South, a battle was raging, had been raging, for the past two hours.
"We've planned our defenses around the information provided by your agent in the Gray Death's camp," Seymour said. "And this devastating flank attack he warned you about hasn't materialized. As I expected."
"It's only an hour late," Zellner pointed out. But he too, was beginning to have second thoughts.
"I think, Marshal," Seymour said, "that you should consider the following possibilities." He began ticking them off on his fingers. "One. Your man was mistaken. Two. The enemy knew your man was an agent and deliberately fed him misinformation. Three. Your man has been turned and is working for the Gray Death's intelligence. Four. Your man was discovered shortly after sending that message, Colonel Carlyle realized that his plan had been compromised, and he changed the plan to take into account that we know the original plan."
"Five," Zellner added. "Captain Carlyle got lost in the woods and could show up any moment now!"
"Maybe. But I must say, the Gray Death Legion doesn't exactly have a reputation for getting lost, Marshal. I strongly suggest a ruse of some kind here, and I don't want to risk more than half my command on the word of one hireling spy!"
"That 'hireling spy' is a good man."
"I don't doubt that. But he is only one man. We're up against a full battalion of one of the best mercenary units in the field." Seymour pointed to the south, where explosions were flashing and cracking along the length of the ridge straddled by the New Edinburgh Road. "We're obviously facing nothing more than a demonstration over there. The volume of fire from the woods beyond is far too light to be an entire battalion. My people tell me they're fighting a company there, maybe less. Now, if Captain Carlyle isn't sneaking up on us from the Tanglewood, he must be somewhere else." He gestured carelessly over his shoulder, toward the woods and marshes east of Meadow Grove. "Maybe over there. Hell, maybe circling up through the mountains and coming down on our rear!"
"I think you're giving the man too much credit." Zellner thought a moment, then picked up his mapboard, a computerized panel the size of a clipboard that showed the surrounding terrain on an electronic display. "Wait a minute," he said. "Carlyle—the old man, I mean, not the son—is known for pulling the unexpected. You have scouts out in the Tanglewood, I take it?"
"Of course. You don't think I'd overlook something that obvious, do you? I've got a full company out there, hunting for this mysterious flank march. So far, they haven't found a damned thing. Frankly, I think they'd serve us better if we pulled them back and put them into our reserve. If young Carlyle is out there, I suspect he's given up on coming in by way of the Tanglewood Road. He's going to bypass our pickets and hit us from some other direction."
The sounds of battle to the south were redoubling. With a savage thunder and the searing hiss of outgoing missiles, the artillery and rocket launchers set up at Fire Base Alpha in Meadow Grove just south of town cut loose with a savage bombardment. Zellner leaned against the ledge of the opening in the belfry a moment, watching the volley clear the ridge and plunge toward the enemy lines somewhere beyond. So far, the battle was being prosecuted with an almost lackadaisical gentleness. Most of the Expeditionary Force had been drawn up in a temporary base alongside a supply dump that was still being assembled just south of the town, between Zellner's OP and Fire Base Alpha. An infantry encampment was in the process of being set up next to the forest to the southwest.
A communicator warbled, and Seymour picked up the headset resting on the ledge below the gallery of the bell chamber's east window. "Seymour." He listened for a moment, before adding, "Very well. Hold your positions, but keep an eye on them. Command out."
"What was that?"
"Malishnikov, on Hill Two-twelve. He's spotted what he thinks is a large body of 'Mechs moving through the woods to the southeast."
Zellner checked his mapboard again. Hill 212 was the taller of the two large, rounded hills lying east and northeast of the ridge that were the anchor for the Davion Guard's left flank. One company of light and medium 'Mechs had been posted there, with orders to hold the high ground at all costs. If Malishnikov had sighted enemy 'Mechs further to the east ...
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Marshal?" Seymour was smiling.
"Carlyle almost suckered his opposition again." Almost.
"Five gets you twenty Captain Carlyle's flanking force is coming around from the east."
