by Andrew Keith
Now to take advantage of the delay.
"O'Leary," he said, turning on the corporal. "I've got a job for you ..."
* * *
"Ghost Two, in position," Clay announced, studying his tactical display. The other two BattleMechs in the attack force were moving up to join him, and the two hover carriers had negotiated the difficult ground between the perimeter wall and the winding road that led to the Residence.
"Strike One, ready and waiting," Cadet Cristiano de Villar replied promptly. Better known to his fellow cadets as "Headshot" for his uncanny 'Mech-to-'Mech marksmanship, he was the third son of First Battalion's CO, and his sixty-ton Rifleman was the biggest 'Mech in the scratch unit. The younger de Villar was acting lance commander of the cadet company's fire lance, and under other circumstances might have been inclined to take charge of the whole op. But Clay was older, and his cadet commission predated de Villar's. That had been the deciding factor in Major King's placing Clay in command. He hoped the Rifleman pilot would accept the decision and follow his orders. Though calm and rational in battle situations, de Villar also tended to denigrate his fellow cadets, and he chafed under the restraints put on him by leaders he disagreed with.
"Strike Four," Cadet Farquhar added a moment later. "On station. When do we do it?" James Edward Farquhar piloted a Phoenix Hawk in de Villar's cadet lance. Like his commander he was excitable and eager for action.
He was also the son of the Thane of Moray, a local, and Clay had been concerned about letting him take part in this battle. But King had overruled his concerns, pointing out that Moray was one of the most ambitious of the landowners on the Council, and hence one of the governor's most constant opponents.
"Tinker to all units," came Major King's voice, sounding tense. "Commence Phase Three."
Clay reached out with the Griffin's huge left hand and gripped the fence, pulling the nearest pole free from the ground. The steelloy mesh tore like so much paper, leaving a wide, ragged gap. He tossed the piece into the parade ground, scattering a handful of Guardsmen there, then pushed through the opening. Checking his side camera displays he saw that the other two 'Mechs were also moving into the compound. Machine gun fire hammered from Farquhar's Phoenix Hawk, and there was a flash of laser light as the Rifleman opened up on an autocannon emplacement near the northeast corner of the base.
"Targets! Targets incoming!" That was Cadet Galleno, from his Dervish on the city side of Casde Hill. "Three, no, five targets, airborne, coordinates Delta-Six, closing ..."
Clay checked his map again and saw the blips Galleno was reporting. They were heading in from the aerospace port at high speed, and would be arriving in the fight in a matter of seconds.
For an instant Clay felt a flash of fear. Aerospace fighters were a Mech Warrior's worst nightmare, the only weapon other than another 'Mech that could crack one of the huge combat machines. It had been a flight of Clan Omnifighters that had delivered the coup de grace to his father in the final battle on Sudeten.
Clay swallowed and forced the thought from his mind. The only aerospace fighters currently on Glengarry belonged to the Gray Death, and even if the Guardsmen had confiscated them there was no way an untrained pilot could handle one. These had to be conventional jet fighters from the air arm of the Planetary Guard. They would be more dangerous than anything the attackers had met so far, but still a comparatively minor threat to BattleMechs.
"Strike One, this is Ghost Two," he said, trying to sound confident. "Keep those fighters off our backs, Headshot."
"I'm on 'em," Cadet de Villar replied. The Rifleman's combination of lasers and autocannons, along with a sophisticated target-acquisition system, made it a favorite air defense platform, and the fire lance had spent long hours practicing just this kind of situation. De Villar's 'Mech drew back a few paces while Clay and Farquhar continued across the compound.
A moment later the jets were screaming overhead, breaking from a tight diamond formation to commence their first attack run. Laser and gunfire flashed from the left of Clay's 'Mech as de Villar opened up, and the lead jet burst into flames just as it released a missile. The warhead smashed into a blockhouse half a kilometer away from the fighting, but another fighter got off a whole flight of SRMs in Farquhar's direction. They impacted all around the Phoenix Hawk, and the young pilot reported a pair of hits on his rear torso. That was dangerous. The 'Mech's rear armor was comparatively weak, and a few more such hits would burn through to the critical internal systems mounted in the machine's chest.
