A cryptic message from Klaus Wehner delivered just as they landed had informed Roderick that Trillian and Wehner had gone underground to avoid capture by Duke Marik. He was confident they were still alive, and he would find them. It was just going to take a while.
22
Verdun
Simpson Desert
Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey
2 December 3137
The carcass of the fallen Ryoken II BattleMech was still belching smoke as General Nordhoff marched his Xanthos forward. The insignia of the Korps, the defense force on Simpson Desert, was still visible through the smears of black smoke: a pair of palm trees stenciled over a flying eagle. The ’Mech had been one of the determined planetary defenders, and had made a daring charge right into the middle of his company, pouncing on his Padilla artillery. It had destroyed the artillery piece even as the rest of his unit converged on the Ryoken. With a single-mindedness that Bernard had to admire, the Ryoken II had managed to plow through two squads of Gnome battlesuits before it was finally brought down.
Simpson Desert was not what he expected. The world was lush with beautiful, thick forests, rolling hills and fields—and jagged rock formations that obscured movement and blocked line of sight. Despite the maps, he had expected more—well—desert. The name was a misnomer, a mistake stemming from the first survey of the world.
Four days into the fight, he now understood that the early loss of his Padilla was part of an intelligent plan effectively prosecuted by the defenders.
The last of the Duchy defenders of Simpson Desert had fallen back from the Wilderlands to a loosely formed set of earthworks and fortifications called Fort Verdun. The fort dated back centuries. It was not in the best condition, but what remained was imposing. Deep trenches big enough to slow a BattleMech and stop most vehicles ringed the area. Concrete emplacements held a few artillery pieces. By whittling down the Lyran artillery, the defenders had taken out the firepower that could hurt them the most. They were trying to force Bernard to fight on their terms.
He understood their strategy too late—at least, that was Duke Vedet’s often- and loudly repeated opinion. Bernard was fed up with hearing the duke’s inexpert views of military strategy and tactics. He’s spent his whole life piloting a desk. Now he thinks he understands how to fight a war. His anger gnawed at Bernard until he could no longer give anything but lip service to supporting his superior officer. “Now we will waste good men in an assault on a fortified position. “ Those had been the duke’s words.
The Verdun complex had been built centuries ago for the Star League Defense Force. Though its basic layout remained strategically sound, even the Word of Blake had found the place too deteriorated to use during the Jihad. The Korps had concentrated their forces in the part of the old fort that was still in relatively good shape. Bernard was confident that there were gaps in their defense that he could exploit, if they could be identified.
The primary disadvantage to the Korps’ strategy was this: in an age of mobile warfare, they had dug in. Rooting them out could be costly, but they had sacrificed their mobility—and he had enough Regulars and the remaining Hesperus Guards to surround them. Now it was a matter of probing, prodding, finding the weakness in their position and exploiting it.
General Nordhoff moved his Xanthos to the front line just in time for one of the Korps’ artillery pieces to drop a massive shell in front of him. One of his Maxim Mk. II transports backed up as clods of sod rained down from the blast. Well, at least we’ve pegged their range.
“Leutnant Schnell,” he signaled on the command frequency.
“Yes, sir,” Schnell replied abruptly. There was an echo of autocannon rounds in the background.
“I’m on the line in green sector two.”
“We have their back door, sir. The roads to Corbyville are blocked,” he said confidently. “Their ’Mechs are popping up from hardened positions and taking long-range potshots at us. Mostly eating turf, not armor.”
“Understood,” Nordhoff said calmly. “You’ve got three VTOLs with you, affirmative?”
“Roger that, sir. I’ve got two Cardinals and a Donar gunship.”
There was more than one way to take Verdun. He knew he would have to attack from the front, and find and hit weak spots in the line. But using VTOLs to harass the fort from on top and hit them on the inside—that plan had a lot to recommend it. “I have ordered Hauptmann Reed to shift our VTOLs to a staging area along with the airborne troops. I want you to send yours to us as well. Have them skirt out of line of sight and sensor range from the fort. No point in letting the Korps know what we are up to.”
