"Proverb?"
"Fool me once, shame on you," William MacLeod of the Highlanders said. "Fool me twice, shame on me."
Paul Masters asked, "So we'll be hitting them with everything we have?"
"That's what we're here to discuss." Morgan hitched his chair forward until his elbows rested on the tabletop. "Remember, the idea is to hit the Jags hard. We want to destroy their ability to make war. That means wiping out their factories, training facilities, command and control structure, everything."
"You're talking scorched earth," Masters said, appalled.
"Well, not scorched. Not completely anyway." Morgan sensed Ariana Winston stiffening beside him as he locked eyes with Paul Masters. "We're going to confine out attacks to military and industrial targets. We'll make every effort to avoid any civilian casualties."
"I guess that means orbital bombardment is out?"
"Yes, Marshal Bryan, orbital bombardment is right out."
"Excuse me, Marshal." Alain Beresick raised his hand. "We've always known it was possible to use a WarShip's batteries for tactical support fire as well as strategic bombardment. For the past several days, I've been going over the records salvaged from the Winter Wind and those in the Fire Fang's computer core. The Clanners managed to erase much of the information in the Wind's primary core, but they never got to the off-line backups. The Fang's core was intact when we captured her. I believe that there was enough information in those computers to allow us to attempt support fire. I'd suggest moving the Fire Fang in-system, maybe to the second or third planet, for a test fire."
"I don't know, Commodore," Morgan said reluctantly. "Firing a couple of batteries at an empty planet is one thing. Calling in tactical support fire from an orbiting WarShip is quite another. It's going to be a lot harder to direct naval support fire than it is to direct ground-based field artillery. I mean, nobody from the Inner Sphere has done it for two hundred years. We don't even have a procedure for designating targets or correcting fire."
"I know that, sir." Beresick was eager to prove his theory. "I've got my staff working on fire-direction protocols right now. We'll get it nailed down to the point that we won't even fire if we're not absolutely certain of what we're going to hit."
For several moments, Morgan rested his elbows on the table, toying with an electronic stylus while he considered his options.
"All right, Commodore," he said. "We've got a good number of jumps to go before we hit Clan space. Run your tests and get me the results. I want a full observation team both on-planet and aboard the Fire Fang when you try out your theory. If you can't control the shot-fall to within thirty meters, it's a no-go. Understood?"
"Understood, sir," Beresick said. "You'll see, Marshal, you won't be disappointed."
"Uh-huh." Morgan didn't sound reassured. "One more proviso, Commodore. We're talking about tactical support fire only, not bombardment. Even then, we're only going to fire if it's a choice between that and losing part of the task force. Got it?"
"Got it, sir." Beresick's joy was unabated by the severe restrictions Morgan had placed on him. Secretly, he had been mourning his role in the task force. He had thought he wouldn't be able to make a direct contribution to the mission, with the exception of chance battles such as Trafalgar. Now, with the possibility of delivering massive support fire directly into a battle area, Commodore Beresick was a happy man.
Morgan cleared his throat, preparing to move on to the next subject, when Major Ryan stood up.
"Marshal," he began. "I've been reviewing the data provided by Precentor Martial Focht's 'agent,' Trent. I believe I've located the target that should be attacked first by this task force."
Ryan paused, looking to Morgan for permission. When the Marshal nodded, the DEST commander passed a data-chip to the only noncommissioned officer in the room. The yeoman accepted the chip and fed it into the front of the small, powerful data unit in a corner of the briefing room. The data unit was, among other things, a smaller version of the Truth's holotank.
A map of the planet Huntress sprang into the air above the conference table. Huntress was a world of extremes, with massive polar icecaps, blistering deserts, and thick equatorial jungles. Only two continents showed green against the blue of the Sangram and Dhundh Seas. The larger, unimaginatively named Jaguar Prime, housed the planet's entire human population. Five large cities nestled among the mountains or crouched beneath the jungle canopy. One of the mountains well to the south of the planetary capital of Lootera showed the small image of a green bird, a katana clutched in its talons. The map legend revealed that this installation was the Falcon's Roost, the only enclave of Clan Jade Falcon outside of the Falcon homeworlds and the occupation zone.
