Blood of heroes

by Andrew Keith

  Sixteen BattleMechs and a pair of fighter squadrons weren't much to work with, not when there was a reinforced regiment up there in orbit to draw from. It looked suspiciously like General von Bulow was planning to use his force as a sacrificial lamb to try drawing fire from the ground before sending the bulk of his strength into harm's way.

  And even if that wasn't the case, Lippard was uncomfortably aware of the attention his ship would be getting from the flagship throughout the operation. One mistake and his career could be over. The atmosphere in the Free Skye military was thick with plots and counterplots, divided loyalties, and zealous political officers seeking out any sign of heresy among the troops. A commander who bollixed an important operation like this one was ripe for a spot on the general's next purge list.

  Lippard shifted uncomfortably in his command chair. After nearly twenty years of service in the aerospace arm of the Tenth Skye Rangers, he wasn't about to stand by and watch his career crash and burn. It was bad enough that the Rangers had mutinied en masse against the Federated Commonwealth government. Not seeing any way to oppose the regimental command, he'd gone along with the bulk of the officer corps in supporting the decision. Now he wasn't about to do anything that would make the duke's men mistrust him and turn him into a double outcast with no future at all.

  "Give me another sensor scan of the port," he snapped impatiently.

  "Aye aye, sir," the sensor technician replied hastily. Everyone on the bridge knew his mood by now, and they were all quick to obey to avoid his anger. "Still no change, sir. One Union Class DropShip on the pads, tentatively ideed as the Europa. Another Union, probably the Medea, in a repair berth. They're both powered down, and the one in the yard is showing open hull plating around the drive area. No sign of combat units on the ground, but I can see a block of people, some of them with weapons, formed up outside the administrative building."

  "Reception committee," the exec muttered. "A bunch of these damned locals all lined up to beg us to recognize their so-called government."

  "Well, the general's orders were pretty specific," Lippard replied absently, studying the descent profile on his monitor. "We'll let Oberst Streiger deal with them. As long as those bastards down there don't do something stupid, everything will work out just fine."

  Weltallhauptmann Alvin Lippard found himself wondering if his reassuring words were meant for his bridge crew, or for himself.

  * * *

  "One minute to touchdown."

  Alex Carlyle ran his fingers over the control board, activating the 'Mech's main fusion power plant and switching on bank after bank of onboard systems that had been shut down throughout the long morning of waiting. The Free Skye force was committed now. Even if their sensors could penetrate the hangar walls of the Dunkeld spaceport, to pick up the sudden eruption of heat sources and power emissions, it was too late for them to change course. Those ships would have to touch down, no matter what they detected.

  The object now was to draw the enemy out.

  Outside, Alex knew, a party of technicians were disconnecting the land line hookups so that the four command lance 'Mechs could maneuver. The same thing would be occurring in each of the other ambush sites. By the time the two enemy DropShips were on the ground, the Legion would be ready to strike.

  Seeing all his monitor readouts showing green, Alex nodded in satisfaction. Everything was ready, at least on the mechanical side. Whether or not the human side of the equation was up to the confrontation was another matter. That was something that wouldn't become known until the battle was joined.

  "Thirty seconds," the tower reported. "Tracking reports four aerospace fighters bearing zero-one-two degrees, range eighty-zero kilometers, angels thirty. They seem to be circling."

  Alex bit his lip. Major McCall had told him to expect fighter cover, but it still complicated the battle plan. Those four fighters could spell trouble.

  As the seconds crawled by, each one was an eternity of doubt. What right did Alex Carlyle have to lead these men into a battle that was all but hopeless from the outset? He wasn't even half the Mech Warrior his father had been in the early days. Besides, shouldn't the man who had brought them all together in the first place be the only one to lead the Gray Death Legion?

  "Touchdown," the tower reported. Alex could picture the scramble up there, as the technical team that had been monitoring von Bulow's approach abandoned their posts for the safety of an underground shelter as quickly as they could manage it. In a few moments, as the enemy commanders became aware of the ambush, the tower would no doubt become a major target. The party lined up out on the tarmac in simulation of a reception committee would be scattering, too.

  "Right," Alex said on the commlink command channel. "Execute Phase One!"

  * * *

  Sitting in the cockpit of his Warhammer, Oberst Wilhelm Streiger watched the 'Mech bay ramp drop away with the same cold indifference he'd felt throughout the approach to the Dunkeld spaceport. Back on Skye where the plans for Glengarry had first been hatched, Streiger had been looking forward to matching arms against the famed Gray Death Legion. The Tenth Skye Rangers didn't boast the reputation of Carlyle's mercenaries, but they were a proud and respectable unit. Their tradition went back over a thousand years, to the days before the discovery of star flight. Today's regiment traced its descent directly to the famous Black Watch of ancient Britain, and the unit remained fiercely proud of that heritage.

