by Ari Marmell
“Two reasons,” Anhearne interrupted. “First, all of the Second Division—hell, all of the First Army—is tied up on the Llaelese front. Even those who aren’t actively on the line are too vulnerable to Khadoran observation. This is a, let’s say, delicate situation, and the general can’t afford for Khador to spot any related activity.
“And second, it’s precisely because Commander Nemo knows you. He needs someone he can trust, Lieutenant. Someone he knows he can trust, not just from reports and professional reputation, but personally.”
Any pride Katherine might have felt at discovering how highly Nemo thought of her was swiftly tempered by the implications. “The situation’s that delicate, sir?”
“More, really. Militarily, yes, but also politically. Put bluntly, Lieutenant, this sort of assignment isn’t precisely in your wheelhouse, if you’ll pardon the nautical reference after last night’s incident. We’d normally assign it to someone a bit more, ah, subtle. But like I said . . . We’re stretched thin, we’re pretty sure you can handle it, and right now, the general’s confidence and trust outweigh other concerns.”
“All right,” Katherine said, repressing what would have been a woefully inappropriate sigh. I’m really not going to like this, am I? “Let’s hear it . . .”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Sergeant Bracewell, who had just asked the question every officer so loves to hear, stood at the outer curve of a massive U-shaped table. An oaken monstrosity polished first by the expert hands of carpenters, and then by years of use by a much rougher sort of person, it was one of the chamber’s two most prominent features.
The other was the banner, occupying most of the rear wall and large enough to serve a heavy warjack as a winter quilt, proudly displaying the Golden Swan on the ubiquitous cerulean field.
Arrayed beside and behind the sergeant stood her various seconds. Wendell Habbershant stood at her shoulder, a few steps nearer than the corporals who commanded the individual units of Benwynne’s squad: iron-haired, moonlight-pale Serena Dalton, long gunners; her near polar opposite, eight-fingered and molasses-hued Roland Cadmoore, trenchers; and, of course, Atherton Gaust.
Sitting before her, in the table’s inner curve, was the man who’d summoned them back to Caspia—and then, beyond ordering them to prepare and provision for a long-term operation, hadn’t said a word about why they’d been recalled.
General Alain Runewood, a broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced man with a widow’s peak and bottlebrush moustache, both in varying salt-and-pepper shades, responded with a gruff, “Denied.”
Benwynne’s jaws clacking together sounded remarkably like a breach-loader snapping shut.
“Let me take a guess, Sergeant,” he continued. “You’d like to ask me, just about as rudely as protocol permits, why your team was pulled from your last operation? Why we’d bother assigning a UE squad and then leave everything in the hands of traditionally trained army?”
“My people prepared for that operation for weeks, sir,” Benwynne reminded him. Then, when he didn’t berate her for speaking—perhaps his questions took precedence over his earlier refusal to let her speak?—she continued, “Besides, this wasn’t just about stopping a pirate raid. We were supposed to determine if these were Khadoran privateers, unofficially assigned to test our southern coastal defenses—and to determine if the source of our intelligence on the raid was at all reliable!”
Indeed, Benwynne didn’t even know from whom the warning about the raid had come; she knew only it hadn’t been through the normal channels of the Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service.
“I do know the purpose of the mission, Sergeant,” Runewood reminded her blandly. “I signed off on it.”
“Then why—?”
“Permission denied, Bracewell. Remember?”
Again her mouth snapped shut. Several of her people grumbled under their breath, until she glared them into silence so the general wouldn’t have to.
“The simple truth is,” Runewood said, idly scratching at his moustache, “that something of rather greater urgency came up.”
“More urgent than—?”
“The second and sixth squads can manage a search and interrogation. They may not have your experience, but they’re not incompetent.”
“Never once thought they were, sir.”
