"I AM STAR CAPTAIN MARILEN OF CLAN SMOKE JAGUAR."
"You used dishonorable trickery to lure us here. But I offer you the chance to redeem this shame—I will grant you the honor of one-on-one combat against me. We fight for the right of free passage from this place and the chance for you to regain honor by facing us again on a warrior's field of battle. What do you say, Major Loren?"
Loren stared at her Koshi 'Mech on his primary display and winced. The fangs and white eyes of a jaguar had been painted around the head/cockpit, adding to the menace the huge fighting machine represented.
"Star Captain, your call for one-on-one battle is refused. You yourself are here on a mission of questionable integrity and honor—coming to kill our officers only. Headhunter missions are no less unbefitting a true warrior. Surrender, and you will have a chance to fight again another day, and perhaps regain your lost honor."
"You do not fully understand the way of our Clan," Marilen said, even as her Koshi opened up with a laser blast from its left arm.
Several hot streams ate away at Loren's Penetrator replacement armor, digging deeply into the 'Mech's center torso as the big machine reeled under the hits, bending at the waist. "Engage!" he ordered. . . .
BATTLETECH
LE5529
IMPETUS OF WAR
Blaine Lee Pardoe
ROC
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England First published by Roc, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.
First Printing, December, 1996
10987654321
Copyright © FASA Corporation, 1996 All rights reserved
Series Editor: Donna Ippolito Cover art by Bruce Jensen
Mechanical Drawings: Duane Loose and the FASA art department
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
BATTLETECH, FASA, and the distinctive BATTLETECH and FASA logos are trademarks of the FASA Corporation, 1100 W. Cermak, Suite B305, Chicago, IL 60608.
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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 any payment for this "stripped book."
To Victoria Rose, my loving daughter, for her inquisitive mind and loyalty to a father who spends far too much time in front of a PC. To Alexander William, my wonderful son, for the joy he has brought my life. To my beautiful and loving wife, Cyndi, for her love, devotion, patience, understanding, support, and everything in between. She's a wonderful woman, in this or any century, and I thank the great Keren-sky every day that I found her.
The book is also dedicated to my parents, Dave and Rose, my grandparents, Corwin and Letha, not to mention Chris, Donnie, Jim, and Deb. I'll get the rest of the family in the next book.
Also to Daniel Plunkett for his numerous runs to Taco Bell. Bill Nemanick, thanks for the title, which came before the idea.
Finally, to Central Michigan University; the lads and lasses of Alpha Kappa Psi, Phi Chi Theta, Delta Gamma, the CM Life, and a million great memories therein. . ..
Special thanks to Donna Ippolito for her patience and to Sam Lewis, who helped hammer out a good story line—and for letting me make the Smoke Jaguars look real sinister.
Also thanks to the Virtual World Centers in Chicago and Dallas for letting me spend some time in the cockpit. And to the Virginia Rail Express, where most of this book was written on the daily hike into the District.
Finally, to all the BattleTech writers who help forge this universe with every book. Especially Bill Keith, who reminded me at GenCon just how much fun this really is.
When wars start, the devil makes more room in hell.
—A Germanic proverb
Prologue
The Fort, Tara
Northwind
The Chaos March
30 April 3058
Major Loren Jaffray stood before the door leading to the office of his commanding officer, but gave his uniform a last once-over before raising his hand to knock. Crisp and correct, his drab green Highlander fatigues were pressed as carefully as any dress uniform, a matter of pride for Loren. He also meticulously removed his red beret, trademark of the Kilsyth Guards Battalion, and tucked it tightly under his left epaulette. Only then did he knock at the door of Colonel Andrea "Cat" Stirling's office here in The Fort, the massive complex that served as headquarters of the Northwind Highlanders on their homeworld.
The hard wood stung Loren's knuckles as it must have done to so many in the four centuries since the venerable oaken door had been hung. He looked both ways down the corridor and remembered the first time he'd seen these same halls upon arriving for the first time on Northwind, some eight months before. The place had seemed much larger then, even awe-inspiring. A moment later he heard a voice call for him to enter.
Andrea Stirling's office was as distinctive as those of the other three Colonels commanding the four regiments that made up the Northwind Highlanders. The images on her walls, captured field maps from battles and wars won and lost decades—even centuries—before seemed to set the tone for the feisty woman who led the Fusiliers that bore her name. Loren stepped in and snapped a salute while Colonel Stirling continued to study the two monitor screens before her. Still without lifting her gaze, she motioned for him to sit down.
Despite her youthful appearance, Andrea Stirling had a full twenty years on Loren's thirty-three. The jet black of his spiked crew cut was beginning to show some premature white, while hers was as dark as it must have been at his age. Loren tried to ignore such things, preferring not to acknowledge how feminine she was in her lean, tight way. He admired her greatly as an officer and a soldier. That seemed more than enough.