“You’re planning an air assault, sir.”
“I’m planning on taking out the Korps and securing this planet.”
“What is the timetable?”
Nordhoff paused. There was no rush, and Duke Vedet did not want to move quickly. The longer they were on Simpson Desert, the more thoroughly decimated Roderick Frost’s unit was going be. And why rush in on Verdun when he could pummel it from a distance, wear it down, strip away at least some of the defenders?
In his opinion, the Broken Swords under Frost were a blight on the Lyran TO&E. Yet recent accounts painted the unit as effective soldiers, even if their loyalty could not be guaranteed. By delaying his attack, he was supporting Duke Vedet’s strategy and betraying the leadership of the Commonwealth. On the other hand, he despised the duke both personally and professionally. But Vedet held power over his career, and his elderly parents remained within the duke’s reach on Hesperus. For now, he must continue to toe the line.
“Take your time, Schnell. Let them rest up and have them move out in the morning. I’m in no rush.” There’s no such thing as a hurried siege.
Hours later, Bernard stood close to one of their campfires. The air was hot and dry during the day, but at night a penetrating chill came down from the hills. The fires were built within view of the Verdun complex; he’d ordered a few extra fires built in case the locals were trying to guesstimate his troop strength. He crossed his arms, warming the front of his body while his backside remained cold.
Bernard allowed his gaze to be transfixed by the flickering flames and the fire’s intense colors. His mind was elsewhere—on Tamarind, Hesperus II— There are a lot of places I’d rather be than here, but here is where I’ve spent my whole life training to be.
He thought about Roderick Frost. He’d heard the rumors about what had happened when Frost ran into the Jade Falcons on Algorab, and he’d read about the trial. Nordhoff had been in the military long enough to know that the official story was never the full story, and the expression “hung out to dry” came to mind whenever he considered Frost. But it was only a gut feeling, nothing that he could support.
Now I’m stalling here, and he’s fighting, maybe dying on Tamarind. Bernard hated himself for giving in to Duke Vedet’s demands. Guilt ate at him even as he tried to convince himself that he had good reasons, valid reasons for delaying the attack on Simpson Desert and delaying the arrival of reinforcements on Tamarind.
It was no work at all to convince himself that he’d end up in the same boat as Frost if he rebelled. The responsible parties rarely took the blame for their failures, especially in the military, and the duke would need a scapegoat if any part of this plan failed. Good men and women always suffered at the expense of those in power.
Bernard closed his eyes. If the duke was killed, he could be his own man. In fact, he could be much more than that. Nordhoff only hoped that Roderick Frost and his men would be able to forgive his transgression, since he wasn’t sure he would be able to forgive himself. In the meantime, he was bound to the fate of the man pulling the strings.
He was hardly aware of someone standing next to him until he heard that person sigh. He forced open his weary eyes and saw Duke Vedet standing next to him, his arms folded the same way, his head bowed.
“You’ve done well the past two days, Bernard,” the duke said, keeping his gaze on the fir
e. The reflections of the orange and red fire on his dark skin made him look more menacing, more dangerous than usual.
“With the Korps dug into that old fortress, it gives us time to pause, make sure we get this right.”
The duke kicked a stick into the fire, shifting the coals. “Even the Word of Blake didn’t think that old fort was worth wasting time on.”
“I try not to base my actions on those of the Word of Blake,” Bernard commented dryly. “I like to think the Commonwealth is better than that.”
“When do you plan on attacking them?” the duke asked.
“We could begin tomorrow. I would prefer that we rest, give them some time to waste a little more ammunition, realize just how thoroughly they are trapped.
It would be best to resolve this with a nice, easy surrender.”
“Do you think that could happen?”
