Quickly, he explained the situation to the trooper, who listened with a resigned expression and said, “I want a weekend pass when this is over.”
“I’ll think about it,” the sergeant said. “Right now, you need a place where you can see me and the ’Mech at the same time. The top of the Tyson and Varney water tower ought to do it.”
“Just the place if I want to get picked off by a sniper,” Hamish said.
“Don’t sweat it, Hamish,” another trooper said. “The Steel Wolves are all lousy shots.”
“I’m more worried about your lousy shooting than about theirs,” Hamish said, but he was picking up his kit as he spoke. “Give me a minute, and I’ll get you your fix on yon wee beastie.”
He loped off, and was soon climbing the access ladder to the top of the Tyson and Varney water tower. The sergeant fixed him with binoculars. Hamish raised his left hand, held up three fingers, then lowered it. He raised it again, with two showing.
“One round, thirty relative, range two hundred,” the sergeant said.
“Fire,” said Captain Fairbairn.
A trooper holding a round above the mortar let go, and turned away. The bomb slid down the tube, and launched with a thump and a thin cloud of blue smoke. It traveled slowly—a quick-eyed man could follow it in flight.
A crump sounded from the far side of the building.
“Wonderful things, mortars,” Captain Fairbairn commented. “Let you shoot over things, so you can’t be seen and they can’t shoot back.”
“Unless they’re tracking the trajectory on radar,” said the sergeant.
“We’ll worry about that later. Nothing we can do about it now.”
Hamish, on top of the water tower, pointed up, then raised two fingers. Then he pushed his thumb to the left and raised one finger.
“Add twenty, left one,” the sergeant said. Drop. Swish. Thud. Crump.
Hamish made a circle with his thumb and forefinger.
“Willie Pete. Two rounds.”
Drop, swish, thud. Drop, swish, thud.
Hamish pumped his fist up and down, then indicated down one, left three. The mortar fire, the burning hot, sticky white phosphorus, went out of the tube, down toward the industrial mod in the far street. The ’Mech was picking up speed, based on Hamish’s corrections.
Captain Fairbairn left the mortar section to their work and hastened over toward the car park. There was the Behemoth II, with a haze of smoke shielding it. He could hear the sound of the ’Mech now, the heavy pounding of its feet on the pavement. It was moving fast. It was blinded by the white phosphorus smoke. Between two buildings to the north, it burst out, some burning phosphorus still clinging to its housing. The mortar battery had scored at least one direct hit.
And the ’Mech went running to the west, missiles and machine guns both firing, more heat building up from the burst of speed. Then the flamethrowers concealed in the building beside it lit off, gouts of red flame laced with black rolling over the ’Mech’s housing. The ’Mech’s machine guns—too damaged, perhaps, to continue shooting—fell silent.
The ’Mech turned, its pilot seeking an open path away from the heat, and the last of the screening smoke drifted away from the decoy tank. The Mining ’Mech’s pilot spotted the juicy target—a chance to take out a heavy. The ’Mech pivoted from the hips, the big rock-cutter in its right arm roaring to life, and strode across the open car park in the direction of the decoy tank.
Precisely halfway across the car park, the ’Mech vanished. First it was moving, then the pavement heaved around it, and then after the flying chunks of concrete came to earth there was a crater, but no ’Mech anywhere in sight.
Captain Fairbairn glanced at his watch. Twenty-one minutes precisely.
“Never become predictable,” he said aloud, to no one in particular. Then he made his way back to his own headquarters to report.
39
Tara
Northwind
February 3134; local winter
Captain Tara Bishop and the Countess of Northwind stripped to shorts and T-shirts in the ’Mech hangar adjacent to the Armory. Even though the walls of the hangar gave shelter from the wind, the cold February air raised gooseflesh on Captain Bishop’s bare skin. She bore it stoically, knowing that the cockpit of her BattleMech would have her sweating soon enough.
