Twilight of the clans III: the hunters

by Thomas S. Gressman

  At the last moment, he returned the salute and slipped into the elevator. Leaning back against the wall of the lift, he hoped that the Guards officers didn't think he was trying to put on airs by delaying his response until he was almost out of sight. Even after all these weeks in transport, he was still trying to adjust to the strangeness of the situation.

  Punching the button that would send the lift to the bridge, Morgan leaned back against the wall of the car. Briefly, he closed his eyes, recalling to his mind the comforting thoughts of hearth and home. All too often, his career called him away from that which he held most dear. Now, he'd be gone for heaven only knew how many months, maybe even years. It would take almost a year to get to Huntress, but what they didn't know was how long they'd be there, either fighting the Jags, or waiting for Victor and his relief forces to arrive. "No plan of battle survives contact with the enemy intact," ran the ancient proverb. Morgan snorted a bitter laugh. Sometimes it doesn 't survive contact with your own troops.

  Maybe Kym was right, maybe he was getting too old for this line of work. In a moment of melancholy, he wondered if he'd ever see Kym again.

  The elevator car slid smoothly to a halt, the barely perceptible jerk bringing him back to full alertness.

  "What's our status, Mr. Ruiz?"

  "Afternoon, sir." The Com Guard officer of the watch offered his greeting without turning away from the console before him. "All commands are in system. We're unfurling the sail. It should begin charging in about an hour."

  "Very good, Mr. Ruiz. Is the Commodore in his ready room?"

  "No, sir. Commodore Beresick left the bridge about ten minutes ago. He said he wanted something to eat, a hot shower, and a couple of hours in the rack." Ruiz looked up at last, reading the look on Morgan's face. "I guess he's not going to get it. Should I call him back to the bridge?"

  Morgan had been pacing back and forth through insubstantial images of the holotank, a device that had come to hold an odd fascination for him. He stopped abruptly and shook his head.

  "No, Lieutenant, let him be. I'm sure he could use the rest. Just make sure to send someone to fetch him for the staff meeting."

  "Yes, sir." Ruiz tapped a reminder into the memory of the bridge noteputer.

  For a while, Morgan stood in the center of the holotank watching the tiny starships drifting placidly in space. Then, with a heavy sigh, he left the bridge.

  16

  Battle Cruiser ISS Invisible Truth

  Nadir Jump Point, Pajarito Draconis March

  Federated Commonwealth

  29 June 3059 1825 Hours

  For the first time since Task Force Serpent had left Defiance, the full command staff had been called together for a briefing. With the fleet poised on the rim of the Inner Sphere, Morgan felt it was time to nail down the last details of their mission: objectives, tactics, and so on. He knew that all of his commanders were familiar with these factors, but he wanted to make all things clear before definitively leaving the Inner Sphere and the borders of known space.

  Two subjects still sent a ripple of unease through Morgan's soul. The first of these was broached even before the entire command staff had taken their seats.

  "Sir, have you given any more thought to the subject of orbital bombardment?" Predictably, it was Colonel Samuel Kingston who raised the question. The commander of the Capellan Confederation regiment that bore his name had been the most vocal promoter of using the warfleet's powerful weapons to "soften up the defenders before committing ground troops."

  Morgan had developed a quiet dislike for the Liao officer. At first, he had put his feelings aside, believing them to be nothing more than the product of a lifetime spent looking through a BattleMech's HUD at an enemy wearing the colors of the Capellan Confederation. But, as time and proximity made him more familiar with the man's attitudes and personality, Morgan found himself developing an intense dislike for the dark-haired commander of Kingston's Legion.

  Kingston was an excellent field commander and tactician. He had integrated both his regiment and himself almost flawlessly with the rest of Task Force Serpent. Still, there was something quite disturbing in the man's cavalier attitude toward the safety of enemy civilians. Morgan tried to put it down to the Capellan's lack of experience with the sheer destructive power of space-based weapons. But, after reviewing several hours' worth of testimony recorded by individuals lucky enough to have escaped the Clan firestorm that had destroyed the city of Edo, on Turtle Bay, the man's attitude became even more heartless and bloodthirsty.

