Roderick pushed back his neurohelmet and scratched his forehead. “What does the highway to the DropPort look like?” he asked the latest scout to give a report, the pilot of a Crow helicopter.
“Clear of traffic,” the scout reported. “They have it locked down and heavily guarded. There isn’t much activity at the DropPort either—it looks entirely shut down.”
“Is there traffic on any of the roads?”
“The northern highway is pretty busy in both directions. It must be their main supply and reinforcement line.”
“What’s the first major city that highway hits?”
There was a pause as the pilot reviewed maps of Stewart. “MacDonald. A good four hundred kilometers away.”
“And the traffic continues north as far as you can see?”
“Yes, sir, but I should say that we haven’t gone very far. The main concentration of activity is clearly New Edinburgh.”
So Anson and the Silver Hawks are still holding something back, Roderick thought. Still not ready for that final fight.
The remaining Silver Hawk Irregulars units had to be either hidden somewhere in the city or poised beyond the range of the scouts, waiting to make a charge later in the fight. If Roderick was making a bet, he’d put his money on the latter. It suited the Silver Hawks perfectly—they’d give ground while the Lyran and Wolf troops made their way into the city, then charge down from the hills or some other damned place and catch everyone in a long, drawn-out street fight.
He wasn’t going to let that happen. In this battle, he could afford to be patient.
Out of courtesy he radioed this information to Vedet and Alaric. Alaric curtly acknowledged receipt of the information. Vedet made no reply.
We few, we happy few, Roderick thought. We band of brothers.
But he didn’t have to think about them anymore. He had his battle to fight, and they could fight theirs.
“Saber One, are they causing any trouble for you up there?”
“Negative, not yet,” Decker replied. “They’re jumpy as cockroaches, scurrying away as soon as we shine a light on them.”
“They’re probably trying to draw you into the city. Don’t let them. Not yet.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ahead of him artillery shells sped through the air, trying to fly all the way to the First Steiner Strikers but generally falling short. The big guns weren’t doing much damage but they were slowing Roderick down and keeping him from putting his artillery where he wanted it. But that wouldn’t last long.
He checked his clock, then looked in the sky. They weren’t there yet, but they would be. They were coming from behind him, fighters escorting bombers, and their targeting computers were already set to the exact coordinates of the artillery emplacements, thanks to the hard work of Loki agents on the ground.
“Bombers coming in,” he said. “I want to make a brief surge right behind the bombs. Give the Silver Hawks a little taste of what we have in store for them.”
The various subcommanders signaled their assent, and Roderick pushed his Rifleman into a jog. It was the first actual charge of the battle for New Edinburgh, and each stride of it was a great relief. No more talking, no more negotiating, no more politics. Just fighting and winning.
He heard the fighters screaming overhead, intercepting the Marik planes that had scrambled to intercept them. Contrails and puffs of smoke rapidly filled the sky, and Roderick saw one plane turn into a ball of orange fire and black smoke and fall to the ground. While the fighters tussled with each other, the bombers got through, unleashing their payload on the city below. The ground shook with the impact of the bombs, and flames erupted.
Roderick broke into a run with the rest of his command lance flanking him. He was in the suburbs of New Edinburgh now, and the buildings were concentrated enough that he had to stick to roads for the most part. He pounded forward, closing on defenders that had been guarding the artillery emplacements until they were wiped off the planet. They were already retreating, but on the scanner their movement looked random and disorganized. Roderick edged west, cutting across a broad parking lot and zeroing in on a Ghost that was reeling away from the fire behind it. Roderick fired his autocannons and watched the rounds bore holes in the Ghost’s torso. The narrow body of the ’Mech looked unsteady, but its sturdy legs kept it upright.
Roderick charged forward, now relying on his laser as the Ghost tried to get off shots of its own. Its lasers fired, passing in front of Roderick, who had slowed down to draw a better bead on the Silver Hawk ’Mech. He hit the Ghost with his pulse laser, and the ’Mech stood still. He left it standing in the middle of the street, looking like a statue, a ready-made memorial to the battle raging around it.
Tanks surged forward in front of him, doing some of the street-level grunt work that urban fighting required. Roderick laid down autocannon fire to drive back some Silver Hawk vehicles and clear a path for his tanks.
The confusion of the Silver Hawk Irregulars was already dissipating. They were too well trained to stay disorganized for long, and Roderick saw on his scanner that their pullback was becoming faster and more cohesive. That was fine. He’d gotten what he wanted.
“That’s it, everyone,” he said to all of his troops. “Let them go for now. Get the artillery to this point and start firing on them as soon as possible. They’ll either have to come out and get us or be killed by a million little blows. Maybe this’ll draw their hidden troops into the open.”
His troops circled back to him, rallying around one of the destroyed Marik artillery bunkers.
The Marik troops will die slow or die fast, Roderick thought, but they’ll never move beyond this point.
