by Andrew Keith
"My name is MacDonald," the man on the screen began. His accent and dress put him down as a local, probably working class. He looked vaguely familiar, but Clay couldn't remember where he might have seen the man before.
The caller was also breathless, but his words tumbled quickly from his lips as he spoke. "I'm calling from Dunkeld on behalf of Cadet Caitlin DeVries. Are you Cadet Clay? Your commtechs said they'd put me through ..."
"Wow, easy, there," Clay said with a smile. "I'm Clay. What's all this about? Is Caitlin too good to talk with us ordinary cadets now that she's got herself an aide's slot? Never thought she'd start using secretaries to send messages to her buddies."
"Please, Cadet. This is urgent. She said to tell you it came straight from the Centurion's mouth. This is the message she asked me to give you. Major de Villar's cooperation with her father was not given willingly. His wife's being used as a hostage ..."
Clay listened to the words with a growing sense of horror. He could hardly believe any of it, but who except Caitlin or someone else from Brander could know the type of 'Mech she piloted? "There's no time to waste," the man concluded, his voice taut and urgent. "Young Miss DeVries was . . . was detained. By her faither's men. Planetary Guards ..."
Clay looked up as King came into the office. "Sir, I think you'd better hear this," he said. "MacDonald, please repeat your message for Major King ..."
For an instant he tried to convince himself that it was all some kind of mistake, a cadet prank, maybe. But no cadet in the Gray Death would pull a prank like this, not even Clay himself. Deep in his gut he knew that the message was true, bitter truth that it was.
And he knew just what it was going to mean for the Gray Death Legion . . .
21
Dunkeld, Glengarry
Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
4 April 3056
Alex Carlyle stirred restlessly in the narrow cot and tried to force himself to relax, but the effort was useless. Two days of enforced inactivity had left him nervous and moody, and that took a toll on his sleep. Dawn would come soon, the second sunrise since Governor DeVries had ordered the Gray Death's leadership confined in the Castle Hill military detention center, but Alex doubted he'd been able to get more than an hour or two of fitful rest through all of Glengarry's long night.
He finally gave up the uneven struggle and swung his feet onto the cold floor. The cell was barely large enough for the cot, a washstand, and a toilet screened off from the bed but not from the corridor outside. Most of the officers taken during the governor's carefully staged coup had been locked up in these old cells, which normally served as a temporary holding area for military detainees. No one had seen McCall or de Villar since they'd been rounded up, and married officers were apparently being held somewhere else. Alex wondered briefly, as he had many times already, where Caitlin DeVries might be. Had she betrayed the Legion, like her father? The thought would never have occurred to him just a few days before, but now anything seemed possible.
Alex rose and walked over to the narrow reinforced trans-plast window that overlooked the Castle Hill parade ground. It was hard to picture the Day of Heroes ceremony taking place out there, harder still to accept that it had happened just three days back. So much had changed . . .
And so much more would change in the next few days. The Free Skye armada would be in orbit in another day or two at the latest, and then it would all be over. From overhearing the guards talk, Alex gathered that most of the Legion's junior officers and the rank and file were still free, but those troops weren't likely to act on their own, especially after hearing Major de Villar's broadcast. Most of them probably thought the command staff was still hard at work, never imagining them locked up out of harm's way.
That meant the Free Skye force would be able to move in virtually unopposed, with the Planetary Guard ready to guarantee a peaceful transmission of power from the Gray Death to von Bulow's armada. Staring out into the predawn darkness, Alex wondered how his father would take the news that the Gray Death had been forced to surrender without offering even token resistance. It was a sad fall from the glory days they'd celebrated on the Day of Heroes.
A sudden flash off to the southwest caught his attention. For a moment he thought it might be lightning, a storm moving across the plains of Atholl out of Braemoray. Then he saw another, brighter flash. It was much closer this time, and Alex could hear the rippling sounds of explosions even through the transplast.
Explosions . . .
