Target of Opportunity

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  “The Spirit Cats,” Chaffee said, his whole attention apparently focused on the magazine.

  “Has our mutual benefactor expressed any thoughts on the situation?” The reference to Jacob Bannson was thinly veiled.

  “I’ve got a lot of freedom to act here on Wyatt,” Chaffee replied, turning the pages of the magazine more slowly. “This particular situation is one he never predicted. The only word I have from him is that if an opportunity presents itself to take control of Wyatt, I should not let it pass.”

  Reo smiled cheerfully. “Sounds like he’s giving you enough rope to hang yourself with.”

  Chaffee made brief eye contact with him and chuckled. “You may be right. Here’s your assignment. I want you to keep your eye on this ComStar fellow and on our Knight Errant. I want to know what’s going on with the Wyatt Militia and what plans they might have for dealing with the Spirit Cats.”

  “Mind if I ask why?” Reo asked casually. Chaffee turned to the front of the magazine and began flipping through it again.

  “Let’s just say that I’m always on the lookout for opportunities to advance myself. If I can arrange it, I wouldn’t be opposed to the Wyatt Militia and the Spirit Cats slugging it out with each other.”

  Jones understood. “And then you and your unit can pick up the pieces.”

  Chaffee tossed the magazine back onto the rack so that the pages bent. “It’s a wonder you never became a Knight yourself,” he said sarcastically. “You’ve got such a sharp eye for detail.” His tone flattened out into something that sounded dangerous. “Just don’t forget who you work for, Reo. Keep your eyes peeled and send me regular reports.”

  Before Reo could respond, Chaffee stepped out into the rain, popped open his umbrella and set off down the street at a quick jog. Reo watched him run down the block, and turned the collar of his coat up against a sudden cool breeze. Cut-Throat’s dangerous . . . then again, so are the Spirit Cats. His mind racing, he picked up the magazine that Chaffee had wrinkled, smoothed out the cover and placed it carefully back on the rack. He tossed a five stone to the man running the stand as he walked out. Rutger Chaffee was playing a deep game. The key was to work that against him. Timing was everything. . . .

  10

  ComStar Compound

  Kinross, Wyatt

  The Republic, Prefecture VIII

  10 May 3135

  Up to this point, Alexi Holt had been more than courteous, on several occasions going so far as to bite her own tongue rather than say what she felt. Diplomatically prodding Demi-Precentor Faulk to action during the entire installation of the new HPG core had taken every ounce of her patience. He had been thoroughly put out by her arrival on Wyatt, and had made no secret of his feelings. All during her time in the ComStar compound, he had complained constantly about her “interfering with internal ComStar affairs,” though she considered her attitude pretty hands-off. Her mission now made his complaint true, and now, the diplomatic gloves were coming off.

  She had spent hours reviewing what she knew about the Spirit Cats and their quest for a sanctuary. Whenever they had appeared in The Republic before, it was a deliberate move, always motivated by an event or something specific about a location. An event . . . like the reactivation of an HPG? It fit the way they worked. As much as she wanted to convince herself otherwise, she kept coming to the same conclusion. It was not by chance that they had shown up in the Wyatt system when they did. The Spirit Cats had come with a purpose.

  The demi-precentor sat behind his large, pristine desk, arms crossed, his expression smug. Next to her sat Tucker Harwell. He looked distracted, as if his mind were anywhere but in this hastily called meeting.

  Faulk seized the initiative. “With the Spirit Cats heading toward Wyatt, I would have assumed that you would be too busy to spend more time with us, Knight Holt.”

  She regarded him silently for a moment. “Demi-Precentor Faulk, the Spirit Cats’ imminent arrival is precisely why I am spending time with you today. Even you cannot believe it’s a coincidence that they appeared in-system right after the HPG became operational.”

  The cocky expression seemed to melt from his face. “Do you think they want to take over the HPG?” Alexi could practically smell his fear and see beads of sweat forming on his brow.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I do know this: they may not have come here because the HPG became active, but they figured that out when they arrived. Regardless of the order of events, Paladin Sorenson has compelled me to take action.”

