The Ruins Of Power mda-3

by Robert E Varderman

  “Why are we here?” grumbled Barnaby. “Bread and circuses? You think this will keep all the demonstrators in check?”

  “They might take a few minutes out from pillaging to see how effectively the Legate can end their protests, should he decide to do so.”

  “You want that as the opening statement?” asked her director.

  “No.” Elora panicked a little. “Bethany’s got her script. Let her begin when she’s ready.”

  Elora had got so engrossed in studying the landscape, being certain her cameras were properly positioned to cover every detail of the exercise, that she had been thinking out loud.

  “She’s on,” Barnaby said, switching to a remote camera feed of a svelte blond woman dressed in camouflage. “I hope Bethany can remember where the cameras are. She keeps getting the shot wrong.”

  “The Governor and Envoy are arriving,” Elora said, her heart beating a trifle faster. “After her intro, have Bethany interview them,” she told Barnaby. From their expressions, she could tell that the Baron and Parsons were not exchanging pleasantries.

  “Cutting to the remote,” Barnaby said.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the reporter said cheerfully. “What are your thoughts on today’s war games?”

  Sergio Ortega stiffened. “I feel it’s a waste of time, money, and effort.”

  Such bluntness from a politician startled Bethany.

  “She’s going to blow it. She didn’t expect that from the Baron and doesn’t know how to follow up,” grumbled Barnaby. He worked to feed the reporter new information over her earphone.

  “Is it true that today will be the last unit exercise for the First Cossack Lancers? That you are transferring them to Legate Tortorelli’s authority, Governor Ortega?”

  “Yes,” he said, leaving the inexperienced reporter to fumble with another question.

  “Envoy Parsons,” she said, turning quickly from Sergio, “whom do you expect to win today?”

  “Muscles must be tested to be strengthened,” Parsons said. “I look forward to a contest where the best unit will prevail.”

  “How are you betting, Envoy? On the regular forces or the First Cossack Lancers?”

  “Ask me afterward,” Parsons said, smiling benignly.

  Elora sent Barnaby the signal to cut the feed. He transferred the view to cameras darting about the training field, relieving Bethany of the need to pursue her questioning further.

  “Are there cameras on the battlefield that can pick up the units commanded by the Baron’s sons?” asked Elora. Barnaby nodded, busy with the work of finding the proper angles and views for the audience.

  Elora went to the end of the director’s console, dialed in an access code on a comm-unit, and hesitated, taking a minute to reflect on how this would change the balance of power on Mirach. Then she pressed theSEND button.

  “What’re you doing?” asked Barnaby.

  “Nothing to concern you,” Elora said lightly. “Just checking on preparedness.”

  “I can get a cam out anywhere in a quarter-million-hectare field. You don’t have to position them yourself.”

  Elora smiled. He thought she was stealing his thunder as director. Instead, she was delivering thunder. Soon.

  “Barnaby, Barnaby,” she chided. “You are so conscientious. Don’t worry. The day will be yours. The action is out there, not here.” She glanced at the knot of politicians watching soldiers running computer simulations on their command computer screens. Elora knew it was better if she remained here, where her duties might be explained, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to be in the middle of the action.

  “Get me a car. I want to watch the rest of the exercise with the Legate and his staff.”

  Barnaby grunted, spent a few seconds relaying the request, then pointed as a camera truck rolled up.

  “That’ll take you to the Legate’s command bunker.” His relief at getting rid of her was so obvious Elora had to laugh. She chuckled the entire way to Calvilena Tortorelli’s post. When things worked well, it meant her careful planning had paid off. The truck slewed to a halt a dozen meters from a guard point and Elora piled out.

  Walking with just a small thrust to her hip, she showed her ID to the guard and hurried to the bunker in time to peer over the Legate’s shoulder as he moved 3-D computer-generated miniatures of the actual units across a glowing topographic map. Neither Sergio nor Parsons took notice of her. Elora stepped to one side to better watch the Baron.

  “You’re not directing your troops personally, are you, Legate?” asked Sergio. “You have a complete layout of both sides.”

