by Andrew Keith
"Aye, aye, sir," the pilot responded, grim-voiced. No questions, no protests, just simple obedience. It made Drake feel proud, proud of all his crew. They deserved a better fate than the one they would meet today.
Drake hesitated a long moment before speaking again. "I can take the helm myself . . . and I'd like a volunteer to ride herd on the engines. But the rest of you can abandon now and take your chances on a pickup.. Even if the bad guys grab you, POW is better than KIA any day of the week. And mercs usually get better treatment than house troops."
No one moved or said a word. Finally Linda Fowler spoke. "We all go together," she said, then after a pause, "... Captain."
"Another Lucifer coming up on our six!" the sensor technician broke in. "Missile launch! Missile launch!"
The captain of the Antelope gripped his chair arms and waited for the impact.
14
Deep Space
Glengarry System, Federated Commonwealth
1 April 3056
"I'm on him! I'm on him!" Free Skye Weltalleutnant Sean Ferguson let out a whoop and triggered a second salvo of missiles. The Gazelle Class DropShip was no match for a well-handled fighter, especially a Lucifer.
"Keep it chilly, Red Three," squadron leader Hobart admonished. "You'll live longer. Don't lose your head over small fry while we've still got the big boy to tackle."
Ferguson reined in his enthusiasm even as the first missile salvo rippled across the mercenary DropShip's tail section. His sensors gave him a satisfying BDA report: critical damage to engineering, another likely hull breach to go with the one Red Five had scored earlier, even some damage to the control surfaces on the tail assembly, which wouldn't matter until the ship tried to enter atmosphere. If she survived that long.
"Score five more hits for Red Three," he said, trying without much success to sound calm and matter-of-fact. This first taste of battle was exhilarating, and Ferguson felt more intense, more alive than he ever had before.
His last salvo had missed the enemy DropShip. She'd been varying her acceleration to throw off the Lucifers' targeting systems, but this time the sudden surge in velocity looked more like the uncontrolled fluctuation of the damaged drive system.
"Damn," he muttered aloud.
"Don't worry about it, Junior," Hobart said reassuringly. "That's combat. Now drop back and see what a vet can do."
Ferguson triggered his forward thrusters and watched the Gray Death DropShip start to pull away. An instant later Hobart's Lucifer, its red and gold wing markings distinctive, flashed above his cockpit, driving in to the high trailing position that had given Hobart his nickname. A position to the rear of the target—six o'clock, by the old analogy to the Terran standard clock—was valuable in any battle, but Hobart's favored "high-six" spot gave him an especially commanding view of his victim.
Unlike the rookies, Hobart didn't choose long-range missiles for his attack. His fighter's heaviest laser pulsed once . . . twice ... a third time, probing at the shattered stern of the DropShip. Secondary explosions ripped through the ruined hull plating. Ferguson's BDA panel lit up with a constellation of red and amber lights as his sensors took in the damage Hobart was inflicting.
"That did it!" Hobart said calmly. "That sucker's power plant is dead! Looks like he's down to batteries for life support, but that's about it."
"Red Squadron, Red Squadron, this is Merkur," the fighter controller's voice crackled over the commlink. "Thanks for the assist. Now that he's lost his power he won't be a threat. Break off the action and head for the primary target."
"Roger that, Merkur," Hobart's voice acknowledged. "You heard the man, Reds. Let's pull some gees!"
As Ferguson started feeding the new instructions into his navputer, he could see the squadron's mother ship maneuvering. The enemy ship had been trying to match course, presumably for a kamikaze maneuver. With its power plant shut down and engines useless, the Gray Death DropShip wouldn't be able to maneuver further, while the Merkur could change her delta-vee and dodge the cumbersome hulk. The enemy ship would simply drift on its present course until it was clear of the battle zone or until they decided to surrender and take a tow.
The Merkur was turning ponderously, its twin PPCs opening fire. A moment later Ferguson's sensors picked up a swarm of missiles streaking toward the crippled enemy DropShip. So much for escape or surrender, he thought. Obviously, Captain Jaeger wasn't taking any chances.
