovered away. The other pair dove in low and fast, skimming the ground and firing dummy rounds into the 'Mech's birdlike legs. It had turned to pursue them when the charges on the cockpit blew. The battle computer coordinating the exercise powered down the Locust. It was out of the fight.
Score one for the Fidelis.
He walked over to where Lieutenant Joseph Henzel, formerly of the Third Triarii Protectors, studied the events unfolding on the grass-covered slopes below. The Third Triarii contributed one BattleMech, a Spider that had to be gutted and rebuilt before it was of any use; a Po tank, an APC and two power-armored infantry squads to his company, and most of those troops were replacements getting a crash course in combat tactics. The Republic had suffered great losses in the last few years, and this was all the regular army could spare. The rest of his force was made up of the Fidelis, for which he was grateful. They had done an outstanding job of getting the green troops up to speed and ahead of the curve in terms of skills. I'm lucky to have both them and the Republic veterans. I hope they know it.
Lieutenant Henzel acknowledged Sir Mannheim and continued to watch the exercise through his enhanced binoculars.
"Impressive, aren't they?" Mannheim made it more of a statement than a question.
"They're more than impressive," Lieutenant Henzel replied. "It's like they've been training on this equipment since they were born. I spoke to one of them, a Lieutenant Carver, and he was able to quote the statistics on BattleMechs faster and more accurately than the warbook. They're bred for battle, that much is for sure."
Mannheim had had similar discussions with the Fidelis. He once had worked with Republic special forces troops, and every one of the Fidelis exceeded the skill level of those troops. They were not talkative, not engaging, but they were highly effective. Imagine what I could do with a few hundred Fidelis in the right gear. It was a seductive thought.
He stared at one of the Sylph battle suits and it seemed different than the others. A Fidelis MKII Hawk Moth gunship roared past his hillside, blasting their observation point with a rush of hot air from the pair of massive turbofans that kept it in the air. It lacked the usual twin weapons pods slung on either side of the cockpit. "They changed that weapons mount—again."
"Yes, sir. It took me awhile to get used to the way they customize every single element of their gear, right down to their personal sidearms and ammo loads. I spoke with one of them about it a few months ago. He told me that they always refine the weapons platform to fit the strengths of the individual warrior. I have to believe that the first time we use them in battle, their equipment will drive the enemy nuts. That battle suit, for example"—he pointed to the one Hunter had been watching. "They've created a disposable pod carrying an advanced targeting system. They use it, lose it and actually increase the speed and range of the Sylph by 20 percent. I saw one that was mounted with a disposable SRM pack—six missiles, all inferno. These troopers sure know how to take out a 'Mech."
"What about the Hawk Moth?"
"They pulled off her armaments and swapped them for pulse lasers and a better targeting system."
Mannheim chuckled. "I should probably have them crawl over my BattleMech and make some suggestions."
"You should consider asking them, sir," Henzel said seriously. "Each one of them is trained in repair, salvage and modification. They're incredible."
"Incredible and mysterious." Mannheim still was not comfortable with the fact that no one knew where the Fidelis came from. "We've been with them for two years now, training side by side, and I know less about them now than I did the day they were assigned to my command."
It was Lieutenant Henzel's turn to laugh. "The latest I heard at mess was that they are the survivors of the Minnesota Tribe—Clan Wolverine—the infamous Not- Named Clan. You know how the troops love to talk, and the Fidelis are so tight-lipped it only fuels the rumor mill. Another favorite theory is that they are survivors of the Black Watch. Apparently they have a standing order never to leave their dead on the battlefield, or else the Clans would figure out that they were the descendants of the Wolverines and come after them. Of course, none of them will even comment on these theories. The Clan angle does make a little sense if you consider that Devlin Stone used them in the Jihad like his private spec-ops force."
Mannheim said nothing for a moment. It made as much sense as any of the scenarios he had heard around the training post. In the end, where they were from didn't matter as much as the results they produced. For now, it would remain just speculation.
"Rumors are for the NCOs," he said lightly. "We're officers. Now, I have a task for you once this exercise is done."
