Job Offer

[Gulliver Foyle]

As far as job interviews went, this one was...unusual.

Ever since the Imperium had functionally collapsed, Gulliver had been taking it easy. That one six month contract had netted him more than the last ten years combined, so he wasn't terribly concerned when they decided not to renew it. Even if the Imperium survived its current decline, it would have to do so without the services of one Gulliver Foyle.

That was fine by him. He was proud of what he'd done with the 2nd Legion, but after that first training mission, it was clear that the politics were more important to those guys than competence or effectiveness. The old General knew better than to stick around and watch that train come off the tracks.

Which explained why he was sitting in a quiet waiting area outside a nondescript office that was almost certainly not owned by the company whose n ame was proudly proclaimed in cheap gold lettering on the door. The job was hush hush to the extreme. His agent, a former spook from his days with the Travelers and a Shard to boot, hadn't been able to turn up anything about the company's true owners.

They had been around for a few decades, ostensibly as a shipping company. To be fair, they actually did own some freighters and ran loads back and forth between the Mid Rim and Core, and had a reputation for efficiency. But a sufficiently skilled forensic accountant could detect the faint traces of money laundering, and none of the actual owners seemed once you got past layer 3.

That didn't bother him overmuch. The old soldier had done this song and dance before. The sums being offered were truly ridiculous, the actual job offer had been vague to the extreme, and the duration was exactly one month, with the option to extend if both parties found the arrangement to be mutually beneficial. That spoke of some hush hush black ops crap the likes of which he hadn't done in over a decade.

It might be fun to get back in the thick of it. Gulliver wasn't as fast as he used to be, but he more than made up for it with experience. He had so many tricks for fighting just about every species in the galaxy, Force or no, that he seriously considered writing a manual just for kicks and grins. It would probably sell well enough that he could retire for good, if he could get over the itch to shoot someone every now and again.

The secretary, a handsome blonde woman that to his eye looked to be in her early 40's, broke his train of thought by standing up and approaching.

"They'll see you now, Mr. Foyle," she said with a voice of an angel after a few decades of chain smoking.

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

[Placeholder 04]

To put it harshly, Mephirium's military leadership was utter osik.

Moff Joffiee was quite capable when it came to naval matters, but he was utterly lost when it came to anything involving ground forces; be they infantry, armor, or anything at all in the realm of artillery. The man just couldn't grasp how physics worked when effected by gravity, or where a man would or would not do when osik hit the fan. In truth, no one could truly understand the latter, but some knew better than others.

Coruscant was going to be hell, and Mephirium needed someone with experience to mind the house while was out on the town. He had led men into battle for more than a decade, and had more than enough knowledge when it came to general field leadership. Unfortunately, it was difficult to guide an entire invading force when you were tussling with some of the galaxy's most powerful Sith Lords.

And so he had called in private help.

Dealing with contractors was nothing new. He had been trained to use every resource at his disposal, and so long as he could pay, that included mercenaries. Granted, his coffers were beginning to be a little light given how much he was spending, but it was all an investment.

Once he was Dark Lord, credits would not be an issue.

The blonde secretary would lead Mister Foyle into an office usually occupied by a middle-aged speeder salesman. For the current purpose, it suited Mephirium just fine. He was clad in every-man's clothes, a simple leather jacket, jeans, and combat boots. It was the style out here on Ession. He carried no weapons, save for an old Verpine shattergun at his hip.

"Good evening Mister Foyle, my name is Cyril Grayson. I heard from our mutual friend that one of our contracts might interest you," blue eyes examined the older man, "Would you mind informing me of your general experience?"

[member="Gulliver Foyle"]

 

[Gulliver Foyle]

General experience?

Well, no point in sugarcoating it. If they wanted false modesty, they would have asked someone else.

"My full dossier can be found in here," the old soldier said as he placed a datapad on the table. "Incidentally, that file was pulled from an intel service of a bit particularly unfriendly nation state actor, which should give you an idea of what you're working with."

It was an old axiom in the world of mercenaries that your enemies were a much better judge of your character than your friends, and Gulliver had far more of the former. He was old for a mercenary, ruthless and pragmatic with strategy, magnanimous in victory, and honorable in defeat. He didn't throw away the lives of his men without good cause, and if the situation was untenable, he would withdraw rather than let his pride cost his troops their lives. He gave quarter to defeated foes, because a desperate enemy was unpredictable. If the situation didn't allow for prisoners, he made sure any deaths were clean.

