"The Revolutionary Council finally decided it was time to look for help offworld. I managed to get here by joining the crew of a Verthandian merchant who overtly supports the Loyalist government and the Combine, but who secretly works with us. His ship got me to Gronden, and from there, I was able to arrange passage to Galatea. We'd heard that this was where we would find mercenaries for hire and that I'd be able to buy radios, guns, and other equipment that we need so badly."
The bargirl returned with their drinks. Ice clinked in the glasses as she set them down. "That's five-H fifty for the lugens," she said, "and three twenty-five for the ice water."
"I'll be frank with you, Captain," Erudin said gravely as he counted off the money for the drinks. "The Revolutionary Council sent me here to find a small, battle-hardened unit to serve as a training cadre. Our forces have been scattered... Hell, we've been bloody well hammered into the ground every time we've tried to meet Kurita on their own terms. At the moment, we've been reduced to hiding out in the hills and in the jungle, sniping at the Dracos when we can."
Erudin intently studied the glass in his hand. "Sniping is not going to win our war for us. We know that. We need someone our people can rally around... someone who can show us how to use what we've got to beat those Brownjackets. I don't care how many BattleMechs they've got, if enough of our people rise up, no ‘Mech force in the galaxy could stand against them!"
"Heroic sentiments, Citizen...."
Erudin's face flushed. "I wouldn't expect a mercenary to understand."
"Mercenaries fight for causes, too, my friend, but I do have to look out for my people," Grayson said quietly. "What else can you tell me?"
The rest was not encouraging. There were pieces of four Kurita BattleMech regiments on Verthandi. Though only one was known to be at full strength, that still meant the Legion could be facing hundreds of enemy ‘Mechs.
The situation was not as hopeless as it first appeared, or Grayson would simply have thanked Erudin for his time and left on the spot. Those four partial regiments were scattered all over Verthandi's northern hemisphere, tied down in garrison details in scores of towns and villages, airfields and mines. The Combine forces were known to muster numerous AeroSpace Fighters, too, but most of those were assigned to the Kurita base on Verthandi’s moon. Finally, there were the eight regiments of "Blues," Loyalist militia directed by the Kurita puppet government in Regis. Though they numbered thousands of ground troops, Erudin said that their morale was low.
"There's nothing like a formal blockade," Erudin had explained. "Your ship captain here said you could disguise your DropShip to look like a Kurita Union Class freight hauler. If you did that, they might not challenge us at all. I can direct you to a landing spot in the Azure Sea area, where the jungle will shelter you." Once safely down, he continued, they would link up with the Revolutionary Council. The Legion's chief duties would consist of training cadres of Verthandian rebels, particularly in infantry tactics against Battle-Mechs.
It was not an enviable assignment. The unit was being asked to run a Kurita blockade and then to strand itself on a world garrisoned by hundreds of enemy ‘Mechs. They would have to avoid direct contact with a vastly superior enemy army, while teaching the local rebels how to effectively fight back. The fact that they would be engaged in a bloody, fratricidal civil war simply increased the chances that someone would betray them to the Combine forces. Even if they succeeded in their mission, whether or not the Gray Death Legion would ever get off Verthandi depended on the success of what sounded like a ragtag rebellion. Most mercenary units would not even consider such a high-risk, uncertain mission.
The Gray Death Legion, however, could not refuse. But AgroMechs! Grayson thought How in God's name did these rebels expect to fight with AgroMechs?
In the end, they'd hammered out an agreement. Though Grayson still had his doubts, the Legion needed the commission. Either that or dissolve the unit, leaving each man for himself on Galatea.
3
Galatea's F8 sun was a tiny white disk against the shimmering heat of early afternoon. In spite of the heat, the starport field bustled with activity, especially near Bay Twelve where a DropShip crouched ponderously in its launch pit. Weaving intricate choreographies between the ship and Bay Twelve's service area were long, low vehicles whose electric motors keened under the strain of provision canisters piled high on their flatbeds. LoaderMechs lifted those canisters to DropShip crewmen, who were busy stowing them.
