Target of Opportunity

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  * * *

  Machine gun and laser fire erupted on the north edge of the park, catching the attention of Star Captain Cox. He stepped out of his duraplex dome tent, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. He emerged ready for a fight, even though he carried only a combat knife for a weapon. He stared off in the direction of the weapons fire and heard the whining roar of a hovercraft getting closer.

  There it was! A Fox hovercraft. He saw the insignia of the Wyatt Militia on the front of the craft as it swung wide along the edge of the camp. His pickets, Elementals of the Striker Star, swept in after the Fox, firing at it from the rear and sides. Ricochets tossed up sparks on the armored hull as the craft danced to the side, sliding toward where the ’Mechs were parked.

  Personnel ran across the camp to pick up their weapons or man their vehicles. The hovercraft was not firing, but instead seemed determined to taunt the warriors by invading their camp and breaking their perimeter defenses. This is not honorable behavior. He lifted his left wrist and activated his communicator. “Pouncer One to all commands. Alert One. Air support get up. Neutralize that vehicle.” The words didn’t sound threatening, but they were. It was difficult to neutralize or cripple a vehicle. What he was really saying was to destroy the hovercraft.

  Star Captain Cox heard the engines engage at higher revs and the Fox seemed to roar almost twice as loud. An Elemental sentry landed near it at the apex of its floating turn and blazed away at it with an arm-mounted laser. A burst of emerald energy sliced up the side of the hovercraft, cutting right through the logo of the Wyatt Militia. It wasn’t enough to stop it.

  The hovercraft slewed toward the area where he stood. Cox reached down to his hip and pulled out his knife. His mind raced, reviewing what he knew of the approaching craft. If he could time a jump just right, he might be able to get on top and get to the access hatch there. If he could get inside, he could kill or incapacitate the driver. The Star captain stepped forward to meet his foe.

  The Fox juked to the right, away from him and toward the ’Mechs. He heard the thunder of a diesel engine starting up and knew it was the ConstructionMech Mark II behind him. He expected to hear the Locust and Black Hawk firing up their fusion reactors as well.

  The Militia Fox roared past him, kicking up dust as it raced away. He jogged behind it for several steps, but it widened the distance between them too quickly. The hovercraft was bearing right for his own Warhammer, shut down for the evening. The tech caste members were trying to get out of the way. Star Captain Cox watched as three Elementals jumped past him in pursuit. He watched as the ConstructionMech stepped forward. The Locust, some fifty meters away from his Warhammer, came to life and started to move, lining up a flank shot on the Fox.

  At first, he thought that the Fox was building up speed to ram into his ’Mech. It was a pointless move. The vehicle would inflict damage, especially if the ramming attack toppled his ’Mech. But the pilot of the Fox could not hope to get away. He was in the heart of the Spirit Cat camp, and the Clan warriors were on the move. The hovercraft was trapped.

  When it got within a dozen meters of the Warhammer, right between it and the ConstructionMech, the Fox exploded.

  The blast was incredible. A bright white flash, followed by an orange-yellow ball of fire that seemed to have no end. One of the hovercraft’s rear propeller blades came out of the blast like a deadly spinning knife, flying into a clump of trees and burying itself deep in the largest trunk.

  One of the Elementals was knocked back and down, and Cox flew ten meters, landing on his back. There was a deep ringing in his ears and he coughed, struggling to breathe. His sight narrowed to tunnel vision for a few beats of his heart, and he worried that he was going to black out, but slowly his sight returned to normal.

  There was nothing left that resembled the Fox; only a shallow black circle marked where it had been. The Warhammer had been toppled by the blast; through the flames from the burning supplies and repair gear he could see the bottoms of the footpads of the BattleMech. The ConstructionMech was still standing, but was blackened from the blast; its left shoulder-guard armor plate had been mangled and twisted into scrap by flying debris. Fires seemed to burn everywhere.

  The force of the blast clearly had a higher yield than just the armaments of the Fox cooking off. It was safe to assume that the militia had stripped some of the armor plating off and loaded on at least several tons of military-grade explosives—making perfect shrapnel of the remaining armor. There was no question that this was deliberate.