  To make matters worse, Commodore Beresick, Major Michael Ryan, and even General Winston had variously suggested the idea of preceding the main task force landings with a naval bombardment.

  "No, Colonel," Morgan said at last. "I haven't given it any more thought, because I thought we'd settled this issue. I saw the vids that ROM smuggled out of Turtle Bay." Beresick's eyes widened a bit at Morgan's offhand reference to data supplied by ComStar's intelligence service. ROM did not share such information gladly or frequently.

  "I saw the burning buildings," Morgan continued. "The devastation, the wholesale slaughter. I will not be responsible for that kind of barbarity, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is final."

  For several moments, Morgan brought his level gaze to bear on each of the officers present, daring them to voice a challenge to his decision. When no one opposed him, he nodded and continued.

  "All right. Our mission, as you all know, depends almost as heavily on stealth and secrecy as it does speed. The Inner Sphere phase of this operation is set to jump off at about the same time as we launch our mission. Our objective is the Smoke Jaguar homeworld, known as Huntress.

  "Our operational plan calls for us to make our way into Clan space via a long, roundabout route. In this way, we intend to avoid the Clanners' main lines of supply and communication. Most of the star systems we will be using as jump points have been classified as uninhabited by the Explorer Corps." Morgan paused for a short, bitter laugh. "Most of them don't show up on navigational charts. Even the charts that we got from old Star League records only show the closest of them.

  "We plan to be insystem at Huntress no later than the middle of February. As soon as we come out of hyper-space, we'll launch the assault."

  Again, Morgan paused. This time, there was no humor in his long hesitation as he surveyed his command staff. The next subject was not an issue he looked forward to facing. Taking a deep breath, he continued.

  "Since security must be of paramount concern, the summit decided to take this out-of-the-way approach. But the danger of contacting a Clan force still exists. Therefore, any Clan forces encountered prior to our arrival at Huntress must not be allowed to escape. They must either be captured or annihilated."

  A tense hush fell over the room. For a while, none of the officers spoke. Sir Paul Masters finally broke the silence.

  "Say that again, sir?" he said, glaring at Morgan. "I must have misheard you."

  "I'm sorry, Colonel Masters, but that's the way it's got to be. We cannot allow one Clanner to escape to warn the enemy of our presence." Morgan had been expecting the Knights Commander to give him an argument every time he broached the subject of the task force's "scorched earth" policy, but now Masters was taking the principled, chivalrous knight routine just a little too far.

  "I understand matters of security," Masters said sharply, taking a deep breath. "What I do not understand is the military necessity of 'no quarter,' especially in this case. If we begin by destroying an enemy force, without pity, or exception, then we risk becoming the barbarians the Clanners believe us to be." He shook his head, as though in disbelief.

  "I have to agree with Sir Masters." Marshal Sharon Bryan stood at stiff, formal attention as she spoke. "You're talking about troops who've had the Ares Conventions drilled into their heads from the first day they put on the uniform. If, all of a sudden, you order them to ruthlessly annihilate the entire enemy force, you'll destroy the morale of this task force. You're lik
ely to end up with a mutiny on your hands. For the love of God, they're soldiers, not assassins." She looked pained.

  "There's something else at work here." Overste Carl Sleipness, of the Fourth Drakøns, was speaking before Bryan had resumed her seat. "If you give the order for the troops to annihilate an enemy's fighting force, you run the risk of losing control of your soldiers. It's happened time and time again throughout history. When an army is released from part of the restraints placed upon it by the common decency, none of the restraints are observed. If you tell our soldiers to take no prisoners and leave no survivors, you will soon have a rioting mob on your hands, rather than an army. You run the risk of annihilating the entire Clan culture."

  "Good."

  Morgan could not determine who had made the muttered comment, but it strained the bounds of his temper to hear it. Before he could snarl out his response, Colonel William MacLeod of the Northwind Highlanders was putting in his two credits' worth.

