Blood of heroes

by Andrew Keith

  "It might work, laddie," Mccall said. " 'Tis the kind of idea your auld faither might hae come up with." He frowned. "But as divided as we are ... I dinna ken."

  Alex didn't respond. The weapons master sat for a long time, his staring making Alex feel decidedly nervous under the scrutiny.

  Finally McCall spoke again. "Even if de Villar was still alive, I dinna ken if he could hae pulled this lot together after a' that's happened. I canna even blame the ones who dinna think we should fight. And I ken fu' weil that I canna get them tae change their minds. None of us on the staff have much credibility left after de Villar seemed tae gie in tae von Bulow, and there isna time left tae educate people tae the contrary. And that's just inside the Legion. No Legion officer will hae much pull as far as getting the people on our side, and wi'oot them there's damned little hope we can fight."

  "So you think we have to negotiate, sir?" Alex tried to hide his disappointment. He'd thought McCall, at least, would want to tough it out.

  The major shook his head slowly. "There's ain man, and ain only, on Glengarry today who has a prayer of making a stand, young Alex," he said. "And that's you."

  "Me? But, Major ... I'm just a cadet. Not even a full MechWarrior yet. None of them will follow me!"

  "You're also a Carlyle, lad," McCall said gruffly. "Remember what we were discussing a few days ago? In your auld faither's absence, ye are the landholder-resident and the owner of the Gray Death Legion. And for many of these people, that counts far more than experience. Ye can speak tae the Legion as your faither's son, and tae all Glengarry as representing the legitimate holder. None of the rest of us can."

  Alex Carlyle swallowed once, stunned. "I ... I don't know if I can do it, sir. I mean . . ." He trailed off.

  "If you canna do it, lad, then no ain can. And the Legion, everything Grayson Carlyle ever fought for, is finished. It winna recover frae this."

  Alex looked away. McCall was right. His father's whole career had been built on a reputation for invincibility, even in the face of overwhelming odds or seemingly insurmountable obstacles. The loss of Glengarry and the surrender of the very core of the Legion would be a death blow to the outfit. Grayson Carlyle might try to rebuild around the troops on Borghese with Major Khaled, but it would never be the same Gray Death.

  A gallant stand, even if ultimately futile, wouldn't tarnish the Gray Death's honor the way mere surrender would.

  He looked back into McCall's sad eyes. "I'd need help," Alex said reluctantly. "Yours, and a lot more. I just can't believe they'll all follow me the way they would my father."

  "You'll get help aplenty, young Alex," McCall said, his mouth twitching into a smile. "And they'll follow you if I hae tae persuad each ain of them with a club!"

  Alex grinned despite himself. "Well, even if it's just you and me against the whole damned armada, we'll give them hell, Major."

  "Aye, that we will . . . Colonel Carlyle."

  26

  Dunkeld, Glengarry

  Skye March, Federated Commonwealth

  7 April 3056

  "They're holding steady on descent profile. Twelve minutes . . ." It was a voice from the control tower of Dunkeld's aerospace port and the news made Acting Colonel Alexander Durant Carlyle smile despite the butterfly feeling in his stomach.

  Sitting in the darkened cockpit of his Archer not far from the starport tower, Alex reflected that General von Bulow, whatever else he might be, was a punctilious man. He had announced that his ships would be landing at precisely 0100 hours Terran Standard Time—a few minutes after 0930 according to Dunkeld's local time—and from the tracking data coming in to the starport control tower it sounded as if he intended the first ship to ground right on the dot.

  That was an important datum to add to what the Legion knew about their opponents. Von Bulow was reputed to be stolid, unimaginative, methodical, and cautious, and the events of the past two days certainly tended to confirm those reports.

  The armada had been in orbit for more than a local twenty-six-hour day now, but the Free Skye force had not moved swiftly after making planetfall. Evidently von Bulow had been slow to accept the stories coming out of the Residence, a tale concocted by Alex and McCall describing a failed Legion counter-coup that had ended in the death of Governor DeVries and the elevation of a Planetary Guard junta to control of the capital. The "junta" was claiming to accept the agreement made between DeVries and the Free Skye high command, and warned of a few renegade Legion elements operating in the hinterlands. It had all been calculated to encourage von Bulow to go ahead with a landing at the capital, where the Legion could strike a blow, but for a while it had looked as if the general would be too careful to fall into the trap.