* * *
Gomez Cristobal de Villar heard the far-off but unmistakable crump of an explosion through the window, and jumped to his feet in one smooth motion. He checked his instinctive desire to throw open one of the windows and peer out into the darkness. The windows in the third-story suite in the Residence where he and Freya had been detained were only open a few centimeters, enough to admit fresh air, but any attempt to tamper with them would set off a half-dozen alarms and bring every Planetary Guardsman on the floor running to the room.
Freya sat up in the bed. "What's going on?" she asked, sounding fully alert. They were both veterans of all too many nights in the held, and the undeniable sounds of combat were enough to instantly wrest them from the arms of sleep.
"Heavy weapons fire," he said, cocking his head slightly to listen. Now he could hear another sound, faint and muffled but distinct to the trained ear. A rhythmic thumping . . . "Mechs, too."
"The Free Skye troops?" Freya's features creased in a frown. She got out of bed and went to the closet, pulling out fatigue coveralls for herself and tossing another pair across the room for de Villar to catch. "They shouldn't have made orbit yet."
"Yeah," de Villar said, starting to pull the garment over his legs. Somewhere, a siren was wailing its high-pitched warning, and he thought he heard the sound of booted feet running down the corridor as the Residence troops responded to the alert. "Unless they sent some fast transports on ahead. The reports didn't mention any sign of that before . . . before that bastard DeVries . . ."He trailed off. Frustration and guilt were waging a pitched battle inside him, and no words could express what he was feeling.
A fine leader he had turned out to be. In all his years with the Legion, de Villar had wanted nothing more than the chance to show what he could do as a commander. Despite his reputation for wildness back in the old days he'd always viewed himself as a man with leadership potential. Lori Kalmar had proven herself a capable exec, but lacked the drive to be a real leader in her own right. McCall was too fiercely independent and unpredictable, and Hassan Khaled was always a shade too bloodthirsty for his own good. So de Villar had worked hard, hoping for the chance to rise to the top, and finally, in the wake of the Clan Wars, he'd achieved his long-time ambition.
And now . . . now he'd thrown everything away.
"Take it easy, Cris," Freya said softly. She knew what he was going through, but she hadn't passed judgment on him. He'd done that for himself . . .
He could still see the guards holding a needier to her throat, forcing him to cooperate in the governor's broadcast. De Villar hated what he'd had to do that day, but in all honesty he knew nothing would change even if he had it to do it all over again. The Legion had been like a family for more years than he cared to remember, but Freya . . . Freya was his wife. The mother of their children. She wasn't just family, she was a part of him. He would never willingly let her come to harm.
"Could those be Legion 'Mechs?" she asked suddenly. "They surely didn't take out everyone, did they?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. With the whole damned staff locked up, I don't know who could have put together any kind of coherent resistance. DeVries claimed he had all the company commanders, and McCall ..." de Villar sat heavily on the bed, frustration turning to a feeling of helpless rage. "Hell, I don't know. I can't take being in the dark! If only I could get out there and do something!"
Freya touched his shoulder fleetingly, a simple, reassuring caress. "Let it go, Cris," she said softly. "You've got to l
et it go . . ."
* * *
Dave Clay smiled and pulled back on his Griffin's left-hand joystick control. He could feel, through the feedback from his neurohelmet, the subtle shift in balance as the 'Mech's left battle fist responded, drawing back with a faint whine of servoactuators.
Clay rammed the stick forward, felt the BattleMecb follow the motion, its fist slamming into the high perimeter wall that marked the outermost defensive line of Castle Hill. The wall had been built as much for aesthetic reasons as for defense, and was no match for the force of a BattleMech. Masonry shattered, and a broad section of wall simply collapsed under the massive blow.
He used the massive hand to widen the gap, then kicked at the stray piles of rubble lower down. In less than a minute the breach was complete, wide enough for a 'Mech or a pair of vehicles to pass through easily. The Griffin stepped ponderously through the gap.
"Ghost Two," he said. "I'm in."
