Crucible (12 page)

"And our own forces in Nordstadt, what do they know about what's really happening?"

Daniels looked around him, checking to see who might be eavesdropping on the conversation. This was one of the most contentious points of Hammerfall, one of the parts of the plan that had caused the most controversy, and more than a few senior officers within Milli-com Command to resign their commissions in disgust at what was being proposed. When it was first suggested, it had caused Daniels some soul searching of his own, but now he was convinced it was a sadly necessary sacrifice. In war, one sometimes had to be willing to make harsh decisions such as those involved in the successful execution of Operation Hammerfall.

"They know a fresh enemy offensive is coming, of course. It would be impossible for them not to have been made aware of the build-up of Nort forces around them. They know that they are the bait in a trap. However, for the purposes of operational integrity, it has been regretfully necessary to conceal the full extent of the mission details from every Souther soldier still involved in the Nordstadt Crucible campaign, from the lowliest infantry trooper to the most senior army group commander."

"So what do they think is going to happen?"

Daniels glanced around again before answering.

"When the main Nort offensive begins, the commanders of our forces in Nordstadt have been led to believe that we will then commence a massive surprise troop drop from orbit, taking the Norts by surprise and trapping the greater part of their vanguard inside the city, where it will be encircled and destroyed. At the same time, they have been told that General Fyalla's armoured divisions will break through the Nort lines to link up with them, opening up a secure land bridge with the main element of our ground-based forces."

"And, of course, none of this is actually going to happen."

Daniels's reply came straight out of the carefully prepared preamble to Operation Hammerfall's original mission statement.

"Regrettably not. As many command staff and specialist military personnel as possible will be evacuated prior to the ultimate commencement of Hammerfall, but for the purposes of the success of the operation, it is unfortunately necessary that the greater part of our forces remain in place within the Nordstadt crucible to draw the enemy forces on into the final closing of the trap."

Daniels continued on, perhaps pre-empting the usual moral problems with the strategy behind Hammerfall that had troubled so many other staffers aboard Milli-com.

"Trust me, we've run through all the available alternative scenarios a thousand times already and Hammerfall is still the best of the bunch. I mean, let's be honest. We're engaged in a war of attrition here, there's no getting around that fact, and in a conflict like this, the only thing that counts is killing more of the enemy than they can kill of yours. That's what we're doing with Hammerfall. Of course, the loss of so many Souther lives is regrettable, but it's a sacrifice we're willing to make. I mean, just look at the payoff. A hundred thousand of our boys for well over a million Norts? Including some of their most elite divisions? No, you can't argue with those kind of figures, no matter how ruthless the strategy might seem. If Hammerfall succeeds, and I've staked my career on the fact that it will, then the effects on Nort morale could well tip the balance once and for all in our favour in the war on Nu Earth. The Norts won't shrug off a million plus casualties so easily, and the complete loss of Nordstadt to them could well prove to be a devastating blow to their psychology, one they might never properly recover from."

Daniels broke off, suddenly aware of how loud and excited his voice had become. Even here, in this select gathering, it still wasn't wise to talk too openly of some of the most contentious points of the Hammerfall operation. Marckand's next question, however, cut directly to the most secret part of the plan.

"And when does all this happen?"

Daniels looked around them before risking a reply. Luckily, no one seemed to be paying any attention. In fact, it was almost as if the high-ranking S-Three officer inhabited his own personal dead zone, one that didn't need any scan bafflers or void generators, or any of the other sophisticated anti-surveillance technology routinely employed by the Souther security services. Those at the party seemed all too willing to simply blank the presence of that grey uniform out of their awareness.

"In two days time, according to all our best intelligence assessments and our monitoring of the notable increase in recent Nort radio traffic. They're on the move already, filtering advance storm units through into the outskirts of the city. These might look like nothing more than the usual probing attacks of our defences, but we know just how big the build-up of forces in their rear echelons is, and we're confident that this is really a move forward to secure start-up positions for the imminent main assault. After that, once the attack begins, the countdown to Hammerfall begins."

