“Your Firestarter?”
“They got the gyro and the engine housing. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to let you down.”
“Let me down? What are you talking about?”
"I want to fight, sir. I just don’t have a BattleMech."
Roderick closed his eyes. Lyran command had written off the men and women in his unit as failures and criminals. Here was Dewery, a man who should have been sitting in a prison cell somewhere back in the Commonwealth, and he was upset that he couldn’t take part in the battle to win control of the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey. The irony was not lost on Roderick.
“Have you talked to the techs?” he asked.
“They say they have a Cougar, but that you haven’t assigned a MechWarrior to it. They say she’s a good ride, but her weapons load-out is a hodgepodge of whatever they’ve been able to duct tape onto her.”
“You want to pilot that hunk of junk?” he asked. He had seen the Cougar in question, and his description was not far off the mark.
“I don’t want to fight this war from the ground, sir. Who knows, we may capture another Firestarter and put me back in my normal ride.” It was pure optimism.
Frost looked at the young officer and crossed his arms. “Dewery, she’s yours. If you’re crazy enough to pilot that mess, all I can say is I’m glad you’re on our side.”
The young officer saluted, smiled broadly and took off. Roderick entered his tent and peeled off his coolant vest. This is what it has come to. We’re piloting BattleMechs made up of parts from three or four different ’Mechs into battle. He lowered himself to his cot. He needed sleep—not a lot, but enough to get his mind clear. Then we will move to this Burkettsville. If nothing else, it will drive those Regulars troops nuts trying to figure out why.
He closed his eyes and felt nothing.
Burkettsville, Tamarind
The Next Day
The defensive perimeter around the tiny village of Burkettsville was surprisingly sound. This was some of the rockiest terrain that Roderick had seen on Tamarind, and the large rock outcroppings in the area gave his troops good cover. He used his DropShips to shuttle his supplies and most of the troops to the tiny village.
The Broken Swords seized the water pumping station and the oil refinery. The Duchy owned the refinery, but had not taken the steps necessary to sabotage it or shut it down. Roderick was suspicious, but grateful. They didn’t need a lot of petrochemicals, but having access to any source was good.
There were a few garages and machine shops in the tiny village, excellent sources for parts that helped with repairs. The village mayor came out to protest as Roderick’s people seized the telecommunications systems and cut off Burkettsville from the rest of the world. He ignored the mayor. This is war. If their roles had been reversed, he would have complained too— but he would have expected the occupier to respond exactly as he had. They prohibited travel into and out of the village, with no exceptions. The local doctor’s office was raided for medical supplies. Foodstuffs were stripped from private families and retail stores. It was an organized looting. Roderick wasn’t proud of it, but insisted it was necessary.
The good news was that his troops had seized several tiny motels and bed-and-breakfasts and rapidly converted them into barracks. It was a chance for a night’s sleep in a real bed, a shower with real soap, a chance to shave and to recharge. Every protest was ignored or ended by brute force.
As Roderick stepped out of the city hall, one of his troops in Hauberk battlearmor approached him. He was holding a woman by the forearm, but she seemed to be keeping pace with him pretty easily. Through his external microphone the soldier said, “Found this woman. She insisted that she see you. Said it was important, sir.”
He looked at the woman, whose bowed head was wrapped with a babushka, really nothing more than a dirty rag. She was filthy; dried splatters of mud on her legs vied for prominence with sunburns and grime. What he could see of her hair was matted and oily. When she lifted her head and straightened up, he could see that she was tall.
The woman looked him full in the face, and without speaking he rushed forward and threw his arms around Trillian Steiner, hugging her tightly. She responded, but slowly. They held each other for a long moment, and then he loosed his arms so he could look at her face. Tears furrowed the dust on her cheeks.
The armored trooper stepped off, passing the woman’s companion, who had walked up behind her. Roderick studied the bearded man and was surprised to discover it was Klaus Wehner. He nodded in acknowledgment. “Damn, Trill, it’s good to see you!”