Most of her gear she stowed in one of the full-size lockers in the hangar, as did the Countess, but she opted to bring her winter uniform greatcoat with her into the ’Mech’s cockpit, even though the bulky garment scarcely fit into the tiny onboard locker. If she had to dismount from her ’Mech at some point during the upcoming evolution, she would be grateful for an ankle-length coat of heavy wool to go between her overheated body and the winter chill.
Captain Bishop settled into her Pack Hunter—a jump-jet equipped hunter-killer, mounted with a particle projector cannon and extended range lasers. The Pack Hunter was fast-moving and hard-hitting, a good ’Mech for bringing down enemy units in the open field. The Countess of Northwind preferred her Hatchetman, a close-in heavy fighter, armed with an immense, brutal ax. No so fast as a Pack Hunter, but deadly once it closed with a foe. The two ’Mechs would complement each other well.
Captain Bishop put on her cooling vest and neurohelmet, and began taking the Pack Hunter through the security protocols and start-up sequence. Shortly after she had finished, and had brought the Pack Hunter’s fusion engines all the way to life, she heard the Countess’s voice over the ’Mech-to-’Mech circuit.
“Up and out on three. One, two, three.”
The two ’Mechs turned and walked out of the bay into the morning sunshine. Captain Bishop swung the ’Mech’s arms as she strode along, feeling the power in the metal-and-myomer limbs that were so familiar, from long practice, that they seemed like extensions of her own body. She always felt at her brightest and most alive when she was in the cockpit of a ’Mech, and the prospect of action gave her a not-unpleasant adrenaline buzz.
She keyed on the ’Mech-to-’Mech circuit. “Bishop to Campbell, radio check, over.”
“Read you loud and clear,” the Countess’s voice came in return. “How me, over?”
“I read you the same. Want to go out hunting, Countess?”
Captain Bishop wasn’t certain, but she thought that she heard the Countess of Northwind laugh. “That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard all day.”
Before they had gone more than a few miles, the location of the heaviest fighting became obvious. A pall of smoke hung over the northern end of the town. Bishop and the Countess increased their speed, moving from a steady forward tread to a heavier, fifty-kilometer-per-hour jog. BattleMechs were never inconspicuous, but at the faster pace, their approach would rattle windows and send a tremor through the ground.
“Let them know we’re coming,” the Countess said over the ’Mech-to-’Mech circuit. “No surprises that way. Sneaking up on a man who’s in the middle of a gunfight is a good way to get yourself shot.”
Bishop felt the beads of sweat begin to trickle down her forehead as the Pack Hunter’s cockpit warmed up. The sensor screens were all bright; the gauges read nominal; the weapons were fully charged and ready.
“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I want to kill something.”
“I want to see what’s going on for myself, first,” the Countess said. “I’m not a hundred percent sure that what our man was reporting as an attack isn’t really a retreat-in-force.”
“We can only hope,” Captain Bishop said.
They were closing in on the area of the fighting now. Their own troops were well dispersed, dug in, and ready. Kerensky’s Wolves would need luck as well as skill and masses of steel to break through, just as the Highlanders themselves would need luck to hold—luck, because compared to the Highland forces, the Wolves did have masses of steel. Not only that, but their reputation was ferocious.
Captain Bishop wished she could say the same about the Highlander forces currently holding th
e planet’s capital. They had some experienced troops, after last summer’s engagements in the Rockspires and on the plains above Tara, but—thanks to that same fighting—they didn’t have enough. Not with the Wolves howling for blood. That was why the Countess had worked with Paladin Crow to hire Farrell’s mercenaries in the first place, in order to take up the slack until recruitment and training could fill the empty spaces.
Another few moments, and they were through the line and into the thick of the fight. The Countess fired at a Condor tank with Steel Wolf markings, then jumped away from the return volley of short-range battlefield missiles that the Condor’s support troops launched back at her.
“Infantry’s getting uppity,” Captain Bishop observed.
“That’s because they can get in close,” the Countess said. “We’re in a built-up area. They can go above us, get below us, and move out of sight until they’re close enough to do real damage.”
“Sneaky bastards.”