"And how long will that countdown be?"

"Twelve hours," replied Daniels, without hesitation. "That's how long we anticipate it will take them to completely overwhelm our outer defences and bring the main bulk of their assault units forces into the city, converging on all directions on the remains of our own forces who will by then be trapped and completely encircled in the centre of the city. That's when we launch Hammerfall. After that, Nordstadt and everyone in it, including over a million Nort troops, will simply cease to exist."

"Impressive," nodded Marckand. "Thank you, colonel. You've been most instructive. If you ever need a favour from S-Three, please don't hesitate to contact me. By the way, I think I see your little friend from Deck 375 just over there, talking amiably to our heroic comrade Major Dion."

Daniels looked round in utter consternation, following the direction indicated by Marckand. True enough, there she was, deep in smiling, laughing conversation with Dion. Major Dion was a Southlands Special Forces battalion commander in the Karthage campaign, and had just returned from there to recover from wounds suffered in his latest frontline heroics. His handsome face and war time exploits were all over the propaganda channels at the moment, and he was one of Milli-com Command's golden boys, held up to the civilian population of the Southern Confederacy as a shining example of Souther military daring and heroism. Even the fresh wound marks on his face and injured arm tucked inside the tunic of his dress uniform only seemed to add to the man's glamorous warrior mystique. Daniels cast envious eyes on the decorations on that tunic breast. There, set amongst a host of valour-in-battle awards, sat the Southlands Cross. Beside it was the gleaming platinum and diamond disc of the Confederacy Medal of Honour, which untold billions of people all across the galaxy had seen Confederacy President Markus pin onto that tunic only days ago in a special live propaganda broadcast from the steps of the Presidium Palace. Daniels's collection of decorations looked extremely poor in comparison, especially since absolutely none of them had been won in actual battle with the enemy.

From the way she was talking to the dashing young hero major, it was clear to everyone that Dion had made yet another victorious conquest tonight. At one point she glanced round, perhaps catching sight of Daniels's face in the crowd, but then quickly looked away again, turning her attention back to Dion and giggling loudly at his latest witticism.

Daniels turned away in dejection, but looked around in surprise as soon as he realised that Marckand had somehow managed to completely disappear in the few moments that Daniels's attention had been directed elsewhere. Oh well, he decided, the S-Three man's vanishing act was no great loss. Especially not now that the rest of his night had already been so completely ruined.

Downhearted, angry and embittered, Daniels wandered off in search of one of those orderlies and the trays of drinks they all carried. If he wasn't going to get laid in honour of Operation Hammerfall tonight, he was sure as hell going to do everything he could to ensure that at least he was going to get very, very drunk indeed.

Marckand made his way through the press of bodies, pausing only once to put the untouched glass of champagne he had been nursing all night onto the tray of a passing orderly. Most people suddenly found something else to occupy their attention as he passed into view, while a few brave souls managed to direct a few weak and insincere half-smiles and words of greeting in his direction. He ignored them all. He had accomplished what he had come here to do. Now it was time to get out.

He quickly crossed the bridge floor, sweeping into one of the smaller conference rooms there.

"Gentlemen. If you please..."

That, and the grey uniform, was all it took to clear the room in moments of the gaggle of young junior officers who had been in there. The air in the small room was heavy with the cloying scent of halo-sticks and many of the men and women had the telltale glassy-eyed look of halo-weed intoxication. They fled the place without even a second glance, probably terrified that the S-Three man would have them all rounded up and sent to the Nu Earth war fronts for possession of an illegal contraband substance.

Alone in the room, Marckand activated his palm communicator. The voice of Costello, his second-in-command, responded moments later. As with all of the most secure areas aboard Milli-com, the strategy bridge deck was heavily scan-shielded, jamming out all personal communicator frequencies in the interests of military security, but the device Marckand used was S-Three technology, overriding all the standard security buffers.