  His ears heard nothing but a dull roar, like the rush of water, as he watched his personnel spring into action, putting out fires, recovering the scattered gear, tending to the injured. He felt nothing but cold fury. The Wyatt Militia fielded a Fox hovercraft. It had been turned against him as a moving bomb.

  Knight Alexi had efficiently destroyed the bond of honor between his forces and hers. Now, he would take the fight to her. The Wyatt Militia would pay for what they had done. The Republic of the Sphere would learn what it meant to test the Spirit Cats.

  * * *

  Tucker sat in one of the communications console seats in the cramped interior of the mobile HQ, feeling claustrophobic with everyone looking over his shoulder. The Wyatt Militia had left Kinross at almost the same moment that the Spirit Cats had entered it. The convoy moving up into the highlands along Highway Seven had been slow and ponderous, a situation made worse when the ConstructionMech that had been pieced together suffered a hydraulic failure that dropped its excavator arm onto the pavement and brought the entire convoy lumbering to a complete stop. It had taken the motor pool mechanics nearly two hours to repair it, during which time the rest of the unit had formed up around it. Legate Singh did not want to spread out the troops too far. By the time repairs were done, it had been time to set up camp for the night.

  “Are you sure it was a military-band transmission?” Legate Singh pressed.

  Tucker nodded. “It only lasted a few moments. I have a copy in the buffer,” he flipped a switch and the speaker system repeated its tinny message. “To the Wyatt Militia. Your violation of the terms of our trial has left us no alternative. We will come after you and teach you the price of treachery.” The message came to an abrupt end. Tucker turned to the legate and saw the color drain from his face.

  “What is he talking about?” Singh stammered.

  Alexi Holt stood with crossed arms, defiant, refusing to react to the message. “Something has happened. See what you can pick up on the civilian channels.”

  Tucker switched frequencies. “Current broadcast from Kinross coming in on that monitor,” he pointed to one of several flatscreens that lined the control panel. It flickered on and the image showed the city at night. Flames danced several blocks behind the reporter, a young woman, who gestured to indicate the scene of the event. “. . . and the Spirit Cats have not made a formal statement, but sources indicate that some sort of terrorist attack took place at their base an hour ago. Witnesses interviewed by Channel Four news have confirmed that an attack by the Wyatt Militia, apparently a suicide attack, has occurred at Adam Steiner Memorial Park.” Alexi indicated that Tucker should cut the feed.

  Tucker watched her in the silence of the confined space. The legate was nervous, but she was calm, almost relaxed. “Get the Donar in the air. Recon the highway to make sure the Spirit Cats are not sneaking up on us. Order our troops to full alert and get ready to break camp in two hours.”

  “It’s a mistake,” Legate Singh said. “We should open a channel to them, explain to Star Captain Cox that it wasn’t us.”

  The Knight Errant shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. Most Clans have no tolerance for political intrigue or subterfuge. They won’t believe us without evidence, and to get evidence we’d have to go back to the city—and that’s not going to happen.”

  “It had to be Bannson’s mercs,” Tucker blurted out.

  She gave him a nod. “Most likely.”

  “We’ve been set up,” Singh added.r />
  “Definitely,” she replied. “I’d hoped to avoid this kind of battle, but it looks like someone is serving it up for us. Fine. If the Spirit Cats want a fight, we’ll give it to them.”

  18

  Highway Seven, Ben Venue Corners

  North of Kinross, Wyatt

  The Republic, Prefecture VIII

  17 May 3135

  “I need a layout of the terrain here,” Alexi Holt said firmly. Tucker’s fingers attacked the keyboard, and he brought up the surrounding kilometer on the viewing screen. The owners of eight or nine sets of eyes instantly leaned over his shoulders, shoving him further forward in his seat in the mobile HQ.

  “Back it out to show five kilometers,” she said. Tucker slid the control and the image backed up to a higher altitude. The image showed green and gray, with two lines representing the roads crossing in the middle of the display. Everyone leaned back a bit, taking some of the pressure off Tucker, who gave a general scowl to the officers and troopers huddled around him.