Bossing the whole scene was the cargo officer and her assistants. They watched to see that each cargo container and load pallet went aboard ship in computer-directed order that facilitated stowage and ensured proper mass balance for launch. Conspicuous m their khaki uniforms and peaked, black-billed caps, two port officials also watched from the blue-black shadows of the ship's hull and made cryptic entries on their handheld computer pads. Except for dark patches of sweat along their spines and underarms, these khaki-clad officials remained immaculate in the heat.
Camouflaged in mottled grays and greens, a 20-ton Stinger moved with surprisingly graceful sweeps of mechanical legs and arms across the heat-beaten field toward the DropShip's Number One ‘Mech Bay. Four ‘Mechs were already on board. Two more remained in the service area undergoing final touch-ups by Techs wielding torches, polyepox, and spraytanks of green-gray paint. Everywhere the men of the mercenary unit to which the ship belonged worked at an unrelenting pace to ready their equipment for final boarding and boost.
Grayson Carlyle double-checked the cargo manifest, which ran on interminably: fuel and spare parts; enough provisions to last nearly two hundred people for months; technicians' tools and repair assemblies; seven BattleMechs and the small mountain of spares, parts, supplies, and ammo that kept them combat-ready; and the larger mountain of military stores their new patron was shipping outbound with them.
"Everything in order, Captain," one of the port officials said, handing Carlyle a stylus. The gold piping on his collar indicated that he was a lieutenant, and the expression on his face marked him as a bored one. "Your manifest checks and your port fees are paid. All you need now is final clearance for boost."
Grayson glanced up to read the ID badge pinned to the man's khaki tunic. "Right, Lieutenant Murcheson." He scrawled his name across the compad's screen, pressed the enter key, and handed pad and stylus back to the PA officer. "We're just waiting to hear from our patron. My First Officer is working out some last-minute details with him. Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink in the meantime?"
Murcheson manipulated the touch plates that transmitted authorization to Galatean Control Center. "Thanks, no. On duty, y'know." The officer was looking up, squinting against the light of the brilliant sky. High overhead, two men in the basket of a cherrypicker gantry were putting the finishing touches on to a coat of paint that obscured the DropShip's name arid numbers. "So, you're going out covert, Captain?" Showing polite interest in response to Carlyle's hospitality, Murcheson's voice was carefully neutral but friendly. The officials on Galatea cared nothing about where a ship bearing supplies enough to start a small war was bound—or why.
Still, Grayson answered carefully.
"Just afresh coat of paint, Lieutenant. No sense in having Phobos show her years to our new employer, eh?"
"Well, if you say so." The man's tone suggested that he did not believe the young mercenary commander, but also that it did not concern him one way or the other. "Request clearance for final boost on the port control frequency when you're ready, Captain Carlyle. And good mission to you - whatever it is."
Grayson watched the PA men walk toward the skimmer that had brought them out from the Galaport Control Tower, then glanced back up at the men on their way down in the cherrypicker basket. The weathered letters that had identified the ship as Phobos, Number Two
DropShip of the free trader Invidious, had been painted out. A new name and ID would not be added until the ship was safely out in space, far from any prying eyes. The PA man had bee
n right. This would be a covert flight, and the fewer who knew the ship's new identity, the happier Grayson would be.
He dropped his eyes to the men and women hard at work in the harsh sun, and his hands knotted at his sides. Grayson was not certain that all the security measures in the book would be enough to see them through this mission. The problem was not security, but what awaited them at their destination.
Damn, he thought. Just what have I gotten us into? Devic Erudin had better be right about enemy positions on his home world, or the Gray Death's career would likely end abruptly and bloodily with its second campaign.
"Captain?"
Grayson turned to see Sergeant Ramage. The small, wiry, and dark native of Trellwan was one of the men who had joined him when the Gray Death finally left that world. Senior to all of the unit's support infantry in both age and experience, Ramage was Grayson's head NCO in command of the Legion's ground troops.