Sean Ferguson swallowed and reminded himself that this was, after all, a war. War to the knife, with the freedom of Skye at stake . . .
"Gray Skull, Gray Skull, this is Antelope ..." came the words over the Gray Skull's commline. A crash of static masked the weak signal for a moment. "That last salvo . . . did for us. Four dead . . . power's gone . . .I'm afraid . . . failed ..."
Captain Rodland leaned forward and stabbed his comm panel savagely. "Abandon ship, Drake! You can't do anything else now!"
"Too late, Captain," Ullestad said quietly. "He's taking fire from the Leopard now. There's no time to abandon—"
"God damn ..." Rodland's fists were clenched. Drake's Antelope had been outclassed from start to finish, and though he'd scored a few hits on his opposite number the damage had been insignificant. Drake had thrown away his life and his ship in an empty gesture.
"Gray Skull . . ."The signal was suddenly stronger, as if Drake had pumped his last battery reserves into the comm system. "Fifteen extra minutes . . . hope it was enough ..."
Then there was nothing but static.
In the silence, the sensor technician's voice was star-tlingly loud. "Multiple hits. The Antelope's taken her last jump, sir."
Rodland looked at Ullestad. "Prepare to execute jump, Lieutenant," he said quietly. "It's time we got the hell out of here."
"But what about the orders from Glengarry?" the exec protested. "They told us to stand by and await instructions. You know the signal's on its way by now."
"And while we wait, those bastards are still closing!" Rodland grated. "You think they're going to leave us alone? I'm not hanging around to find out! Order jump stations now, Mister!"
Ullestad started to reply, but the communications technician cut him off. "Incoming message from HQ, sir," he said. "Coded priority one."
"Sir, I've got additional targets now," the sensor tech chimed in a moment later. "Multiple targets under thrust. Looks like our friends out there are launching every DropShip they've got."
Rodland hesitated for a long moment. Every instinct cried out for him to clear out of the danger zone as soon as possible, to save the Gray Skull from the enemy threat. He would have been long gone already except for Drake and the Antelope.
But if he cut out now, Drake and his people would have died for nothing. The DropShip had bought precious time so that the Gray Skull could wait for instructions from the planet.
"Belay the jump order, Lieutenant," he growled at last. "Maintain readiness. Communications, record the transmission." He rubbed a hand across his forehead. The new orders might have instructions for the Io. He hit the intra-ship address stud. "Captain Martinez to the bridge. Repeating, Captain Martinez to the bridge."
15
Dunkeld, Glengarry
Federated Commonwealth
1 April 3056
"Eyes . . . right! Present . . . arms!"
Alex Carlyle drew himself to attention and touched one hand to his cap as the Gray Death Legion passed in review before the speakers' platform in the Castle Hill parade ground. The music, courtesy of a planetary militia band, was a raucous noise of pipes and drums that produced no tune he could recognize. Bagpipe music had never been to his taste, especially after the time Davis McCall had blasted a recording of some pipe band over the training company commline to test how well the cadets could handle distractions while piloting their 'Mechs.
The thought of McCall made Alex wonder again where the Weapons Master and Major de Villar had disappeared to, and why. Only a major crisis could have taken either man away from the Day of
Heroes celebration. Nearly an hour had passed. What was going on?
As if in response to those questions, Weapons Master Davis McCall appeared at his elbow, holding a hand salute as the troops paraded by. When the last of the ranks had passed and the officers on the reviewing stand could drop their salutes, McCall drew Alex to the rear of the platform and spoke in low, urgent tones almost drowned out by the pipes still wailing on the field.
"We hae a problem, lad," McCall said without preamble. As usual in tense situations, the broad Scots accent was much less noticeable than in the major's ordinary conversation. "An unknown fleet jumped insystem about an hour ago. It could be nothing at a' ... or it could be an invasion. We winna know for anither hour or sae."
"A fleet ..." Alex swallowed. With his father on Tharkad and half the Legion away on Borghese, Glengarry was vulnerable. "What do you think it is? A raid?"