* * *
Alaric did not regret any of the decisions that made this battle what it was, but he had to admit that it brought certain inefficiencies. Rather than being able to focus on enemy troop movements, his scouts had to keep an eye on the other invading armies to see what they might be up to and report back so Alaric could take their movements into consideration. If he had known their plans in advance, and if he could easily share information with the other commanders, his scouts could just watch the defenders. He had considered communicating with Roderick Steiner, as the man had certain qualities of a warrior. But talking to one Lyran commander and not the other would inevitably drag him deeper into their political games, and Alaric did not need any more distractions. The business of victory consumed him.
His scouts reported on the Lyran bombing of the artillery emplacements, a move that had involved elements of both the First Hesperus Guards and the First Steiner Strikers, showing that coordination was not entirely impossible. Now Roderick Steiner held a position near the borders of the city from which he could fire into it without worrying about return fire. While not as direct a plan as Alaric preferred, it was bold enough to set the defenders on their heels and perhaps force them into making an advance on Roderick’s position, thereby forfeiting one of the prime advantages of defense. It was a sound move, and it would nicely complement what Alaric wanted to do.
He had deliberately steered clear of the highway to the city, but not because he intended to leave it alone. It would not do for the defenders to retain possession of a wide, secure road, especially one that led to a DropPort. He would make it his own.
Tanks and ’Mechs regularly patrolled the length of the highway, which was also controlled by a number of checkpoints. The largest of these was about five kilometers west of the DropPort, and that was the one Alaric targeted.
His forces were moving almost due north in orderly lines on suburban streets. A bystander might think they were nothing more than soldiers on a parade drill—though in about two minutes, that would all change.
The highway was elevated at this point, which suited Alaric perfectly. His scouts told him that his approach had been seen, and the defenders were massing to head off his army. That, also, was perfectly acceptable.
While tanks and light ’Mechs raced ahead, Alaric stayed bac
k with the heavier machines. Their first shots were all metal, autocannon and gauss rounds battering ramps leading up to the highway. These were followed by missiles zeroing in on the same targets, peppering explosions up and down their length. Some of the advance tanks had a clear enough view to take their own shots. The barrage was intense enough to leave gaping holes in the ramps in short order.
Up on the highway, the militia defenders took advantage of their elevation, firing down on the approaching units. The waves of shells and lasers were intense, and a handful of vehicles stalled in their tracks, smoldering and smoking. But then the fire from the heavies came in, aimed at the center of the militia lines. Their attack fell off, and they staggered back. Alaric pressed his Mad Cat forward, relying mostly on the PPCs. With no ramps to scurry down, the militia troops had to separate, moving east and west as their former checkpoint started to clear out.
Then, right on cue without a verbal command from Alaric, Striker Trinary went on the move, running east next to the highway. Alaric edged east as well, keeping his fire on the eastward group, making sure they saw that if they fled, this part of the road would be his.
There was no room for maneuvering on his part—for now, the battle was point and shoot. The militia troops on the highway saw the damage he was doing and concentrated some of their fire on him. A laser struck just below his cockpit, and a volley of missiles exploded up and down his right leg. In response he stepped forward and added his lasers to the PPC barrage. He welcomed the heat that was building in his cockpit, the sweat that was running down his chest. Proof of life and a beating heart was always welcome.
While he drew the attention of the east group of defenders, Striker Trinary had maneuvered behind them. With a burst of jump jets, most of the trinary was on the highway and closing on the defenders.
The militia troops had already started to turn in anticipation of the new attack, but they could not prepare for its ferocity. ’Mechs and battlearmor troopers tore forward, charging straight into whatever fire the defenders could muster. Alaric could not see their charge clearly, but he saw some of the dots on his scanner stop moving or disappear completely. Stalker Trinary was taking damage, but it was not stopping.
The Wolf forces on the highway did not stop to engage the militia troops in close quarters. They ran right through them, disappearing into the covering fire from Alaric and the other big guns on the ground.
Most of the militia units did not bother to turn and attempt pursuit of the fast-moving troops that had cut through them. Knowing the fire in front of them would intensify, they kept pulling back to the east.
Alaric edged east with them. The Stalker charge had fully occupied the militia on the highway; he was not under any fire for the time being, leaving him free to pick out distant targets and send missiles twisting through the smoke and dust toward them. He also kept his PPCs firing to keep the pressure on the militia.
Stalker Trinary now held the former checkpoint. Alaric regularly glanced at his scanner to make sure the defenders that had moved west had not decided to come back and reengage. So far, they were staying away.
Alaric maintained his focus on the east group, keeping them on their heels. He watched them bunch together, trying to combine enough fire to threaten at least one of the heavy or assault ’Mechs on the ground. When their formation was tight enough, he gave the order.
“Striker, take them again. All other jumping units get on the highway.”
The second charge was as sudden and fierce as the first. The Stalker units did not even have to select targets—they could fire at will into the crowd of militia units and have a very good chance of hitting something.
Behind them were reinforcements from the other trinaries. Still pinned back by fire from the units on the ground, the militia broke under this wave. They scattered, most fleeing due east but some trying to find some way, any way, off the highway.