The report said as much, and made no bones about the fact that he was as respected as he was feared. Most mercenary companies were one trick ponies. The Travelers had been jacks of all trades, and masters of most of them.

"As for a brief summary of my experience, I've led elements ranging in size from platoon to legion. Efficiency reports have been universally high, though I don't place as much importance on drill and ceremony as some regular types would like. As far as I'm concerned, a salute on the battlefield is just a sniper check. My first love is artillery, and I focus my strategies around effective use of it whenever possible. That said, I'm proficient in combined arms ops. I like to use arty to clear the way, armor to pave it, and infantry to hold it. Close air support is nice, but if all I can get is a handful of fighters to cover us up top, that works too."

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

[Placeholder 04]

Mephirium listened with honest interest as Foyle gave his general summary. Sounded like the right kind of man for the job, all things considered. With all these wars going on, one would think there would be an abundance of experienced men and women running about providing their services. Unfortunately, most of those men and women tended to die in the bloody campaigns each galactic power waged against another. Prisoners of war were a myth. The One Sith/Republic war had been nothing but blood. Both sides had long since given up on accepting surrender.

When he stopped talking, Mephirium took a moment to brush through his records, cracking an amused little grin in the smile. Any dossier tended to be a decent dossier, and this one shower that Mister Foyle was quiet effective in excruciating detail. He might have cracked a quiet laugh at one of the descriptions. Professionalism was out the window with a lot of folks these days.

"I'll be straight with you Mister Foyla," Mephirium leaned forward, "We're going to be assaulting the most fortified world in the galaxy with an army numbering around twenty-thousand. You might have close air-support now and then, but it's going to be your standard urban osik-flinging fest for most of it. The pay is agreeable, or so I would hope, given you've come out all this way."

A pause.

"We can provide armor. Artillery is going to be difficult, but I'll see what we can procure. Op time is within the next three days. Can't say when yet. Don't have any way of confirmation. Do you have any issues with anything I've said?"

[member="Gulliver Foyle"]

 

[Gulliver Foyle]

Gulliver whistled appreciatively.

"That's a bit of a snap kick."

Three days was not a lot of time to plan and train for a squad level mission. Trying to get something like this going would be insane.

"I'm not saying I won't do it, but this better be damned important. You've basically given me the time it would normally take a general taking command of 20,000 men to meet with the senior leadership long enough to learn their names and move on. If every one of your officers is ish hot and everything goes exactly right, that might be enough time to get word to the entire force that they have a new commander."

The old mercenary frowned, turning the numbers over in his head. He absentmindedly extracted a large pinch of chewing tobacco from a discreet pouch hidden in his jacket and inserted it in between his lower lip and gum as he thought. The pungent aroma quickly wafted across the room. Ordinarily, Foyle wouldn't have been so bold in front of someone offering a job, but if he was going to make a decision on whether or not this was even possible, the nicotine was vital. He felt the soothing poison work its magic. His thoughts became clearer, his focus sharpened, and his anxiety drifted into the background. This strain of tobacco was one he had cultivated for years, breeding for an absurdly high nicotine content. The dose coursing through his veins right now would have outright killed someone without an extremely high tolerance for the stuff.

From another pocket came a discreet spittoon. As the mercenary spent the next minute solid turning numbers and plans over in his head, he'd occasionally raise the metal container to his mouth. A hissing sound could be heard as the mixture of saliva and plant matter he spat into it was instantly vaporized. There was no odor from it, at least.

"Alright, so here's how we can make this happen. I need to meet with the existing command team within the next two hours, whether in person or by hypercomm, it doesn't matter. No one outside that command team will even know I exist until after the operation. It's an unnecessary distraction. As far as the joes are concerned, I don't exist. This whole plan hinges on them having complete confidence in the command team, because without time to train them on what I have in mind, I'm going to have to do a lot of micromanaging at first. Once the initial plan is in motion, the units will be given a lot more autonomy to complete their tasks as necessary, and I'm going to have to do a lot of improvising.

"What I need from you is complete authority to run this mission as I see fit. If that means throwing more men than you're comfortable with into the wood chipper, so be it. If that means withdrawing from the field and trying to find another way to do things, I've got to be able to do that as well. Given time and twenty thousand men, there aren't many objectives I can't take, but I can't do it with someone looking over my shoulder and second guessing my every move."

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

[Placeholder 04]

Mephirium took a long moment to take in what the old mercenary had to say. The man was right; Mephirium was asking what some might consider impossible. The time parameters he had given were utterly ridiculous and the target was still entirely an unknown. It wouldn't be staying that way for very long. The Sith Lord leaned back in his chair and mulled it over for a moment, reaching out into the force for answers. It provided him a certain sense of clarity that helped him decide that Mister Foyle was indeed the man for this job.