"Dinna make assumptions until the data is in," the Caledonian advised sternly. "We're monitoring the situation from Command. But 'tis nae point alarming anyone until we ken more."
"I understand, sir," Alex said, nodding. "Is there something I can do to help?"
McCall nodded grimly. "Aye, there is. Pass the word tae Tech Major King. As soon as the ceremony is aye over, Major de Villar wants a' forces tae return tae their posts and gae on full alert. Major King tae tak command at Brander meantime, sae I can remain here."
"Full alert, sir?" Alex asked quietly. "What about the cadets?"
"Aye. Cadet 'Mechs tae be serviced and fully armed. If thir turns oot tae be an attack, we'll be aye wanting every 'Mech we can put in the field." McCall paused. "Full instructions will be posted in the bulletin board, but "you tell Major King what's happening. Quietly. We dinna want tae start a panic if this turns oot a false alarm."
"Yes, sir," Alex acknowledged. "But . . ."
"Spit it oot, laddie," the weapons master prompted him impatiently.
"Sorry, sir. I just . . . wondered why you didn't brief him yourself."
"There's been comment enough over de Villar and me leaving. I winna interrupt the ceremony further tae talk to Major King direct. And by the time 'tis over, I'll be needed doon below again. And anyway, young Alex, passing orders and messages is one of the principal duties of an aide-de-camp, is it not?"
It took a moment for the words to sink in. "Your aide? You mean. . . ?"
"Aye. 'Tis time you learned the ither side of command, and where better?" McCall fixed him with a black frown. "Even if a' this is for naught, 'twill be good experience for you. When the rest of the cadets gae back tae Brander, I want you tae remain here. Report to the Command Center after you hae spoken tae Major King."
"Yes, sir," Alex said. "Thank you."
But McCall was already striding away, leaving Alex to contemplate the man's words with mixed emotions. On one hand, the prospect of an invasion fleet somewhere out in deep space confirmed Alex's worst fears. But if battle did come, at least he wouldn't be in a 'Mech cockpit. Alex wasn't sure he could face a real battle yet, not with his training failures weighing so heavily on his mind. As McCall's aide, he wasn't likely to end up facing any life and death decisions—and that suited Alexander Durant Carlyle just fine.
* * *
Use Martinez pushed her way through the hatch onto the bridge of the Gray Skull, anxious to find out what was happening. She had monitored the Antelope's signals from the Io's bridge, listening in horror to Drake's last words. The Antelope's sacrifice probably affected her more deeply than anyone else aboard the Gray Death JumpShip. It was on her advice that Grayson Carlyle had offered young Drake a place with the Legion after the Sudeten evacuation. She'd seen talent there, and considerable courage with it.
Now Drake had proven how much he had of both, paying the ultimate price to do so.
Another name for the rolls on the Day of Heroes, she thought grimly. Martinez had been with Grayson Death Carlyle for thirty years now, ever since the unit's first days. Few would have guessed it, though, for she didn't look her age. Space crews who spent a lot of time in zero-G didn't show the years the way their ground-bound comrades did, and Martinez could have passed for a woman of forty standard years.
But she was past sixty, and today she was feeling every one of those years, and more.
Rodland looked up as Martinez drifted to his side. "They're finally transmitting orders," he said without preamble. "So maybe now we can get the hell out of here."
"I'm glad you stayed," she said gruffly, hardly bothering to conceal her feelings. Martinez didn't like Rodland, didn't like the stories she'd heard about how he'd deserted his friends and the service of Rasalhague when the fight with the Clans got too hot for him.
But at least he'd stayed this time. Drake's sacrifice hadn't been in vain.
Rodland gestured to his commtech. "Start the playback, " he ordered.
The monitor at the command position swirled for a moment, then settled down to reveal the face of Major Cristobal de Villar.
"Gray Skull, this is Headquarters," he began immediately. "Your transmission has been received."
