Holt ignored the opening for another discussion about giving up Tucker Harwell. “Operational strength is not an issue, in my opinion. Your troops have proved themselves against two different forces, both with superior experience. We need to recover whatever ammo and gear we can gather, execute repairs with priority to the BattleMechs, and get moving as quickly as possible.”
Lieutenant Tooley rubbed his face. “The men are tired, but if we keep them moving they won’t have time to bitch about it. Where do you suggest we go, ma’am?”
“My original plan was for us to move north to the lakes. We can use the camp there,” she replied, pointing to the topographical map on the wall display unit of the console next to the legate. “We’ve hit both the Spirit Cats and the Cut-Throats hard, but it’s only a matter of time before one or both of them regroup and come after us.” Alexi’s bet was on the Spirit Cats; they had been far too quiet since the battle of Ben Venue.
“We’ll have tough going,” Captain Irwin added. “The terrain up there is difficult for the wheeled and tracked vehicles.”
She nodded. “Understood. The sooner we take off, the better,” she replied, glancing over at the legate. Singh shook his head in reluctant agreement.
“We have another problem,” Lieutenant Johannson, his head bandaged from injuries suffered in the last attack, spoke up. “We lost three of our techs in the fight with the mercs. We’re going to need some help.”
“We’ve got to get that Blade operational or abandon it,” she returned. Her eyes found Tucker. “We’ve asked a lot from you already, Adept Harwell, but we still need you and your ComStar team.”
He gave her a thin smile. “We’d be glad to help.”
“Good,” she said. “We have half an hour. After that, we go mobile.”
* * *
Star Captain Cox stood on the roadway looking at the pile of wreckage that had been combat vehicles earlier that day. His nostrils stung from the smell of burned ferrofibrous armor and insulation that still hung in the air. He laid his hand on the metallic surface of the mangled hovercraft lying under the wreckage of the ConstructionMech Mark IIB. The metal was still warm, and he rubbed the soot-smeared green paint with his thumb, as if touching it would tell him something.
The Wyatt Militia was long gone. His scouts had ranged two kilometers up the highway but had found only indications of their movement, no sign of troops or vehicles. As he leaned on the savaged wrecks, the Star captain considered what had happened.
He had taken the bait Knight Alexi had laid out for him, and she had closed the trap. His force had pushed in both directions at once and gotten free, but they had lost equipment and personnel. Even with repairs, he was at 60 percent combat capability.
The losses were replaceable. What bothered him was the defeat itself. He had taken out the Knight Errant in single combat—now she had returned the favor. The loss stung in his mouth like bile.
All that remained was his honor.
Another warrior walked over to him, noteputer in hand, and saluted. Cox stood up, taking his hand off the hovercraft, and returned the gesture. “Tell me, Point Commander Barton. You are my Watch, the unit’s eyes and ears. Intelligence is your responsibility. What is your analysis?” He waved his hand at the wreckage.
Barton was a tall man, commander of a Point of Elemental warriors, genetically engineered infantry that fought in power armor. His face bore swirling, red-and-green tattoos and his right eyebrow was pierced with tiny rivets taken from the seat of the first ’Mech Barton had destroyed in battle. Even out of his battle armor he was an imposing and dangerous figure. Barton silently stared at the carnage for a moment. “I see betrayal, Star Captain.”
Cox’s eyebrows rose at his short answer, “Explain.”
“This is a Wyatt Militia Fox-class hovercraft.”
“Aff.”
“The Wyatt Militia has only one Fox hovercraft in its TO&E. A Fox-class vehicle painted with the insignia of the Wyatt Militia was loaded with explosives and detonated in our encampment in Kinross.” His voice betrayed no emotion.
Cox had arrived at the same conclusion when he had seen the wrecked hovercraft. That was why he had stopped his Spirit Cats on the ruins of the battlefield. “What does this mean to you?”
“One of two things. First, the militia may have had more than one Fox in their arsenal. Second, the Fox used in the terrorist attack against us did not belong to the Militia, but was owned by another faction on the planet.”
