Ideal War

by Christopher Kubasik

  For a moment Masters thought he might laugh, but he restrained the impulse. "I thought the war had been going on for nearly a year," he said.

  Ibn Sa'ud stared back, his face blank, then burst out laughing. "Yes, yes." Then immediately he became serious again. "But now we will truly make war. We will drive them into their graves."

  Ibn Sa'ud's words were vague enough that Masters almost asked exactly who it was they were going to drive into graves, but he decided to hold his tongue. "I was told by the Precentor Martial you would explain procedure to me."

  "Oh, yes? Well, tonight we go on a search-and-destroy. Excellent strategy." The man almost bounced up and down in his seat like a child.

  "I've never heard of it before."

  Ibn Sa'ud smiled and brought his stick down on the desk with a sharp thwack that made Masters jump. Ibn Sa'ud stood. "Ah! The key, you see, is the enemy."

  "The key is the enemy!"

  "Yes. We don't know where they are, how they move, what they are up to. So we send the mercenary squads out into the forests to find them." He placed his pointer against one of the maps, and moved it across the surface as if demonstrating the search. The tip of the stick ran through the city of Portent, and, according to the scale of the map, the troops searched a good three hundred kilometers in a straight direction.

  "You just said we don't know where they are. How can our troops find them?"

  "They find us." He gave a smug smile.

  "They find us?"

  "They're quite good at it, actually."

  "We send patrols out at night to be found?"

  "And then we know where the guerrillas are."

  "What does the GFL do when they find our troops."

  Ibn Sa'ud looked at Masters carefully. "Well, they attack, of course."

  "So we send our troops out. The GFL finds them and attacks. Now we know where they are."

  "Precisely."

  "We send our troops out to be ambushed?"

  "Yes!" Another thwack of the stick against the desk.

  "Is that it?"

  "Tsk, tsk. Not at all. Then you, with your BattleMech lance, rush in, and cut the enemy down. Your firepower is most impressive, and you always win against the remaining Goffels."

  "The remaining Goffels?"

  "Of course. You don't think they'll just wait around for you to show up and cut them up do you?"

  "Of course not."

  "Precisely!"

  "What about our troops?"

  "What about them?"

  "What happens to them?"

  "They leave as soon as you arrive."

  "But before that."

  "They engage the enemy."

  "They wander around the forest, get attacked, defend themselves as best they can until the 'Mechs arrive?"

  "Yes."

  "That's insane."

  Ibn Sa'ud suddenly looked tired, his enthusiasm leaving as if he'd sprung a leak. "It is an insane war."

  The fury worked up during his talk with Arian boiled within Masters again. "Yes, because we're making it insane!"

  "No. It is simply insane. We are only following suit."

  "How can it simply be insane? Someone has to make it so."

  "Who would do that?"

  Masters cocked his head and looked at the man. He seriously wanted to know. "We are doing that."

  "Why would we do that?"

  "I don't know. I just arrived."

  "Then how do you know we are making it insane?"

  Masters opened his mouth to speak, but his vocal chords panicked, uncertain of how to proceed, and he emitted only a gravelly squeak.

  "Would you like some water?"

  "No. Thank you. What do your men think of the plan?"

  "Which plan?"

  "The search-and-destroy."

  "They think it is marvelous. Many Goffels are killed."

  "So they like being used as bait?"

  "Oh, no. My men don't go on the search-and-destroy."

  "They don't?"

  "The mercenaries go. My troops are too valuable."

  "They are?"

  "I have orders from Principal Hsiang. We are not to engage the enemy."

  "WHAT?" Now it was Masters' turn to slam the desk, his hands open and flat.

  Ibn Sa'ud jumped back. "Is something wrong?"

  "What does Precentor Martial Arian think of this?"

  "Think of what?"

  "All of it? The fact that you don't engage the enemy. The fact that you're taking orders from Hsiang. What does Hsiang have to do with any of this?"

  Ibn Sa'ud looked solemn and raised his eyes heavenward. "He is my king."