Then he paused, as if glancing at some notes out of range of the video pickup. "At the time of your first call, you reported seven JumpShips arriving in the system. According to the current CAT feed data, this hasn't changed as of the transmission time, but I have no way of knowing your situation by the time you receive this. Without additional data my orders cannot be very specific, but I'll try to cover the major contingencies."
"Bloody decent of him," Rodland growled.
"Quiet," Martinez snapped. Rodland might be in command of the ship, but thirty years with the Gray Death Legion gave her the right to speak her mind. Not that she had ever been particularly reluctant to do that, even in the early days.
"Whatever they do, we need more information," de Villar was saying. "If you haven't done so already, concentrate every possible effort on gathering full particulars on those ships. Get us everything you can think of, but especially try for an idee. That goes no matter what else happens." De Villar paused again. "If they don't take any aggressive action, I want you to stay put and monitor the situation as long as possible. Maybe they're just passing through. If all they do is roll out their sails for a recharge, we can be fairly confident they're not interested in us. But I want their activities monitored until they leave, or until we get some kind of proof they aren't hostile. You may want to send in the Antelope to get a closer look, but don't provoke anything."
"Yeah. Right." Rodland shook his head slowly. "Fat chance of that now, Major."
"If they launch DropShips, especially in any kind of numbers, everything changes. That will mean they're almost certainly hostile, and that we're the target. In that event, Captain, get as much data as possible, transmit it to us, but under no circumstances allow your ship to be endangered."
"Amen to that," Rodland commented, drawing another glare from Martinez.
"Remember," de Villar continued, "your ship is the only link we have with the rest of the Inner Sphere. We don't have a working HPG, so we can't call for help. We have to assume an enemy would have scouted us out well enough to know that. And that means you're at risk. They'll want to capture you, maybe even destroy you, to keep word of an attack from spreading. So, if those ships are hostile, it's vitally important that you jump out before they have a chance to hit you. Once you're clear, your orders are to make for the Class A hyperpulse station on New Earth. Send a complete message in code to Colonel Carlyle on Tharkad.
"We don't know who's behind this attack—unless you've found out more by now. But the colonel knows enough about the political situation to decide whether he wants to call in any FedCom authorities. You'll be running a bit of the risk on New Earth, of course, but it's a chance you'll have to take. Last we heard here, Davion had taken over the HPG station and has it back in full service. Odds are it's safe."
Rodland hit the button to pause the playback. "There are working communications stations closer than New Earth," he said, sounding irri
tated. "We could cut a lot of time by sending the messages out of Skye."
Martinez shook her head. "We do it his way," she said. "Don't forget, the Duke of Skye isn't exactly a bastion of support in the Federated Commonwealth cause. Until we know Who we're up against, we have to take the least possible number or risks. Hell, Skye rebelled back in thirty-four. They could be doing it again."
"Better hope not," he said, noticeably pale. "We're programmed to jump to Skye, and there's no time to calculate another destination now."
"Then we forget the safety margins and make a second jump out of Skye without waiting for a full recharge," she told him. "I won't be happy until we're well clear of this part of space."
"When you've finished at New Earth," the message from de Villar went on, "I want you to proceed to Borghese. Major Khaled should still be based there. Get word to him about what's happening here, and then follow whatever orders he gives you."
The rest of the message was more elaboration on the basic instructions. When it was finished, Rodland shut down the comm panel and turned to Martinez again.
"Looks like we've got our marching orders," he said.
She nodded unhappily. "I don't like leaving them like this. You don't need me to deliver your message. Maybe I should take the lo back to Glengarry and see if I can help out there."
"Bad idea, Captain," Rodland said. "Pointless."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.
"Well, first off, your ship may be patched up enough for routine flight ops, but you know that bucket of bolts will never make it through any opposition."
She nodded reluctantly. The Io was in serious need of an extensive overhaul since the Altair raid. Martinez had improvised some temporary measures to keep her ship flying. But in action against aerospace fighters, the Io's makeshift repairs would be a poor substitute at best for the refit the ship needed so badly. Even if the DropShip could run the gauntlet and make it to Glengarry, she wouldn't be much use once she got there. "Yeah, you're right. But I don't like it."