  Faulk gripped the desktop. “What is your plan?”

  She looked at Faulk and then at Tucker Harwell. The adept seemed to have no idea where the conversation was headed. She returned her gaze to Faulk. “Beginning now and for the duration of this crisis, Tucker Harwell will be under my protective custody.”

  “Out of the question,” Faulk protested weakly. “Adept Harwell is a highly valued member of ComStar. Until we can decipher what he did to restore our HPG, he must remain under ComStar’s protection.”

  Alexi waved her hand dismissively. “You think your squad of security men is a match for the Spirit Cats? This isn’t the good old days of ComStar, Faulk. You don’t have the elite troops and kick-ass ’Mechs of the Com Guards protecting your installation. Whatever they want—if they have to blast this compound to get it, they will, and you won’t be able to stop them.” She was exaggerating for effect. The Spirit Cats were Clan, true, but it wasn’t their style to kill innocents or needlessly damage infrastructure. She just wanted to drive home to the demi-precentor that his attitude was placing more than just Tucker at risk . . . and that much was true.

  “Your title does not give you the right to kidnap valued employees.” He was stretching a point now, and they both knew it.

  “That’s right,” she replied, wearing her best poker face. “But it is part of the Knight’s creed to protect the citizens of The Republic of the Sphere. How we accomplish that is left to each Knight’s—to my—discretion. Whether you like it or not, Demi-Precentor, Harwell is going with me.” Her tone made it clear that if she had to, she would fight her way out of the office.

  “I could call security and you wouldn’t reach the outer wall.”

  “Yes,” she replied coolly. “And if I don’t leave with him now I’ll come back with a BattleMech and take him out. Like I said, this isn’t the good old days.” She turned to Tucker. “I’ll take you to gather your things.”

  Tucker’s face was red, and he was clearly angry. Before he had the chance to say anything, however, Faulk started talking again. “You’ve made your point, Knight Holt. But I want you to understand that this means you are assuming full responsibility for his safety.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You’ll also be taking a few of my other techs, the ones who worked most closely with him. I don’t want the Spirit Cats or anyone else capturing and interrogating them for what they know.”

  She suspected that Faulk might actually have wanted her to take this approach, so this was an easy concession. “Agreed.”

  “And Tucker’s sister, Patricia.”

  That caught her off guard. She opened her mouth to protest, but Faulk cut her off. “On this I cannot waver. My superiors would insist. His sister was sent here to be with him, and she will remain with him, no matter what the circumstances. Surely one more person will not pose a challenge, Knight Holt?” A hint of arrogance returned to his voice.

  “Agreed,” she said after a moment’s consideration. Faulk had just revealed more than he realized. Apparently, Tucker’s superiors on Terra had anticipated a problem like this and had put plans in place—including the assignment of Tucker’s sister to Wyatt. She wondered again about Patricia’s true status in ComStar, and decided she would deal with it.

  “Good,” he said, exhaling noisily. “Knight Holt, I’m agreeing to this only for his protection. Tucker is a valuable asset. If anything happens to him, I assure you that even your Paladin cannot protect you from the punishment that ComStar
would demand from The Republic.” It was a bold threat, but she knew he was right. It was a risk that she was willing to take.

  Tucker rose from his seat, finally getting a word in edgewise. “Don’t I get a say in this?” he demanded.

  The demi-precentor and Alexi replied in unison. “No.”

  * * *

  Tucker sat in the back of the room as the Wyatt Militia’s command staff assembled around the holotable. They were in the tactical operations room, or so the chipped brass plaque outside said. It was buried two stories down in the bowels of the militia headquarters at the edge of Kinross. The HQ building was squat with steeply sloped ferrocrete walls that leaned in as if to deflect incoming fire. Offices filled the upper level, but the rest of the structure was a series of underground bunkers. Patricia had told him the facility was built during the Jihad. Using hidden passages and tunnels, the militia could deploy within a four-block area around the facility, and could coordinate troop movements from multiple nearby locations. Enemy forces laying siege to the command bunker would find it to be a deadly affair.