  From orbit, though, von Bulow's people would have seen plenty of indications to support the story they were getting from the surface. The remainder of the cadet company was stationed around Brander, openly maneuvering their 'Mechs through Brander Pass and into the uplands of Braemoray in what everyone in the Legion hoped was a credible simulation of a small guerrilla force seeking refuge in the hills. A company of Legion infantry had mounted a mock attack on the WTC itself, setting fire to some of the buildings and generally making it look as if Planetary Guard forces were trying to shut down the Legion post.

  The same kind of activity was going on the vicinity of Loch Sheol, one of the potential landing sites Major Owens had identified as a likely Free Skye target. Captain Simms and his 'Mech company had been dispatched there, northwest of Dunkeld, to create the impression of combat in the hill country around the mining center. Halidon, a similar town to the southeast, was under Captain Dumont's command.

  That left only the Gray Death Companions, the Legion's 'Mech HQ company, to spring the trap at the Dunkeld star-port. Alex had been reluctant to divide his forces in the face of the enemy landing, a cardinal sin in every military textbook, but McCall had maintained that it was a necessary risk. The success of the plan depended as much on surprise as firepower, and so visible signs of Gray Death activity in Loch Sheol and Halidon would make von Bulow more likely to believe an unopposed landing in Dunkeld was possible. The object, as McCall had repeated several times when they were first hammering out the operation, was to give von Bulow a bloody nose. They couldn't expect to win a decisive battle, whether they had the entire Legion or a single 'Mech company. But if they could hit von Bulow hard enough he might back off and give the Legion a short breathing space to organize a proper defense.

  Alex could only hope the old weapons master was right. For all the claims that Grayson Carlyle's heir was in control of the Legion now, it was McCall who was really calling the shots. The other senior officers had accepted the elevation of Cadet Carlyle to command with varying degrees of enthusiasm, Owens and King had been supportive, and so had Captain Vargas. The company commanders, Dumont and Simms especially, had been cooler, but at least they were cooperating. In some ways it was a relief to have their 'Mech companies out of the capital. At least Alex didn't feel like they were always looking over his shoulder, disagreeing with everything he did or said.

  That didn't mean he was convinced he wanted to face this battle with the slender assets left in Dunkeld. The Gray Death Companions were the Legion's elite, but they were short a lance—the command lance, which was with the elder Carlyle on Tharkad—and the only way to make up the difference was for Alex to form an ad hoc command lance of his own. He'd first thought of taking veterans from some of the other companies, but again McCall had advised that the less they disrupted the existing organization the better it would be. Breaking up teams that were used to working together would cause chaos at a time when the Legion couldn't afford even a hint of confusion.

  So instead the new command lance of the Companions was made up of MechWarriors Alex himself could count on as a team—Major McCall in the massive, powerful Highlander he hadn't taken into real combat for five years, and Dave Clay and Caitlin DeVries, Alex Carlyle's long-time lance mates from the cadet company. It wasn't exactly an
outfit to inspire great confidence, as far as Alex was concerned. Especially given its commanding officer, who had held his newly established rank of Acting Colonel for less than two days . . .

  "Final check, people." McCall's voice sounded tense over the comm system. The three lances of Companions, and the single platoon of tanks assigned to support the operation, were scattered in four different shuttle hangars around the port. The reinforced ferrocrete structures were supposed to shield the waiting legionnaires from detection by the enemy fleet, and as an added precaution their fusion drives were powered down, leaving the 'Mechs to operate minimal life support and command functions off the reserve batteries. Even communications were being protected by using cables to hook into Dunkeld's land-line audio/video/data net instead of broadcasting over open radio frequencies.