The Star captain understood the implications of the second option. “It is possible that someone deceived us into fighting the militia, quiaff?”
“Aff, Star Captain,” Barton replied.
“Prepare to move out,” he said. We have directed our retribution at the wrong target. We will correct this mistake.
* * *
Tucker walked over to the three prisoners. Patricia pointed to one of the men and said, “That one.” She had chosen an older man wearing a faded jumpsuit and a rough look. Tucker reminded himself to ask her later how she decided that he was the MechWarrior. The man was handcuffed with his wrists behind his back and restrained by a plastic tie between his ankles, loose enough for a hobbled walk if he needed to relieve himself. His jumpsuit was missing his rank insignia; even his name patch had been torn off.
“You,” Tucker said to the man. “What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Rod Blakely,” he replied gruffly.
“You were the MechWarrior piloting the Blade, right?”
“Yes,” he said bitterly.
“All right,” Tucker said. “I need your access codes.”
The man calling himself Blakely laughed out loud. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Tucker frowned. “No, I’m quite serious. I need your codes.”
“Why should I give them to you?”
Tucker paused, unsure of what to say. His sister, however, did not hesitate. Stepping forward, she planted her right foot carefully into the mercenary’s crotch. The portly man flinched, but, there wasn’t a lot he could do to protect himself. She flexed her knee, pushing hard enough to get his attention. Tucker stared at Patricia, more stunned by her action than was the mercenary she was torturing.
“Hey,” Blakely squeaked, twisting slightly on the ground but unable to get away.
“My brother asked you for the access codes. You asked why you should give them to him. How about this for a reason? If you don’t give him the codes, I crush your crotch flatter than a snake on a busy highway?” To emphasize her point, she leaned forward, grinding her heel slightly as she did so.
The man’s face reddened. “This is against the damn rules of war. Soldiers can’t torture fellow soldiers. Ares Conventions, damn it.”
Patricia smiled. “Those rules don’t apply to us. We’re not soldiers. We’re ComStar.”
The mercenary glared at her, his eyes filling with tears of pain. “My override code is Alpha-two-two-one-Victor-five.”
Tucker jerked his gaze away from his sister and scribbled down the code. Patricia lifted her foot. “Thank you for your cooperation. Peace of Focht be with you.”
Tucker stared at Patricia again. This was not the sister he knew. There was an edge to her, an anger he had never seen before. Then, as quickly as she had turned it on, it disappeared. It must be the stress.
As they turned and walked away, the MechWarrior cursed softly. “Screw you. I’ll show you peace when I get out of this.” Captain Rutger Chaffee leaned back against the tree and wondered how his unit was faring and how long he’d be able to keep up the act of being a flunky officer.
* * *
The Protectorate Sun Cobra slowed slightly as the message came to Captain Casson. “Recon Three reporting, sir” came the signal, crisp and clear.
“This is Eagle One, go Recon Three,” he said, punching up the long-range sensors. The scouts were fanned out far and wide in the countryside, attempting to locate the Wyatt Militia and the prized ComStar adept. Recon Three was a good ten
kilometers ahead, piloting a Scimitar Mk II hovercraft. They were the northwest point of the search pattern. “Right where I thought the militia’d be,” he said to himself with a grin.
“We’re picking up chatter on the comm channels, sir; military in origin. I’d estimate their range at twenty-five to thirty klicks on a northwest bearing.”
Captain Casson stared at the display. The sun was setting. Night operations carried inherent risks. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally kill Adept Harwell. “Can you ID the forces you’re picking up?”
“We believe it to be the mercenaries under Bannson’s banner,” came back the voice of Recon Three. “Confidence is sixty percent; six-oh.”
“Roger that,” Casson replied. He pondered for a moment. This wasn’t the target he was looking for, but it was the next best thing. The mercenaries would follow the militia. “Recon Three, maintain your station. Monitor transmissions and activity.” He switched to the broadband channel to send a message to the rest of his unit. “Talons, this is where we camp tonight. I want a tight perimeter and three watches.”