Her breath seemed labored. “I wasn’t sure we’d make it.”
“How did you know we’d be here?”
“We didn’t,” Klaus answered. “She asked me where I might move if I was on the run. This seemed like one of a dozen good choices. I guess that for the first time since this started, we got lucky.”
Roderick held her face in his hands and saw in her eyes that she had been through a lot. “Trillian, I was worried. They said you killed a police officer. I knew they hadn’t caught you because they never made an announcement, but I didn’t know where you were.”
“We had our challenges,” she said with a wan smile. “But all along we tracked what you were doing. You’ve done great.”
Roderick shook his head. “We’ve pounded these Regulars a few times now. They’re going to find us and this time they are going to come for the kill—I can feel it in my gut.”
“Can we take them?” Klaus asked. We. Roderick suddenly remembered that Wehner was a colonel and outranked him.
“What choice do I have? Duke-frigging-Vedet hung us all out to dry. So for now, it looks like it’s going to have to be us fighting this war.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his words.
Trillian said nothing, but wiped her eyes with her grubby sleeve. Klaus spoke for them both. “We’ll do what we can. I’m rated for a medium BattleMech. It’s been a while since I piloted one in battle, but count me in if you have a ride. I may have rank on you, but this is your show. All I ask is for a chance to fight.”
Roderick nodded and allowed himself a smile at Colonel Wehner’s words. He then turned to his cousin. Damn! She’s alive! He squeezed her shoulders as if to make sure she was really there. “We need to compare notes. We have to find a way to set these bastards on their ears.” I have to do it before my unit begins to melt away on its own.
28
Breckenridge Heights
Danais, Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
9 December 3137
Duke Vedet Brewster watched as the gray-green VTOL patrol came across the city to Breckenridge Heights. Despite the misty rain that had fallen all morning, the two VTOLs had been out scrounging the countryside for some sign of the Silver Hawk Irregulars and their Daredevils militia allies. The two tiny Yashas arced over the city at eighty meters and began the approach to the landing pad.
He’d made the Heights his headquarters because the city of Breckenridge proper had been so hostile to him. The locals were passive at first, but then began the insurrection. Minor acts of defiance. Protests, sit-down strikes, all aimed at disruption. The Irregulars’ version of the Marik eagle showed up everywhere, painted on banners or on the buildings themselves. The population seemed to be going out of its way to defy him.
There had been a few attacks as well. A sniper or snipers had taken out three of his officers. One shot had nearly hit him, and he made the decision to move his headquarters to Breckenridge Heights, a college campus. Settled on a ridge over the city, it was secure and safe. From here, the locals would have to look up and see him. They would now have a constant reminder of the new administration on this world. The age of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth was over. This was the new age of the Lyran Commonwealth, a new age in which Duke Vedet saw his role as much larger than ever before.
As the VTOLs angled for the helipad on the far end of the campus, the duke gave an unconscious nod of approval. He had taken over the former
dean’s office, and Duke Vedet was just returning to a very comfortable chair when a shimmer of something caught his attention. Then came the blast: resounding, ear shattering. The rotor assembly of the first Yasha shattered as the craft dropped to the ground like a rock. The turbofan flew apart, the blades spinning like deadly daggers. One shattered the window of his office and buried itself a full meter into the wall.
Duke Vedet was stunned. Shards of glass covered his uniform, some so fine they appeared only as a glimmer. The wind blew in from the shattered window, caressing his face and reminding him of how warm it was outside. What happened? He activated the commlink on his desk and called the helipad. The remaining Yasha banked hard to the right and he saw a smoke trail coming from the city below, and then another one. Missiles!
The missile slammed into the remaining Yasha. It rocked under the blast, a chunk of its lower armor plate tearing off and falling to the campus below. It banked hard and came down on the helipad, out of the field of fire, landing with a grinding noise that he could hear from his office.
“Situation!” he barked.
“We think we’ve taken fire, sir,” came a voice filled with disbelief.