“It’s possible,” Bernard said, “but unlikely.” He frowned. “Loki led us to believe that we were going to be facing second-line troops here. These guys have shown tactical planning and strategic thinking that tells me they are tougher than second-stringers. I think they’ll try to slug it out with us, at least for a while. Once the game starts, it’s a matter of days, and then Simpson Desert is ours.”
“A Defiance Industries JumpShip just arrived in-system from Tamarind—a routine trade mission.”
“A fortunate coincidence,” Bernard replied. Interesting—the duke is using Defiance vessels to gather intelligence. I wonder whether the high command is aware of this, and if they support it? Or is this just part of the duke’s personal game?
“As a matter of routine, they sent me some news and data files. It appears that the Broken Swords landed on schedule and were immediately attacked by the First Tamarind Regulars Regiment. The battle was still raging when the ship jumped.”
Bernard suppressed a wince. I should be there too. Hell, so should Vedet.
Duke Vedet continued. “It also appears that Duke Marik has broken off diplomatic relations with the Lyran Commonwealth and seized the consulate. There was no word on the fate of the consul or Lady Steiner.”
“You must be quite happy,” Bernard said bitterly, and without intending to speak out loud.
The duke turned slowly to look at him. “I have no idea what you mean, General.”
A wave of guilt threatened to swamp him. “I could begin our attack on Verdun tomorrow. We hit them hard and fast, and win quickly. Then we can send troops to Tamarind per our orders.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed as he looked into the face of his protégé. “We have ample reason to slow down that timetable, General. As you implied, each day they are dug in they become weaker. I would hate for our assault force to be so badly damaged that we cannot be of use to the Broken Swords on Tamarind. No, I believe the best plan is to wait a few days before pressing the attack. Don’t you think so?”
He wanted to say no. “Two days, sir.”
The duke smiled. “Two days should be more than enough. After that, I will take the Hesperus Guards to Danais to reinforce operations there. You will mop up here. Then you will take your regiment to Tamarind. By then, the Broken Swords will have been destroyed and will have weakened the First Tamarind Regulars. When you land with your battle-hardened troops, you will seize the capital of the Duchy and I will rejoin you there.”
Just in time to claim the victory as your own. “I understand, sir.”
“Good,” said the duke, turning away from the fire. “Then all that is left is for us to do our duty.”
Bernard returned his empty gaze to the fire. Duty. I’m not sure I know what that is anymore.
23
Southern Markets
Zanzibar, Tamarind
2 December 3137
Trillian walked beside Klaus Wehner as they attempted to blend in with the crowd at the open market. She looked at the wares on the tables at each tent-covered vendor, as if she were casually shopping. Klaus looked bored each time she stopped, using the opportunity to look around the market to make sure that they were not followed.
Fontaine Marik had violated diplomatic protocol when he had sent troops to seize the Lyran Consulate. Usually a formal notification was sent to the capital of another government before such harsh action, the diplomats were formally expelled and so on. Then again, with an invasion force dropping outside his capital city, he obviously felt justified in taking direct action. If not for the speed with which Consul Gustoffson’s staff had led them out through hidden tunnels, Trillian would have been captured.
Captured. That was a chilling thought. She was cousin to the archon, but she knew Melissa well enough to know that she would not bargain for Trillian’s life. Melissa never let blood ties interfere with the good of the Commonwealth.
Trillian had seen squads of police in every market through which they had wandered. No doubt she was the target of their search. Consul Gustoffson had given her some of the local currency and a shawl to help hide her face, and had urged her to find a way to hook up with Roderick’s forces. Klaus had changed into civilian clothing, but he needed the hat purchased early in their flight to hide his military crew cut. She didn’t know what had happened to Gustoffson; she only knew that he had remained at the consulate in order to smuggle out the rest of his staff. If she got out of this mess, she would recommend him to Melissa for a commendation.