She finally pulled herself away from the screens and looked up at him. Like his, her eyes were green, her gaze sharp. "I was just going over today's reports," she said. "And I see you've got Craig's Battalion slated for underwater operations over the next forty-eight hours, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir." Loren kept his voice neutral, but he knew that she was really asking for a good reason why. "When it was just the militaries of the Inner Sphere fighting each other, we usually knew what to expect in battle, and we even honored certain rules of war. But now we've got the Clans hanging over our heads, and we can't assume anything about them. Truce or no truce, sooner or later we'll be going head to head with them again, and I say we'll never beat them unless we're ready for anything."
They'd had this discussion before, of course. Many times. Loren had studied every military report he could get his hands on concerning the Clan invasion of the Inner Sphere that began eight years before. H
e believed too many commanders viewed them as a monolithic force rather than studying the strengths, weaknesses, and idiosyncrasies of each of the seven invading Clans.
"You don't have to sell me on the threat of the Clans, Major. I've fought them before." Her tone was sharp.
"Then the Colonel understands that we might have to use any and all tactics, including underwater operations."
"Yes," she said slowly, as if gauging her words carefully.
Loren wondered if she had more on her mind than the Battalion's training program. "Is there a problem, sir?"
She looked at him hard with those green eyes for a moment before speaking. "Major—Loren . .." The sudden shift to an informal tone caught him off guard. "You've been my Executive Officer for some eight months now, correct?"
"Yes, sir." Only eight months? Loren thought suddenly. Was that all? It seemed more like he'd spent his whole life among the Highlanders.
"Everyone knows you were a House Liao Death Commando before you joined us. And by now everyone knows that hasn't stood in the way of my appreciating your abilities, but some of my officers are still having a hard time accepting your authority."
How Loren Jaffray came to be standing here today wearing the rank and uniform of an officer of the Northwind Highlanders was no secret to anyone. He'd been raised by his grandfather, one of the Highlanders who had not come back to Northwind when Prince Hanse Davion of the Federated Suns returned the planet to the mercenary unit three decades before. In exchange, the Highlanders had agreed to work for him instead of Chancellor Maximilian Liao. They'd jumped their long-standing contract with Liao in the midst of the Fourth Succession War, abandoning the Capellan Confederation to the mercy of Davion's powerful armies.
His father had become a military man, too, a member of the elite corps known as the Death Commandos, a unit answerable only to the Capellan Chancellor himself and sworn to follow his orders to the death. It had been a secret Death Commando mission that had brought Loren to Northwind in the first place, though no one could ever have guessed the way it would turn out. Instead of destroying the Highlanders, which had been his mission, he'd ended up joining them and reassuming the Jaffray colors among the Highlander clans. Loren had fought alongside them for their independence against the Davions last fall, but he knew many Highlanders still didn't trust him. He'd overheard the remarks, the whispers, the rumors. There are those don't understand, and never will, that one man's terrorist is another man's patriot.
"I know some are still having trouble accepting me," he said wearily. "Only time will prove my honor and my loyalty. But I wonder if that's really why you called me in today?"
Cat Stirling gave a small shrug. "Let's talk about this training regimen you've set up. From what I can see, you've got the bulk of the Fusiliers in classrooms, running simulations, and even undergoing survival training. According to the schedule, you've got over thirty of my best MechWarriors slated for ten hours of hand-to-hand combat, demolitions, and pistol practice today alone."
Loren nodded slowly. "As your Executive Officer, I'm tasked with maintaining preparedness of the regiment, and that includes all training. If you don't approve of the program, Colonel, you've got the authority to order me to change it."
Cat Stirling shook her head sternly. "You're missing the point, Major. I don't necessarily want to change it. I just want to know what you're up to."
"You've read the reports I've compiled, seen the tactical database models, sir. It's only a matter of time before all or some of the Clans come at us again. If they decide to break the truce and drive straight for Terra, what happens then? The regiment's got to be ready." Loren had thought about this a lot. Northwind lay only one jump from Terra and now that the whole surrounding region had gone up for grabs, who knew what might be next? What had once been part of the Federated Commonwealth was so splintered that everyone had starting calling it the Chaos March.
"We're talking about training MechWarriors here, Major. Why all the survival skills and field tech classes? They got that kind of training years ago either at some academy or in basic."
Loren had been expecting this question ever since he'd started down the path he was blazing for the Fusiliers. "It's been years since most of these personnel have had to rely on those skills, Colonel, and many have forgotten them altogether. But from studying the Clans, I've seen that survival skills are exactly what Inner Sphere forces have often had to fall back on when facing them. We've seen the same scenario a number of times. A battle is fought, the Inner Sphere force is injured or crippled but survives. They're forced to go to ground as guerrillas until relief arrives or they can be evacuated." Loren had devoured every existing report, and they told a chilling story.