“Of course we’re under attack. I want a unit to track down where those missiles came from, damn it!”
The audacity of it stunned him. He stared at the broken blade in the brick wall of his office. It flexed slightly along its length, like a sword. In that moment it dawned on him that he could have been killed.
A chill ran down his spine. The attack on the Yasha reminded him of his first combat kill, earlier in the war, when he had shot down a VTOL. His mind’s eye recalled the image of that falling craft. Flinching at the memory, he wondered how many people he had been responsible for killing so far. I’m in command. I can’t have these kinds of thoughts. He touched the blade and quickly took away his hand. The metal was oddly warm to the touch.
The Fourth Royals Regiment’s first and second battalions were the other friendly forces on the planet besides his Hesperus Guards. They had been in the field for two weeks now attempting to pin down the Silver Hawk forces. Now this—a strike right here at the occupation capital. His mind immediately went to blame; who was at fault for this?
The archon? Melissa Steiner had a lot to answer for in this war. Her ill-conceived foray into Skye had stretched resources dangerously thin, but she would never face the blame for it. There were layers of insulation between her and truth. The common man and woman in the Commonwealth would not see her as the person who led to this resistance effort.
Trillian Steiner would be a perfect scapegoat for this, if she were still alive. Nothing had been heard from her since Duke Marik had rejected her attempts to negotiate peace. The chances of her surviving were between slim and none. In fact, chances were good that she would end up in Fontaine Marik’s hands and provide a bargaining chip in any peace talks. She had misplaced her faith in a military unit led by a misfit, this Roderick Frost. The defenders of Tamarind certainly would have ripped his unit apart by now.
He grasped the blade between his fingertips, and again felt the impression of warmth. He tested its flexibility, then released it again. No, the real scapegoat was the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces. They had been the biggest failure. The Silver Hawk Irregulars always seemed to know where they were going to land and were ready and waiting. Their ability to maintain operational secrecy had been breached time and time again. They demonstrated a fundamental unwillingness to listen to him, to bow to his leadership. That had been their downfall.
Then there was Bernard. Vedet had treated that man like a son. Now his operatives came back to him with rumors that Bernard was planning to kill him to usurp his control over Hesperus II and Defiance Industries. Duke Vedet had caught wind of these plans three days ago and had made plans of his own. The men whom Bernard Nordhoff had slid into positions on Hesperus had been transferred away at his orders.
The duke thought back to Bondurant and the friendly-fire incident that had downed his Atlas. Now it was clear that it had been no accident. Bernard had tried to kill him and failed. If he had succeeded, the Brewster family holdings, and the Lyran Commonwealth as a whole, would have been placed at risk. Bernard would have seized Defiance Industries and tried to dictate his own terms to the Commonwealth. As he stared at the fan blade in the wall, he understood that the military and men like Bernard had sold him out—they had betrayed him.
He left his office and walked out toward the helipad and ’Mech bays. He wanted to see the remains of the Yasha himself. The Hesperus Guards counted on his leadership. They were loyal, unlike the rest of the military and political machine that had manipulated him. He saw the smoke first, billowing black plumes. When he saw the Yasha he could not tell one end of it from the other. It was nothing more than a twisted hulk, burning, black, dead.
“Sir,” Leutnant Schnell said. “You shouldn’t be out here. We need to resecure the perimeter.” Fire crews moved in, spraying globs of white foam on the fallen VTOL.
The duke ignored him, moving toward the ’Mech bay, where he could see his Atlas standing. What do I do about Bernard? About Tamarind? About the archon? His mind whirled with ideas, some legal, most not. He arrived at the foot of his 100-ton ’Mech and looked up. The Atlas was magnificent, representing the best of everything of which Defiance Industries was capable. Yet over his shoulder was the smoking symbol of everything that resistance could do.