  “In an actual fight, this would be what we’d strive for, Baron,” Tortorelli said. “This time, the field units are independent. We only monitor the overall progress here, not direct it. Otherwise, the Envoy might miss some of the action.”

  “Why, yes, wouldn’t want to do that,” Parsons said. His attention drifted away from the computer display, but Elora couldn’t tell what the man sought—or what he was thinking. “It’s always good to get the big picture.”

  “The exercise will begin in a few minutes,” Tortorelli said. “Here are the basics. My Home Guard unit is comprised of four Behemoth II Tanks, four Condors, four JES Tactical Missile Carriers, and infantry in APCs. The company of Hauberk battle armor is arrayed at the edges, while the real firepower is massed in the center of my line. The tank initial barrage will flush out opposition, allowing all the battle-armored soldiers to get a fix on opposition locations and numbers. After the intel is gathered, the battle armor advances under covering missile fire and wipes out the FCL.”

  “What of the infantry? Do they simply sit and send postcards home to their loved ones?” asked Parsons. Elora looked at the man. The comment carried more than a hint of criticism with it. She had tried to find out something of the Envoy’s background and had failed. He might or might not be of noble birth, but what was his training? He knew something of tactics—or did he just guess that Tortorelli didn’t?

  “Support. If the battle armor finds the going too hard, the tanks move in and support an all-out infantry assault. We attack rather than defend the field HQ.” Tortorelli looked pleased with himself.

  “And the First Cossack Lancers?” asked Parsons. The Envoy leaned forward, craned his neck, and studied how Captain Leclerc positioned his forces.

  “They lack tanks, but have a higher percentage of soldiers in battle armor.”

  “This is a Mobile Tactical HQ?” asked Parsons, pointing to a glowing white star on the top of a small vehicle.

  “Manfred Leclerc demanded that he purchase it,” Sergio said. “It’s a white elephant, if you ask me. Whenever I travel, it has to be loaded onto a transport. Leclerc insists that it arrive before me, so a protective screen can be in place.”

  “It’s a powerful coordinating center in the field,” admitted Tortorelli, “but it cannot compare with my dispersed command. Every unit commander is free to act on his or her own to acquire targets and achieve goals set by my field commandant.”

  “So you require less coordination once the fight starts?” asked Parsons. “An interesting, no, might I say, novel approach. This is not unlike having a dozen vigilante groups thrown onto the field.”

  “I—” Tortorelli wasn’t sure how to answer because of the way Parsons phrased his comment. He swallowed, then said loudly to cover his confusion, “Give the signal for Operation Kaiser to begin!”

  Elora stepped forward, a smile on her lips. Her own offensive had begun much earlier.

  “This is ridiculous, Dale,” Manfred Leclerc said angrily. “You don’t belong here. Take off. I’ll send the truce signal and—”

  “What would you want me to do, Captain? I’m not going to miss the unit’s last official mobilization. After today, the FCL is a footnote in history books.”

  “I know how you feel about the unit,” Manfred said, “but you haven’t given yourself time enough to come to grips with Hanna’s death.” He lowered his voi
ce a little as he looked at Austin. “Austin tells me you’re not convinced it was an accident.”

  “They haven’t caught the driver yet, and it was a stolen car. Hanna died because—” Dale bit off his words. “I can do my job, Captain Leclerc,” Dale said stiffly. “I don’t care what you or my brother say.”

  “Please, Dale,” begged Austin, but he saw his brother wasn’t going to budge. He certainly didn’t blame him. Their father had given the order for the FCL transfer immediately after this exercise.

  “It’s not that you’re incapable, Lieutenant Ortega,” Manfred said. He heaved a sigh of resignation. “Get into the TacCom mobile. We’ll need to know where they are, since they outnumber us more than two to one in battle armor.”

  “I’ll keep after their tanks, too,” Dale said, a slight smile coming to his lips. “I know my job. In fact, no one’s better at it.”

  “Get out of here,” Manfred said gruffly. “As to you,” he said to Austin, “get into your battle armor!”