Farquhar didn't seem much worried, however. "I've reached the detention center," he reported, sounding excited. That was the main objective for this phase of the attack, based on the best intelligence estimates they'd been able to make on the location of the Gray Death's captured leaders. Their contact in the Residence, old Ian MacDonald, had managed to get in touch only once after his initial call. He hadn't been able to learn much, but his wife had overheard some Guardsmen discussing the prisoners in the military cell block.
"Right," Clay said over the taccom. "I'll cover you. But watch for those fighters."
He glanced nervously at his tactical display. De Villar was still firing, but except for that first hit he hadn't done much damage. At least those pilots were circling away from the battleground, unwilling to risk the deadly hail of fire rising from the Rifleman.
* * *
A heavy machine gun rattled, loud enough for Alex Carlyle to hear it even through the sealed window of his cell. He craned his neck, but except for the distant light of a fire somewhere near the perimeter wall of the detention center he could see no sign of fighting. The missile barrage from the south must have been a diversion, he thought, with the real attack coming from the north. The battle had already drawn all the sentries out of the detention center, leaving the officers of the Legion alone and unwatched. But they were still locked in, forced to follow the fighting outside mostly by sounds and inferences.
"Good God!" someone shouted from across the corridor. Alex thought it was Captain Guilaume Dumont, CO of one of Major de Villar's two 'Mech companies. "They're fighting a full-fledged battle out there."
"Who's doing the attacking?" Vargas demanded from another cell.
"I can see two 'Mechs," Dumont said. "A Phoenix Hawk and a Griffin. The Griffin's wearing a Companions insignia!"
"But no one in the Companions pilots a Griffin!" someone else protested.
Alex crossed to the door of his cell. "Maybe not," he said with a grin. "But Dave Clay drives a Griffin, and he's entitled to the badge." The emblem of the Gray Death Companions, the Legion's skull impaled on an upraised broadsword, was used by any member of the unit's Command Company, and by their heirs as well. With the exception of a few of the old-timers like Charles Bear or Major McCall, Dave Clay, Cristiano de Villar, and Alex Carlyle himself were the only people outside the regular Companions entitled to display that device.
Alex's spirits soared. Somehow, the cadets at Brander had learned the truth and decided to strike back. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for the Legion after all.
"Attention in the detention center!" a voice boomed over the PA. Alex recognized Farquhar's boyish tones even through the distortion of the amplifier. "Stand back from the north wall!"
He could see Captain Dumont and a couple of the others whose cells were visible from his door move back as far as possible from the outside wall. A moment later light flashed and rippled through Dumont's window, and in seconds the duraplast wall just below it was glowing white-hot. Then the surface was running, melting. The stench was sharp, acrid, but to Alex it was the smell of freedom.
"Stand back from the opening!" Farquhar warned. The 'Mech's hand reached into the hole that had opened up in the structure, grasping the superheated duraplast to yank a whole section of the wall free. Some of the imprisoned officers gave voice to a ragged cheer.
Seconds later armed men in Gray Death battledress were dismounting from a hover carrier outside and swarming through the shattered wall.
They made short work of the cell doors, and quickly released the rest of the prisoners. More troopers shepherded the freed hostages into the rear of the carrier as the battle raged on. Farquhar stood watch over it all from his Phoenix Hawk, releasing an occasional burst of machine gun fire to discourage any Planetary Guards from interfering in the operation.
Major Alard King was in the rear of the hovercraft, looking distinctly out of character in combat fatigues and a holstered laser pistol. Scanning each new arrival as the former prisoners piled aboard, his face was creased in a deep frown. "Where is Major de Villar? Or the weapons master?" he demanded as Alex climbed in.
"Haven't seen either of 'em since the first day," Julio Vargas said as he strapped on a pistol belt passed back from the front of the passenger compartment by an asteeh in battledress. "Or Major Owens, either."