  But they were still running a big risk. Alex hoped that neither heat sources nor errant broadcasts would betray them, but he knew plenty of other things could still go wrong. Obviously McCall was thinking along the same lines. The edge in his voice was something Alex Carlyle wouldn't have expected from the canny old veteran MechWarrior.

  "Loki One, ready," Lieutenant Freida Bergstrom replied. Carlyle wondered how she could put up with the waiting in the cramped cockpit of her tiny Valkyrie. Everyone said that the blonde, blue-eyed woman from Wotan had ice water rather than blood flowing through her veins, but Alex had often heard his father comment that she resented any situation that tied her down. As commander of the Companions' recon lance, Bergstrom was usually able to range far and wide from the main line of battle, scouting, harassing, staying mobile. It must have been sheer hell for her, sitting in a darkened 'Mech inside a hangar waiting for something to happen rather than being able to get out and make things happen herself.

  Alex found himself wondering if he wouldn't have been better off sending the recon lance with one of the other companies and holding back an extra fire support unit instead. It would have gone against McCall's advice, of course, but in the upcoming battle wouldn't firepower count more than the speed and agility of the lightweight recon 'Mechs?

  "Hammer One," another voice added a moment later. Carlyle knew it was Lieutenant Andrei Denniken, the fire lance CO, but only because of the call sign. Denniken's duties had kept him mostly out of sight until now, and Alex knew him mostly by reputation. He was called "the mad Russian tinker" behind his back —and often to his face— and served as a liaison between the Companions and Major King's technical staff when he wasn't leading his lance into combat. Obsessed with the technical side of modern warfare, Denniken was supposed to be a topnotch tech and an absolutely brilliant gunner, but there were those who said he got on better with machines than with people. Alex couldn't be sure how the eccentric, officer was likely to perform in the coming battle.

  Of course, he could say that about a lot of people, himself included. At least Andrei Denniken had earned his slot in the Companions.

  "We're ready here, Major," Denniken continued. "But I'm still not too happy with this cold-start order."

  "That's the way we're doing it, laddie," McCall growled. " 'Tis aye the ainly way."

  * * *

  "Storm One, ready," Captain Radcliffe reported a moment later. He was in command of the tank platoon in person, although the rest of his company had left Dunkeld to join the two diversionary forces. Ethan Radcliffe hadn't made any secret of his opposition to the entire ambush plan, but he'd been firm in insisting that if any of his men were going to be committed to a suicide mission he'd be in there right alongside them. "And Lucci just signaled me that her people are all in position, too." Lieutenant Darlene Lucci commanded the first platoon of Ross' Armored Infantry Company, six tough commandos trained in the anti-'Mech warfare techniques that Grayson Carlyle and Sergeant Ramage had first pioneered more than three decades ago, back on Trellwan where it had all begun.

  "All units reporting ready, Colonel," McCall announced formally. As long as they were tapped into the land lines, they were all sharing a single channel, and the weapons master was being very careful to use Alex's adopted rank. Was McCall maintaining a polite fiction, or did he really regard his old commander's son as his proper leader? Alex had no way of being sure.

  He checked his cockpit chronometer. Nine minutes to go ... "All lances, hold position and stand by," he ordered. "Ghost Lance, report readiness." He should have given that order sooner, while the other units were checking in, but he'd forgotten. A fine CO he was turning out to be!

  "Ghost Three, ready and waiting," Dave Clay said. He sounded tense and excited all at once, and Alex wondered if his roommate was looking forward to the chance of fighting a real battle alongside the Companions. Major King's report on the operation to free the hostages from Castle Hill had contained nothing but praise for Clay's performance, from the organization to the final execution, and Alex was glad to see his friend finally getting the recognition he deserved after so many bad breaks. Clay's Griffin was the lightest 'Mech in the command lance, which Alex hoped wouldn't put his friend at too much of a disadvantage in the coming battle. The last thing Clay needed right now was to run into unexpected problems when he finally had the opportunity he'd been waiting for.