  "He's an elected leader."

  "He is my king."

  "All right. Why did he tell you not to engage the enemy?"

  "We must be ready to fall back to Portent in case the Goffels attack."

  Masters blinked three times. "Then why are you here?"

  "To work with the Word of Blake forces. It is our war, after all."

  "Yes." Masters paused, uncertain how to proceed. "Doesn't this affect the mercenaries' morale?"

  "Who cares?" Ibn Sa'ud leaned forward, whispering slyly. "Word of Blake and Hsiang and Countess Dystar are all rich."

  "All right. I've got to go now. I'll see you later."

  Ibn Sa'ud looked upset. "Where are you going? We're officers. We work together. Here. In the office."

  "I've got to go check on my 'Mech. Make sure it's all right."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive."

  "Well, then." Ibn Sa'ud stood and saluted. "See you later." Masters did the same.

  As Masters walked out the door, he turned for a last look. Ibn Sa'ud was already back in his chair, sound asleep.

  11

  Nagasaki Valley, Gibson

  Principality of Gibson, Free Worlds League

  23 January 3055

  He found Chick at the outpost's mess hall, a small tent containing three tables lined with benches. Chick was sitting with a group of mercenaries, and from the way everyone was leaning in toward him, it looked like he was telling a story. The group exploded in laughter, then they noticed Masters, and the laughter stopped. "Could I have a word with you, Sergeant?" Masters asked.

  The group looked at Chick expectantly, as if sizing up his loyalty. Chick looked back at them as if to reassure them, then said, "Yes, sir."

  Masters led him out of the mess and to a clear area away from all ears.

  "Sergeant, these search-and-destroy missions, could you give me your impression of them."

  "Sir?"

  "Please. I'm new here. I need to learn as much as possible about how the True Believers are fighting the war."

  "I'm not sure what you want to hear, sir."

  "I don't want to hear anything, Chick. I want your evaluation of the search-and-destroy missions. Do they work? How do they work? Are they bad? How are they bad?"

  Chick shifted nervously, reminding Masters of Maid Kris back at the castle.

  "Sergeant, I'm not trying to trick you. I need to know more about how the war is being waged. Pretend I know nothing about it, because I'm new here and know very little."

  Chick looked into Masters' eyes, trying to decide whether to trust him. "You're not taking this to them?"

  "Them?"

  "Word of Blake, sir. Or the Loyalists."

  "You're all on the same side, right, Sergeant?"

  "I'd much prefer it that way, sir. But I can't say that's always the case. Or we—the mercenaries—don't always see it that way."

  "No, then. This is just for me. I have to learn because if I don't, whatever is happening here on Gibson is going to keep happening."

  Chick licked his lips like someone about to confess to a priest. Then the words rushed out, low and soft, with careful glances to make sure no one was near.

  "Night movement. It's a suicide patrol, sir. It's the worst patrol you can go out on. The purpose is for us to walk up on Goffels and get hit by them, and then for
the 'Mechs to come up and wipe them out. We're bait to draw them out. That's all we are. Bait." Chick's hands shook as he continued. "Captain Mort, before you, sir, before Verner bought it, he sent us out there to find a regiment. He knew one was out there. He wasn't looking for a handful of Goffels. He wanted us to hit the big time. The Goffels would wipe us out, and then he'd come running in with the 'Mechs and waste the Goffels. One night it worked. I lost almost everybody. He got a huge body count. Got sent up the ladder with a medal."

  "Body count?"

  Chick looked at him with surprise. "Didn't anybody tell you which circle you stepped into, sir? Body counts are how Blake is keeping score. Here." He rummaged around his front pocket and pulled out a worn sheet of paper folded into quarters. Masters unfolded it and turned it to the light.

