Ghost War mda-1

by Michael A. Stackpole

  And, face it, everyone knows there are those terrorists who just enjoy killing and wouldn’t stop for anything.

  A second aspect of modern society is something that Stone’s reformation built upon: power comes from the people. A lot of people forget that because of the neo-feudal political system used to govern star-spanning empires. Stone did not, and his Republic thrived. Through service to The Republic people could earn citizenship. Their investment in The Republic was paid back, and they gave more of themselves to it.

  The outright overthrow of a government assumed that the masses didn’t exist. While many of them might not care who was sitting on a throne, their lack of connection with the government created an inherently unstable situation. Once someone with a bigger club came along, the old government was history and new faces appeared on the coins.

  So, to overthrow a modern government and make it stick, you have to avoid killing too many people and you have to get the citizenry behind you. If the people are stable and relatively happy, as they are on Basalt, you have to manufacture dissatisfaction with the current government. You have to attack society at its weakest point, show the current rulers are out of touch, and point out that they are impotent and untrustworthy.

  Hence my plan.

  Where modern society is weakest, of course, is its insulation from reality. Basalt was fortunate in that the agro-industry and light consumer electronics, apparel, notions and appliances industries could supply the people of Basalt with everything they needed. Granted, it wasn’t a grand life, but it was satisfying. Even so, Manville, like most large urban centers, was a week to ten days from starvation once trucks stopped bringing in supplies.

  In short, if you asked the average Manvillian where food comes from, his reply would be “the market.” Individuals like this are dependent on things like food preservation units, mass transportation and power. Everything that keeps them from grubbing in the dirt serves as a safety net that elevates them above being nibbler vittles.

  Low-Intensity Terrorism, or LIT, attacks that safety net. Attacks in one area lead to attacks in others. Events begin to snowball because we provoke a particular reaction by the government. Having anticipated that reaction, we trump. People lose faith in the government and within months of a concerted effort, the tattered local regime will collapse.

  The first LIT targets are nuisance strikes. In what little touring around Manville I’d done, I’d seen countless power substations, communications switching boxes, wireless communication towers, bridges and tunnels. As I explained the plan, I used power stations as an example, but each of these others works just as well. The first attack against a power substation denies power to a sector of the city.

  It is important that this incident appears to be a property crime, and that no one gets hurt when the station is taken down. It’s also important that just a single sector of the city loses power. LIT depends on citizens being aware of their neighbors’ difficulties. In every strike we want people to be thinking, “I’m glad that’s not happening to me.”

  Quickly enough, as attacks expand, they’ll be thinking it has happened to them, and then they’ll be wondering why the government didn’t do anything to stop it from happening to them.

  With that first attack no one takes credit. People will assume that it was an accident or act of mindless vandalism. The power company will be looking at repairs, however, that will cost a fair amount. They will not be pleased. What’s more, most people will feel the pain through a rise in rates—to cover the repairs or insurance premiums.

  The second attack comes in two stages. The first is to hit another power station. Once repair crews have responded to that site and begin their work, a second attack hits the large repair-truck garage facility. These garages are all over the place, with utilities grouping their trucks for ease of fueling and repair.

  Or, for our purposes, destruction.

  Once this secondary strike goes off, people will be aware of a pattern forming. Moreover, they’ll get the message that what have been temporary problems before are likely to be epidemic. There is no cure in sight since whoever is doing this has nailed the repair vehicles. In many ways we become the agents of entropy, just accelerating the normal decay of infrastructure.

  How does the government react? They immediately posture about investigations and say they will make things more secure. The Constabulary is placed on high alert, which wears people out and drains the government’s coffers. Its people are stretched thin. There is no way they can cover every conceivable target. When strikes continue, their promises are shown to be hollow and the government’s credibility erodes.

  As things progress from there, every move the government makes just digs them a deeper hole. We hit economic targets, slowing the economy and making powerful folks put pressure on government agencies to act. They enact more stringent security measures and perhaps even invoke martial law. Citizens are expecting them to be out looking for bad guys, but instead the security forces are keeping law-abiding folks off the streets with curfews or annoying them at checkpoints.

  Resentment grows rather easily. A couple of strikes at government targets that should have been ultrasecure makes it apparent that no place is safe. It also paints the government as liars (now there is a tough job), so people are ready for a change.

  At the end game, the government brings out its troops to go after the terrorists, and the terrorists fight back defensively. Before things get totally out of hand, however, a leader will step in to negotiate. If this person were seen as being competent, and had already exhibited charity and compassion during the crisis, he would be a natural choice to replace the government. It’s suggested that he head up an interim government until things can be stabilized and, once he does that and the terrorists retreat, he’s in for life.

  As I made my presentation, the commentary dwindled. Those who didn’t have the intellectual capacity to understand it all remained quiet. Those who did ended up smiling and nodding a lot. Several people made notes, and I could tell the lists of targets and methods of attack had just expanded. Gypsy’s eyes had glazed over and Elle was looking as if she’d pretty much forgiven me for breaking her jaw.