"Understood," Major Alard King's voice responded crisply. "Proceed according to plan."
As the Griffin started up the steep slopes on the north side of Castle Hill, Clay felt it almost a relief to be in action at last. Ever since receiving Caitlin's message from Ian MacDonald, Brander's cadets and technicians had been working overtime. Even with that, they'd only had enough time to load five of the cadet 'Mechs aboard an odd assortment of emelt cargo cars. All during the trip from Brander to the open country a few kilometers up the Earn River from Dunkeld, the techs had been swarming over the battle machines trying to finish propping and arming them. King had decided that was the best place to unload them. And despite all that work, the Shadow Hawk piloted by Cadet Gates had broken down even before the move to Dunkeld was properly under way.
That had been typical of the whole ill-prepared operation. The Brander contingent was forced to rely on improvisation for practically everything, from logistics to planning to the actual troops to carry out the mission. Most of the soldiers in the two hover carriers accompanying the 'Mechs were a long way from being combat veterans—a few guards plus some of the support staff equipped with extra weapons scraped up from the Brander arsenal. Even the CO, Major King, was more at home in a 'Mech repair bay than on a battlefield. And the 'Mech pilots, of course, were all cadets.
But that was the way it had to be. They'd discussed trying to bring in a few other outlying Legion garrisons, but the need for surprise and speed made that option too risky. So they would go in with what they had.
Four 'Mechs should have been enough to go through the Planetary Guard like air through a hull breach, even with the defenses on Castle Hill to bolster the defense. But Clay wasn't so sure how the 'Mechs would fare today. Four cadet pilots backed with amateur infantry, following a plan no real tacticians had ever looked at—It didn't bear thinking about.
Clay's sensors picked up more incoming missile fire from the southern side of the complex. Cadet Galleno was posted near the Earn in his fifty-five-ton Dervish, using the 'Mech's long-range fire support weaponry to maintain a ragged barrage. If all went well it would keep the defenders focusing on the southern end of Castle Hill for the critical minutes the other three 'Mechs and their improvised infantry backup needed to penetrate the northern part of the base and reach the Residence and the military compound near the crest. Not much further now . . .
In the dawn's half-light, Clay distinguished a clump of men running toward the Griffin. They were dressed in an assortment of combat battle dress and the kilts and tunics of the more usual Guardsman uniforms, and most carried autorifles. They could be safely discounted.
But one of them was humping a portable SRM launcher, and that, at least, was a threat.
Clay hesitated for a moment. No one in the Brander contingent had been happy about the prospect of fighting the Guardsmen. It wasn't as if these were genuine enemies, like Kurita regulars or the Free Skye separatists. They were just local militia obeying the orders, illegal though they might be, of the duly constituted planetary government. Dave Clay didn't want to kill any of those men, but they stood between him and his objective.
In the time it took him to consider that thought, the Guardsman had his SRM unlimbered. Before Clay could react a rocket streaked from the tube.
As the warhead struck the Griffin square in the chest, the 'Mech staggered backward, but Clay caught himself and kept his balance. The Guardsmen seemed surprised at the outcome of the attack. Except for some scars on the Griffin's chest armor, there was no damage. One of the soldiers threw down his longarm and ran, but the SRM gunner hastened to reload his launcher for another try. It was a pity that a brave man should die for no good reason.
Clay stopped the 'Mech in its tracks for a long moment, his mind racing. The Griffin was ill-suited for close-in combat, its arsenal limited to a plasma cannon and a battery of long-range missiles. It didn't mount any anti-infantry weapons, and Clay was reluctant to simply wade in with the machine's huge metal hands and feet. Maybe he'd have to do that to someone, someday, but he couldn't bring himself to crush these locals like so many insects.
Maybe that's why you're still a cadet, a voice in the back of his mind sneered. But Clay ignored it. There were some things he just wouldn't do.