  The image was clear. Highway Seven was a wide ribbon of gray running straight north and south. The east-west road was Viewtown Road. He tapped the keyboard and brought up more icons on the screen, now showing that that intersection was labeled Ben Venue Corners.

  North of the intersection was a gray mass representing a mountain or rocky terrain. Highway Seven cut nearly through the middle, and that was the section Alexi chose next. “Overlay the topographical elevation lines on that section.” The road ran up the long slope of the mountain and down the other side. The majority of it seemed to cut significantly into the hill, creating an embankment on either side of the road that was so steep it would be difficult for anything other than jump-capable equipment to climb. Past the peak of the mountain, the road ran down the hill at a long angle to the flatlands further north. Light, second-generation forests dotted the road once it came free of the mountains.

  Knight Holt studied the map and Tucker studied her. Her eyes darted back and forth, and she rested her hand under her chin, flicking her fingers upward as she pondered courses of action. “It looks like that roadway cut through the mountain is going to be our best bet.”

  Legate Singh nodded. “You are planning to drive the Spirit Cats up the highway that direction. The highway is wide, but not too wide. Their maneuverability will be greatly reduced.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” she returned. “Except that I wasn’t planning to drive them there. Star Captain Cox would expect that.”

  “How do you know what he would expect?” Singh retorted.

  “I fought him. Now I know him.”

  “You lost to him.”

  The Knight parried the verbal barb with a grin. “Which makes me the best candidate to understand how he thinks. Not to mention the person most motivated to not let it happen again.” Either she was as good as she implied, or was so overconfident that they were doomed. Tucker chose the first option.

  “He’s bound to see that the terrain will bottle him up there,” Patricia inserted. “He’ll be expecting us to attack at that exact point.”

  Alexi nodded. “Yes, but going around will cost him too much time. He’s going to spread his forces out, put his heavy-hitting ’Mechs in the lead of the column so they can punch through. He won’t want his people bunched up.”

  “How do we take advantage of that?” Singh queried.

  “Step one is to make him think he has outthought us,” the Knight replied. “That makes him believe he has the initiative. Then we hit him where he doesn’t expect it,” she stabbed her finger at the map near the crossroads, south of the mountain pass.

  Patricia leaned forward over Tucker’s workstation, intent on the map. “You’d have to divide our forces in front of a superior enemy. You’ll need enough force on the north end of the mountain cut to make him think he has you where he expects you. At the same time, you’ll need enough firepower left behind to hit the rear flank hard enough to cripple them.”

  Alexi stared at her with a puzzled look, and Tucker wore the same expression. Her analysis of the operation did not sound like the opinion of a ComStar researcher. It sounded much more like someone experienced in combat operations, and that just wasn’t possible. ComStar no longer had the Com Guards. And anyway, Tucker had never once known his sister to demonstrate even the slightest interest in military tactics.

  Patricia felt their eyes on her and shrugged. “What? You can’t research old battles for as many years as I have without picking up some of the strategies and tactics. Did I get it right?”

  Alexi chuckled. “A pretty accurate assessment, Ms. Harwell,” she returned. “The trick is that the Spirit Cats have air support. If they spot us, Star Captain Cox will be able to turn on our own plan against us.”

  Tucker chimed in. He had spent the evening helping monitor the Militia’s Donar assault helicopter covering the rear. Every time it got close to the Spirit Cats’ force on the highway south of them, it had taken fire from a Balac Strike VTOL and a pesky little Crow scout. “We have to find a way to take care of their helicopters. Every time we get close to them, they swamp our lone air support.”

  Alexi smiled grimly. “I think that’s doable as well. We have a lot to accomplish before tomorrow,” she said, looking at Tucker. “And thanks to you, we have the mobile HQ to serve as a communications coordination point. Mr. Harwell, I’ll need you to help me orchestrate this battle. Are you up to it?”

  Tucker’s mouth opened, but nothing came out for a moment. Finally, he managed to stammer, “I’ll do my best.”

  Alexi responded, “That’s all I want from everyone.”

