"THEY CALL THEM FREE FIRE ZONES . . .
they're areas designated as belonging to the enemy. The rule is, anything in the area is enemy. Should be killed," Chick said.
"Body counts," whispered Masters.
"Direct hit, sir. I have no idea who determines the Free Fire Zones, or how. For all I know, villages bribe people to not declare theirs a Free Fire Zone."
"Are you serious?"
"Absolutely sir. I've got no proof. But I have yet to figure out what the hell makes a Free Fire Zone and what doesn't. Except that you need enough warm bodies to drive up a lance's count. We just kill people, and Blake and the Loyalists assure us we're doing the right thing." Chick raised his fingers to his eyes, giving a sharp sigh before continuing. "I keep shooting, but you know, you kill enough ten year olds. ..."
BATTLETECH
LE5309
IDEAL WAR
Christopher Kubasik
ROC
Published by the Penguin Croup
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.
First Printing, March, 1993 10 98765432 I
Series Editor: Donna Ippolito Cover: Boris Vallejo Interior illustrations: Laubenstein Mechanical drawings: FASA art staff
Copyright © FASA, 1993 All rights reserved
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BATTLETECH, FASA, and the distinctive BATTLETECH and FASA logos are trademarks of the FASA Corporation, 1026 W. Van Buren, Chicago, Illinois, 60507.
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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for this "stripped book."
For Joy, who, during a phone conversation on the subject of corpses, kept me on track about the matter of war.
A belated thanks to Jordan Weisman, L. Ross Babcock III, Sam Lewis, Donna Ippolito, and Tom Dowd for their faith and support. You helped my dreams become reality. What an extraordinary gift!
And big kudos to all the folks who provided inspiration for the farcical elements and obscene tragedies sprinkled throughout the book: the Viet Cong, the ARVN, the wacky Diem clan, a group of U.S. presidents with more hubris than historical perspective (the French warned us), and finally, Robert McNamara, William Westmoreland, and the ladder climbers at the Pentagon (c. 1960s) who somehow got the notion you could fight a war like taking a final for an M.B.A degree. Thanks guys, I couldn't have written the book without you.
Part 1
POLITICS
1
Marik Palace, Atreus
Marik Commonwealth, Free Worlds League
19 May 3054
A dozen candles lit the study, their flames painting broad, flickering swaths of golden light all around them. The rest of the room remained hidden in inky darkness—like space, Paul Masters thought. His dinner companion and host, Captain-General Thomas Marik, head of House Marik, ruler of the Marik Commonwealth, and military commander of the Free Worlds League, must have chosen the Gothic lighting to match his brooding temperament. His friend's odd ways both charmed and unnerved Paul, just as they did everyone Thomas had encountered since assuming the reins of the Marik Commonwealth years earlier.
Some patches of candlelight illuminated shelves holding worn and ancient books. Among the eerie shadows were several unique items . . . small statues of the human body, design models of BattleMechs and JumpShips, and one especially fascinating piece of ancient technology—an early artificial heart.
The light partially illuminated several glass-framed items hanging on the walls—swirling oil paintings, clever holographs, and ancient blueprints, including Thomas' prized possession: a replica of the Kitty Hawk flight plans from almost a dozen centuries earlier. Masters had never given thought to the first airplane flight until the day Thomas recounted the story of those first few seconds of man's journey away from solid ground, his eyes shining like a boy's.
The hour had grown late, and they could no longer hear the steps of servants beyond the door nor the forced laughter of courtiers wandering through the palace corridors. The room's heavy curtains were open just enough to reveal the night sky and its thick blanket of stars. In the near obscurity Masters precariously cut into his roast meat and tried to spear buttered chunks of boiled potato while hearing Thomas' silverware also ringing softly against the china plates.
"Must we eat in the dark?" Masters asked.
"Dark rooms for dark thoughts," Thomas said, like a ham actor playing a ham ruler.
Masters laughed. "Dark rooms for dark deeds," he countered.
"Dark rooms to better show a flicker of illumination, to reveal the slight flame that might otherwise be missed in the bright and busy light of day."
"As ever, Thomas, you're the only man of imagination I know."
"Not a particularly valuable commodity these days."
"No. The lemmings are caught up in what they believe to be the sweep of history. They have no idea that we make it."
"Exactly," Thomas said emphatically, then he paused, as though reflecting on a new thought. "What is a lemming, Paul? Have you any idea? I've heard and used the expression all my life, but I just realized I haven't a clue what one actually is."
"A lemming is . . . ," Masters began, then was startled to realize he didn't know either. "No idea. A mythical animal maybe. Aren't they creatures who throw themselves off cliffs because everyone else is doing it? I don't know. Maybe they came from some joke the Romans made about Christians hell-bent for martyrdom in the Colosseum."