"What do you suggest?" Zellner was feeling a bit lost. He'd planned this part of the battle meticulously, relentlessly, hazarding all on what he'd been certain Carlyle was going to try. Now it was all coming unraveled.
"We pull Third Battalion out of camp and deploy them behind Hill Two-twelve and Hill One-ninety. We leave Second Battalion in reserve and reinforce our line on the ridge. I suspect Carlyle might be about to hit us in the front, as a diversion. We should let him think his diversion is working."
Zellner shifted blocks of colored light about on his mapboard for a moment more. "Yeah. Yeah, looks good." He laughed, feeling relieved now that the suspense of not knowing was broken. "We're gonna nail this bastard, Jim!"
"Don't celebrate the victory just yet, Marshal," Seymour warned. "Carlyle is one opponent I wouldn't want to underestimate!"
"Of course, of course," Zellner said, but he couldn't be discouraged now. Up until this moment, the one factor that could have spoiled everything was not knowing for sure what the Gray Death was going to do... especially after he'd been so damned certain that he had known Carlyle's plan. Now that he knew, however, now that he could move with confidence, knowing where that old bastard Carlyle was going to be coming from, he could rely on simple numbers alone. According to Dupré—and his report had been verified by numerous sources—the Gray Death could muster no more than thirty-five to forty 'Mechs on Caledonia, essentially one battalion. Zellner's expeditionary force numbered sixty-eight 'Mechs, two full battalions minus a handful of downcheckers, plus a regimental headquarters company, an artillery company, and an infantry support regiment.
And there was also the possibility that Dupré had indeed been successful in planting his little surprise in Grayson Carlyle's 'Mech. His message had indicated that he'd managed to get access to Carlyle's Victor two nights ago. Now, if Dupré had been turned, of course, that piece of information was a lie, but if it wasn't ...
The Gray Death's Third Battalion didn't stand a chance, outnumbered as it was.
And when Colonel Grayson Carlyle was killed in battle, that would seal the fate of the Gray Death Legion.
* * *
Secure in the cockpit of his Victor despite the ping and clatter of smoking shell fragments off his armor, Grayson Carlyle stood at the edge of the treeline, using his computer enhancement to study the enemy positions on the ridgeline two kilometers to the north. Alex should have been in position and launching his attack an hour ago, over an hour ago, and still there was no sign whatsoever that the pace of the enemy's battle management had been slowed or even disturbed. A signal had been arranged—two green flares for a successful attack, two red if the attack met determined and dug-in resistance. No flares simply meant that Alex hadn't reached his jump-off point yet.
What the hell had happened to Alex?
Grayson cursed the radio silence that prevented communication with the other half of the unit. He also cursed for not leaving Frye to handle the operation here while taking charge of the flanking march himself.
The volume of fire from beyond the enemy-held ridge was growing heavier, artillery rounds and long-range rockets, for the most part. Most of the rounds fell short, tearing the southern end of the field just in front of him into broken clods of shot-blasted earth. A few passed overhead, landing in the woods at his back, each thunderous detonation hurling trees, branches, and leaves into the sky like jackstraws. BattleMechs on both sides continued to take potshots at one another, though without any real hope of actually hitting anything, save by wildest chance. The air, the very sky overhead, was alive with
whispering shards of metal. High up, far above the battlefield, Grayson's scanners could just pick up the twisting knots of white thread, contrails of an aerospace battle at high altitude.
He wished just one of his aerofighters would get freed up. He could use a detailed scan of the battlefield behind the ridge to the north.
Damn, where was Alex?
Another 'Mech moved up through the shadows of the trees to Grayson's left, a blocky-looking Highlander with scratched and battle-worn armor. "Hello, Davis," Grayson called over the secure tactical frequency. "How's the arm holding up inside that thing?"
"Well enough, Colonel. It's aye sore, bu' I can manage. I should hae gone on th' flank march."
"We're only an hour past his ETA. Maybe our data on the roads wasn't as up to date as we thought."