  Patricia, Paula Kursk and two other techs from the ComStar compound were attempting to convert one lower chamber into adequate sleeping quarters. The space was cramped, the beds army-issue cots, and the walls nothing more than old, green woolen blankets pinned together and pegged to the ceiling. The air was not quite musty, but definitely stale, infused with the sweat of years’ worth of militia use. The space allocated for his private use was tiny—and barely private—and he wasn’t crazy about being there, but even Patricia admitted that the militia HQ was a much safer place right now than the ComStar facility. He had helped the others for awhile, but quickly found himself caught somewhere between boredom and frustration. Alexi Holt took pity on him and invited him to join her staff meeting. Now he was sitting in the corner of the briefing room, feeling like a kid sitting at the holiday dinner table for the first time.

  She was an imposing force. For the first hour or so since her command performance at the compound, Tucker had resented Holt. She knew he was mad, but it didn’t seem to bother her, and she continued to treat him the same as always. Eventually, his usual good temper resurfaced. It was hard to stay mad at her when he admitted to himself that he still found the idea of a female Knight Errant somewhat exotic. It also helped that he had half enjoyed her verbal pouncing on Demi-Precentor Faulk earlier in the day. “Look on the bright side, Adept,” she had said jokingly, “at least you won’t be on the evening news for a few days.” That had actually made him feel better.

  The Knight didn’t seem inclined to give anyone much time to adjust to their new situation. It was clear that she felt a sense of urgency that she was determined to pass on to everyone else. He couldn’t decide whether Holt had an agenda for him, or was just keeping her eye on him; either way, at least hanging around with her was more entertaining than hanging blankets. He was learning more about her as he watched and listened. Most of the officers deferred to her—a testimony to the respect she already had earned. Only Legate Singh, who he had met briefly upon his arrival, seemed unwilling to acknowledge the value of her experience and knowledge.

  “We need to augment our force,” Knight Holt said, slowly sweeping the command staff with her gaze.

  Legate Singh spoke up. “Four squads of the city police and a significant number of volunteers have stepped up. We can muster them in and arm them.”

  “Police officers probably aren’t going to give us the edge I’m looking for,” she replied. “Still, it’s appreciated.”

  “Actually, most of these guys are militia veterans. They may not have combat experience, but they have training—and they’re determined to protect Wyatt,” offered Lieutenant Johannson.

  “Well, we’ve got a lot of those new shoulder-launched SRMs in the gear I brought,” Alexi commented. “Harvester Model 10ks. A monkey can fire them, and they can wreak a lot of havoc. We can outfit at least a squad with them.”

  Johannson grinned. “I’ll make it happen, sir.”

  “Now let’s talk real hardware. We have a ForestryMech,” Holt continued. “Are there any other IndustrialMechs we can commandeer?”

  The legate shrugged. Tucker was surprised. When he saw the man on the holovid newscasts, he had seemed so forceful. Now, without the cameras on him, he seemed less sure of himself and less knowledgeable about his fighting assets. “I have an inventory of all the ’Mechs on the planet. There are ConstructionMechs in Packardston, but that’s on the southern continent, and there’s no way to move them here fast enough to use them. There are some AgroMechs in use on this continent, but again, I don’t know if we can get them here in time.”

  Captain Irwin spoke up. “Too bad we can’t pull some of the old ConstructionMechs out of the ruins of the Bowie factory. There’s a lot of them left out there.”

  Holt’s face lit up. “Why not go after them?”

  Lieutenant Tooley blew a light gray cloud of smoke into the air from his cigar. Tucker caught a whiff of the aroma and was instantly transported back to the family rec room and the times his grandfather would visit and smoke. To Tucker, the grizzled face of the officer loudly proclaimed that he was an infantryman. “They were used to clean up the debris of the old armaments factory after the Wobbies—uh, Word of Blake—nuked the place back to the Stone Age. They’ve been abandoned out there for decades, still hot with radioactivity.”