"Ah! Bread and circuses," Thomas said, as if struck by a sudden inspiration. "Maybe that's what would sate the blood-lust of my people."
"Not your style, my friend. You'd end up sitting on your throne weeping for anyone dumped into the arena. Spoil the whole effect."
"True."
"Besides, you don't need bread and circuses. Your people are content. The last major interstellar war was fought on the other side of the Inner Sphere, and the Fourth Succession War barely touched us either. Even the Andurien revolt wasn't so bad. It dragged out too long, but it wasn't a major conflict."
"Exactly. My people, sir, are bored. They have forgotten. They want blood back in their lives. Happens every generation or so, from what I've been able to deduce."
"Just like lemmings?"
"A leit motif? So soon into the meal? Delightful!"
"But nothing to brag about. Our minds are caught in loops. You and I fret about the same ideas every day, no matter what form the day takes
."
Thomas paused, reflecting again. "But are our concerns valid?"
In the darkness Masters shrugged and cut more meat. "As long as they remain merely our concerns, what does it matter?"
"But if we bring them to others?"
"Ah."
"Ah, what?" Thomas put his utensils down. "Paul, things are very bad. It's true that we haven't had a horrible war for some time. But ..." Thomas broke off, and remained silent while one of his ancient face-clocks ticked away loudly somewhere in the room. Masters looked at his friend, even in the dim light perceiving the burn marks, scars from the assassin's bomb that had killed Thomas' father and older brother almost 20 years ago. Thomas had never tried to have the scars removed.
In all the years Masters had never asked why, assuming it was something very private that could not be spoken. Thomas' version of a hair shirt, Masters guessed, a constant reminder of his awful imperfection to keep him humble. No matter that his friend reigned over hundreds of worlds, he would never let it go to his head.
"I believe we are at a crossroads," Thomas said finally. "Everything is at stake now. Or, at least, once again. I've been going over reports of the Clan invasion. . . ."
"Whose?"
"Word of Blake's. When they settled on Gibson, I asked to see the war reports they'd compiled. They hesitated. I asked again. They waffled. I asked once more. They lost them in a bureaucratic shuffle. I told them I'd throw them out of the Free Worlds League to wander the stars forever if they didn't damn well please me. They relented."
"And?"
"Complete nonsense."
"What?"
"Well, perhaps I should say I don't understand the documents. I've read all the damn books. I've led battles, drilled with you in BattleMechs. And I've never seen anything like what they sent me. Numbers. Nothing but numbers. Pages and pages of numbers. Tables and tabulations and hundreds of ratios."
"Lists of the dead?"
"Nothing so romantic. Not a proper name to be found. But a victory might be explained in terms such as, 'The above data shows that combat profit was inevitable, given the attrition ratios possible and so on and so on.' "
"Losses?"
" 'As the above data shows, a combat debit was inevitable. . . .' "
"Combat debit? Combat profit? What does that. . . ?"
"A win and a loss, I believe. But Word of Blake depended on these numbers to justify the conclusions, and I swear I have no idea how they supported them."
"Thomas, no offense, but your combat experience is limited and you did start late in life."
"Humor me for a moment, Paul. I should be able to handle some post-action reports. Einstein said if you can't explain what you're doing, it isn't worth doing. Well, I've given tens of thousands of religious zealots refuge with the borders, promising them refuge and a new home, and they can't explain to me how they fought a war. That worries me. And this is the strange part. The document is written almost as a scientific report. I'm from their tradition. I should understand it."
"Well, there's your problem. War isn't a science. It's an art."
"So you and that Prussian of yours keep insisting. I much prefer science. Clean. Simple."
"And part of your past. You're with us messy soldiers and ugly politicians now."
"God, yes. How did I end up here?"
"I know it was never proved," Paul said, "but might it have something to do with a cousin killing your father and brother?"
Thomas picked up his wine glass. "Oh, that's right. Thank you for reminding me, Captain Masters. Successor House family gatherings. God, how I hate what I'm a part of."
"And you may well be one of the most miserable of the Successor Lords."
"Thank you again."
"Well, it's clear the Davions, Kuritas, Liaos, and Steiners all revel in being wealthy megalomaniacs. It makes me wonder what your problem is. But if we might leave your misery for a moment and return to war. I've always considered ComStar, and now Word of Blake, rather odd. I probably wouldn't understand a report they wrote either, and I'd wager neither would most people in the Inner Sphere. And most of us would accept that as normal. The True Believers are secretive and strange."
"Yes. But again, I studied with these people until my father's death. They were my family. More important, I believe the report reflects changes coming to war across the Inner Sphere. This isn't just about ComStar and Word of Blake. I can't put my finger on it."