"They separated out the mafried officers and Major McCall right after they captured us, sir," Alex told King. "I think they're allowing families to stay together under guard in the Residence."
"Damn," King cursed softly. "Our intel didn't say anything about that."
"We've got to get the rest of the Legion mobilized," Dumont said crisply. "Turn out First Battalion now that the Guards are falling back from the 'Mech bays."
"Our first priority ought to be the safety of the rest of the hostages, Captain," Alex protested. "Without Major de Villar or the others this whole jailbreak won't mean a damned thing!"
The elegant captain gave him a disdainful look. Colonel's son or not, Alex Carlyle was only a cadet, and Dumont's opinion of his meddling in command decisions was all too clear. But Alard King was nodding slowly. "I agree with young Mister Carlyle. The other hostages have to come first."
The senior tech looked worried. His sister was one of those hostages, after all.
Dumont's expression was unhappy. "I still think—"
"Do-what you think is best, Captain," King said with a shrug. "Take a party and get to the Legion barracks. The rest of our people were probably locked in there when the battle started. But I'm taking my boys to the Residence, and the 'Mechs are coming with me!"
Captain Dumont nodded abruptly. "That'll do it," he said. "Vargas, Simms, let's move!"
Alex watched them scramble to the ground, then turned back to King. "What can I do to help, Major?" he asked quietly.
King's eyes had a haunted look. "Pray, Mister Carlyle. Pray for all of them ..."
23
Dunkeld, Glengarry
Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
4 April 3956
"Ghost Two, this is Ghost Leader. Report your status."
Hearing Alex Carlyle's voice over the comm channel made Davis Clay smile with relief under the faceplate of his neurohelmet. Thank god Alex was all right. "Ghost Leader, Ghost Two," he replied. "Welcome back. Hope you enjoyed your vacation!" His fingers were punching up a full sitrep from the Griffin's computer as he spoke. "All systems nominal. Haven't had to use any ammo yet. That means I can cover the withdrawal if Galleno's running low. Ah . . . he's posted—"
"Three kilometers south," Alex's voice cut him off. As usual he seemed to have the whole tactical situation right at his fingertips, even though he couldn't have been out of his cell for more than a minute or two. "Using the Dervish to stir up a ruckus. I'm helping Major King coordinate now, and I've got the tactical computer right in front of me."
"Great, skipper," Clay replied. "We'll start Phrase Four right away."
"Negative on that, negative. We've got a change in plans, Two. All units to converge on the Residence immediately. Repeat, converge on the Residence. Some of our people were moved there."
"Christ on a crutch," Clay muttered. "Ah . . . roger that, Ghost Leader. May I suggest you let Headshot hold his current? We need him to keep off those damned jets. They're coming around for another string of attack runs."
"Yeah, I see 'em," Alex said. "Right. But you get it in gear. We've got to get to the Residence while we still have some momentum." Unspoken was the thought that had plagued King and the whole strike force from the very beginning, the possibility that DeVries might decide to use the hostages as bargaining chips. Judging from Caitlin's secondhand warning, the governor had already threatened some of them to get Major de Villar's cooperation. If DeVries thought he had nothing left to lose . . .
"Understood, Leader," Clay said, his pleasure gone in an instant. "We're on it! Strikers, Strikers, this is Ghost Two. New orders! Repeat, new orders ..."
* * *
Inside the Residence, Corporal O'Leary faced the Governor General. "We have to go now, Governor! We don't have much time left, goddamn it!"
DeVries studied the grizzled mercenary with a sinking feeling deep in his gut. Corporal O'Leary had been with Walthers for years, and it was never any secret that his first loyalty lay with the colonel rather than with his adopted world. Now the man's tone, abrupt, almost menacing, made it clear that the mercenaries weren't planning to let their employer interfere with Walthers' evacuation plan.
What the Legion had done was incredible. DeVries had thought all their units were accounted for, but they'd somehow scraped an operation together anyway. And without the benefit of any of their senior leadership. The only officer above the rank of lieutenant who hadn't been rounded up in the first hours of the coup was King, their technician, and he shouldn't have been able to mount an attack.