A dot of white light pulsed near Lootera. Ryan spoke to the yeoman, and the map, originally only one meter in diameter, expanded until only the area surrounding Lootera was visible. The bright white area was also still visible, only a few kilometers from the city.
"As you all know," Ryan said, "there have been many tales of hidden Star League bases capable of defending a planet against invading fleets. For years, we dismissed these stories as old wives' tales. No such base had ever been found. Ladies and gentlemen, I tell you that you are looking at one right now."
Stunned silence blanketed the room. Morgan recovered first. "Go on, Major Ryan."
Ryan continued, "As most of you are aware, these space-defense systems were originally developed to protect Terra. The theory is, a computer system tracks and interrogates all incoming ships. If they're not transmitting the proper Identify-Friend-or-Foe code, the system launches remotely controlled drones that are programmed to destroy the intruder. Originally, these drones were powerful robot warships. Unfortunately, or fortunately for us, depending upon how you look at it, these drone cruiser-based systems were too complicated and too expensive to build in large quantities. Subsequent systems were designed with smaller and smaller drones, until the final version boasted an automated ship no more powerful than an Overlord Class DropShip. Some of these systems even launched 'suicide' ships—fast, fightersize robot bombs designed to pull alongside their target vessel and detonate a nuclear warhead. Some of these robot attack ships were programmed to crash into the intruder before detonating their warhead. Most of these space-defense systems, or Reagan Systems, as they were called, were deactivated around 2750. The information provided by ComStar and the Explorer Corps leads me to believe that we are facing an operational system of this last type."
"What?" Commodore Beresick jumped to his feet. "Are you telling me that I'll be taking my fleet into a system protected by a Reagan defense grid?"
"No, Commodore." Morgan laid a hand on Beresick's arm, noticing the twitching muscles in it as he guided the man back to his seat. "I think what Ryan's telling us is that he has a plan for preventing us from jumping into the teeth of a space defense system. Isn't that right, Major Ryan?"
"Yes, sir." Ryan asked the petty officer to bring up another display. "As you can see from this map, the projected location of the SDS control center is directly beneath this large peak, Mount Szabo. According to information ComStar obtained from the defector Trent, the facility is lightly guarded. Trent's briefing tells us that the Jags consider the possibility of a strike against their homeworld to be nonexistent.
"What I propose is this: detach the Haruna for this mission. We'll go in via a pirate point while the rest of the fleet emerges at the jump points. We'll make a fast in-run, hit the control center, disable it, and withdraw into the mountains above Lootera.
"Come to think of it, you may want to send in the Fox Teams at the same time to hit the C-3 installations, sensor sites, and aerospace fighter bases around your LZ. Who knows? We might get lucky and whack a couple of high-ranking Clan officers."
Morgan steepled his fingers, pressing them against his lips as he considered the DEST commander's plan.
"Okay," he said at last. "I think Major Ryan's plan has merit. Now, I hesitate to do this, but, comments?"
"Marshal
, the plan to take out the SDS system is a good one," Paul Masters said. "So is the idea of destroying Command, Control, and Communication installations. What concerns me is the cold-blooded assassination of unsuspecting people, Clan leaders or no."
The Knight Commander's objection earned him a muttered "Baka" from Major Ryan.
Morgan shot him an angry glance. Calling Masters a fool was a breach of military courtesy, even if Ryan had spoken Japanese. Ryan lowered his eyes.
Commodore Beresick said, "I recommend launching the strike as Ryan outlined it, with just a few alterations."
For half an hour, the staff discussed the merits and faults of the DEST leader's plan, until Morgan passed his final judgment.
"Major Ryan, I want you and Captain Montjar to go ahead and plan your operations. Give me a list of potential targets and their importance; timetables, force and equipment requirements, the lot. Top priority should be locating and destroying the Reagan System. After that, you can hit whatever targets of opportunity may present themselves.
