Rich Man's War by Elliott Kay Page A

accounting for targets of opportunity. The world outside the freighter was busy and vibrant, with a large population. People came and went. Local forces moved around according to their training schedules. Nothing remained static for long.
    Harris strode through the freighter’s massive, crowded cargo bay toward the line of tanks parked on one end. Green paint, scarves and other bits of randomizing did much to make Harris’s top-of-the-line NorthStar defensive gear indistinguishable from the not-quite-uniform fatigues of the Hashemites around him. His natural complexion was a bit paler than theirs, and the thick stubble of his scalp used to be blond rather than black. An experienced eye would see much more significant differences between Harris, his comrades, and their Hashemite hosts. Harris and his men had considerably more training and medical conditioning, not to mention greater experience.
    He saw squad leaders and officers—some of whom, at least, deserved such titles—readying their men for combat. Directions changed. Time for preparations evaporated, heightening stress and anxiety. A handful of the Hashemite troops looked nervous or grim. Harris had no problem with them.
    The guys who looked overly eager, though, concerned him greatly. He found far too many of them for comfort. If they’d been rookies, he would have blown off their eagerness as nervous bravado, but many of these guys had seen combat …or, at least, they’d seen violence. Much like the sketchy worth of the ranks and titles claimed by the leadership around here, Harris wasn’t sure he’d call their prior experience “combat.” He wouldn’t call this a unit, either. Some were soldiers. The rest amounted to a mob of thugs in military gear.
    At first, Harris had been impressed that so much in the way of men and materiel could be smuggled onto Scheherazade. This freighter and other ships in the advance landing force received covert assistance from the local boarding teams and inspection crews, meaning people with expert inside knowledge had done a lot of good planning and bribing. Such logistical feats were encouraging, but as zero-hour approached he decided not to equate strong logistics with solid troop discipline.
    Harris found his quarry standing beside one of the looming tanks. Holo screens spread out around Major Basara and a couple of his subordinates. The major wasn’t difficult to find—not with the gaudy epaulets on his combat jacket and the scimitar on his belt. Beside them stood Mr. Abnett, another NorthStar employee like Harris himself—only rather than a member of the corporation’s uniformed security services, Abnett came from Risk Management. He wore the same slightly-disguised gear as Harris and the other NorthStar Rangers, and he knew his way around a gun, but Abnett’s real work wouldn’t come until the shooting stopped. In the meantime, Abnett represented another minor wrinkle in the chain of command, which was something Harris never liked.
    “We have eyes on the objective now,” said Basara, pointing to one of the maps. A large, square building in the middle of a cityscape stood out thanks to computerized highlighting. “They could send us live video, but the consulate may well have good monitoring gear. No sense giving them something to pick up until it is time to jam their communications.”
    “Excellent,” nodded Abnett.
    “What sort of eyes?” asked Harris, looking over Abnett’s shoulder.
    “Snipers, Mr. Harris,” Basara assured him. “Experienced men loyal to Prince Murtada. They will provide assistance for our assault.”
    “By ‘snipers,’ do you mean two-man teams or lone wolf jack-offs?”
    Abnett’s eyes went wide as he turned to face Harris. “What?” Harris asked. “It’s an honest question.”
    “Mr. Harris,” fumed Basara, “these are all brave men who have seen combat. They brought order to Qal’at Khalil after the pirates left.”
    “Uh-huh. Listen, Major, ops like this depend on