"Prior to the start of my reorganization, we were geared to fight standard Inner Sphere units—warriors with the same training and beliefs as ours. But what I've been doing is training our people for survival in every possible kind of environment I can imagine. I've also increased our repair-parts supplies and cross-trained everyone in field-combat repairs, so we'll be able to keep our BattleMechs operational if we're ever forced to operate as a guerrilla force. And I've been refitting our weapons in favor of energy-based types to reduce dependence on systems that require reloading. If we lose our 'Mechs, our people can still fight as infantry—if we must."
"Ah, yes, your overhaul of the Fusiliers' technical element," Stirling said, pulling several sheets of hardcopy from a file on her desk and scanning them. "I'd be the last to disagree that the regiment runs on its technicians. But you've also got to realize that there's resistance to change, even when change is good. Your promotion of Mitchell Fraser to Regimental Technical Chief, for example."
"You approved that promotion, sir."
"Yes. I've known Mitch and his family for years. Hell, at some point we trace back to the same Scots blood. He's good. But coupled with your other innovations, some of our officers are questioning why. The same could be said of Lovat's posting as the new Regimental Intelligence Officer. Both men are excellent at what they do, but this regiment is centuries old. The established officers don't understand the need for so much change so fast."
Loren found himself biting his lip, holding back his words. On one hand she approves everything I've done, yet now she questions the changes. Mitch Fraser was an ideal choice—a tinkerer to the point of genius. And Lovat knows more about intelligence than some of the best black ops people in the Death Commandos.
Cat Stirling gave him a thin smile. "Don't think I don't understand. An XO has to have people who're loyal to his way of thinking and acting, and I know both Fraser and Lovat are both that for you. It wasn't so different for me when I assumed command of the Fusiliers from McCormack six years ago. There was resistance to the changes I wanted to make even though I spaced them out over several years. I agree with your analysis of the Clan threat, and that's why I've approved your innovations. The Truce of Tukayyid doesn't look like it's going to hold a full fifteen years. The real question is whether we're simply pressing too hard too fast."
"Have there been complaints, sir?" It was a risky question, but Loren had to ask.
Stirling did not waver. "There have."
Loren didn't even have to guess where they'd come from.
It had to be Majors Cullen Craig and Kurt Blakadar, and probably some of the others in their ranks. The techs he already knew about, but at least they understood the need to go through proper channels.
"I apologize that my officers haven't followed the proper chain of command in raising such matters, sir." Where Loren came from, such infractions would never have been tolerated. And even now among the feisty Highlanders he experienced it as an embarrassment.
"I can see that you're upset, Major, but remember this. Here in the Highlanders we are family first. This was not a breach of protocol; independent thinking is encouraged within our ranks. That door"—she pointed to the one through which he'd come—"is always open to those in the regiment."
"Understood, s
ir," Loren reined his feelings and drew another deep breath. There was more to this than him being a former Death Commando or pushing those in his command too hard. It's time we cleared the air, time she heard it said out loud. "Sir, permission to speak freely."
"Granted, Major."
"Major MacFranklin was your Executive Officer for six years prior to my assuming this position. I don't run the regiment the way he did, and that's what these complaints are about—you and I know it. He was an apt tactician and 'Mech pilot, but he depended too much on favoritism, family connections, and other kinds of politicking. I mean him no discredit, Colonel, but I'm different. I think the Fusiliers are too good for that."
Cat Stirling stared at Loren with an unreadable expression for a moment. "I know that, Major. That's one of the reasons I wanted you as my exec instead of promoting Craig or Blakadar. Everyone was impressed with you in the fight for Tara last fall. MacFranklin, God rest his soul, was definitely becoming a problem. He was a fine commander on the field, but he had so many scams running behind the scenes it was a miracle he didn't spend his life in the brig."
"You knew then?"
She smiled like a cat. "Of course. No matter what, never forget that I am in command. If MacFranklin hadn't died, he'd have been busted out. You were the right person at the right time. Some of the old-guard officers want things the way they used to be, more of a free hand, less focus. Favoritism rather than performance.
"We both know one thing; the Clans are the threat. I can read a map too. If they ever manage to drive all the way to Terra, we're only a short jump away."
Stirling smiled even more broadly. "Never assume anything with me, Major. They don't call me 'Cat' because I'm a fool. On the other hand, I don't want to exhaust our forces in training and preparing. I need to confirm that your plan is moving at the right pace to make this the hardest-ass outfit in the Highlanders, not a bunch of burn-outs."
Impetus of War Page 1