“You won’t get any argument on that from me,” the Countess replied. “Have you spotted anyone yet besides our own people and the Wolves?”
“Negative. Command and control says: nothing from the mercs.”
“Right,” the Countess said. Her voice was taut. “Bishop, get over to the mercs’ encampment. Find Farrell, ask him where the hell he’s been. Get things moving. And if you happen to see a burned-out Blade’Mech along the way—”
“If I do, I’ll deal,” Bishop said.
She turned her ’Mech and started it loping away. As she ran, behind her, the Countess’s Hatchetman swung its massive, depleted-uranium ax at a wall, breaking it into a hundred pieces and showering the rubble down onto the invading infantry below.
Then the Hatchetman jumped, and Captain Bishop couldn’t see it any more.
40
Fort Barrett
Oilfields Coast
Kearney
Northwind
February 3134; dry season
“Will, Jock, Lexa,” Master Sergeant Murray said. “Sit down, then.”
Will and his two friends had not been back at Fort Barrett more than half an hour before they found themselves summoned to Murray’s office—a cubby off the squad bay. Even inside that enclosed and windowless space, they could hear and feel the air around them vibrating at a steady low rumble as aircraft after aircraft took off from the base’s landing field, bearing troops to New Lanark and the relief of Tara.
Will glanced over at Jock and Lexa. His conscience was fairly clear—there hadn’t been much chance for trouble, going south along the coast and back, and he hoped that theirs were too. His stripes were still too fresh to rip them off now. But an invitation to sit was a good sign.
“What’s up?” Jock began, but Murray had his back turned and was pulling a bottle of whiskey from a desk drawer, along with four battered china teacups.
“I know the three of you are friends,” Murray said, pouring liberal doses of amber fluid into each of the cups. “Fought together, came up through the ranks together.”
“Aye,” Jock said, “that’s true,” and Will and Lexa nodded.
The three of them accepted the filled teacups, and Will sipped at his carefully. It was good liquor—strong and peaty, and meant for thoughtful drinking. If a man wanted merely to get drunk, he spent his money on cheaper stuff.
“And I hear that you’re familiar with the Rockspires,” Murray said, looking directly at Will.
“There’s some that say I am,” Will agreed.
“The captain has something special, and I can’t think of anyone who’d be better,” Murray said. “You can always say no, of course, but if you’re the soldiers that I think you are—then you’ll be platoon sergeants, and that’s an honor for ones so young as you.”
Will was getting a bad feeling. A smiling, friendly sergeant, serving drinks and offering an opportunity for advancement . . . he kept silent and waited for the hook at the end of the fishing line.
“Well, then,” Murray went on, “knowing the Rockspires as you do, and knowing that the Countess has her castle there, I’m sure you’ll be honored as well to be the ones to hold it until she comes to set it up for a new headquarters.”
“Things are that bad, back in Tara?” Lexa asked.
Murray nodded. “So I think.”
Will hesitated a moment, to hear if Jock or Lexa had anything more to say, but when he looked over in their direction, he saw that they were watching him already, as if waiting for him to speak. He realized that he’d been elected group spokesman without being informed of the vote.
“If that’s how it is,” he said, “then we’re in. For Northwind. And the Countess.”
Murray gave a satisfied nod. “You’ll have a company, and the captain himself will be with you. Your aircraft leaves in half an hour. And leave your kit behind, all but what you can carry in a fight. You won’t need it.”
“Good thing I never wasted my paycheck on a pair of those open-toed pumps,” said Lexa. “Who knew that I’d be in the army for the rest of my life?”
She slugged back the whiskey and set the empty teacup down on Murray’s desk. A second later, Will and Jock did the same. As they left the office, Will noticed that Murray hadn’t touched his own drink.
41
Jack Farrell’s Mercenary Encampment
The Plains Outside Tara
Northwind
February 3134; local winter
Captain Bishop knew the way to One-Eyed Jack Farrell’s headquarters, off to the west of the city. The Pack Hunter was fast and it was not long before she found herself approaching a roadblock on the city’s west side, with a Scimitar MKII locked onto her and tracking.