  “Were they exposed to the nuclear blast?” Knight Holt asked.

  “No,” the man replied, “but what difference does that make? They’re still hot.”

  Tucker understood the line of questioning and Alexi cast him a quick glance, inviting him to chime in. He leaned forward. “Not really. I mean, they are, but it’s only because they’re covered with radioactive fallout and dirt. Radioactive particles on the surface won’t turn the equipment itself radioactive,” Tucker said. The militia officer was talking about a common misconception, but Tucker knew that with proper cleaning, it might be possible to use the gear again.

  “You mean we might be able to clean them?” Legate Singh asked.

  “It’s possible. You just need some special gear and solvents, and a place to do the cleaning. I’ve never actually done it, but I’ve taken instruction in the basics of the process. With all of the clean-up that was done after the Jihad, it should be easy for us to get a line on the chemicals and equipment we need.”

  Lieutenant Johannson spoke up again. “Most of that hardware has been abandoned in warehouses in the contaminated zone near the factory for a long time. I suppose we could salvage enough parts to get a few ’Mechs in working order.”

  “If we could scare up some long-range armaments to mount on them, then we’d have a real advantage,” Holt replied. One problem with using IndustrialMechs in battle was that they were best for close-up combat. Getting them close enough to do damage and keeping them in one piece in the process was always a trick.

  Lieutenant Foster, sporting a heavy five o’clock shadow, jumped into the conversation. “We have some replacement weapons systems we can use, but I was thinking a little more creatively. The Bowie factory used to make Chippewa aerospace fighters, and the museum in town has one. I worked on it as a kid during the restoration. That thing has a number of those Holly missile racks, which are modular for quick swap-out. They may be old, but the technology of a launching and targeting rack is pretty basic. With some jury-rigging, I’ll bet we could get a few of them working.”

  Tucker found himself nodding. He had just visited that museum exhibit—what suddenly seemed like years ago.

  “We’ll be able to get a shot or two at range with the modifications you suggest,” Knight Holt responded. Tucker understood the distinction she was making. He had studied BattleTech—battlefield technology. Missile launchers were easy; reloading systems, they tended to be complex.

  Alexi smiled. “Do you have personnel who can pilot these ’Mechs if we can get them up and running?”

  The legate nodded. “Militia person
nel all have jobs outside of their commitment to the military, Knight Holt. Trust me, some of them are bound to have a competency in piloting IndustrialMechs. I’ll have my admin go through the personnel files.”

  “Excellent. We’ll also need to secure as much heavy transportation as possible. We have no idea where the Spirit Cats are going to land. That leaves us with two options: spread out all over the planet, or get our force as mobile as possible.”

  Legate Singh’s eyebrows rose. “That might be tricky. We have a prime hauler, but it’s more than eighty years old. If we have to go any significant distance, it’s not going to be reliable. We do have an old mobile HQ down in Bay Four. I guess it would be possible to cut off the sides and top and convert it into a flatbed transport of some sort.”

  “You have a mobile HQ? I didn’t see it on the TO& E for the unit,” she replied. It took Tucker a second to remember that the acronym meant Table of Organization and Equipment.

  Lieutenant Johannson answered her. “It’s not an active vehicle, so we don’t list it on the TO&E. The comm system died almost ten years ago. Our motor pool techs have kept the engine tuned so that it runs, but the cuts in military funding didn’t leave us with enough to get the jamming and surveillance gear working. We use it mostly to haul around equipment on extended maneuvers.”

  She stood there for a moment, her back half turned to Tucker, deep in thought. Slowly the Knight Errant turned and faced the adept. “Mr. Harwell, you’re something of a genius with HPG technology. How are you with conventional communications systems?”

  Tucker rose to his feet, and felt the weight of the gazes of the military officers in the room resting on him. “I’ve got quite a bit of experience with the types of systems that would be used in jamming and ECM technology.” He had guessed what she was thinking, and it sounded infinitely more exciting than sitting on his cot and counting the chips in the paint on the wall of the bunker.