  "Promotion Tabulation Chart," it said at the top. Then the words, "Points awarded for the following" and a list:

  10—each possible body count

  10—each 50 kilos of rice

  10—each 50 kilos of salt

  20—each mortar round collected

  50—each enemy individual weapon captured

  100—each enemy crew-served weapon captured

  1,000—each prisoner of war

  The next line read, "Points deducted for the following," and another list:

  20—each mercenary wounded in action

  40—each Gibson loyalist wounded in action

  50—each True Believer wounded in action

  200—each mercenary killed in action

  400—each Gibson loyalist killed in action

  500—each True Believer killed in action

  "What is this?"

  "It's the scorecard, sir. The Blakes use it to reward infantry and MechWarriors. Blake officers get promotions based on these scores."

  "No."

  "Yes. They go nuts when the bodies don't come in fast enough. Mort, he pushed us hard. We went on search-and-destroys constantly. Competition's stiff. There's a shortage of positions for career-minded officers. You got just over a hundred True Believer-run battalions for some seven hundred-fifty lieutenant colonels. They're knocking themselves out sending us out to collect body counts."

  Masters searched Chick's eyes. "What are you people doing here? This isn't your fight. What are your mercs doing on Gibson?"

  "Well, I'll tell you. Most of these kids aren't pros. I've got combat experience way back. But these greens, some of them never saw a gun before."

  "What are they doing here?"

  "They're hungry. A lot of them got families back on their home worlds. They took a job. The pay's good. They figure, Word of Blake against a bunch of farmers, no problem. But it's a problem, cause these tabs don't give a damn about them. These kids are rungs in the ladder for them. If they lose a few along the way, what the hell does it matter? Buy a new ladder, that's all. Me, I spend as much time as I can just trying to keep them alive."

  "I'm surprised there aren't mass desertions."

  "Where're they going to go? They're on another world. There's nowhere to go."

  "What do you do when you engage? On these search-and-destroys."

  Chick snorted. "Engage? Sir, there are only twelve of us. We get sent out in small groups. Cover more ground that way. Like dogs out hunting, flushing game out of the brush. We do the only thing we can. We radio for help. We try to stay alive."

  "We're supposed to be going out tonight."

  "I know, sir."

  "What do you think about that?" Chick only shook his head.

  "All right. Thank you very much for your time. Where can I find the other MechWarriors."

  Chick smiled. "Well, Belgrade and Valentine are probably in that shack over there. And Tinman—well, I think you better talk to them about him, sir."

  "Tinman?"

  "Spinard. We call him Tinman. He's fond of his 'Mech. You might find him in his 'Mech or with Belgrade and Valentine."

  "I'll see you in an hour."

  "Yes, sir."

  Chick walked off toward the mess hall, and Masters crossed the compound toward the MechWarrior quarters. The sky had darkened completely and the stars were shining brightly. He looked up at the sky and remembered the night of the ceremony. Where was Atreus? He didn't know the stars in Gibson's night sky. Perspective changed too much with space travel; one trip through hyperspace and you couldn't find your way home.

  * * *

  He knocked on the door.

  "Come in!" shouted a woman's voice.

  He opened the door and entered. A man lay on a cot reading. On another cot a woman played solitaire. Each one looked up casually, saw Masters, and scrambled off their cots to attention. Both saluted.

  "At ease. Sir Masters. Pleasure to meet the both of you."

  "Private Belgrade," said the man.

  "Lieutenant Valentine," said the woman.

  They were in their twenties, well-scrubbed and bright-eyed. True Believers.

  "Where's . . . Spinard?"

  "Here, sir," a voice said from the shadows.

  From a dark corner of the barracks a man emerged. He was stocky and carried, himself as if set to block a punch. From the look of him, he'd either just awakened or else gone without sleep for a week. "Are you all right, Private?"

  "Sir, yes, sir." His voice was tired, but without any trace of concern for himself.

  Masters believed that Spinard truly thought he was fine. He glanced at Belgrade and Valentine, who merely shrugged their shoulders when they met his gaze.

  "All right. We're going out on the search-and-destroy in under an hour. I want everyone in their 'Mechs at ten-forty-five."

  "Yes, sir," the three MechWarriors said.

  "Belgrade. Could I have a word with you?"