"Yes, sir."
"I need you to coordinate repainting our gear. We are going to lift off in four days, and I want every piece of our gear painted to these specifications." He handed the noteputer to his officer.
Henzel studied the schematics then looked up at Mannheim. "The Duchy of Andurien, sir?"
"Our advance man is already in place," he said, thinking of Jeremy Chin. "Say nothing. If our men love rumors, this will really give them something to talk about."
The monastery of the Order of ßØ ł was set into the stony face of a sharply rising plateau, and it looked as if a building was attempting to emerge from the dull tan rock. Half-pillars rose four stories tall, and there were two balconies, complete with railing, all carved out of the plateau with no visible seams.
The ground level of the monastery boasted a large, lush, semicircular-shaped garden enclosed by an old stone wall. In contrast, the ground looked like desert for a hundred yards outside the wall. Jeremy studied the low-tech structure, and after a few moments realized the wall was crowned by a string of sensors, many of them partially covered by thick vines. Strange thing to see at a monastery. The name of the monastery's order was posted on a small brass plaque outside the main gate, a massive metal barrier. He struggled to pronounce it. "Tempih Whya?" he muttered. "I knew I should have spent more time learning Russian." Jeremy had run the name through his translator, which gave him "Darkened Souls," which was probably not quite right. Must be hell to recruit new members with a name like that. . . .
From his perch behind a cluster of boulders situated a kilometer from the monastery, he considered the site and shook his head. The two monks he could see wore faded gray robes. As he studied them, a third man emerged from the interior carrying an assault rifle. What kind of monastery has an armed defense force? Even those that were known refuges for Mech Warriors or veterans didn't offer armed protection.
What he saw wouldn't have made sense without the inside knowledge he possessed, courtesy of Devlin
Stone's notes. The settlement was just over ten kilometers from the edge of Breezewood and dated back as far as the first Star League. It was a small but prosperous community outside a city in which poverty was the largest commodity. Obviously, the armed guards deterred people from trying to rob the place, but they certainly didn't fit with the monastery being a place of worship.
He annotated the information about the monastery stored on his noteputer. I'm coming here for a creepy reason already,
and now I have to worry about bringing enough manpower with me to take care of the guards. The presence of the guards meant one of two things: They were there either to keep the members of the order in—or to keep other people out. Damn if Devlin Stone wasn't right. The Anduriens were hiding something there. And Stone's notes said that artifact was his objective.
How did it end up here? Was this where he died? Or is this simply where he ended up? The historians would have a field day with what he was going to take, if he ever told one. Then again, who would believe him?
Chin folded up his binoculars and stuffed them in the bag slung over his shoulder. Alright, Order of ßØ ł—however you pronounce it—we'll have to see if you are still holding the little surprise that Devlin Stone claimed you had.
Interpretation of Duty 2
Brandenburg, Callison
Prefecture VIII, Republic of the Sphere
Fortress Republic (-30 days)
It had been an interesting few months for Ceresco Hancock.
She was using a cover identity established years ago by the ghost knights, a common strategy the organization used on worlds throughout The Republic. In this case, she had assumed the identity of Cheryl Gunson, a mid- level manager in the Directorate of Internal Affairs. Since the collapse of the HPG network, Governor Stewart had been slowly evolving the Directorate into her own private spying organization. It was the perfect platform from which Ceresco could launch her meteoric rise to power.
The real Ms. Gunson had been on The Republic payroll even before she entered the Directorate. She was a mousy woman, easily overlooked even by her immediate manager. She was the same physical type as Ceresco. The biggest differences were her long, jet-black hair and green eyes—superficial differences, and easy enough to resolve. As soon as Ceresco was sufficiently prepared, the real Cheryl Gunson was given a new identity and
Ceresco took her place. The real Cheryl took a well- deserved vacation; when she ''returned'' after two weeks, she had a dramatically different hair color and style, which she simply explained by saying she felt the need for a change. It was common wisdom that changing her hairstyle also changed the shape of a woman's face, so the only disguise necessary was colored contact lenses.
Surrender Your Dreams Page 18