“Good.” Then, “Sergeants, Corporals . . . Everything you are about to hear is designated Gold-level Restricted under the Royal Secrets Proclamation. You will repeat to your soldiers only what they need to know to fulfill their portions of the assignment, and no more. Revelation of any of this information to anyone else is an act of high treason. Am I understood?”
“Understood, sir!” Every one of them stood a little straighter; everything they heard in this room was restricted, but never to that level. Not a man or woman present failed to understand the significance.
“Good,” he repeated. Then, rather than speaking further, he stood, moved toward a small door near the Cygnus banner, and left the room.
“Well, I certainly won’t be telling anyone . . .” Atherton muttered. Benwynne shushed him.
When that door opened again a moment later, it wasn’t Runewood who entered. This new arrival was taller, thinner, though his age-lined face showed lingering traces of the muscular man he once had been. Like Runewood, he wore a thick moustache, but his was the stark white of summer clouds—as was the unruly mop of hair that lay flat only in a few select spots, as if it simply refused and repulsed every attempt to brush it down. Blue-tinted goggles hung from a lanyard around his neck, as though he’d simply forgotten they were there.
Most of those present had never met the man in person, but they needed neither his name, nor the golden epaulets of rank on his right shoulder, to recognize him.
Indeed, precious few soldiers of Cygnar could fail to recognize Commander Adept Sebastian Nemo of the 9th Brigade, 2nd Division, First Army—and inventor of roughly a quarter of the nation’s most advanced weapons and equipment.
The second man who entered on his heels, a small and unremarkable fellow also in officer’s uniform, carrying a ledger and stylus, went almost completely unremarked.
Almost. Benwynne could have sworn she saw Habbershant’s forehead furrow when the (presumed) secretary appeared, but the expression faded before she could be sure.
“At ease,” Nemo said before the lot of them had completed their salutes. He took the seat Runewood previously occupied; the other man sat a pace or so behind and began making notes.
“Sergeant Bracewell,” the commander asked without preamble, “how long has Master Sergeant Habbershant served as Chief Mechanik for your squad?”
“Been with us a year as of last Doloven, sir.”
“Mm. Master Sergeant?”
“Sir?” Habbershant asked.
“Any conflicts between you two?”
Habbershant frowned; Benwynne found herself biting her tongue. “I’m not sure I understand, sir . . .” the mechanik said.
“Conflicts. Of rank. She’s never appeared threatened that you technically outrank her? Sergeant, Habbershant’s never undermined or questioned your authority?”
“No, sir.” It was all Benwynne trusted herself to say. She liked Habbershant; he was a good mechanik, a good soldier, a good man. She trusted him. And no, he’d never behaved any differently toward her than any of her other people did. Still, had the general come out and directly asked Are you bothered by it at all? she’d have been lying, if only a bit, to say no.
And given how much she trusted Wendell, it bothered her that it bothered her.
“Not at all, General,” Habbershant said at almost the same moment. “Honestly, sir, I requested placement with a UE team. I knew it’d mean a subordinate position to a sergeant, and I’m fine with that. I just fix the ’jacks and maintain the equipment. No desire to do anything else.” His beard crinkled as he grinned. “Only time I might even try to pull rank would be to get out of latrine duty.”
That grin
faded when neither his sergeant nor the commander seemed inclined to share it.
“It’s, uh . . . We’re not the only squad with that sort of setup, sir,” he finished lamely.
“I’m aware, Master Sergeant. I’m not certain I entirely approve, but I’m aware . . . Still, if you say there’s no problem, that’s what counts.
“We’ve reserved two adjacent cars aboard the Lady Ellena,” the commander continued, the change of tack so abrupt Benwynne felt dizzy, “as well as a cargo pallet for your warjacks. The morning after tomorrow, your squad will board the line for Bainsmarket.”
The sergeant couldn’t quite keep herself from blinking, and from the faint shuffling behind her, she was pretty sure her people were no less confused than she.
“From there, you’ll travel upriver, disembarking just short of Merywyn. You . . . What is it, sergeant?”