"It's better for you to meet them face to face. They'll be up in the Ession-Citadel within the hour." To punctuate such, Mephirium pulled a datapad out from beneath the desk and began typing away. The messages were sent a moment later, and comfirmation replies came in shortly thereafter. One could not say that his people were undisciplined, at the very least.

"Your terms make sense. I, unfortunately, will not be present for a majority of the greater battle. My team will be stuck to a confine area, thus you come in." He slipped the datapad back under the desk.

"Resistance is going to be heavy, but we have a minor solution for that. There will be Graug on the ground, grotesque things. The men will be told to ignore them. Their objective is purely destructive." He paused for a moment. "Their race thrives off of pain. They relish the opprotunity to die. I'm giving it to them so that more of my soldiers might live."

Another pause.

"I have two high-profile bounty hunters at your disposal. If a Sith Lord starts causing you too much trouble, send them in. Their job is to tag 'n bag anyone too lethal for the soldiers to deal with without taking heavy casualties."

[member="Gulliver Foyle"]

 

[Gulliver Foyle]

Gulliver nodded.

"I hope they live up to the hype. I've got some ideas on handling Force users, but there's just not enough time to train an army on them. Once this shindig wraps up, assuming any of us survive, we'll see about getting that fixed."

The old merc sighed heavily and spat the wad of tobacco into the spittoon, where the hidden incinerator disposed of it with an evil sounding hiss.

"Call me crazy, but I get the feeling we're both gonna regret not having the time to pass down that particular skillset by the end of this thing."

He stood up, knees creaking like old furniture. Days like today, Gulliver definitely felt his age. In his younger years, he had been a runner. Long legs and a lean build had served him well at the time, but age and arthritis had put a damper on that. He could still run a 5k faster than men half his age, but he paid dearly for it after the fact. It was a well known fact that being a soldier took an enormous toll on the body, but most either died or quit after their first five years. After twenty, his body was more beat up than a professional athlete's.

"Well, let's get to it."

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

[Placeholder 04]

Gone was Cyril's trepidation.

Pushing up from his seat, he nodded at the older man. He agreed with his concerns - he would have preferred the men got to meet Mister Foyle before he started issuing orders. As it was, there simply wasn't enough time. The assault on Coruscant was scheduled in just three days. Then, the galaxy's heart would be ablaze in the flames of war. It would be a short skirmish, or so Cyril hoped. He didn't have the resources to fight a sustained conflict.

"Feel free to share them," Cyril flashed an easy grin not at all befitting a Lord of the Sith.

A few minutes and a speeder ride later, and they had arrived at the Citadel. Cyril had wasted no time in guiding Mister Foyle up one of the many elevators to a middle-floor. It was here that Moff Joffie and his cohorts awaited. The contingent of Imperial men was relatively small - a small staff for a rather large army, all things considered. Still, they were experienced, and their men respected them.

Didn't mean they were worth osik on the ground though.

The Moff and his cohorts turned about at Mephirium's arrival. Each gave a low bow. Mephirium waved the formalities off - he'd never had a taste for such things. They just got you marked on the battlefield, anyway.

"Gentlemen, Mister Foyle. Mister Foyle, Moff Joffie and his cohorts."

Joffie cracked a thin smile. The old man was reaching his early seventies, and it showed. "A pleasure," he spoke in a crisp Imperial accent, "You are the contractor Lord Mephirium had brought in to lead the ground assault?"

[member="Gulliver Foyle"]

 

[Gulliver Foyle]

"That I am," Gulliver replied, nodding respectfully towards the old Moff. Normally, he didn't place much stock in guys that took on the title. It had been around for centuries, and had been held by far more incompetent boobs than reliable leaders. Still, the guy was sticking arund for what would probably be a colossal charlie foxtrot, and he would gladly take all the help he could get.

"Normally I like to try to get to know people before getting to work, but time is short. If someone could give me a rundown of the forces at our disposal, I can draft up a battle plan and we can get the WARNO put out hopefully within the hour."

The WARNO, or Warning Order, was the first official word the troops would have about any particular operation. There was no way there wasn't enough scuttlebutt floating around out there to fill a library, but the WARNO was where it became real.

"I've got a basic idea for how I want to do this, but since I don't actually know where we're hitting and what we have to hit with, it's hard to nail down anything concrete just yet."

[member="Darth Mephirium"]