  DropShip Deathclaw

  Northeast of Kinross, Wyatt

  The Republic, Prefecture VIII

  The Deathclaw’s fusion engines still glowed muted red, and white streaks marked the condensation of the slowly cooling surface. The ground underneath the DropShip was baked. Captain Casson moved out his Sun Cobra as the rest of the Eagle’s Talons Company deployed along the edge of the woods where he had ordered their drop. The narrow, boxy shoulders of his ’Mech were marked with regal purple, one of the traditional colors of the Free Worlds League, and now of the Protectorate. On the armor plating just in front of his cockpit ferroglass was painted a swooping eagle with an open claw—the symbol of his Eagle’s Talons.

  They had arrived several days earlier at a pirate jump point in the Wyatt system. No one had detected their arrival. Since their arrival, they had spent their time monitoring commercial and military communications, studying events unfolding on the world. The most important thing he had learned was that his target, Tucker Harwell, was still somewhere on the planet. Harwell was with the militia, he had pieced that much together. And the militia was on the move.

  Wyatt was a mess. The Knight Errant gave the capital city to the Spirit Cats by losing a combat trial. Then the militia had attacked the Spirit Cats. Now the militia was to the west of Casson’s LZ, apparently fleeing from the pursuing Spirit Cats force. In the middle of all of this, Bannson’s Raiders, who had no business even being on this world, had attacked the ComStar compound—looking for his target.

  Tucker Harwell.

  For a few moments, Casson had actually considered conducting a full-scale, highly visible military assault on Wyatt. It appealed to him on only one level: to impress on everyone that the Oriente Protectorate was not to be trifled with . . . that they were a major power in the Inner Sphere. It had been a tempting thought, one that appealed to his nationalistic pride. At the same time, the last thing he needed was to give everyone on Wyatt a common enemy. No, the solution he had chosen was best. Achieve orbital insertion in the least populated area of the planet, skim to a landing zone in the wilderness, and hope like hell that everyone was too occupied with current events to notice.

  His officers wanted immediate action, but he was confident enough to wait for the right moment to strike. Casson expected that the Spirit Cats and the militia would tangle with each other and wear each other down.
That was logically when Bannson’s people would strike, for Bannson ran his mercenaries like his business: attack when your enemies are weakest, and you will have fewest losses and greatest profits. The profits, in this case, were the man who could rebuild the HPG network: Tucker Harwell.

  So Ivan Casson deployed and stood ready to move. Once Bannson’s people showed themselves, then he would mop up whatever forces were left on this world. Tucker Harwell would be his prisoner, to be taken back to the Oriente Protectorate in his custody.

  And Captain Ivan Casson held a trump card. There was his deep-cover operative on Wyatt, the source of his information about Harwell. He could now tap this same agent for intel on the militia if needed.

  Let them slug it out. In the end, we’ll prevail. “All right, Talons, establish a perimeter and establish passive communications jamming. Sit tight and wait. We’ll strike soon enough . . .”

  * * *

  “You son of a bitch!” Reo swore at Captain Chaffee. Jones tossed his kit bag to the floor of the warehouse and stood toe-to-toe with the mercenary commander. Chaffee seemed unshaken by his words. “You’ve started a war.”

  “Not at all. I’m just taking advantage of the existing situation,” Chaffee replied. “And you may want to watch your mouth, Jones. We work together, remember? Technically, I’m your boss.”

  Reo was in no mood to listen to Chaffee’s insinuations. “You framed the militia with that attack. Now the Spirit Cats are mobilized and moving out after them. Did it ever occur to you that Tucker Harwell might end up getting killed in the fighting? If he dies, Bannson will have both our asses in a sling.”

  “You worry too much,” Chaffee scoffed, taking a swig of coffee from his mug and putting the empty cup down on a barrel of coolant. Behind him, technicians were calibrating the arms of a BattleMech looming along the back wall of the warehouse. Reo’s trained eyes noticed that a few of the vehicles and one of the ’Mechs he had seen on his last visit were missing from the warehouse. Reo didn’t have to ask where the assets had gone; the mercenary force was on the move. “Besides, Bannson will love the press we’re going to get out of this. We’ll be the ones who got the Spirit Cats out of Kinross.”