  "There's somethin' else you might want t' be considerin'. We'll be operatin' far behind enemy lines, alone, and with no back-up. Now, if we let any of the sassanach get away an' warn their superiors, every Jag warrior not currently involved in an operation will be out, huntin' us down."

  "There is still one consideration that has yet to be discussed. Morgan-sama." Major Ryan adopted the formal, almost stilted cant used in the Draconis Combine when addressing a superior on a sensitive matter.

  "We are assuming that any Clansmen we take prisoner will be attempting to escape. That is what you or I would do if we were captured. But the Clans often make bondsmen of captured enemies, and these bondsmen consider themselves members of their new 'Clan.' We've done the same thing with them in the Inner Sphere. I shouldn't worry too much about escape.

  "There is, however, one major problem with the notion of taking either bondsmen or prisoners. This task force has substantial but limited resources. Most Clansmen would never willingly surrender. They're captured after being so badly wounded that they cannot resist any longer. We would have to render medical aid and comfort, as is required by the Conventions. We are also limited in the amounts of food and fresh drinking water available to this task force. I know our operational plan calls for us to replenish our water stocks from whatever secure sources we may encounter along the way, but that still leaves food. If we're forced to fight, and decide to grant quarter, I suspect that we'll all be down to eating packaged field rations before this operation is over.

  "Once this task force crosses the border, we can hold nothing back. We must be committed to an all-out effort, or we might as well have stayed at home."

  "As much as I hate to admit it, sir, I have to agree with Major Ryan." Captain Roger Montjar toyed with the black fox's mask pinned to his collar as he spoke. "We can't let any Clanners escape to warn their bosses, and we just don't have the resources to care for prisoners who don't have a substantial logistic, strategic, or tactical value."

  Bryan began to protest, but Montjar cut her off.

  "I'm not advocating the wholesale murder of helpless prisoners, and unarmed civilians, but a policy must be set."

  Bryan was once more on her feet, shouting angrily at the Fox Team leader. Montjar had risen as well, leaning over the table to bring his face as close to hers as he could. His hands were clenched into fists. Masters leapt to stand beside Bryan, while Kingston took sides with Montjar. When Andrew Redburn added his rich tenor voice to the quarrel, Morgan had had enough. He ordered the squabbling commanders back to their seats, but to no avail.

  Schweeee! The piercing whistle yanked the shouting officers' attention back to the head of the table, where Morgan was just taking his fingers from his mouth.

  "I said, sit down and shut up!"

  The commanders, shocked into silence, quietly returned to their seats. Masters was the last to go. He gave Morgan a look that seemed to say, "This isn't over yet." In his place next to Morgan at the head of the table, Commodore Beresick lightly rubbed his left ear, as thought he suspected Morgan's shrill whistle had somehow damaged the eardrum on that side.

  "That, by God, is enough!" Morgan was generally slow to anger, but right now he felt as if he could shoot all of the commanders and start again from scratch.

  "I am the commander of this bloody expedition. When I make a bloody decision, I expect it to be bloody well carried out.

  "Now, Captain Montjar, you want a policy set, fine, here it is. As of right this second, no Clan forces should be allowed to escape from a battle area, either on the ground, or in space. If any Clan warriors are rendered helpless, or if they surrender, they will be taken prisoner. If they wish to become bondsmen to this task force, that's fine. Otherwise, they will be treated according to the Ares Convention guidelines regarding the treatment and handling of prisoners of war. We can feed and care for them out of captured supplies. There isn't much else we can do."

  Morgan glared around the room at the unit commanders, the set of his jaw a challenge to any who dared oppose his decision. As he caught each officer's eyes in turn, he read the same message, in varying degrees of intensity. "None of us are happy with this, but you're the commanding officer, and we'll abide by your directive."

  "All right, that's settled." Morgan gave a short, disgusted sigh. "Now, let's get back to business. Readiness reports. Marshal Bryan?"

  Bryan stood, her dislike of Morgan's command decision clear on her face. But she was too good a soldier to let her personal feelings interfere with her job.

  "The Eleventh Lyran Guards are at one hundred percent readiness." Bryan began her report, speaking smoothly and steadily, occasionally referring to the notes displayed on the screen of her personal noteputer.