"Maybe." It sounded as though McCall wanted to say more but hesitated to utter the words.
Because it was Grayson's son out there.
"He'll make it all right, Major," Grayson said. "If there'd been real trouble, we'd have heard something by now. We still have forty-five minutes to sunset."
"Aye, sir. But it leaves us in a kind of tight spot. How long can we dither here, wi' out making a real attack?"
"As long as we have to. Any casualties yet?"
"No, sir. Infantry's all down an' weel under cover. Sergeant Gonzalez's Guillotine took a bit a' damage in th' arm an' side from a near miss, but he's still on his feet."
"Then we'll stick it out a bit longer. Anyway, Major Frye still has his two lances and the hoverscouts out east of the Round Tops."
"Aye. Makin' noises like a full battalion."
"Let's hope so. Let's hope the enemy thinks so." Grayson glanced wistfully at the monitor showing the sky overhead again. "The hardest part is going on with this, not knowing for sure how the enemy is deployed over there."
"Aye. We'll know more when young Alex comes out a' the woods."
When Alex comes out of the woods. How much longer would that be? 'Mech warfare was primarily maneuver, with the goal of getting as close as possible to the other guy and finishing him fast. Sooner or later, those people over there would guess that he didn't have more than a company or so hidden in the woods. When that happened, there wasn't much at all the Gray Death could do, save retreat to keep from being surrounded and destroyed.
Damn it all, where was he?
* * *
Damn it, when was something going to happen!
Walter Dupré stretched in the seat of his Zeus, trying to work out the kinks of muscles held too long in one position. He'd managed to stay with Carlyle and the command section; the fact that his eighty-ton Zeus was among the heaviest 'Mechs fielded by the Gray Death here on Caledonia had helped, since most of the machines sent off with Frye's diversionary force had been mediums and lights.
They'd spent the last several hours right here, however, moving in and out among the thickly scattered trees, firing at targets of opportunity when they showed themselves along the skyline above that distant ridge, but mostly just dodging the randomly falling fire that was slowly but relentlessly turning this patch of forest into a plowed field with wood-chip mulch.
Carlyle's Victor was currently some five hundred meters to the west, according to the tracking signal he was picking up on his map display. His last signal from Zellner, received hours ago, had been a single word: Completion.
He was to finish the job he'd almost accomplished that day on Glengarry. He wondered if he should just move in close and do it right now....
No. Patience ... patience. That alone would win the game and ensure that he lived to tell about it. The man who'd killed the great Grayson Carlyle! Now that was a story that could be told a few times over drinks in a spaceport bar! Of course, he would leave out the part about the device planted inside the right knee of Carlyle's Victor. That bit didn't seem quite so sporting—or it wouldn't when the story was retold.
But he couldn't do anything until Carlyle decided to move ... specifically until he decided to use the Victor's jump jets.
An artillery rocket howled overhead, smashing into a tree fifty meters behind the Zeus. The flash was bright enough to momentarily cast shadows among the other trees, the bang loud enough to set Dupré's ears ringing despite the cut-outs in his headset. Something heavy slammed into the side of his 'Mech, staggering him—a full three meters of tree trunk, the ends jagged and blackened by fire.
Don't keep us waiting out here all evening, Carlyle, or I'll come over and kill you now, escape or no escape!
Well, that was nothing more than bravado, and Dupré knew it. Still, he wished the waiting would end....
* * *
Alex had gotten lost.
Well... not lost, exactly, but definitely mislaid. Less than two hours into their flank march that afternoon, Task Force Striker had encountered a flooded area in the woods that none of the data banks had described, nor had it been expected by any of the guides. The best guess was that rain during the past week had made a river overflow its banks, flooding this part of the Tanglewood and turning it into a treacherous swamp. Roads that showed up as passable on the electronic map could be seen descending into the black, oily water; men who volunteered to wade out and test the depth had returned with reports of a soft, mucky ooze without a bottom—at least, none they could reach with four-meter poles. It was possible a BattleMech wouldn't sink out of sight if it waded into that muck. Equally possible it wouldn't become so mired in four meters of mud that it would need a recovery vehicle to haul it free again.