Klaus touched her arm and nodded subtly at the street. She followed his gaze, catching a glimpse of several police entering the marketplace from the other side of the vendors’ shops. She took Klaus’ arm and they began moving, her heart pounding with each footfall. Trillian forced a smile to her face as proof that nothing was out of the ordinary. Life as a fugitive was exciting—and she hated it.
The only weapon she had was the tiny officer’s laser pistol that Roderick had given her before the start of the mission. She kept it in her boot, since her clothing offered few places to conceal a weapon. Klaus carried a military knife on a shin strap and his own sidearm— a nasty projectile gun. If it came down to a fight, they were hopelessly overmatched.
Their leisurely path took them from one clump of shoppers to the next, which was good camouflage for their effort to avoid looking like they were moving with a purpose. People were stocking up on goods because of the news that the Lyran invaders had landed. One market was playing a holonews broadcast touting the great victory of the First Regulars in trapping the invasion force. There was stock footage of a burning vehicle, a few explosions and smoke in the distance, but nothing that conveyed what the truth might be. She paused and watched the images and worried, not for the same reason as the people in the market, but for the safety of her cousin out there fighting for his life.
The rest of the Lyran forces should be landing any day now. That would tip the scales. Fontaine Marik would be forced to surrender. Any day now . . .
Suddenly a hand grasped her above the elbow, so firmly that she felt as if her arm were locked in a vise. “Papers please,” the officer said, roughly guiding her to the side of the street and into a narrow alley. She had been pulled away from Klaus Wehner, whom she saw speaking with a female officer where she had left him. No one seemed to notice them. Nor did anyone seem concerned that the policeman was taking her into an alley.
“My papers, of course,” she repeated, reaching into her pocket to retrieve nonexistent documents.
The policeman stared at her. He seemed huge. At first glance he might have looked pudgy, but she could tell it was mostly muscle. He was bald, but the stubble near his ears told Trillian that he shaved his head, probably to look more intimidating. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, but she could feel his gaze looking her up and down. He still held her arm, and now he pushed her two steps farther into the alley.
She was close to panic. He toggled the radio wired to his collar. “I have a suspect on Westbury.”
“If you’ll let go of my arm, I can get my papers,” she said, pulling at his grip.
He lifted his sunglasse
s and gazed at her with a nasty expression in his dark eyes. “Well, well, well. It looks like I might have found our wandering diplomat. “
With one fluid motion she twisted her arm out of his grip and leapt away, using a classic combination learned in one of her many self-defense classes. She backed a few steps away from him and cast a quick glance down the dark alley. It was a dead end. He closed with her and she kept moving back, sliding into a shallow entryway.
It was nothing more than a place to provide visitors shelter during a storm. She fumbled at the door but it was locked. The officer grabbed her again, this time at the shoulder. She spun, sweeping her leg out. She hit him solidly just behind the knee, but it was like kicking a tree. He dropped to his other knee, pain written on his face. She could see that Klaus was still with the female officer.
God, please don’t let me die . . . not now . . . not like this.
The massive officer reached for his sidearm and Trillian let her training take over for thought. She executed a double kick at his face and caught him in the eye, shattering his sunglasses and cranking his head back. Anger twisted his face. With surprising speed he grabbed her ankle and twisted it hard, sending her sprawling facedown onto the ground and knocking the breath from her lungs.
Trillian pushed up in the beginning of a flip, but she suddenly felt his bulk pinning her, grinding her chest and breasts into the tile walkway. Her lungs ached. One of his hands drove her head sideways onto the rough tiles. “You bitch, you’re going to pay for that.”
She struggled. Her right arm and leg were still free. Her attacker shifted his weight to hold her down more securely. His mouth was only centimeters away from her ear. He was breathing hard, but in a husky whisper he repeated, “You’ll pay for that, bitch.” She believed him. His knee pressed into her crotch . . . she hoped it was his knee . . . and she knew he had more in mind than just hitting her again.
Fire at Will Page 19