Target of Opportunity

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  Tucker was embarrassed to see that the tiny restaurant had all but emptied. “Geez, Reo, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you like that. It just felt good to talk to someone who isn’t part of the work I’m doing.”

  His new friend grinned. “I understand, Tucker. I know how it can be. Tell you what, let’s meet for dinner again in a couple of nights. I’ll do what I can to show you the hot spots of Wyatt. While you’re here, you might as well enjoy yourself a little.”

  Tucker smiled. “Thanks, Reo, I’d appreciate that.”

  Reo grabbed the bill. “Tucker, the pleasure’s all mine.”

  5

  Wyatt Militia Headquarters

  Kinross, Wyatt

  The Republic, Prefecture VIII

  24 April 3135

  Alexi Holt watched Legate Singh settle back in his big, black office chair and survey the holomap display that she had projected on the desk between them. He seemed to be considering the information it provided, but there was a quality about his silence that made her suspect he was going to tell her something she didn’t want to hear.

  “Knight Holt,” Singh began, leaning forward onto his elbows. “I appreciate that you have brought us new hardware, and that you have already enhanced our defense capabilities. But there are some realities that you must face on Wyatt.”

  “Such as?”

  “We have a limited military budget. What we receive from The Republic of the Sphere funds a portion of our defense budget, but the rest comes from the government of Wyatt. In each of the past few years, that budget has been greatly reduced. Introducing a new series of maneuvers, while beneficial, is costly. I just don’t think we can afford operations on the scale you’ve suggested.” As if to underscore his point—and his authority—he shut off the holographic image.

  Alexi wanted to yell at him to get a spine, but she knew that as legate, the world was his to command. Her position allowed her to set aside the legate and take command herself if necessary, but she preferred to find a way to work with him. “Sir, the new hardware and vehicles are different enough that we need to get your personnel up to speed with them, or they’re all but worthless.”

  The legate offered her his best politician’s smile, full of false sympathy. “I understand completely, Knight Holt,” he replied. “But it’s not me you have to convince. And I am confident that the government simply won’t fund the maneuvers you suggest.”

  “And I’m confident that you could go to the governor personally and ask him to authorize more funds,” she replied softly.

  Singh shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  She leaned across the desk. “Try to avoid being afraid,” she snapped.

  “There are political consequences to asking for what you’re demanding,” he returned sharply. “I know the situation here well enough to know that there is no way the governor could back more funding.”

  She put her fists on her hips and stared at the legate for a long moment before speaking. “Your troops seem good enough, but none have worked with artillery before. That Sniper I brought isn’t the newest hardware, but it’s going to change their tactics in a fight. Same with the combat trikes and Guila suits. None of your troops have practiced with an armored personnel carrier on a battlefield, either, and that can alter deployment tactics from the word go. Without training, all of the defensive gear I’ve brought is next to worthless.”

  Singh leaned back in his chair again. “You talk like we are facing some sort of imminent threat. Without proof, the governor won’t believe that the risks Wyatt currently faces are any different than they were a year ago.”

  “A year ago ComStar tried to bring up that HPG core without any fanfare. This time, many more people are aware of what we are going to attempt, and that automatically makes the risk much greater. A year ago we were not dealing with a House Liao incursion or the Jade Falcons invading. We simply can’t afford to sit back and behave as if these new risks will not affect this planet.”

  Singh smiled indulgently. “Knight Holt, I’ll go and talk to the governor myself. I’ll share your concerns with him. But I honestly doubt that it will do any good.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “I will assign Lieutenant Johannson as your aide, and together you can see what can be done to get the troops trained under our budget constraints. Just in case the governor is not swayed by your arguments.”

  She narrowed her gaze slightly. “Perhaps I should speak with the governor myself.”

  Singh smiled back. “Why, Knight Holt, don’t you trust me?”

  She wanted to answer truthfully, but managed to refrain. “Of course, Legate Singh. I simply wanted to avoid burdening you with this discussion.”

  He broadened his smile. “I assure you, my good Knight, it’s no problem at all.”

  Eagle’s Talons Company Encampment, Bixby Plateau

  McKenna, The Oriente Protectorate

  Captain Ivan Casson stared at the intelligence report with a degree of contempt. He was stationed on McKenna. McKenna was not a prosperous world, not even highly populated. Its people had been battered by years of devastating fighting during the Word of Blake Jihad, and had barely begun their recovery. Most people did not expect a prosperous future, simply hoping to carve out a better life than their parents had. In other words, McKenna was a microcosm of the Oriente Protectorate.

  And that sickened him.

  While the united Free Worlds League before the Jihad had been a power in the Inner Sphere, its shattered remains had suffered some of the most brutal fighting and its people had remained fragmented in their thinking and beliefs. And not only the League. House mark also quickly degenerated into a civil war that left three Mariks claiming to truly represent the Great House. Captain Casson believed that the future of his tiny, fledgling state, the Oriente Protectorate, could only be seized by thinking big and bold. He knew that opinion put him in the minority. But things could change. A few strategic victories, the right victories, could change the fate of the Protectorate. It was all a matter of finding those opportunities. Captain-General Jessica Marik thought the same; she had shared her thoughts with him and a key handful of other officers. She had a vision, and that vision did not feature a weak and fragmented Free Worlds League.