  Catford, while he had the smarts to understand what I said, didn’t have the intellectual honesty to accept its veracity. “That is the most stupid plan I’ve ever heard in my whole entire life. It’s based on things that are demonstrably untrue. Everyone knows power comes from the barrel of a gun. It has nothing to do with the masses.”

  The irony of his quoting millennia-old Communist truisms while denying revolution had anything to do with the masses struck only a few in the room. I frowned at him. “You hate this idea because you don’t get to shoot anyone. You’re a ’Mech commander, and this plan doesn’t have a big role for ’Mechs.”

  “That’s right, in part.” He nodded solemnly, playing to the rest of the pilots in the room. “We were brought here to do a job, and that job is eliminate the talent the other side has hired. You want us to skulk and blow up things. That’s not honorable. That’s not the way of the warrior. You want me to commit… unnatural acts!”

  He was making me wish he actually listened to himself, but I pretty much realized that even if he did, he’d hear nothing wrong. When your whole conception of yourself is that you’re a hammer, that you’ve spent your life becoming the best hammer you can be, anything that isn’t a nail is a very direct threat to you. But, you’re a hammer, so all you can do to these threats is pound them.

  It was at that point I knew Catford and Siwek would try to have me killed. They’d do it because my plan offended their honor. How fast they would kill me depended upon one factor: Gypsy.

  In playing to the other pilots, the Major had failed to play to Gypsy. Clearly Catford was seeing himself as the true leader of our little group, and Gypsy needed to straighten that misconception out immediately. If he didn’t, Catford might just take the resources he’d been given and plunk his own skinny butt on the throne of Basalt. While
power might not come from the barrel of a gun, having a ’Mech’s big guns did make hanging on to it a lot easier.

  “Major Catford, any dismissal of this plan would be premature. It does have merit and does not obviate your role at all. In fact, it elevates it to one of protector of the people. As you have noted, the other side has talent, and they will certainly deploy it to counter the threats we present. Your opposition to it will be seen as a stroke for freedom, which enhances your position and support.”

  Gypsy let Catford chew on that. Gypsy had already picked up on the key point in my plan, which Catford and the others had probably missed. They were all prepared to wipe the government away and impose someone else on the people. My plan focused on the people welcoming the new leader. Not only would this increase stability, but it would also play to the ego of whoever was bankrolling the effort. Yes, he wanted to be king, but how much better to have your adoring peasants beg you to walk all over them than to have to force them onto their bellies.

  Catford was sharp enough to realize he’d overplayed his hand. “I still protest this idea as futile, but we shall always be in readiness to salvage the operation here. Mister Donelly will need us, I’m sure.”

  24

  A battle sometimes decides everything; and sometimes the merest trifle decides a battle.

  —Napoleon

  Manville, Capital District

  Basalt

  Prefecture IV, Republic of the Sphere

  29 January 3133

  If I wanted to try a little more literary pretension I’d note that while we’d been in the meeting clouds had gathered like the furrows on Catford’s brow. I could do that, or I could note that the gathering clouds mirrored my dark mood as I calculated how things were likely to go on Basalt. The simple fact is, however, that the clouds had gathered and had little more import than that.

  One of the difficulties that Basalt had faced in trying to become known as a resort destination came from its climate. All of the advertisements described the world as “tropical,” which is advertspeak for humid. This should have come as no surprise for anyone who wanted to venture here and explore rain forests, but oppressive stickiness tends to wear on tourists and eventually makes them irritable.

  And judging by Catford’s mood, he’d been here since before I was born.

  Gypsy dismissed the meeting and people began to clump and drift. The largest clot formed around Catford. Given the way some of the others looked at that cadre and scowled, I gathered that he’d been handpicking people for his command and they were still looking to curry favor with him. A few other folks spoke with Gypsy, but no one came over to talk to me.

  I guess that didn’t surprise me too much since they were warriors and had come to Basalt to ply their trade. This didn’t mean they couldn’t appreciate what I had to offer in my plan, but they weren’t going to commit to it until Gypsy required that of them. Given that they could make an enemy of Catford by being seen as my ally, I took no offense and headed out on my own.

  On Basalt, gathering clouds presaged some fairly terrific lightning storms. They were actually spectacular enough to be a tourist attraction, save that they usually were coupled with driving rain. Aside from those who might be visiting from a desert world, rainstorms really were not high on the list of things most tourists want to do.

  I caught a hovercab and took it back to the Grand Germayne before the storm broke. I figured that something or someone was waiting for me in my room, so I hit the hotel restaurant for some dinner while my visitor waited. I ordered a filet of troses, which was a troutlike fish the size of a tuna and very good. If packaging Basalt as a tropical paradise did not work, culinary vacations might be a viable alternative.

  I couldn’t finish my meal, so I had the leftovers packed up and carried them with me to my room. The thread was still on the ground, so I opened the door, flipped on the light and shut the door behind me. I found no one in the room and no evidence that anyone had been in since Elle departed, not even housekeeping.