"If a Clan officer happens to be present at one of your targets, I'm not going to forbid you to shoot him, but your teams may not go hunting. Is that clear? Captain Montjar, that goes for the Fox Teams too."
The special forces officers looked across the table at each other, then at Morgan. Their faces wore identical expressions of wounded innocence.
Morgan shook his head slightly and smiled, but the look he gave them left no doubt that he meant what he said.
Ariana Winston asked the petty officer to pull back the scale of the holographic map until it showed the entire Huntress system.
"The only thing that concerns me, Marshal, is Major Ryan's three or four days. I understand that it may take that long to locate and penetrate the Space Defense System control center, but, if it doesn't, two things are going to happen. First, the special teams are going to be cooling their heels on-planet until the rest of us get there. Second, the Jags are going to have advance warning that something is about to happen. It may not be enough time to whistle up reinforcements from Strana Mechty, or wherever else, but they could certainly get off a shout for help or slap together a defensive plan.
"My suggestion is to go ahead and launch the commando strikes. Aim them at the SDS system, C-3 sites, and the like. Ideally, the 'Mech forces should be halfway planetward before our sneaks set off their bombs, or whatever they plan to do. The strikes, timed to coincide with our assault, would certainly throw the Jags off balance and prevent them from mounting an organized defense."
She studied the glowing map for a moment. "I do agree with Major Ryan on one point, though. The first major landings should come just outside Lootera, on this surrounding plain. Look at it, it's a natural landing field. We could drop 'Mechs, ground DropShips. For pity's sake, we could even land fighters if we had to. To top it all off, they've got that 'eternal laser' thingy." Winston laughed at the idea of a laser burning eternally into the sky above a planetary capital. While it was intended to honor heroes to whom the Jaguars had apparently built massive monuments in the capital, the laser would also make a nice landing beacon in a stormy, cloudy atmosphere like Huntress'.
Colonel William MacLeod stood and walked around the narrow conference room, keeping pace with the slowly revolving holographic globe. "You know, Marshal, I'm think-in' that each outfit in this task force should be assigned its own area of operation. That way, we can hit the maximum number of objectives, while spreadin' th' Jags out thin."
He halted his pacing and gave the map a few more moments of thoughtful examination. Giving a satisfied nod, MacLeod straightened.
"Our man Trent says there's some kind of 'Mech production facility here at Pahn City. I'd kinda like t' take my Highlanders and shoot th' place up a bit. I think we may be able t' draw some o' th' Jags off there. Maybe even some o' th' sassanach who'd be opposin' th' main landings.
"I'm sure my Highlanders can hold out against the Jags fer a couple o' weeks at least. Especially if we fight them a run-an'-gun battle." MacLeod grinned slyly at Morgan. "Just like we did with your boys on Northwind a few years back, eh, Marshal?"
Morgan smiled thinly at the jibe, then shook his head. "Now, Colonel, you know I had nothing to do with that operation. If I had, Northwind would belong to the Federated Commonwealth."
MacLeod nodded but did not return the smile. The attempted takeover of his home planet of Northwind still had the potential to become a sore spot.
* * *
After several hours of planning, discussion, revision, and argument, the staff had come up with a rough operational plan. Afterward, Morgan reviewed the dozens of electronic pages of notes he'd taken during the long, arduous session.
"All right, that's enough for today," he said, gesturing at the chronometer above the petty officer's computer terminal. The bright green numbers showed that they'd been in the conference room for over ten hours. A clutter of dirty coffee cups, crumb-covered plastic plates, and half-eaten sandwiches competed for table space with hard-copy maps, noteputers, and data chips.
"I want you to review your individual phases of the operation and try to polish up any rough edges. We'll reconvene tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred, and try to refine this monster into something workable.
"Thank you, people. Dismissed."
With a chorus of "goodnights," the various commanders filed out of the briefing room, stretching and yawning as they headed for the shuttles and DropShips that would carry them back to their respective JumpShips.