Casson toggled the comm system to send a message to his DropShip, to relay to the satellite. He keyed in his map coordinates, date and time. His operative was out there somewhere, and he was counting on him to help bring home victory.
* * *
It was early evening when Star Captain Cox arrived at the battlefield his scouts had located. He saw the mangled wreckage of a Wyatt Militia ConstructionMech, its few remaining spots of paint and half the image of Wyatt on its torso the only indication that it was indeed a militia machine. There were craters, torn sod, scorched soil—all the telltale marks of a fierce battle. These remains were fresh, fresher than the field he had come from earlier in the afternoon. The smell of the fight was still in the air.
Point Commander Barton emerged from the fallen ’Mech and jogged over to his commanding officer. He held a torn scrap of cloth, part of a uniform, that he had obviously pulled from under the ’Mech. It was crusted with blood.
“Who were they fighting?” Cox asked.
“The mercenaries,” replied Barton, handing over a pair of shoulder patches. One showed the battle-ax insignia of Bannson’s Raiders, one blade forming a distorted B and the other an R. The other patch was a scull and cross-bones design, with the bones replaced by two bloody daggers with the words CUT-THROATS at the top of the logo.
“Bannson’s Raiders,” Cox said aloud.
“Aff, Star Captain,” Barton replied. “Infrared scans show that the tracks from the militia are hours old, heading north. The tracks of the mercenaries following in pursuit are newer.”
Cox crumpled the patches into a ball in his fist. “These mercenaries are interfering with the honor of our Clan,” he said coldly. “This will not stand.”
23
Crater Lakes
North of Kinross, Wyatt
The Republic, Prefecture VIII
21 May 3135
Under normal circumstances, Crater Lakes must have been a restful campsite. The dense, second-generation forest surrounding the lakes came up almost to the edge of the water. The rustic log and stone cabins were hidden among the trees. Further north were the logging camps, but here, where Highway Seven terminated in a dirt road, Crater Lakes was a resort.
For now.
Alexi Holt surveyed the area with a sigh of relief. They had been moving north for a day and a half when the highway turned east for two kilometers and abruptly came to an end. Here, she hoped they could recoup, repair and hole up. Paladin Sorenson had said that reinforcements would come sometime after 25 May. If the Wyatt Militia could hold out long enough, the forces chasing her might suddenly face a more equal fight.
The dense forests would limit the mobility of any attackers, which was good. Open meadows had been cleared for the tourists near the shore of the largest body of water, Higgins Lake, and they provided a discreet area where combat could take advantage of direct line of sight. They could build breastworks at the far end of the fields, making them deadly places to fight. The water of the lake would help cool their ’Mechs, allowing her troops to push themselves with less risk of overheating. And the cool mountain waters supplementing the work of the heat sinks would be a blessing for a MechWarrior in the heat of battle. But Alexi knew even all these factors were not enough to tip the tide of battle in her favor.
There has to be another way. Her pursuers would come and come hard. The planetary militia was already under strength. Legate Singh was right; his troops were on the edge. With 55 percent casualties, the men and women were holding on by sheer force of will. Most units would have fallen apart with losses so high. They should have fallen apart a while ago, but she did not allow that to happen. I didn’t have a choice.
She had done her part, leading from the front, talking to nearly every member of the command personally during the trek up. She prodded, slapped backs, yelled, complimented and did everything else she could think of to motivate them to keep going. Now a handful of them were taking a much-deserved swim and bath in the lake. Alexi closed her eyes in weary restraint. She wanted to yell at them, tell them to work on defenses. A gentle mountain breeze ruffled her hair, and she caught her own scent; earthy, sweaty, the stench of battle.