  My bed had been disturbed, with the covers thrown back, two pillows piled up and the clear impression of a body that had been reclining. Curious, I pressed my hand to the mattress, but it was plenty cold. I didn’t find any short red hairs on the pillow, but I still assumed the outline would have fitted Elle. Why she would have waited for me in bed left me wondering, and none of the answers fit easily, save that she wanted me distracted and not thinking about things I ought to be considering.

  My early suspicions that Elle had been Reis’ man inside the GGF had been quashed. Reis had given Janella a complete rundown on his operation, and she wasn’t one of his. Her escape and presence on Basalt with Gypsy suggested they worked as a team, and might well have worked together for a good long time.

  On Helen she’d had a tough image going, but that had been shed here. I wasn’t certain if that was because she knew it wouldn’t work with me, and would be challenged by many others among the recruits Gypsy had gathered. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense because, while most warriors were more than willing to acknowledge the equality of women in combat, women who were not warriors—ditto men who were not—were just seen as lesser creatures and dismissed.

  And since she wanted to be dismissed, she’d bear extra watching.

  Sighing, and with a full belly, I locked the door, stripped off my clothes and slipped into bed. I stretched out, expanding the indentation Elle had left on the bed and fell quickly to sleep. The thunderstorm that raged outside bled a bit into my dreams, transforming natural phenomena into the unnatural sights and sounds of war and yet somehow I slept through it all.

  The next morning dawned bright. With the storm’s fury spent, the clouds had dissipated and the city awoke to crews cleaning up the damage rather efficiently. I washed up and headed out, watching them for a bit, then finding a little family diner where I sucked down enough grease and preservatives to lube a ’Mech and keep me in shape to be piloting until I was Victor’s age. That thought actually brought a smile to my face, which the waitress returned along with more coffee and my bill.

  I strolled around the city, making mental notes about more targets and found plenty of them. Because of the lightning storms, most power and communications lines had been buried, but junction boxes existed everywhere. Had I a pocket full of plastic explosive and detonators, I could have cut one half of Manville off from the other during a casual walk.

  Looking around at the people out shopping and heading to and from work, I saw a lot of happy faces and heard a lot of laughter. These were good people. They probably worked hard, loved their friends and neighbors and were kind to animals. Their lives were pretty good.

  And if my plan went into effect, that would change.

  I knew my plan would work, and that made me very uneasy. I felt frustrated because I knew there was no way to defend against it. Actually, that’s not true, there was: deny the enemy a reason to attack. If no one had any grievances, they wouldn’t initiate terrorist activity. In our case, the grievance was one of a personal lust for power and money. While lots of folks want those things, few have enough in the way of resources to finance a revolution to acquire more.

  Where a terrorist group was determined to act, Low-Intensity Terrorism had no defense. As the government moved to give itself more tools to root out the terrorists, they would be depriving the citizenry of more personal freedoms, which would breed more dissatisfaction. If someone like Niemeyer toed the line but didn’t cross it, he’d have to be extremely lucky to stop the terrorists.

  LIT also hit the government and corporate concerns hard where they could feel it: in the wallet. All too often people are classified as consumers or constituents and dismissed. C-bills and stones, on the other hand, show up on spreadsheets and determine stock prices and bonuses. Once those numbers start showing up in red, jobs are in jeopardy and action has to be taken. Corporations will stem losses as they must, ethically or not. While some might hire more security personnel to guard their asse
ts, if we presented them with an economical plan where they could avoid that cost by buying themselves off our hit list, they’d choose our option.

  I thought hard as I walked. LIT would bring the Germaynes down. It would take several months, but their government would fall apart, and Emblyn would be able to slide in to replace them. He’d be happy and, who knows, perhaps he’d even be good for Basalt. I could certainly hope that, because the Germaynes were history.

  Of course, Emblyn’s taking control was predicated on his being Gypsy’s boss. I would have to confirm that. His taking over, however, wouldn’t quite be in keeping with my directive to preserve stability, unless, of course, the Germaynes were inherently unstable. I’d have to check into that, too.

  My stroll took me all over Manville. I ate lunch at a trendy little place on the ground floor of the city’s tallest building. All around me people talked investments, stocks, money, politics and, of course, sex. People blurt out things in public places when they think they’re in a private conversation, not aware that the person sitting in the booth behind them is actually closer to them than the person they are facing. It was the usual who was doing what with whom and her husband not knowing about it, and while I say it was the usual, and that I’ve heard it a million times before, it’s just one of those things which ends up being fascinating.

  Again, more of the cracks in the society made themselves apparent. Somehow it was more scandalous for a man to be going over to a Drac section of Manville to visit a house of ill repute, than his getting a “massage” at some cheap dive in a run-down Davion neighborhood down by the river. Those people were known to be dirty, after all, the whispered wisdom went, and they would couple with anything. The irony of one of the good folks being willing to lower himself was lost on these folks, but they fully succeeded in objectifying and dehumanizing people who, less than six months before, had been fellow citizens and friends.