"I missed him, boss," Carasia snarled. "I had the sneaky beggar in my sights, I got a missile lock, and I missed him."
Kempka nodded to herself. Carasia's short-range missile launchers had been fitted with sophisticated fire-control systems that signaled a solid target lock with a sharp warbling tone. Once the system locked onto a target it was a rare thing to miss.
"All right, Two, keep on him."
The sergeant studied her tactical display. Carasia's 'Mech was south, and a little to the east, of her position. If the pirate was trying to get away, he'd probably head straight back to his base, which the ground-pounders said was to the west. This guy was clever. He would not want to lead a hostile force straight back to his hideout. That meant he'd probably turn. But which way, north or south?
"Two," she called at last. "Keep headin' due west, see if you can't flush him. Four, flank out right a ways, in case he tries to get by us. I'm gonna move off south. Stay in radio contact. Yell if you pop him. We don't want him gettin' away."
Kempka switched her commune to standby, and turned the gain on her Raven's state-of-the-art electronic warfare equipment up to just short of the distortion point. Slowly, carefully, she slipped between the trees. Occasionally, she paused, locking her 'Mech's knees and cutting in the external sound pickups.
This was a technique she'd tried to drill into her lancemates for years. All the high-tech electronics in the world still can't match the "Eyeballs, Model 0, Mark 1" that every warrior was born with. There was something about looking and listening with the senses that God gave a person, something that allowed you to pick up on something that the best electronic sensors would sometimes miss.
This was one of those times. There he was. The Jenner's dark green and gray camouflage paint job didn't quite match the background. Kempka saw her enemy five seconds before he saw her. That was all the time she needed.
With exquisite care, she deftly lined up her Raven's targeting cross hairs with the bandit 'Mech's dome-shaped head. Keying in the target interlock circuits, she tapped the trigger once.
Six Harpoon short-range missiles leapt from their tubes with the hollow, singing roar that marked that particular weapon system. At the same time, a pair of scarlet laser beams snapped across the short distance to wreak their damage on the enemy's armor.
The Jenner staggered under the combined impact. Hurt, but not disabled, the camouflaged 'Mech turned to face its tormentor. Kempka heard a new clip of missiles thunk into place in the launcher rack. This time, it was no gentle tap. She clamped down viciously in the firing grip.
Two missile volleys crossed each other's contrails in the center of the narrow clearing, followed by the unearthly crack of air superheated by millions of joules of light energy as the antagonists exchanged laser fire.
Kempka's head swam as three warheads impacted on her Raven's beak-like nose. Amber warning lights flared to life as the bandit's lasers ripped through her 'Mech's previously damaged leg armor, reducing an actuator package to slag.
The enemy suffered worse. Already hurt by Kempka's surprise attack, the Jenner stumbled, going down on one knee.
The bandit 'Mech never got the chance to rise. Looming out of the steaming forest behind the Jenner came the squat, stout form of Carasia's Commando. Extending the 'Mech's right arm, the Light Horseman hesitated to be sure that his missile tracking systems had locked onto the target. Then, at point-blank range, he launched a lethal barrage of armor-piercing warheads into the Jenner's thinly armored back. Even over the flat, metallic bang of the exploding warheads, Kempka's external mikes picked up the odd, rackety whir of the bandit's gyro coming apart inside its housing.
The Jenner wobbled on unsteady legs. A flash and smoke split the dome-like head as the pilot ejected on a column of flame. His 'Mech crashed to the forest floor like a poleaxed steer. The bandit came to earth a few meters away.
"All right, that's it." The hollow sound of the Raven's external speakers gave Kempka's voice an unearthly, almost demonic quality. "Put your hands behind your head, and start back toward the lake. Don't even think of running, or I'll blow you into next week."
Clearly exhausted, the bandit nodded and raised his hands.
The battle of Sweetwater Lake was over.
20
Sweetwater Lake Basin
Meribah System
Deep Periphery
16 November 3059 1855 Hours
"Dragon One, this is Ember One-One. We got 'im."