He saw a possible solution and acted on it just as a second missile leapt from the muzzle of the launcher, trailing smoke and flame. Clay's fingers danced over his controls, cutting in the Griffin's jump jets for a quick leap into the air. The thrust pressed him deeper into his chair as the ungainly behemoth jumped straight over the SRM gunner's position.
The cadet had a brief view of upturned faces and running figures as the Planetary Guard troops dispersed. The sight of Clay's massive armored machine passing overhead would have been enough to panic even hardened combat veterans, not to mention the backwash those below must be feeling from the 'Mech's jets.
The Griffin landed smoothly, with Clay's neural link controlling the machine's balance almost instinctively as it touched down. His video displays showed no sign of the defenders anywhere nearby, except for one fleeting look at a man running straight into Major King's mounted infantry platoon as their hover carrier passed full speed through the gap Clay had made down below.
Clay scanned ahead, using light intensifiers to turn the dawn as bright as full daylight. The Griffin was just outside the inner fence that marked off the Castle Hill military compound. The Residence itself lay beyond. Figures were scurrying across the parade ground, but resistance here seemed no better organized than what he'd already encountered.
Maybe, just maybe, Major King's crazy plan was going to work after all . . .
22
Dunkeld, Glengarry
Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
4 April 3056
"I don't care what they look like, goddamn it!" Colonel Max Walthers shouted into the communicator. "You get your men to put up a fight even if you've got to personally shoot down the ones who run! You get me, Lieutenant? Or do you want me to demonstrate the technique—on you, maybe?"
Walthers cut off the channel without waiting for the Guard officer to reply. Damn it anyway, he thought bitterly. Looks like His High and Mightiness really botched this one up.
Walthers crossed the room to a window that overlooked the Castle Hill military compound. He didn't know what bureaucrat usually used this office in the Residence, but right now it was the closest thing to a command post he had. A pair of nervous-looking lieutenants and Corporal O'Leary, a scar-faced merc who'd been with him since his Kurita days, were all his staff so far, but even a dozen Kerenskys with a battle computer wouldn't have helped the odds much at this point. 'Mechs against local militia wasn't a fight, it was a slaughter, pure and simple.
It couldn't be the Free Skye force. They weren't due in orbit for another thirty-six hours. Besides, the planetary sensor net would have picked up any early arrivals and passed the word before the invaders could land. These had to be some of the Gray Death troops, probably from one of the outlying garrisons. Somehow they'd learned about the gov
ernor's hoax and had put together an operation despite the capture of their top leaders.'
DeVries had claimed that he'd neutralized the Legion, and refused Walthers' suggestion to use the hostages to force a complete disarmament. Now the bitter fruits of that decision were ripe.
There wasn't much the Guards couldn't do except try to buy some time. A few people could still get out, maybe stay out of the Legion's reach until the Free Skye fleet arrived. That was the only ticket Walthers could see now. General von Bulow probably wouldn't see much use in DeVries if the man couldn't deliver the planet, but an experienced mercenary officer with firsthand knowledge of how the Gray Death operated might get a warmer welcome.
So the overriding need now was to keep the attackers at bay long enough to organize an escape plan. There was a small VTOL transport reserved for the governor's use on the rooftop helipad, but it would take time to round up a pilot and get it ready to launch. Time the defenders just didn't have.
Walthers saw the flicker of small-arms fire in the compound, and grunted in frustration and impatience. He'd have to expend a few more pieces to pull off this gambit.
His fingers tapped a new call-code into the communicator. "This is Colonel Walthers at the Residence," he said. "How soon can you get some jets into the air?"
The reply came back quickly. "Already taking off, Colonel," the watch officer at the Dunkeld Aerospace Port said. "Who the hell are they, anyway?"
"Beats the hell out of me," Walthers lied. "We'll worry about it later. Just tell those pilots to get here and do something. You got me?"
"Yes, sir."
He cut the channel, unwilling to waste time in idle chatter. Conventional aircraft wouldn't be much better than Planetary Guard infantry against those 'Mechs, but they'd slow down the attack while they lasted.