Benwynne sheepishly lowered her hand and cleared her throat. “Um, sir, none of us has actually been told what’s going on.”
“What precisely do you think I’m doing right now, Bracewell?”
“I understand that, sir. It’s just . . . We’re Second Army, not—”
“Yes, yes. I do have some small familiarity with military structure.” Nemo sighed, shook his head. “All right, sergeant. I’m not accustomed to explaining myself, but perhaps you’re used to a different process.
“I have a mission that requires an Unorthodox Engagement team. I cannot, at present, draw upon any of the UE teams of the First Army. The First is already stretched woefully thin, trying to hold off the Khadoran offensive in Llael, and are potentially under the eyes of too many Khadoran spies. So I’ve arranged with Lord General Heltser and General Runewood to borrow you for a span.”
Benwynne’s cheeks stretched in an abortive frown. On paper, Unorthodox Engagement teams were just normal squads scattered throughout Cygnar’s four armies. They had their stations, their standard duty assignments, the works. Unofficially, however, such squads—all of whom had received additional training and contained a broader mix of skillsets than most units—were constantly sent hither and yon to undertake whatever sorts of special operations circumstances might require.
It wasn’t unheard of, then, for UE teams to find themselves operating under different battalion majors or brigade commanders than those to whom they were nominally assigned. This was, however, the first time Benwynne had ever heard of an Unorthodox Engagement team being placed under the command of an entirely different army.
“Your objective,” Nemo was saying, “involves slipping in behind the Khadoran advance, via the Thornwood. I’ll get into particulars and specific targets shortly, but in essence, you’re to disrupt their forward units and positions, allowing the First additional opportunities to dig in and launch counterattacks. We’ll coordinate with the CRS, of course, to ensure that you don’t run afoul of any of their own operations behind enemy lines.”
“And for what operation are we providing a diversion, sir?”
Nemo’s expression became granite. His secretary finally looked up from the ledger, eyes wide, and Benwynne could feel the stares of her own people on her back and neck.
Internally, she blanched at her inappropriate outburst. Still, she was angry at how her squad had been treated, more than a little bewildered, and rather less concerned than normal with the niceties of protocol. Whatever doubts she felt, then, certainly made no impression on her face.
“Explain yourself, Sergeant,” the commander ordered, his voice a coiling viper that hadn’t yet decided whether to strike.
Benwynne sucked in a deep breath. “Commander, what you’re describing is more properly a task for either the Reconnaissance Service, or a commando unit. Especially since this appears to be a fluid assignment, rather than one with any specific primary objective. That you’re pulling a UE squad across the nation for this—along with its warjacks!—tells me that you want us to be noticed.”
Nemo continued to glare, but was that just a hint of crinkling in the lines of his face?
“Not bad, Sergeant. You’re quite right. You aren’t solely diversionary—the objectives we’ll be assigning your team are quite genuine and high priority—but yes, you are intended to keep Khador’s eyes occupied in hunting for you.”
For a moment, he tapped a knuckle on the edge of the table. “General Runewood explained to you the level of secrecy on this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. There is a CRS operation occurring parallel with your own; one of particular political sensitivity. Are any of you familiar with a Baron Crispin Halcourt? No? Well, suffice to say he owns a parcel of land in the Western Midlunds, and he’s related, by blood or marriage, to more than a few of his . . . southern neighbors.”
Ah. Understanding washed over Benwynne in a gentle wave. The Southern Midlunds were Cygnar’s primary breadbasket. They were also the home of a cadre of dukes, archdukes, and barons who were less than fully committed to the relatively youthful reign of King Leto IV. Anything that might further aggravate that particular enmity, while the nation faced a war in the north, was desperately to be avoided.
“Baron Halcourt and the bulk of his household managed, with impeccable timing, to be in the midst of a sojourn in Llael—Leryn, specifically—at the time of the incursion.”
This time, when several of the corporals behind her hissed or murmured, Benwynne chose not to berate them.