  Masters left the barracks and Belgrade followed him a short distance from the building. "Is Private Spinard all right?" Masters asked.

  "In what capacity do you mean, sir?"

  "What capacity do I mean? What are my choices?"

  "Lieutenant Spinard is one of the most effective combatants we have had at this post. His body count totals often surpass—"

  "His well-being. His mental well-being. How's that?"

  "He is a fine soldier. ..."

  "What is his mental state?"

  "Borderline schizophrenic, off the top of my head. Sir. But I really don't know much about—"

  "Do you consider this a problem?"

  "For him? Or for his capabilities as a soldier?"

  Masters raised a hand to his face and rubbed his forehead. "We're obviously from two different schools. It's possible for a man or a woman to be a wreck but be a competent soldier?"

  "He's not a wreck, sir."

  "I'm using an extreme case, Lieutenant," Masters said tersely.

  "Well, I suggest once again that Lieutenant Spinard has an excellent kill record. I hardly think his abilities as a soldier are currently impaired."

  "So you're judging his performance as a soldier completely by his number of kills?"

  Belgrade cocked his head slightly to one side, truly curious. "What other objective standard is there to judge by, sir?"

  "Never mind. Get set. Let's see how this all works."

  Belgrade left. Masters stood alone for a moment. Before he could complain to Thomas about the absurdity of the war, he'd have to see it all with his own eyes.

  * * *

  Masters walked across the 'Mech holding field. Valentine was waiting at the base of her Blackjack. Belgrade was climbing up the ladder to his Shadow Hawk's cockpit. Spinard's Hatchetman already hummed with mechanical life.

  Reaching his Phoenix Hawk, Masters placed his hands on the rungs. They were smooth to his touch, well-worn after many years of use. Hand over hand he climbed to the top of the 'Mech and slid through the hatch into his cockpit. He got into his cooling vest and neurohelmet, then spoke the secret code that would allow him to operate the machine. As the control console came on, a swath of colored lights—reds, greens, and blues—cut across the darkne
ss and washed over his hands. "All right. Let's do it."

  Chick's voice came over the radio. "First Squad H-craft ready, sir."

  Sergeant Donald said the Second Squad was ready, and Peterson reported in for the Fifth.

  "All right. Move out."

  Masters tapped a button that brought up his short-range screen. Blue dots appeared for the hovercraft moving north from the center of the screen. He looked out his cockpit faceplate and saw only the moonlit tops of the trees around the base. Looking back at the monitor, he saw that the hovercraft had already split up. After four hundred meters he clicked his screen to long-range.

  "Masters' Lance, this is Phoenix Hawk One. Let's get down the hill and wait for contact."

  He pressed the left pedal lightly and the 'Mech turned to face the slope leading down from the base. Then he pushed the throttle forward to walk the Phoenix Hawk toward the slope, one massive footstep after another. Passing the infantry troops guarding the base's gate, he thought they looked terribly fragile and tiny in the dim lights of the base.

  Glancing at his screen he saw the other three 'Mechs, blue squares on the screen, following tightly behind him. He opened a channel to them. "The report I read said we're looking for a GFL platoon in this area."

  "That's what we understand," said Valentine, her voice calm. "They raided a town called Horns last week. Destroyed a portion of a production facility."

  Amazing. It was as if the people on this planet had never heard of the Ares Conventions. "Valentine, was it the Gibsonians' habit to attack industrial facilities before or after your people arrived?"

  "I really don't know, sir."

  "You don't know?"

  A pause. "I don't think so, sir."

  "How can you not know? Didn't you bother to find out?"

  "The fighting, I believe, had been going on for some time before Word of Blake's arrival. I really don't know how the fighting was conducted before our arrival."

  "Before your arrival? I thought the arrival of the True Believers was what set off the war."

  "Sir," said Chick. He spoke very softly, and Masters had to turn up the volume of his speakers. "We're at our drop points now. We're taking it on foot." Now the display showed the three hovercraft stopped several kilometers out from the base.