"Roger, One-One."
Major Calvin massaged his temples as he swung the boom mike away from his lips. Kempka's capture of the fleeing pirate relieved only one twinge of what was promising to be a massive headache. According to those few prisoners who were both willing and able to talk, 'Mechs that had launched the raid were only a fragment of the pirate band's real strength. Supposedly, they were a security detail left behind by the band's leader while he led a large raiding party against a rival band two jumps away. The prisoners told Calvin that the raiding force wasn't due back for at least a week. That would be plenty of time to finish recharging the task force's engines and jump outsystem. They might even be able to collect enough fresh water to last the rest of the operation, if they were careful.
What worried Major Calvin was the presence of an undetected enemy force less than a day's march from the vulnerable DropShips and technical crews he had been assigned to protect.
Rubbing the back of bis neck with one callused hand, Calvin forced out the decision he'd been putting off.
"Attention all units, this is Dragon One. We are suspending operations, pending further instructions from Cavalier. Drinker, you have thirty minutes to get your people and as much as you can of your gear back aboard your ships. Be ready for immediate dustoff. Dragonslayers, tighten up the perimeter by two-zero-zero meters. We're going to hold the LZ until we hear otherwise. Dragon One, out."
Switching channels, Calvin contacted Captain Gas-coine aboard the Hussar.
"Mike get ready to patch a message through to Courtyard, will you?"
A few moments later, the communications link had been prepared. Calvin thought carefully about what he wanted to say. With the Invisible Truth holding station at the star's zenith jump point, it would take at least ten minutes for his message to reach the task force flagship. With true two-way communications rendered impossible, each party in a conversation had to phrase his messages carefully.
Keying in his 'Mech's zip-squeal recorder, Calvin began to speak.
In a few precise sentences, he laid out the situation being faced by the watering party, sketching out the bare details of the skirmish with the pirates and the information gleaned from those taken prisoner.
Switching off the recorder, the Mech Warrior tapped a stud, which sent the message to the Hussar's communications panel. From there, it went burning off into the cloudy sky.
For a long time, there was no response. Major Calvin began to wonder if his transmission hadn't gotten through. Then came a reply.
"Dragon One, you are instructed to have Barleycorn dust off. Once in orbit, Barleycorn is to remain on station pending further orders." Calvin nodded to himself. He had already ordered the collection teams aboard their DropShips. It wouldn't take much time to ready the Mules for boost. Once in orbit, they could easily ground again, reestablishing their work details, or, if necessary, make a high-speed run back to the fleet.
"Once Barleycorn is safe, Dragon is to begin search operations to secure the landing zone and to locate the pirate base."
"Roger, Cavalier, will comply." Calvin acknowledged Morgan's instructions. "What are your instructions regarding our prisoners?"
"Dragon," the reply came after many minutes. "Place your prisoners under guard aboard Barleycorn One. They will be transferred to Courtyard for debrief."
"Roger, Cavalier. Will comply." Calvin knew that "debrief was a euphemism for "interrogation." As a soldier, he recognized the maxim which states that intelligence is the first arm of warfare. That didn't mean
he had to like the men and women who gathered intelligence. In most cases, intel officers weren't even soldiers. Unlike reconnaissance troops, who wore the uniform and made a direct contribution on a battlefield, intel-types were usually civilians who skulked around in the enemy's rear area, sneaking into military, industrial, and political centers to beg, buy, or steal the information they wanted. Whatever contribution the intelligence officers made, its impact on the common trooper went largely unnoticed. When everything went right, anyway. If a piece of bad, or out-of-date, intelligence was passed along to mission planners or field commanders, an operation could fall apart before it had begun. The cost in lives and material was usually high.
Shutting down the link to the flagship, Calvin punched up his operational frequency to relay the Marshal's orders to his team.
Fifteen minutes later, the Mules carrying the ComStar techs and seven captive pirates, along with an infantry squad from Seventh Company, lifted off in a cloud of smoke and dust. As the orange-white blaze of the Drop-Ship's flares vanished into the low-hanging overcast, Calvin toggled his commline to active.