“I’d like to talk with Captain Farrell,” she said over the ’Mech’s external speakers.
“He’s up the road a ways,” the trooper at the roadblock replied. “You want to leave your ’Mech here?”
“I don’t think so.”
The troops had a whispered conversation. One of them picked up a field phone and called away on it. After a while he got a response.
“Boss says to come on through,” he said. “Up the road, Jack’ll see you.”
Bishop took the Pack Hunter up the road until she found Jack Farrell sitting at a table by the roadside, his massive Jupiter’Mech towering empty beside him.
“Come on down,” Farrell said. He had a deck of cards in front of him, and was dealing himself a hand of solitaire. Except for his clothing—winter-cammo field gear and a marksman’s fingerless gloves—he looked much as he had when she first met him, playing poker aboard the DropShip Pegasus.
Bishop hesitated a moment. Then she gave in and retrieved her winter greatcoat from the cockpit locker. Shrugging the coat on over her shoulders, she popped open the ’Mech’s hatch and climbed down.
“Take a load off,” Jack said, gesturing to the seat in front of him. He scooped up the cards, shuffling them idly without looking at them. “What can I do for you?”
Bishop remained standing. “I’m looking for a bit of information,” she said. “Has anyone seen Paladin Crow?”
“Yep.” Jack shuffled the cards, cut them, then shuffled again.
“Well, we’re waiting,” Bishop snapped. “There’s an attack going on right now. You’re supposed to be doing an envelopment past the right flank.”
“Beg to differ,” Jack said. “We talked with Crow, all right, and we’ve got a contract.”
Bishop began to feel a sinking sensation in her stomach. “What exactly does the contract say?”
“Well, parts of it are private.”
“I believe it’s our business as well . . . but never mind. Mostly I’m concerned about the fact that you’re ignoring orders from the Paladin. You’re supposed to be leading an attack, not sitting under a tree playing with yourself.”
Jack chuckled. “But we are fulfilling our contract. Our orders are to sit here, although trees aren’t specifically mentioned.”
The uneasy sensation in Bishop’
s stomach turned without warning into a sickening drop, as though the ground she stood on had fallen away, leaving only the gaping pit beneath. This was worse than mercenaries acting . . . well, like mercenaries. This was—“The Paladin ordered that?”
“Yep.”
She kept her face unmoved and her voice down in its normal register, even though the effort it took was hard enough to hurt. “I’d like to talk with him.”
“Can’t do that, either,” Jack informed her. “He went through the lines up to the DropPort this morning. DropShip took off half an hour, forty-five minutes later. He’s gone. Leaving us to honor our contract.”
“I can check on that, you know,” Captain Bishop said.
“I know.”
“And what, specifically, is your relationship to the Highlanders supposed to be?”
“Specifically,” Jack said, “we’re supposed to make sure you don’t retreat out of the city to the west. We’re to hold you while the Wolves hammer you. Nothing personal, I promise.”
“The Paladin is gone,” Captain Bishop said. Has deserted us, she wanted to say; has turned traitor and handed us over to our enemies—but there was no point in speaking of treason to mercenaries. “Let’s work out a new deal.”
Jack shook his head. “He’s gone, but the contract’s still in force. How would it look if we started ignoring contracts? We’d never get hired by anyone again. Tell you what, though, you’re a good kid. You’ve got a spark to you. And you have a ’Mech. How’d you like to join up with us? Nothing wrong with being on the winning side. Good pay and good chow, too.”
“I’m honored,” Bishop said, letting the tone of her voice explain that she was actually nothing of the kind. “But I don’t think I’ll take your offer. How about we cut for it? You get the high card, you stay here. I get the high card, you come with me.”
“I don’t think much of that,” Jack said. “It’s one thing in a friendly game. It’s another thing when a contract’s on the line. But like I said, I like you. Get back in your ’Mech, and you have safe passage back to your own lines.”
Truth and Shadows Page 16