  “Right away, Captain!” Austin said, snapping a quick salute. He had scant time to get into his Purifier armor. Already dressed in the tight-fitting bodysuit that was slick on the outside and lined with cooling tubes inside, he felt like he was ready to settle into a BattleMech cockpit. But it was only battle armor.

  Only.

  Austin knew how effective the armor could be when used by expert fighters. He felt confident in his armor but still wished he had a ’Mech around him.

  “You ready, Lieutenant?” asked Jurgen, his technician. The man had brought up the mobile loading unit holding the opened battle armor.

  “Ready,” Austin said, scrambling up, slipping around, and thrusting his legs down into the armor. It fit like a comfortable pair of pants until Jurgen cranked down the fitting mechanism and it collapsed around him from the waist down. Then he worked his way into the torso unit, letting Jurgen guide the breastplate into place.

  “Getting feedback on your bodysuit sensors, sir,” reported Jurgen, checking his readouts. “All circuits go.”

  Austin kept adding segments and Jurgen called out approval each time. They didn’t rush, but they maintained a steady pace that soon brought Austin to the point of checking his weapons.

  Calibration went well, but he chafed at not having real weapons. The rules of engagement today were to shoot blanks, missiles with paint spatter warheads. No energy weapons. Autocannon with paint bullets. All playacting.

  “Want to rip off a salvo to make sure your SRMs work, Lieutenant? It’s jury-rigged, since I had to disconnect your lasers for this exercise.”

  Austin stretched, used his HUD to be sure the targeting matched where the missiles would go, then gave Jurgen the thumbs-up.

  “Jumppacks good to go, too, sir,” Jurgen said.

  Myomer muscles straining, Austin moved about, turning, twisting the one-ton battle armor about, and found movement only slightly more restricted than without. “A perfect fit,” he told Jurgen.

  “Thanks, sir. Go paint those bastards good, for the glory of the First Cossack Lancers!”

  Austin smiled, then walked briskly to take his position. The FCL had limited personnel, but he was pleased to see that Master Sergeant Borodin already had the company assembled and psyched for the mock fight.

  “Good to see I drew you, Lieutenant,” Borodin said. “I hate these so-called exercises. No real missiles, just marker-equipped projectiles. No lasers or PPC, no Gauss rifles. We just throw dye markers at each other and pretend it matters.”

  “Those are the rules, Master Sergeant,” Austin said. Everyone shared this contempt for the rules Legate Tortorelli had posted. And everyone in the FCL knew this was the last time they were likely to work as a unit. No one thought Tortorelli would keep them together after their transfer to his command.

  “Captain Leclerc,” Austin reported on a command circuit. “Alpha Company ready!”

  “Follow the battle plan and we will win!” came Manfred’s encouragement. Then the captain keyed into Austin’s private channel. “Don’t worry about Dale,” Manfred said. “He can keep things humming along in the TacCom. I’m taking a Shandra out and will relay back what I can see. From what I’ve seen so far, Tortorelli’s so-called tactics make me think he fielded the wrong units.”

  “What have you spotted, Captain?” Austin heard the private circuit click to the officer command channel again. What Manfred said now went to all four of the company commanders.

  “No energy weapons,” said Manfred, “means their Condor tanks with SRMs are going to give us the most trouble. The Condors are fast. The Behemoths would be better used against defensive positions, and we are staying mobile.”

  “The Behemoths might stand off and saturate an area with missiles,” suggested Lieutenant Newell, commanding Beta Company.

  “Get in close enough and they’re scrap metal,” Manfred said.

  “He’ll oppose us with his Condors. They have speed on us, but I doubt he can mount a unified attack. And Tortorelli favors putting his Hauberk battle armor company out with his regular infantry. Aim for the support vehicles as we move. Alpha will go straight up the center and draw fire. Beta supports. Delta and Gamma go in from left and right flanks respectively. Updated field maps will be sent to you through the TacCom as we learn Tortorelli’s deployment.”

  “Advance as fast as possible,” Austin relayed to Borodin. “Count off. By alternate numbers move forward. No retreat.”

  “Got it, sir. We’re the cannon fodder.”