But those were possibilities that Alex didn't care to gamble on, not when the Gray Death had so few 'Mechs to begin with. After consulting with his civilian guides, several of whom had been born and raised not far from Falkirk, he decided it would be smarter, and safer, to try to find a detour around the flooding.
They'd struck out toward the west, moving farther and yet farther from the battlefield, until finally scouts reported a track of dry ground through thinning trees leading north. By 1930 hours, they eventually reached a highway running northeast. It ought to be the Tanglewood Road, but they'd been forced to go so far off course that it could well have been anything.
Taking a chance then, realizing that it was rapidly growing dark in the woods even before the actual moment of sunset, Alex led the twenty-four 'Mechs of Task Force Striker in two long columns down the highway, trotting now to make up for lost time.
By 2000 hours, the shadows were so deep even on the road that several Mech Warriors asked for permission to switch on their machines' lights. Alex refused. The Davions would almost certainly have sentries or pickets posted along this highway, and he didn't intend to alert them to the flanking force's presence any sooner than necessary.
In swiftly gathering darkness, then, the two companies of 'Mechs crashed down the highway, flanged, carballoy feet clashing with each step, striking sparks from the pavement. A glow could be seen against the horizon and behind the trees to the northeast, especially with light enhancement— the glow of Falkirk, possibly, or of the Third Guard encampment.
"Okay, Strikers," Alex called over the tactical band, breaking radio silence for the first time. "Arm! Safeties off! Deploy!"
If there were hostiles listening on that frequency, or using broad band scanners, they would hear only scrambled code, but he still wanted to keep any transmissions to a tight, absolute minimum. He snapped off the safeties on his Archer's control console, readying his medium pulse lasers for firing.
Gunshots cracked from the shadows to the right. "Striker One, Raider Five!" a voice called. "I'm taking small-arms fire from the woods."
"Take 'em down!" Alex growled, and the clatter of machine gun fire rattled among the deepening shadows. They were committed now, no matter what was waiting for them up there, no matter how late they were already.
Suddenly, a stilt-legged shape moved across Alex's forward view. A squat, rounded body with ungainly arms.
A Mercury ... not one of his ...
A PPC f
ired to Alex's right, and a blue-white bolt of charged plasma streaked into the unfortunate twenty-ton scout 'Mech, blowing a massive chunk out of its side. One arm spun away into the woods as lightning danced and sparked across its body and arced to the ground.
To his right, the Legion Marauder that had fired the first PPC shot loosed a second bolt, slamming the round into the Mercury's leg. The clumsy-looking machine teetered for a moment, then plunged to the ground. Two more PPC bolts smashed into the wreckage, fusing it into a glowing, smoking mass.
That Marauder was one of Third Company's Combat Lance 'Mechs, piloted by MechWarrior Sergei Golovanov. "Nice shooting, Sergei," Alex called.
"Spasebaw," the Skye-born Russian replied. "Like shooting ducks in a barrel, yes?"
"Something like that." Alex checked the time readout on his Archer's HUD and grimaced. The battle had just begun at 2038 hours—only two hours late. The real problem was the fact that the sun would be setting in another few minutes, and it would be full dark within half an hour. BattleMechs did fight at night, but only rarely, and with good reason. In order to see a target, you generally had to go active with your sensors—even if those were nothing more than spotlights—and when you did that, you made yourself a target as well. Passive sensors, light amplifiers, and passive IR, could be used to some degree, but working and fighting a 'Mech over uneven ground in the dark was no joke. His unit was likely to take as many casualties from falls and stumbles as from enemy fire.
But Alex was discounting that. If 'Mechs didn't usually fight at night, well, that would be part of the surprise. Possibly they could arrange things so that it was the enemy doing all of the moving—and stumbling—in the dark.
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