Bernard would be leaving for Tamarind shortly. If Roderick Frost had done his duty, the Duchy forces would be considerably weakened and Frost’s unit would be destroyed. Bernard would land and mop up. Tamarind would fall. Fontaine Marik would be captured. The Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey, this abomination, this shadow of the Free Worlds League, would be crushed. The duke, as the operational commander, would be able to claim victory. He smiled. Yes, I will always have the victory.
He had another thought. What if I held back more than just supplies and reserves from Bernard? I could divert some of his troops directly here. He would be stretched thin rather than me. He would have to win in an even fight with the defenders on Tamarind. If he won, the duke’s victory would be even more impressive. If he failed—well, the duke could come in with his Hesperus Guards and mop up. Bernard would be a casualty, just like he tried to make the duke back on Bondurant.
This is payback. This is how we do it in the business world, Bernard. You screw with me, I screw you over twice as bad. He laughed to himself and patted the leg of his Atlas. I will deny him one-third of his force, divert it here. You should have made sure I was dead, Bernard. Leaving me alive was your biggest mistake.
Something on the BattleMech near his hand caught his eye. He leaned in closer and sucked in a long breath. It was a stenciled image of a purple eagle outlined in silver, small, about the size of his palm. When he touched it, it was dry. How long has this been here? They came here, right onto our base, and did this to my BattleMech? Was it a traitor or an infiltrator? Then, a more disturbing thought . . . Did it matter?
My God, if they can accomplish this, no place on this world is safe. He took a nervous step back from the Atlas and called for Leutnant Schnell.
29
The Harvison Flats
South of Zanzibar, Tamarind
14 December 3137
The flowing sandy hills and the burn marks, the expended autocannon casings, the blasted little craters of every size and shape, all told a story. As General Nordhoff fanned out his troops, he saw the recent carnage of battle and one thought came to mind: Is this where Frost and his men died? As he moved his Xanthos through the wreckage on the battlefield, he saw that the fighting here had been spread out all along the banks of the Zanzibe River. The plan Frost had filed called for his troops to blow the bridges over the river to bottle up the defense force and then deal with them piecemeal. Had that happened? The evidence made it seem possible. The only thing wrong was the outcome. Frost couldn’t have survived this long. Bernard was weeks overdue. Outnumbered three to one
, he had to be a casualty of war.
When Bernard arrived in-system, he hadn’t even tried to communicate with Frost’s force. The satellite network on Tamarind was gone—probably Frost’s doing, to cloak his force from the enemy. Nordhoff had picked up signals from the First Regulars Regiment south and east of Zanzibar. They had to have spotted him as well.
He had landed on Tamarind with far fewer men and materiel than planned—Duke Vedet had seen to that. He had stripped his regiment of one-third of its strength and reassigned those troops to the operations on Danais. He laughed every time he thought of it: the duke had tried to make the Silver Hawk Irregulars seem insignificant when Bernard was fighting them. Now that he has to deal with them, he needs help— my help.
But losing his third battalion was no laughing matter. The Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey obviously was not going down without a fight. The debris around his Xanthos told him that the fighting had been vicious. He wondered for a moment what had become of Trillian Steiner. Had she been taken prisoner? What would he do with her if she was? Once Zanzibar fell, the Duchy would collapse along with it. He could be her rescuer, or perhaps something more. She has the archon’s ear, and rescuing her could definitely benefit me.
“This is Stalker Actual to Sky Warden. Do we have any aerospace activity?”
“Negative, Stalker Actual,” came back the voice of his regiment’s air commander. “We located a Lyran IFF ship transponder about thirty kilometers from your location. We scrambled a flight and have gotten some images. It’s the Sandpiper, or what was left of it. The burned-out hulk was parked in the middle of a spaceport. It appears they grounded it there to take out the Duchy’s fighter defenses.”
Bernard listened in amazement. He could imagine the battle. Did Roderick really deploy his DropShips as implied, abandoning any hope of leaving the planet? In Nordhoff’s opinion, that was the strongest evidence yet that Frost and his men were gone. No commander would commit such a desperate act unless there was no way to win the battle.
Fire at Will Page 23