Marckand got straight to the point. "The operative, is he in place yet?"

"We received word from him two hours ago. He's in Nordstadt now. Is there a problem with the timing of this Hammerfall operation, colonel? Do you wish to abort mission and pull our man out of there?"

Marckand thought about it for a moment and then made his decision. "No, maintain mission status. Operative is to acquire and eliminate primary and secondary targets, as per original mission parameters. And, Costello?"

"Colonel?"

"I've just been given to understand that things are going to be getting very hot in Nordstadt very soon. Make sure our operative knows that, no matter what happens, he is to complete his mission. Give him whatever assurances you have that we'll pull him out of there as soon as his task is over."

There was a slight pause before Costello answered. "Understood, colonel."

Marckand considered his options on the elevator ride back down to his private quarters. He had been recruited from the regular military into the Southlands Security Service twelve years ago, although he had been a Nort double agent for three years even before that. There had been a small but significant cabal of Nort double agents working at Milli-com then, most of them men like him. Men who, while having some natural sympathies for the racial supremacy doctrines that had propelled the Greater Nordland Territories to such heights in so relatively short a time, had taken a cold-blooded look at the war in its earliest days and come to the seemingly inescapable conclusion that, ultimately, Nordland would be the victor of this war. The Southern Confederacy had the advantage of greater resources of manpower and territories, but it was the Norts who had supremacy in terms of technology and the sheer fanatical will to dominate and destroy.

Marckand and those others did not think of themselves as traitors. Rather, they saw themselves as mercenaries, selling their loyalty to the side that would inevitably emerge as the stronger of the two. Of course, they would be well rewarded for such loyalty after the war was over, and this was where their so-called treason would serve their fellow Southers well.

After they had won the war, the Norts would still need reliable and trustworthy servants to act as governors and administrators of their newly conquered Souther territories, and this was where Marckand imagined that he and his fellow collaborators would have a mutually rewarding role to play. Mediating between the Norts and their new Souther subjects, he would be able to protect his fellow Southers from the worst excesses of Nordland barbarities. However, there would have to be sacrifices made amongst those elements of the Souther populations who regrettably remained hostile to Nort rule or who contravened the Norts' most ruthless policies on racial purity. Marckand and his fellow collaborators would have blood on their hands, that couldn't be denied, but they reassured themselves that the carnage would be a lot worse without them being there to negotiate with the Norts on behalf of their defeated fellow Southers.

But, of course, the war had lasted longer than anyone could have anticipated and the prospect of that early Nort victory had long since faded away. Marckand had cursed his early naivety in those days, but it was too late to go back and change things now. He had been responsible for feeding vital secret information to the Norts for years, and his bloody fingerprints were all over various Souther missions and offensives that had ended in spectacular failure after encountering Nort resistance which was either far greater than expected or, in some instances, where there simply shouldn't have been any Nort forces in the first place.

He no longer considered himself a Nort agent now. Indeed, over the last few years, he had gained a formidable reputation within S-Three for his single-minded zeal in hunting down and eliminating cells of Nort spies and sympathisers within the Souther military. The fact that many of these Nort agents had been put in place by Marckand in the first instance was not a fact that he chose to share with his fellow spy-hunters.

Now, almost everyone who had ever known of his double-agent status was dead. Of the original senior collaborator cabal, only himself and one other was still alive. All the others died in a series of freak accidents or mystery assassinations, all of them conducted by Marckand and his pet killer, Venner. Only once had Marckand almost been uncovered, when a rival spy-hunter agency had managed to discover the activities of one of the cabal members and get to them before Marckand. Luckily, he had managed to have his collaborator comrade transferred into S-Three custody. After that, it had been a simple matter to arrange the prisoner's unfortunate escape, although, instead of the hidden shuttlecraft promised by Marckand, it had been the waiting gunsights of Venner's sniper rifle that the prisoner had come running towards.