30
Battle Cruiser ISS Invisible Truth
Task Force Serpent
Deep Periphery
02 January 3060 2200 Hours
Morgan sat back in his seat, watching his officers file out of the meeting room until only Andrew Redburn and Commodore Beresick remained.
"We got a lot accomplished today," Redburn said as he closed the cover of his noteputer. The command staff had spent the last two days ironing out the last details of the invasion plan. Finally, they had settled on a basic framework for the battle plan.
"More than I'd expected," Morgan agreed. "If we can get the same amount of work done tomorrow, we might even have a workable plan hammered out before I retire."
"Retire? You can't retire yet, sir," Redburn said with a laugh. "You're far too young. Don't you know that a Davion can't retire before he's a hundred and two?"
"It's not the years, Andrew," Morgan groaned as he levered himself out of his chair. It felt as though his backside had gone to sleep. "It's the mileage."
As the three officers strolled down the passageway connecting the Truth's main briefing room with the bridge, they were startled by the hiss of opening lift doors. A pair of young able-bodies stepped out, still wearing the circlestar and white Greek letter Q that had once marked them as Com Guard ship's crewmen. The youngsters snapped to rigid attention. The younger of the pair, a tow-headed youth with slightly protruding teeth, whipped his hand up in what he obviously hoped would be a smart salute. So vigorous was his motion that the snappy gesture of respect turned into a blow to the forehead.
Before the scarlet creeping up the youth's neck had time to reach his ears, Morgan came to a complete halt, executed a crisp right face, and solemnly returned the lad's salute.
"At ease," he said, extending his right hand. "What's your name, son?"
"Acolyte . .. er, Private Frank Seremet, Marshal, sir." He took the proffered hand as though Morgan were offering him the throne of the Federated Commonwealth.
"And you?"
"Private Steven Kalp."
"Nice to meet you, gentlemen." Morgan shook Kalp's hand as well. "Carry on."
For a moment, the young men didn't move. Then, in a rush, they saluted again, this time accomplishing the maneuver without injuring themselves, and strode down the corridor, smugly pleased with themselves.
"Y'know, Morgan," Redburn grinned. "That's what makes you a good commander. You care about your men."
Now it was Morgan's turn to color slight
ly. "Don't start with me, Andrew." The smile on his lips gave the lie to the growl in his voice. Turning to Beresick, he rolled his eyes. "Tell me, Commodore, what would you do with a subordinate who insisted upon embarrassing you in public?"
"Well, sir," the Commodore grinned wickedly at Redburn. "There's an airlock just across the bridge . . ."
"Nah, I couldn't do that. There'd be an inquiry."
"Yeah, but I'd vouch for you. You weren't even on the Truth when General Redburn wandered into the lifeboat station without a vacsuit on." Beresick laughed. "Tricky things, those airlocks. Push one wrong button, and whoosh! Out you go."
"Marshal," Redburn said in a mock tone of fright. "You wouldn't really blow me out into space. Would you?"
"Only if you start trying to run me for the High Council again."
Beresick laughed along with the FedCom officers. Obviously, the issue was a long-running joke between the two of them. What Redburn had said was true, though. Morgan was a good commander, because he did care about his men; his, and every other unit in the task force. Beresick had seen it time and again: a commander who loves his men, but understands that, in order to be a good soldier, he will eventually have to order some of those men to die. The commander knew that the first rule of warfare is that young men die, yet when a man died in a battle planned by that commander, the commander took it personally. What made a good officer was the ability to strike a balance between the love and compassion for one's men, needed to assure that they weren't thrown away needlessly, and the strength and detachment needed to preserve one's sanity in the midst of death and destruction.
As the doors to the Invisible Truth's bridge whispered open, Morgan's laughter stopped. As long as they were in the corridor, with its featureless, pale blue-gray bulkheads, he could forget where he was and what he was about to do. As soon as he stepped onto the control deck, with its holotank, sensor, and weapons stations, reality came flooding back. The grim mask of a seasoned commanding officer snapped back into place.
Twilight of the clans III: the hunters Page 31