"Yes, Ram." The sergeant's one Trell name had been even further abbreviated to the inevitable nickname. "How's the boarding going?"
"On schedule, Captain. But some of the boys are a little...well...worried. There's a lot of scuttlebutt making the rounds."
"If there's anything to tell, I'll pass it on. You might remind them that they're free to stay here if our arrangements don't suit them."
Ramage grinned. "That's one thing we don't have to worry about, Captain! Hell, the thought of being left here would be enough to make 'em volunteer to assault Fortress Luthien itself!"
The sound of a ground vehicle brought Grayson’s attention back to the field. A tall, attractive young woman in a worn and faded military tunic climbed out, paid the driver, and strode toward Grayson. Grayson's second in command, Lori Kalmar had proven her considerable aptitude for ‘Mech combat during her stubborn defense at Thunder Rift on Trellwan. At the moment, however, trouble clouded her face.
"Problems?" he asked.
Lori shook her head sharply. "No. He had the money. Everything is arranged through ComStar. All we need now is final port clearance, and we're set."
So. They were committed. Grayson had never doubted Erudin's word. He'd seen the samples of the tight, malleable, gray-white metal, heard Erudin’s explanation that vanadium was fairly common on some worlds, but nonexistent on Galatea. A ComStar proctor had already assayed the shipment Erudin and his people had smuggled out of Verthandi, and quoted them an open market valuation of almost a million C-bills. Part of that had gone to buy weapons and military equipment desperately needed by the revolution on Verthandi, equipment that Tor would ship to that world along with the Gray Death Legion. Grayson assured the owl-eyed man that what was left was enough to hire the Legion and Tor's ship. With the final contract signed and deposited with the money at the ComStar offices on Galatea, they had cleared the last hurdle and the mission was go.
Lori was clearly not happy about it, though. For that matter, neither was Grayson. What tormented him still were doubts about the Legion's chances once they grounded on Verthandi. The Invidious would have to drop them from the Norn system's jump point, then high-tail for another system, leaving the Legion utterly on its own. If the revolution succeeded, well and good. But if it failed....
Grayson lifted his eyes again toward the brassy, hot sky of Galatea. House Kurita was not known for its leniency toward mercenaries captured while backing an opponent, especially ah opponent that dared to rebel against the Lord of the Draconis Combine. The Verthandi contract was, in every sense of the phrase, a win-all, lose-all proposition.
It was a chance, Grayson knew, but that was about all it was. What would the others think when he told them? Then again, what was he leading them into? Would they even follow? Though no military unit can afford the luxury of democratic organization, mercenary groups usually allowed its members a bit more discussion of assignments than did regular forces. Many a contract had been voided and wars lost because a mercenary army refused the job, even after its leader had arranged the deal. The reason Grayson worried now was that Devic Erudin's proposal sounded less like a joke and more like a suicide pact.
Lori seemed to read his mind. "I don't see that we have much choice. Captain."
He smiled, though the expression required effort. Almost...he almost reached out to touch her, but the cool distance in her voice restrained him. After Trellwan, he had promised to give her time. Lori, what's come between us? We were close...once....
He cut off that thought immediately. There were problems enough without agonizing over that. He managed to keep his voice light. "You’re right. Either we starve on Galatea or we're stranded on Verthandi. But that doesn't make it any easier, does it? Not with our people counting on us."
* * * *
If it's true that the ideal spy would have trouble attracting a waiter's attention in a restaurant, the nondescript, middle-aged man in a Galatean Port Authority NCO uniform was just such a one. He'd been at Lieutenant Murcheson's side during the talk about port clearance with Captain Carlyle and had said nary a word. Syneson Lon had been alert enough, though, hoping to pick up something that Carlyle might have carelessly let slip about his plans or his destination. He'd been the one to point out to Murcheson that the Phobos was very likely headed out on some covert mission, hoping the Lieutenant would mention it and elicit just such a slip from the young Captain-There were people, powerful people, who were keenly interested in the young merc leader and where he might now be headed with his men. Lon leaned now against an angle in the blast pit wall near Bay Twelve, studying the DropShip Phobos through compact, but powerful, electronic binoculars.