“Do not chase them too far,” Alaric said. “Stay near the checkpoint.”
To the west, the other militia units kept edging away. They knew they were now outnumbered at this position, making a full-on engagement suicidal.
This part of the highway now belonged to Clan Wolf, which meant no one would be making it to the DropPort without their approval. One part of New Edinburgh had been secured.
28
New Edinburgh, Stewart
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
5 June 3138
Most of the generals were gone. Some were out in the field, but Anson had sent a good number of them north to MacDonald, hoping to get them off the planet. The field commanders that remained should be able to take care of what needed to be done without the higher-ups.
That arrangement left the situation room empty. During an invasion, this room normally would be bustling, but the plans for this battle were unusual. The customary maps were still being displayed even though there were few eyes to see them, and they showed nothing good. Wolves were on the highway to the east, one Lyran unit had the temporary DropPort well covered, another was pouring artillery fire into the core of the city with little interference from the planet’s defenders.
As bad as it was, though, Daggert looked over the maps with an odd sense of relief. The situation was bad, but he had expected it to be bad. His relief was that of the condemned man who finally sees the headsman’s axe swinging after long months of sitting in a cell and hearing metal bite into wood when others met their fate.
He had exchanged a few words with the various unit commanders, but so far there was nothing that demanded a major departure from the existing plan. Things were going poorly, but that only meant events were following an inevitable course.
Daggert heard a quiet beep; then the door to the situation room opened. He didn’t look up, assuming it was one of the officers who had been left behind and now was trying to occupy himself by taking an occasional glance at the maps. Sometimes, checking on the progress of a battle served as an acceptable substitute to being able to do anything about it.
“It’s about time for the motorcade to leave,” a low rumble of a voice said.
Daggert looked up to see Anson standing next to the big black table. The captain-general was wearing simple military garb, looking like any one of a number of troopers fighting outside the palace, except fleshier and older. But the look in his eyes said he would grab a gun and stand alongside them in a heartbeat.
Daggert looked at the maps. “Yes. It probably is.”
“That thrice-damned Duke Vedet won’t make the trip easy.”
“No. He’ll be waiting.”
“And the others?”
“Some of them will probably come too. Though the Wolves just took over a highway checkpoint, and I imagine they’ll try to keep that under control for a while.”
“Okay.” Anson looked around the room while one hand idly scratched the other. Daggert watched him for a moment, then returned his attention to the screen in front of him. It showed an overhead view of the city with real-time tracking info on the defensive units. He watched as several of the Silver Hawk Irregulars units moved to the south side of the city. They would attempt to defend the motorcade when it emerged. They would fail.
Anson cleared his throat. Daggert looked up, assuming the captain-general wanted his attention, but Anson was still looking around the room while taking a few aimless steps.
Daggert looked at his screen again, but once again Anson cleared his throat. Daggert raised his head, looked at Anson and waited.
The captain-general took a few more steps, then saw Daggert looking at him. He met Daggert’s gaze, for a moment looking like the angry, defiant Anson of old, but then his eyes widened, and his face took on the slightly puzzled look that had become more common in recent days.
“Daggert,” he said. “I want to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Why didn’t you just leave?”
“My lord?”
“When you resigned. Or tried to resign. I said you couldn’t resi
gn, so you stayed. Just like that. But you had an idea, didn’t you? You knew how bad this could get. So why not just leave? I would have been mad, I probably would have put a price on your head, but so what? It wouldn’t last long. Then me and whatever revenge I wanted to collect”—he made a sweeping motion with his right arm—“would be gone. You’d be free. You wouldn’t have to be in the middle of this.”
Daggert leaned back. He cocked his head to the right, thinking. He scratched his temple. “I don’t know. I guess I never thought of just leaving.”
“Why?”
“Duty. Decorum. It’s just not done—you don’t run out on your assigned duty.”
“Duty to what? Not to me. You hate me. For all I know, you’ve always hated me.”
“Duty to the Commonwealth.” Daggert paused, measuring his words carefully. “That’s different from duty to the captain-general. Though I believe the two have often been confused.”
Anson laughed, a short, barking noise. “By me,” he said. “You mean they’ve been confused by me.” He shook his head. “I did things the only way I knew to do them.”
Daggert wasn’t sure if Anson’s voice carried pride or regret or both.
He glanced at his screen. “The Silver Hawks that were on the move have found their position,” he said. “The motorcade should leave.”
Anson nodded curtly, but he didn’t move. His brow knitted, his mouth twisted. When he spoke, the words were forced.
“It’s probably a good thing that you stayed,” he said.
“Thank you,” Daggert said, but Anson was already on his way out of the room.
* * *
Trillian had cut the jeep’s engine a while ago, and she was leaning back with her feet on the steering wheel. Vedet’s troops had moved a little north, but they were unwilling to put much distance between themselves and the broad tarmac. She heard reports that the Wolves and the First Steiner Strikers had been involved in some engagements, but the battle hadn’t started yet for the First Hesperus Guards.
The Last Charge Page 25