"All right, people. If you're through waving goodbye, we've got some work to do. Kempka, take, your lance northwest and initiate a standard patrol sweep."
* * *
Some time later, as the recon elements of the Eridani Light Horse's Fifth Striker Battalion were searching the wooded Sweetwater Basin, a high-speed shuttle from the Antrim docked with the Invisible Truth. Aboard were a half-dozen dejected-looking men and women, dressed in a bewildering array of mismatched uniforms, paramilitary dress, and civilian work clothes. Most sported bloodstained field dressings, indicating that they hadn't surrendered easily. They also wore the hollow-eyed, weary expression common to all prisoners of war.
They were met in the small craft bay by a squad of armed men wearing the khaki armored jumpsuits and visored helmets of Star League marines. Quickly, the bound prisoners were escorted out of the bay and into a liftshaft. Seconds later, the captives were hustled through darkened corridors into cramped, three-meter-square cells. They barely had time to assimilate their surroundings, when a second, smaller body of armed men entered the detention area.
"DeVanziano." One of the faceless marines barked out the name with no preamble. "Antony DeVanziano."
A weary-looking pirate, whose fatigue was underpinned by defiance, stepped to the barred window of his cell. "That's me. Whaddya want?"
The man, who wore the divided, two-color square patch of a corporal, gestured sharply toward that cell door. Two of his men jumped forward, unlocked the cell, dragged the defiant pirate into the corridor, and slammed the door to again, with such speed that DeVanziano's two cellmates were forced to jump backward away from the door, or be struck by the heavy steel panel as it swung closed.
"Now, lissen, you muck-eaters," the prisoner blustered, as the marines clamped steel restraining cuffs around his wrists. "You best tell me where I am and who you are, or else."
The marines gave no indication of having heard the angry, profanity-laden string of threats their captive continued to shout. They simply frog-marched the cursing pirate into a featureless room just outside of the detention block.
Seated behind a plain metal table were a pair of stocky men, dressed in drab green jackets. One wore a black fox's mask on his collar, which earned him a defiant snort from the captive. When DeVanziano turned his gaze on the room's second occupant, his defiant obscenities froze in his throat. There, gleaming on the collar of the officer's jacket, was a tiny gold-plated Greek letter Rho.
"Very good, Mister DeVanziano, you understand exactly who and what I am." The intelligence Adept chuckled as he rose sinuously to his feet. "Very good indeed. Since we understand each other so well, perhaps you'd like to tell me everything I want to know, without my having to resort to, shall we say, more unpleasant methods?"
* * *
Two decks above, in Morgan's flag office, the Marshal looked across his desk with a thin smile.
"Don't you think he's playing the 'Grand Inquisitor' bit a little too well?"
"Just a bit." Demi-Precentor-cum-Colonel Regis Grandi let out a chuckle. "But that's exactly what our Mister DeVanziano is expecting. To his mind, the only thing missing is the old Tiepolo robes. Ah, it's just as well. If Adept Tobin were wearing the old robes, I'm afraid we'd end up rushing our prisoner to sick bay for treatment of a coronary."
Turning back to the monitor, which gave an odd, high-and-inside perspective of the interrogation room, Grandi reminded Morgan that Tobin was one of the best intelligence officers in the business.
The interrogation process was disturbing to watch. Tobin, every inch the professional, never raised his voice. The Adept's quiet, reasonable tone reminded Morgan more of a minister counseling a parishioner than a highly skilled intelligence officer.
Seated behind the table in a position that instantly conveyed an air of authority, Tobin began the inquiry with a few simple questions: the ubiquitous name, rank, and service number. As he continued, Tobin switched to subjects of military importance. The questions came in cycles. Each time he asked for information, he phrased his queries just a bit differently, the carefully chosen words shading both the question and the answer. Without changing his level, almost sympathetic tone, Adept Tobin challenged every repeated statement, inferring that the prisoner was lying and that the interrogation team knew more than they were letting on. Throughout the entire process, Captain Montjar never said a word. He merely leaned his chair back against the wall, his eyes half-closed, as he gazed at the edge of the table.