  The intelligence report in front of him, distilled from dozens of informants and friends of the Protectorate, was slightly less disappointing than others he had seen in the past few years. The collapse of the HPG network had offered a number of Inner Sphere governments a chance to exploit the weakness of The Republic. He had watched several opportunities come and go. By the time he had received permission to take his Eagle’s Talons into battle, the chance had arrived and already disappeared. But that was the case no longer: now, the Captain-General had charged him with a great deal of latitude and freedom in exploiting potential opportunities.

  The deal he had struck with her was a stern one. If his self-chosen operations succeeded, he would receive the full support of the Captain-General and the military forces of the Protectorate. If he failed, he would be branded a rogue and disavowed by the nation’s leadership.

  So all that remained was to find the right opportunity. Eyeing the report again, he found reference from several sources to another attempt to reestablish the HPG on Wyatt. He glanced at his star atlas and paused, puzzled for a moment. Then her remembered that Wyatt didn’t show up on the maps without an update. He keyed in a request, stabbed at the upload button and accepted the update, Wyatt appearing as a white dot on the holographic display in front of him.

  Wyatt was tempting, but it lay a significant distance from the Protectorate. If its HPG came online, it would be a prize—but would it be worth his troops’ lives? The old Free Worlds League had tried to take Wyatt many times in its history, and had always failed. So there was some prestige in taking such a planet, along with the huge advantage his nation would gain by controlling a working HPG. He had to determine if the prize Wyatt represented supported the
risk.

  If not Wyatt, there were sure to be other choice targets in that Prefecture.

  He spoke out loud. “One thing is for sure, we will win no victories sitting here on McKenna.” Captain Casson rose to his feet and pressed the button on his intercom that summoned his aide de camp.

  Senior Grade Lieutenant Jacobs entered and snapped a fast salute. “Captain, what can I do for you, sir?”

  Casson regarded her. “How long have we been training here, Lieutenant?”

  She cast him a skeptical eye. “Sir?”

  “How long have we been here on McKenna?”

  “Ten months, sir,” she rapped out.

  “Wrong,” he muttered, half to himself. “We’ve been here too damn long. If the Oriente Protectorate is going to survive and grow, it must stand ready. That means we have to be ready. I want to break camp immediately. Send word to the DropShip captains to stand ready to depart. Tell space operations to inform the Halsey that they will receive jump orders from me in the next two days, and to be ready for immediate departure. Alert intelligence that we will need up-to-date reports forwarded to us upon our arrival.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Jacobs replied. “If I may inquire sir, what is our destination?”

  “The Republic of the Sphere. There is a potential target of opportunity that I plan to investigate.”

  * * *

  Alexi surveyed the dingy tactical operations room and, for the first time, felt that she was dealing with the real command elements of the Wyatt Militia. Though she assumed some percentage of these men were loyal to the legate, she hoped to develop her own rapport with them. Her first stab at that rapport was her current dilemma, which she was in the process of laying before them as a challenge to be solved: how could they achieve the training they needed to use the materiel she brought to Wyatt?

  “So that’s the new hardware we’ve got to work with,” she said flatly, having finished the list. “It changes our TO&E and gives us some serious kick. Thoughts on how to get up to speed on this equipment?”

  Lieutenant Foster, the dark-skinned commander of the support lance, smoothed his fingers across his shaved head in thought. “Having real damn artillery, that’s something new. We’ve had support mortars and such, but a Sniper is a serious crater-making machine. Well, I need the grunts in Tooley’s lance to learn how to call in support and not get themselves bombed in the process.” He shot a quick look at the Knight Errant.

  Lieutenant Bran Tooley nodded coolly in response. A tall man with a thick paunch, he was in charge of the infantry lance of the Wyatt Militia—the Ground Pounders to the rest of the militia, The Furies to themselves. “I can convert my squads to the new hardware, the battle armor and weapons systems. Hell, they’ll welcome the chance to learn something new. But I gotta agree with Foster—we need help learning the ins and outs of artillery.”

  Alexi frowned. “We can simulate some of what they need to learn. But nothing beats the real experience for really grasping the essentials. Legate Singh has assured me that there is no budget for setting up full-scale exercises, and your usual combat ranges are too far away for us to mobilize just for practice. So here’s the real question: what are our alternatives?”

  The silence did not feel hopeful. It was the usually meek Lieutenant Johannson who spoke up. “I have an idea. Probably a bad idea. Most likely a waste of time.”

  “Out with it,” Alexi prodded.

  “Well, the old Bowie Industries works were nuked during the Jihad. It was just a satellite plant, but when the Wobbies hit it, they hit it hard. So now that area is a no-trespassing zone. Still a lot of radioactive hot spots out there, but we know exactly where those are. My guess is that we don’t need a lot of terrain to get used to the new gear, just some wilderness where it’s okay to try some live-fire stuff. We use the Bowie Industries area, and we just make sure we use proper wash-down procedures so that we’re not dragging back fallout material.”