  “Where better to be than in the middle of the battle, Master Sergeant? I expect Alpha Company to take out the enemy command and end the fight before Tortorelli’s computer screen can refresh!”

  Austin heard a cheer go up from Alpha Company. They were psyched; they were ready. He had one last question to ask of Manfred. He keyed his open channel.

  “Who’s in command of the opposition, sir?” asked Austin. “I tried to pick up some scuttlebutt, but nobody knew.”

  “I couldn’t find out, either, so he might put each unit commander in charge of a specific attack zone. That means he’s not going to coordinate well. We’ll find out quick enough.”

  “Crazy command structure,” Austin said.

  “TacCom, do you read?” asked Manfred. “Close that rear hatch!”

  “Loud and clear, Captain,” came Dale’s voice. “Getting everything squared away. Wait, there it is. We got the word to begin. I’m picking up four Behemoths. Don’t know if they’ll start a barrage, but if we advance fast, we’ll reach them before they can get their Condors into position. Located their HQ immediately behind the Behemoths!”

  Austin’s HUD blazed with a tiny white star showing their target. Smaller green dots moved about as Dale relayed current tactical information.

  “I’m off in the Shandra. Give me an IFF code. Good, TacCom. To victory!” cried Manfred Leclerc.

  “All right, you apes,” Austin barked on the Alpha channel. “Light those Jumppacks and let’s move. We bypass enemy heavies and engage only targets light enough to take out without much fight. We create confusion and diversion, but we go for their HQ! Got it?”

  Austin got the response he wanted from his company. They were veterans and had more time in service than he did, but every last soldier knew he was good in the simulator, BattleMech or battle armor, and had practiced enough personally with the entire company in full battle gear to weld them into a single fighting unit. Even better, he had Borodin as company sergeant.

  The Jumppack kicked him forward. Austin took to the air, skimming along only a meter above the greasy, spiny grass, his feet kicking hard every time he alighted. Behind came four squads, arrayed in a line, advancing alternately so those behind could cover those in front.

  “Double-check weapons as we advance,” he ordered. He worried that there might be equipment failure since the Purifier armor had been refitted with the missiles. SRMs were good for much of the First Cossack Lancers’ mission. They warded off civilian vehicles, should anyon
e be foolish enough to try to take out the Governor with a truck or car bomb. But Austin preferred the lasers usually mounted on Purifier battle armor.

  The FCL had their plastic warheads loaded with neon-pink dye. A splash on a tank meant little; on a battle-armored soldier a full salvo from an entire squad signified death.

  All he had to do was avoid the bright orange dye fired by the Legate’s soldiers. Which proved easy as Alpha advanced at a steady ten kilometers per hour.

  Already, his unit’s furious advance had bypassed the lead units of Hauberk-battle-armor-clad enemy. The Legate’s soldiers milled around, confused about what to do as their enemy flashed past them, firing jets at max and not engaging, only shooting on the fly.

  “Left, Lieutenant,” came Borodin’s warning. Austin twisted slightly, keeping his thrust vector on the target, and saw a Hoverbike.

  “How many of them are there?”

  “Six. I see six of ’em all clumped together.”

  Austin confirmed it on his map display glowing in front of him.

  “Fire!” Even as Austin barked the order, he centered his sights and loosed a barrage of two missiles from his own launcher. The rockets snaked away, leaving behind faint dark exhaust trails. Dozens more joined his as his company followed the order.

  Bright pink paint splatted all over the six Hoverbikes, signifying kills. Why Tortorelli’s commander had sent them out in a tight formation was beyond Austin’s imagining. The Hoverbikes were best used to report on enemy movement. These were worthless now to even radio back a warning about the quickstep advance of a battle-armored company.

  “Good shooting,” Austin congratulated. He cycled in another rack of SRMs as he hunted for new targets. All the while he pushed forward, one eye on the terrain and the other on his display. A constant flood of intel from scouts reached him, but Austin knew his company was supplying a good deal of it. They met less resistance than anticipated and pushed farther, faster, than the other companies. Even Beta Company following in his wake had a hard time keeping up, and all Lieutenant Newell had to do was to mop up as he came.