“For reasons of politics, business, and a breathtaking lack of wisdom, Halcourt chose not to leave when word of the invasion first reached him. Now, though Leryn hasn’t yet come under attack—and won’t, if we’ve anything to say about it—his routes back to Cygnar are cut off. He could escape through Rhul, if the dwarves permitted him passage, but he’s not likely to ask until things reach their most desperate. The last thing he’d want is to be beholden to a foreign state, particularly an unallied one.”
“So CRS is staging an extraction,” Benwynne guessed. Nemo grunted an affirmative.
“But sir, surely there are UE teams assigned to the Second or Fourth Armies that are far closer to the area? They could—”
“I’ve my own reasons for selecting you and your people, Sergeant. You’ve the set of talents I require.”
“It’s just—”
“Sergeant . . .” If that had been a smile struggling to break through Nemo’s regimented façade, it was certainly gone now. “Do not mistake my willingness to explain myself for permission to question your orders.”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Good.” The commander crooked a finger at the man behind him, who flipped the ledger back a few pages, removed a thick bundle from between two sheets, and unfolded it into a map of the Thornwood, western Llael, and southeastern Khador. “Then we’ll begin with a discussion of your route to your first objective . . .”
***
Master Sergeant Wendell Habbershant shut the door behind him with an audible sigh and the faintest pop in his upper back. His eyes felt like he’d smuggled sand back from the Bay of Cygnar hidden beneath his lids, and the creases of his uniform—which had, that morning, been sharp enough to shear sheep—now looked more like they’d been trampled by waltzing warjacks. From Nemo’s interminable briefing that morning, to hours spent organizing supplies for the mission, to continuing repairs and maintenance on the battle-and-sand-scarred ’jacks, Wendell had been on his feet for almost twenty hours straight. All he could think about was a hot tea, perhaps with a dash of something stronger mixed in, a few minutes with a well-packed pipe, and the warm and loving embrace of his flimsy mattress, which—
“Evening, Master Sergant.”
—was currently occupied by a small-framed, dark-haired officer sitting casually at the foot of the cot.
The mechanik took a single deep breath and unclenched his fist from the dagger he kept amidst the other tools on his belt. He’d been expecting this visit from the moment he saw the man taking Nemo’s notes. In the press of the day’s duties, however, it had slipped
his mind.
Instead of a blade, then, Wendell offered a perfunctory salute, which the other man returned even more indifferently.
“Don’t seem entirely shocked to see me here, Habbershant.”
“No, sir. I didn’t think a Reconnaissance Service colonel was acting as secretary to Commander Nemo just for the experience.”
Colonel Mathis, of the Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service, returned a tight smile. “Right you are, Master Sergeant. Scout General Rebald sends his compliments, by the way.”
Habbershant scarcely even nodded an acknowledgment. “Can I take it, then, that the commander’s briefing and his ‘admission’ this morning might not have been entirely truthful, sir?”
“Oh, it was truthful,” Mathis said. “It just wasn’t complete.”
“And I assume the fact that CRS has a presence in Bracewell’s squad is one of the commander’s reasons for choosing us over other UE teams?”
Then, taking the colonel’s raised eyebrow as confirmation, “Am I being activated, sir?” Wendell had known, from the day his superiors had assigned him to Benwynne’s squad—just one of many operatives the Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service had seeded throughout Cygnar’s conventional military forces—that this moment might come, but that didn’t mean he wanted it to. He liked the squad; respected them; felt like he belonged. They wouldn’t take kindly to the revelation that, while he’d never been disloyal, he had been serving two masters.
“We can hope not, Master Sergeant. I’m filling you in primarily as a precaution. If things go as planned, you should never need to utilize any of this information, and you’ll never repeat it to anyone else, your fellow officers included.
“But if things do go pear-shaped, we need you in a position to pick up the pieces. You and the rest of the squad . . . Even if that means you have to relieve Sergeant Benwynne of her command and lead the team yourself.”