  Captain Irwin of the mobile strike lance spoke up. “You want us to practice in a nuclear hot zone? I doubt the legate will agree with that idea.”

  Johannson shrugged. “There’s no real risk, not if we pick the right spot.”

  The captain turned to the Knight Errant. “Do you support this notion, Knight Holt?”

  She gave him a firm gaze, the kind that only one officer could give another. “Captain. Our job is to be ready if we’re attacked. We need to practice to be ready. We seem to have limited choices here, so I support the lieutenant’s idea. We choose the right spot, limit the training and clean up after ourselves. And I’ll help the legate see the light.”

  “Seems damn risky for a bunch of weekend warriors,” Irwin returned, crossing his arms defiantly.

  “Normally, I would agree. But the Wyatt Militia appears to be a cut above the usual militia standards. And if the option is some planning and sweat versus going home in a body bag, well, I think the minimal risk is worthwhile. I’m still open to other suggestions . . .” She glanced around the operations room and saw only slow nods of agreement.

  “Very well. Johannson, draw up the duty rosters. Captain Irwin, I’d appreciate your assistance in finding us the right spot. It’s time we gave the Wyatt Militia some serious teeth.”

  6

  ComStar HPG Compound

  Kinross, Wyatt

  The Republic, Prefecture VIII

  30 April 3135

  The HPG master control board had not seen this much activity in months. Tucker sat in the control seat—“The Hot Seat,” the technicians had dubbed it—and watched the readouts as the core went through the start-up sequence. He almost believed he could feel the throbbing of the fusion reactor that powered the massive machine under his feet.

  He loved this room. Tucker had been in HPGs before, on Terra, but most of those were new, or just simulation rooms. Wyatt’s HPG was centuries old. His love of history meant he loved this room and respected it: these walls had been standing when Kerensky served as a general in the Star League. He was thrilled to be out in the field, and now he realized that was where he belonged.

  After all of those years in a lab, this—this is reality.

  “We are at seventy-five percent,” Adept Paula Kursk reported from the secondary control station. “Capacitor flow steady. Power levels steady. We’re getting some flux in the primary hyperspace coil.”

  “Variance?” Tucker asked.

  “Four . . . no, six percent. Climbing.” Her voice betrayed her concern.

  “Adjust the beta coil plus-three megajoules.” Tucker hoped that upping the power might balance out the primary coil.

  “Flux has leveled off at eight percent,” Kursk replied. He heard the relief in her voice.

  “Okay, we’re still within the pipe,” he replied. The team knew what the phrase meant. They were not perfectly aligned for starting up the HPG, but were within the tolerances for the new core. “Query controllers. Go for primary HPG initiation?”

  “Coil tolerances are just below the yellow line, but we are good to go,” Kursk replied.

  Adept Kurtis Fowler, another technician on the team, squinted at his display and reported, “I’ve got greens on the board here, hot seat. We’re a go on power flow.”

  Tucker cranked his head quickly to the right. “Transmission control?”

  Adept Morial nodded as she spoke. “Transmission is go. Test packets and pings loaded and coded.” A technician seated behind Tucker spoke up from his controls. “Buffering clear and ready for packet receipt.”

  Tucker turned back to his central control panel. “All right. Begin sequence alpha one, engage.”

  Fingers around the room flew over panels, keyboards, point controls and even knobs. Tucker let the clicks and clacks of the HPG controls surround him. The readouts in front of him began to change as the power flow increased. He leaned forward in the black leather chair, his arms pushing against the raised padded arms. This is it. . . .

  “Test packet release,” came the voice of Adept Morial. Tucker co
nsidered it a good sign. The test transmission packet was outbound, shooting through hyperspace toward a known and properly aligned receiving HPG. When the receiving HPG indicated receipt of the packet and sent back its coordinates, they would have confirmed that Wyatt was once again on the network. This process was called “pinging.” No one Tucker knew could provide the origin of the phrase.

  The challenges of pinging other stations had only come into effect when the net went down. Now awkward gaps in the network that were still being discovered made confirmation a required step in the process.

  Suddenly, his display showed a green indicator flash to yellow. Not a good sign, though at least it wasn’t red.

  “I’ve got yellow on the flux reading on the primary coil,” Paula Kursk offered before Tucker could ask. “It’s at eleven percent and holding.” He heard the strain in her voice.

  He leaned back for a long moment. “All right, shut down the sim,” he commanded. The simulation software for the start-up ended and the test indicators came on-line, displaying charts and graphics of the data they had tracked during the test start-up. Tucker heard footsteps approaching behind him at a deliberate pace.

  “Well, Adept Harwell,” drawled Demi-Precentor Faulk. “You didn’t have to shut down the simulation so quickly. The primary coil variance was only at eleven percent. We didn’t blow out the core in the yellow. There’s no real risk until you reach twenty percent variance.”

  “Sir,” he replied coolly, “we shouldn’t have even drifted into the yellow. This core tested perfect. We should have had no more than a two percent variation.”

  “Eleven percent is within the limits defined in the specs.” Faulk examined his manicure.