  One by one, each unit leader checked in, giving a detailed report on the status of their units. General Winston reported that the problem plaguing the knee of Sergeant Major Young's Archer couldn't be solved. During the layover at Tsamma, a pair of Leopard Class DropShips had been dispatched to the Crucis March Militia base on that planet. There, they had picked up five brand-new 'Mechs in exchange for five damaged machines, Young's battered Archer among them. The Crucis Militiamen hadn't been too pleased at the prospect of trading new 'Mechs for old, but Morgan's signature on the orders made the swap indisputable. Overall, the Militia came out ahead on the deal. Of the five 'Mechs dropped from the task force's roster, there were three heavies, one medium, and one light. In exchange, the Militia turned over two heavy and two medium 'Mechs and one 35-ton Panther.

  RSM Young, because of a clause in the Light Horse's contract, was given one of the heavies, a 65-ton Catapult. While carrying less armor than his heavy missile platform, the new CPLT-C3 had undergone an extensive refit. Gone were the bird-like 'Mech's boxy Holly long-range missile packs. A massive Luxor Mobile Battery system had been installed in their place. Though now limited to five rounds of ammunition, Young did not complain much. The Arrow IV system was far more accurate than the old fifteen-found volley-fire racks carried by the original Catapult design. Using a designation system such as the Target Acquisition Gear mounted in a number of lighter 'Mechs, pinpoint accuracy could be achieved out to the maximum range of the big missiles. If he ever got into a brawl, the lack of articulated hands and arms would hurt, but the four lasers sprouting from the 'Mech's torso would keep many aggressors at bay.

  Young had complained a bit about being moved down in weight, but Ariana Winston knew her Regimental Sergeant Major well enough to recognize the gripe as a cover for his delight. She'd been a noncom once herself. It didn't do to let the officers think you were happy, they'd just find something for you to do, something guaranteed to make you miserable.

  Eventually, the status reports wound to a close. All commands were ready to begin their mission.

  "Thank you, Overste." Morgan rose as Sleipness sat down. "All right, folks, that's it. We jump out of here as soon as the engines are charged."

  "Three hours at the outside," Commodore Beresick said quietly from his seat next to Morgan.

/>   "Okay, three hours to jump. Dismissed."

  One after another, the commanders filed out of the briefing room, until only Beresick, Ariana Winston, and Morgan were left.

  "Sir," Winston began as soon as the other leaders were out of earshot. "I know you've made your decision, but you'd better think long and hard about any 'no quarter' policy. I've got troopers who are, descendants of survivors of the Kentares and Sendai massacres. They aren't going to like the idea of wasting everyone who doesn't surrender."

  Before Morgan could reply, Ariana Winston had swept into the passageway, and was gone.

  "Well, Commodore? Aren't you going to chew me out too?"

  "No need," Beresick said. "Remember, I command a WarShip. That means that any time I engage the enemy, it is to destroy him. We depersonalize things by telling ourselves that it's just a ship, or fighter, or 'Mech. We tell ourselves that we're destroying a machine, not the pilot or crew. It's not until you search the debris field for survivors, but there aren't any, that you comprehend how many lives you snuffed out And when a WarShip is destroyed, most of its crew goes with it."

  "Mmmm," was Morgan's only statement.

  "Well, sir," Beresick stood up, working the kinks out of his lower back. "I'd better get back to the bridge. See you in a couple of hours."

  * * *

  As the door to his berthing space hissed open, Kasugai Hatsumi swept the compartment with his eyes, more out of habit, ingrained, cultivated, and developed over long years of training, than out of any fear of actual attack. It had been almost four hours since he had helped secure Overste Sleipness' DropShip to its docking collar on the Banbridge's spindle-like mid-section. Now, coming off watch, Hatsumi was dog-tired. He had no idea that there was so much work to be done aboard a JumpShip. In his role as an able space-hand, he had been called upon to accompany a senior jump tech as she crawled through the narrow passages surrounding the ship's Kearny-Fuchida jump drive.