The spy had already amassed considerable information on Carlyle and his unit. He knew about the aged freighter Invidious keeping station at the Galatean system's zenith jump point and about its captain ... Renfred Tor. He knew about each of the MechWarriors who had signed on with the Gray Death Legion during recent weeks, and was aware of Carlyle's meetings with this fellow Devic Erudin at the Starspan Hotel. Lon still had not learned from where Erudin came, and that worried him. Erudin's homeworld was no doubt where the Gray Death Legion was headed next. So far, the spy's only clue was that the Legion's BattleMechs were being painted in camouflage suitable to a world of jungles or heavy forests.
When the groundcar carrying Lori Kalmar pulled up near to where the Legion's commander was standing, Lon focused the binoculars on her. Kalmar's dossier reported that she was a native of Sigurd, a world in some Bandit Kingdom beyond the Periphery, until she'd met Carlyle on Trellwan. Lon smiled, thinking she was well worth studying with his binoculars.
When he touched a control, the 'nocs focused in on the faces of the man and woman as they talked. He could see that Kalmar looked worried. Though these binoculars were equipped to record the movements of their lips for later study, the spy had become a lip reader himself through long practice. From this angle, he couldn't quite make out Lori's words, but Carlyle was easily visible.
"You're right," he was saying. "Either we starve on Galatea or we’re stranded on Verthandi." The words were as clear as if Syneson Lon was hearing them spoken aloud. Smiling broadly, he lowered the binoculars.
So, now he knew exactly where the Gray Death Legion was bound.
4
Even in his father's unit, Grayson had considered staff briefings to be interminable as the various department heads invariably wrangled over points that the young Grayson had found mindlessly tedious. So much of that wrangling had been over money, which had been of little concern to him then. Now that he understood how important a decent cash flow was to a mercenary outfit, he was sorry for not paying attention to those sessions in the briefing room of Carlyle's Commandos. Be that as it may, Grayson still hated staffings.
He'd arranged to be the first one in the Photos's lounge, which served as his command briefing room. Along with staff meetings in general, he also disliked the formality that many military commanders adopted in such situations. As the nine men and women filed in and took their seats, Grayson remained seated, forcing him
self to adopt a casual, relaxed pose. He was aware that much of his unease was due to how little he knew of most of the people now in the Gray Death's leadership core. Except for Lori Kalmar, Sergeant Ramage, and Renfred Tor, the others were comparative strangers. While they studied the contract, Grayson studied them.
Davis McCall was a big, friendly Caledonian with an engaging grin, fierce pride in his Terran-Scots ancestry, and a frequently unintelligible Scots burr. He had brought his own BattleMech to the unit, a 60-ton Rifleman affectionately known as the Bannockburn.
Next to him was Delmar Clay, lean, dark-haired, and stubbornly untalkative about his past—save that he'd been a member of Hansen's Rough Riders. He still wore the Rough Riders' distinctive green combat jacket, sans patches. More important, though. Clay also had his own ‘Mech, a 55-ton Wolverine.
Hassan Ali Khaled was darker, quieter, and even more reticent about his past than Clay. Once, though, Khaled admitted privately that he had spent most of his life as an ikhwan, or brother, of the dreaded Saurimat Commandos of his homeworld Shaul Khala. Grayson had heard of the Saurimat. What MechWarrior of the Inner Sphere had not? The name meant "Quick Death", and the group had a reputation like that of ancient Terran martial brotherhoods such as the Ninja and the Hashshashin. Khaled piloted the Gray Death's lone Stinger.
The two youngest team members were Piter Debrowski and Jaleg Yorulis, an odd pair. Debrowski was a tall, lanky Slav with pale hair and skin, while Yorulis was short, stocky, and black-haired. Though not combat-experienced, they knew ‘Mechs, which was why Grayson had decided to give them a chance. He'd assigned them to the Legion's two captured 20-ton Wasps.
Mercenary's Star Page 2