Gradually, inexorably, DeVanziano, who had begun the session in angry defiance, began to come apart before the commanders' eyes. Less than an hour after he started, Adept Tobin brought the interrogation to a close.
After the guards had removed the prisoner, Tobin looked up at the concealed camera.
"That's the lot, sir." He smiled in satisfaction. "We want to go over our notes and talk to a couple more of them before we come to any conclusions, but, for now, it's probably safe to start water collection again. I don't think this guy was lying to me."
* * *
Three hours later, Tobin and Montjar reported to Morgan's flag cabin where they presented their findings to Ariana Winston and Andrew Redburn, as well as the Marshal. Upon receiving word that the interrogation team had concluded its deliberations, Morgan sent a message asking the other officers to be present when the findings were presented.
According to the information garnered by the intelligence officers, the pirate band numbered around one hundred. Mostly, they were refugees from the old "bandit kingdoms" that were virtually obliterated when the Clans overran the Periphery. Those pirates who had managed to escape from the main Clan thrust and the subsequent solahma units dispatched to hunt them down made their way across the Periphery, gathering strength, until they settled on the uninhabited planet they had named Eleuthera. From there, they began a new campaign of plunder and thievery. Somehow, the pirates had managed to elude detection and capture, until now. They were able to survive by striking at refugees and at other pirate bands. Lately, they had begun attacking Periphery, Inner Sphere, and Clan-held worlds.
The bandits supposedly had a force of thirty-three 'Mechs, mostly older-model machines. Some of their warriors had newer machines, outfitted with newtech systems. A few had even managed to capture Clan OmniMechs, a claim borne out by the Puma and Uller destroyed by the Light Horse security detail. According to the prisoners, the rest of their force was away on a raid. There were still a couple of pirates back at their base, sort of a security force. They also reported that the pirates were holding a number of prisoners, mostly refugees, that they were using as forced laborers. The rest of the bandit force wasn't due back for at least two more weeks.
"How certain are you of this information?" Morgan tapped the noteputer displaying Tobin's report.
"As certain as I can be, sir." Tobin spread his hands. "You can never be one hundred percent positive of a
nything you get from a prisoner, but I'd bet the farm on this one."
"VSA supports the conclusions, sir." Montjar passed across a second noteputer. He hadn't been at all bored by Tobin's interrogations, but had been watching the tiny screen of a Voice Stress Analysis unit secured to the underside of the table. The noteputer's liquid-crystal screen displayed a series of jagged lines, which conveyed little to Morgan. He knew, however, that the M15 officer understood the data. The lines showed a base stress level, reflected as tiny quavers in the subject's voice, imperceptible to the human ear. A second series of lines showed a second, elevated, set of stress levels, brought on by Tobin's questioning. According to Captain Montjar, this high-tech analysis revealed that each subject questioned was telling the truth as he recognized it.
"Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all." Morgan waited until the two intelligence officers had closed the door behind them before speaking again. "So now what?"
"Well, Morgan," Andrew Redburn sat back, taking a long, relishing sip of tea from the cup in front of him. "Well, here's where the bullet hits the bone, doesn't it?"
"How do you mean, Andrew?"
"I mean, we can't just walk away from this, can we? We've got to send someone in there to clean out the pirates and rescue the prisoners, right? That probably means the Light Horse, since they're onplanet already."
"That's how I see it." Morgan's tone of voice suggested that he wasn't sure where Redburn was going with his discourse, but didn't like the direction nonetheless.
"Well, sir," Redburn continued. "Unless you're going to order 'no quarter,' and I know you won't do that, you're going to end up with a batch of POWs. Now, we've got a bunch of pirates down there, not exactly the most honorable sort of people to begin with. I don't think they're going to sign on as bondsmen, if you know what I mean." Redburn gave Morgan a half-grin that conveyed his relief that it was not his decision to make.
Twilight of the clans III: the hunters Page 20