Masters took a sip of wine. "I'm not sure this ties in, but the reports I've been reading show that the intensity and pace of combat have increased rapidly over the last thirty years. The Fourth Succession War was especially fierce."
"Exactly. War is changing. It's not anything we haven't seen before in the history of the human race, but we're building back up to levels that were lost to us for generations. Humanity has almost destroyed itself several times over, and if I have anything to say about it, it's not going to happen this time around. But to do that I need to gather more power. Not economic power. My God, we must already look like a fat, succulent pig to the rest of the Inner Sphere. No, we need political power. The Free Worlds League is the only balkanized Successor State. That must change."
"Yes, your counterparts are definitely more opportunistic than you."
"Which is why I've got to make us look less like an opportunity. I don't feel any need to go conquer the seedy little maggots. I just want them to leave the Free Worlds League alone so we can get our affairs in order. And I think your plan to create an elite class of MechWarriors will help."
Masters froze, his fork poised just short of his mouth. He'd proposed the plan a year earlier, but had never thought Thomas would accept it. The political tradition of the Free Worlds League was a parliamentary republic. The creation of a military ruling class would not sit well with most of the League's member-worlds. "You're serious?"
"I've never been more serious. I see no other way. We're beginning to recover technology lost after the collapse of the Star League. People will want to grab the new kinds of weapons now possible and shove them down the throats of their enemies.'do what has to be done to win,' and so forth. And even without that, you're right about the tempo and intensity of warfare increasing. It's been happening for decades, and with the release of ComStar's ancient technology files and the discovery of the weapons cache by the Gray Death Legion, it's only going to increase more. We could all be in great trouble very soon. The Ares Conventions are now only a battlefield for lawyers. The code of honor among Mech Warriors is disintegrating. Tactical nukes might well return."
The thought of nuclear weapons brought Thomas to a sudden dead stop. When he began to speak again, his voice was very quiet. "I don't think I will ever forgive ComStar for releasing the technical files. They broke their oath. The files should have remained secret forever."
"Well, the weapons were already around. It isn't just access to the files."
Thomas seemed not to hear.
"Heresy. Pure heresy."
Masters didn't know what to say. Thomas, like all those trained within the mystical ranks of ComStar, seldom mentioned the religion to non-believers. "Thomas? What do you want me to do?"
"I received word from New Avalon today. ..."
Masters' right hand tightened. "Joshua?"
"He still lives," Thomas said softly. "They tell me the leukemia is in remission." He laughed. "We travel the stars, and yet my son is dying from a disease our species has been trying to defeat for more than a thousand years. A thousand years." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "I thought about him today, before you arrived, as I thought about moving forward with this plan. I remembered when I first held Joshua in my arms eight years ago, when he was first born. And since that time I have seen so little of him."
Thomas drew in a sharp breath. "He seemed so perfect at that moment. Flawless. He had no sins upon his soul, no evil intent in his mind. No one had done him harm, and nothing had tempted him. I thought that if I were a good father, I would be able to k
eep him safe from everything. I thought, 'This boy will grow up well-protected. I will teach him properly. I will teach him how to love, how to fight for the good of humanity, how to protect himself. He will be amazing. I will keep him safe from all the pain and disease and scars that have plagued me.' But of course ... we all have visions of possible good, but so little ever works out."
He stopped and pushed his plate out of the way as he leaned across the table. His voice became conspiratorial. "What I am suggesting, Paul, is for a good reason. It is also very dangerous. A military ruling class is something I would have vehemently opposed just ten years ago. Can you promise me it will not become tainted? That our good intentions will not be perverted into something to bring us sorrow in years to come?"
"I can't promise you that. You know that the Free Worlds League has always been balanced between a parliamentary democracy and military feudalism." Masters weighed his next words carefully. "But I truly believe the only way we can stop war's technology from escalating is to put power solely in the hands of the MechWarriors. Not soldiers, and definitely not technocrats. MechWarriors alone. Because MechWarriors have a very palpable reason for wanting to prevent military technology from increasing in scope: it would make us warriors obsolete. Atomics would certainly spell the end of 'Mech warfare. To avert disaster, we need to gather strength under your rule. We need to re-establish the conventions of war. Such a concentration of power in the hands of MechWarriors would accomplish these goals."
"No guarantees?"
"No, sir."
"I suspected. I knew." Thomas sighed. "ComStar was so much more peaceful."
"The old days."
"How I miss my youth."
It worried Masters to hear Thomas wander on. It was so unlike him. "Sir?"
"I'm all right, Paul. I'm simply avoiding the necessity of raising something unpleasant with you. Rather, I think it's glorious, but you might find it so ludicrous that this conversation might become unpleasant."
"I doubt that."
Ideal War Page 1