How to turn the tide? The dense forest seemed to offer the most possibilities. Burn it? Much of it was green wood, and the rains in the last few weeks made a successful fire improbable. She looked along the cleared area of the lakeshore and the formidable wall of trees. Down along Higgins Lake, nearly three kilometers back, she knew that Highway Seven ran parallel to the lakeshore—separated by the forest. Any attacking force would have to come up the highway.
Continuing her survey, she turned and saw a technician stringing a diesel refueling hose to the Militia’s ForestryMech. The small IndustrialMech was burned almost top to bottom from its battle with the Spirit Cats. The militia troops had begun to call it “Hot Dog,” in reference to its blackened paint. It carried a heavy claw for a left arm and a massive chainsaw tipped with industrial-diamond cutting teeth for a right arm. Even massive, first-generation-growth trees would fall easily to a fast swipe with those dangerous cutting blades. Alexi had seen what the blade could do to ’Mechs and vehicles, and the results were not pretty.
Thoughts of Hot Dog and the woods suddenly clicked. There was only one road up here, one way in or out. What if we make our own road? Using the ForestryMech and perhaps the modified MiningMech, they could move along Higgins Lake and make their own shortcut back through the forest to Highway Seven. If they made their cut far enough back from the road, they could remain hidden and punch through the last few meters as an enemy approached the camp, hitting them either in the flank or the rear. With a small force left at the camp, she would set nearly the same trap she had used successfully on the Spirit Cats.
For the first time in several days, Alexi Holt felt a ripple of hope. She would be able to rotate the troops between rest, repairs and cutting the road. Now we just need to identify the forces on our tail.
* * *
Tucker stared at the communications console inside the mobile HQ, his eyes running down long columns of numbers. His sister came in, her hair still wet. Since their arrival at Crater Lakes a few hours earlier, the one luxury that everyone, including Tucker, had enjoyed, was a long overdue bath.
“So,” she said, combing her hair with her fingers to help dry it, “you’re the armchair general in the family. What do you think of the defense the Knight is planning?”
Tucker snorted. It struck him as funny that she considered him the armchair general since, from what he had seen, she seemed to have a solid grasp of military operations herself. “Seems good. I ran some long- and short-range topographical scans and found the optimal path for the new road, given the range of the weapons, the curve of the highway, the position of the camp and the cutting rate of the ForestryMech.” He rattled off the parameters as easily as if they were the guidelines for a systems check he had performed a
hundred times. Hard to believe that just a few weeks ago, I thought my work on the HPG core was a big problem. Now I’m practically a veteran.
She chuckled, and that annoyed him. “What’s so funny?”
“You. Grandpa would be proud. Not only have you redeemed ComStar’s reputation, but you’ve become quite the military man.”
“Me? It seems like you’re the one with unexplained military knowledge,” he retorted.
Patricia ignored his comment, instead pointing to his display and asking, “What are you looking at?”
Tucker shrugged. “This? This is a riddle. I picked up a relay signal from the transmission system. It was pretty well buried, but the security routine I wrote picked it up.”
“Where was it sent?” she asked, taking the seat next to him to get a better view of the numbers.
“Up.”
“Satellite uplink?”
“That’s right. From what I know, there are no planetary-defense satellites in-system. If there were, we’d be getting signals from them. That means it’s a commercial satellite. Well, I checked all of the known commercial satellites, and found nothing in the flight path of this bird. But laser signals confirm that it’s up there.”
As he spoke, Patricia’s face slowly became rigid, as if every muscle on her face had tightened. “Have you been able to replay the message?”
“It’s encrypted,” he said.
“You’re the genius,” she replied.
He smiled. “Needless to say, I’m working on it. While the battle computer runs the algorithms, I’ve been trying to figure out why anyone would send a covert message to a satellite.”
She shook her head in response. “It’s not good news, that much is for sure.”
“What makes you say that?”
“If it was a legitimate transmission, the officer sending it simply would have come in here and used the equipment. This was bounced from a vehicle or ’Mech comm unit to us, and relayed up.” As if to emphasize her words, she tapped the screen over the numbers indicating the routing of the message.
Target of Opportunity Page 24