  "Ghost Four, standing by," Caitlin DeVries reported. Alex frowned at the flat monotone of her voice. She'd been withdrawn and moody ever since the battle for Castle Hill, and he still didn't know exactly why. Was it because she'd been forced to side against her father? Or had some word of Alex's doubts about her during the Castle Hill fight gotten back to her? He didn't know, but Caitlin had enough things to worry about without any of that emotional baggage. Her Centurion had developed a computer fault, and McCall had decreed a shuffling of 'Mech assets to put her into the seventy-five-ton Marauder that Captain Dumont usually piloted. Dumont was in another 'Mech of the same model, the Marauder previously piloted by Major de Villar. That 'Mech featured extra computer and communications gear for its role as a battalion command unit, and Dumont was in charge of de Villar's battalion now. Caitlin was fully checked out on the larger 'Mech models, but this would be the first time she'd ever piloted one of the temperamental Marauders except in a simulation.

  "Roger, Ghost Four," Alex said. "How's it feel to be the big frog for a change?" He hoped the comment would break her out of the mood she was in, but Caitlin didn't even reply.

  "Ghost Two," McCall's voice crackled in his ears. "Ready and waiting, Colonel."

  "Seven minutes thirty," the port tower reported dispassionately. "Descent still nominal to profile."

  "All units, all units," Alex said. "Review your battle plan one more time. If you've got any questions, this is your last shot at settling them before the bad guys start shooting back."

  There was silence on the comm line, and for a moment Alex was afraid something had gone wrong with his hookup. Then he realized that it only meant no one had any questions. The Companions were the Legion's elite. Even if they disagreed with the plan, they weren't the sort to dispute it now ...

  "Anything you want to say, Major McCall?" he asked of the darkness.

  "Nae, Colonel. Except I think ye should keep in mind what happened at Innesford."

  Alex thought he heard a chuckle on the line, probably Dave Clay. For a moment he couldn't place the reference. Then he remembered, and felt his face redden under the neurohelmet.

  It had been a tactical problem for the cadet class a few months earlier, an opposed river crossing against suspected but unconfirmed opposition. As cadet commander, Alex had put his troops in motion: recon 'Mechs to scout out a good crossing point, the cadet fire lance to cover them, his own unit in reserve. Everything had been unfolding with textbook precision until Cadet Mzizi, acting commander of the recon lance for that exercise, had reported in. Though he'd found a spot that looked good, Alex sensed he was unsure of himself and had begun reviewing the plan in detail to make sure Mzizi knew what was expected of him.

  Trouble was, Mzizi had stopped everything while listening to the review, and McCall s simula
ted defenders had turned around and launched a simulated surprise attack that cut the recon 'Mechs into equally simulated ribbons.

  Alex swallowed once. The lesson of Innesford had been embarrassing. Don't talk the plan to death. Just do it.

  But for the next seven minutes he could neither talk nor act. Waiting in the darkness, he turned to the only other thing he could think of to fill the time.

  He prayed.

  27

  Over Dunkeld, Glengarry

  Skye, March, Federated Commonwealth

  7 April 3056

  "Steady . . . steady at the helm, damn you!" Weltall-hauptmann Alvin Lippard of the Free Skye DropShip Anastasia gripped the arms of his acceleration couch, furious at the helm officer's inattention. "The eyes of the whole fleet are on us today, Schmidt, so for God's sake pay attention to your board!"

  "Aye aye, sir," the unlucky helmsman responded.

  Lippard tried to force himself to relax, but he was too nervous. The vanguard position for the occupation force should have been an honor, or so the Weltalladmiral had assured him several times, but Lippard couldn't quite shake the feeling that it was an honor better passed to someone else.

  The locals were supposed to have surrendered, and that meant an easy, unopposed landing. But if everything was going so smoothly, why had they waited in orbit so long before finally committing a landing force? And why was the force so small? The Anastasia, a Union Class DropShip, carried one company of BattleMechs and a pair of fighters. Her consort, the Leopard Class Raven, was much smaller, with a 'Mech lance and two more aerospace fighters. The extra squadron of fighters assigned to cover their approach was staying at high altitude, and wouldn't be able to support the landing for several minutes if something did go wrong.