But the attack was going on right now, and the whole world was crumbling around Roger DeVries. The Legion was going to fight no matter what he did, and that meant the Free Skye armada would launch its attack after all. War would come to Glengarry . . .
And whoever won, the Governor General whose plan to keep peace had failed would be persona non grata with the victors. The Gray Death would never trust him again, and General von Bulow wouldn't be likely to renew negotiations once the Legion started fighting back.
"Governor," O'Leary repeated, making the word sound more like an epithet.
"All right, all right. I'll give the orders," DeVries said. Maybe the plan Walthers was hatching, as relayed by O'Leary, would work after all. If they could escape and link up with von Bulow's landing troops, they might salvage something yet. "I'll have the VTOL ready to lift in, say, fifteen minutes."
"Make it ten. We don't have much time before the bastards are knocking on the gates."
"But—" DeVries saw O'Leary's expression and bit off the protest. "Ten minutes, then. I'll pass the word back to the colonel. But I need you to do something for me while I'm getting things together here."
The corporal looked suspicious. "What?" There wasn't even the pretended courtesy of the title anymore.
"My daughter. She's been confined to her rooms in the south wing until she . . . decides to accept the inevitable. If we're pulling out, she goes with us. I want you to get her and bring her to the helipad to meet us."
O'Leary started to open his mouth in reply, then his face took on an expression of thoughtfulness. "Your daughter, huh. All right, Your Excellency. I'll bring her. Just make damned sure you have that VTOL ready to go."
The look in the man's eyes made it clear that Caitlin would pay a heavy price if anything went wrong. DeVries swallowed and nodded. Walthers and his mercs had already demonstrated the power of hostages in their handling of Major de Villar. He knew they wouldn't hesitate for an instant to use Caitlin if it would get them what they wanted ...
As O'Leary hurried out of the office he was already punching in the call-code to alert his pilot and the VTOL ground crew. Roger DeVries couldn't afford any more mistakes. Not with Caitlin's life—and probably his own, come to that—at stake.
* * *
The door slid open suddenly, and Caitlin DeVries whirled where she stood. From her rooms overlooking the south side of Castle Hill, all she'd been able to see of the disturbance that had put the whole Residence on alert was a light show down near the base of the hill.
She vaguely recognized the short, stocky NCO framed in the open door as one of her father's bo
dyguards. Visible beyond him were two more Planetary Guard troopers, part of the detail that had been watching her quarters since the first day of the coup. Both were obviously edgy at the approaching sounds of battle.
Caitlin drew her robe shut over her pajamas, conscious of the way the man was studying the curves revealed by the gauzy New Kyoto silk. She wasn't particularly shy about her body—nobody who had to work day in and day out wearing the skimpy shorts and cooling vest that were de rigeur in an overheated 'Mech cockpit was likely to retain any shyness about showing a little skin—but she didn't like the look in the man's eyes. "Just what in Blake's name do you think you're doing, Corporal?" she demanded, using her best "governor's daughter" voice as she drew herself up to her full height and fixed him with an icy stare. "Haven't you ever heard of buzzing before you barge in?"
The NCO's expression didn't change. "Never mind that now," he snapped. "You're coming with us."
She backed away as he advanced. "Where? What's going on?"
"Your father wants you. Now move!"
Caitlin took another step away from him. "At least let me get dressed—"
"Now, I said!" The corporal's sidearm, a deadly-looking vibroblade, was in his hand. "I said I'd fetch you, but I didn't promise you'd still be in one piece! Get moving!"
Caitlin didn't hesitate any longer. The look in the man's eyes told her he meant business with that vibroblade, and she wasn't about to give him a chance to prove it.
Not until a moment of her choosing.
Out in the corridor, the noncom gave a curt order to the two soldiers. "Helipad," he snapped. "Move it!" They took the lead, while the corporal trailed Caitlin, his blade at the ready. The stamp of their booted feet contrasted sharply with the slap-slap-slap of her slippers on the fake stonework of the corridor floor.