  A match-up of the old against the new, the pride of a long, distinguished lineage versus the arrogance of a brief but brilliant record. It had been exciting to contemplate the conflict ahead.

  Now, it seemed, the Gray Death was incapable of offering even token opposition, at least here in Dunkeld. If they resisted at all, which was doubtful at best, according to the latest briefings Streiger had attended before the landing was finally ordered—it would be a disjointed and haphazard affair. Meanwhile his company of the Tenth would have to be content with rousting whatever rabble might oppose the regiment here at the port. A sad comedown . . .

  The ramp hit the ground with a metallic clang audible through his external audio receptors, and Streiger grasped the steering yoke to start his 'Mech out of the belly of the DropShip. His seventy-ton WHM-6R Warhammer stalked down the incline onto the tarmac with a slow, measured pace that Streiger thought of as proud and regal. The rest of the company would be issuing from other ports spaced around the perimeter of the DropShip, ready for anything.

  At last report, "anything" meant nothing more than listening to some gabbling speeches of welcome from a flock of quaking "dignitaries" assembled to give away their planet to the conquerors.

  Streiger paused and checked his video display, puzzled. The so-called "reception committee" should have been just off to his right, between the Anastasia and the berth where the Raven was slowly settling to the ground. But there was no sign of anyone out there. Strange . . .

  "Vanguard One, Anastasia," Lippard's voice crackled in his headset. "There's something going on out there. The locals have dispersed, and we're reading a power surge on board the Gray Death DropShip on the far side of the port. Looks like they're trying a cold start-up on their fusion plant."

  "What the hell are they playing at?" Streiger demanded. "They don't seriously think we'd let them take off, do they?"

  "Don't ask me, Oberst," Lippard snapped. "Just get your men clear so I can get this bucket aloft. We'll cut them off in the air, and you close in on the ground. Remember the orders. We want to try to capture as many aerospace assets as possible."

  "I know the orders," Streiger shot back. Lippard was the kind of fussy old maid Streiger hated most. He was known behind his back as "Mother Hen." Switching commlink channels quickly, Streiger tuned to the company's general channel. "All units, disperse by lances. The DropShip's dusting off."

  As he guided his massive war machine out of range of the DropShip's engine wash, Streiger's mind was already racing ahead to formulate the next move. Two DropShips trying to flee
the port at the last minute, and a party of local dignitaries scattering before the first 'Mech could descent from the DropShip. . . . There was more going on here than just those isolated events. And far more than Lippard's limited imagination could envision. Perhaps the Gray Death wasn't quite so supine as they'd been led to believe.

  Streiger allowed himself a grim smile. This duty might just be worthwhile yet.

  * * *

  "They're taking the bait. Looks like the Union's buttoning up for dust-off, and the 'Mechs on the ground are starting to form up to head for the ships," came Lieutenant Lucci's voice crackling over Alex's commline.

  "Roger that, Phantom One," he replied. Lucci's troopers were serving as the Legion's eyes outside, and her report made him feel a little better now. So far the invaders were reacting just the way they'd anticipated.

  He switched to the command frequency. "All units, from Ghost Leader, Phase Two . . . now!"

  Outside, the massive hangar doors began to slowly roll back, the grinding of their machinery overpowered by the ringing footsteps of four armored BattleMechs starting forward into battle.

  Over his command channel, Oberst Streiger heard the panicked voices of his men. "Multiple targets! Multiple heat sources becoming visible! Three ... no, four different bearings!"

  "It's a trap!"

  "Clear the channel!" Wilhelm Streiger rasped. "Standard tactical deployment five! Get your butts in gear!"

  The babble of excited conversation died, and Streiger's tactical map showed the company starting to fan out in response to his instructions. Whoever had planned this little surprise had pulled it off brilliantly. They hadn't caught the slightest trace of the Gray Death forces in the capital all the way down from orbit, but now four different hangars had disgorged hidden defenders. Each of the blips on his monitor represented a fusion power plant, a 'Mech, or an AFV. Sixteen were showing, with no way to be sure if others might be lurking out of sight.

  They were scattered in a rough arc all around Streiger's 'Mechs, and the Oberst realized in a flash that the encirclement was completed by the Legion's Union Class DropShip on the opposite side of the port. On the ground or in the air, that ship could direct massive firepower down onto his troops while the Gray Death blocked a breakout attempt.

  A good plan, but as with any good plan, there were holes. Streiger smiled to himself. He'd taken the measure of the Legion. Now to counter their thrust.

  "Anastasia, this is Vanguard One," he said, switching to the DropShip's commlink frequency. "Suppress that Union Class ship. We've got a combat situation on our hands down here."

  "But the mission orders—" Lippard came back, sounding unsure of himself.

  "Damn the mission orders!" Streiger snapped. "The security of my men comes first!"

  The face of the administration building was suddenly scoured by a particle beam that seemed to come out of nowhere. Shards of ferrocrete clanged off the Warhammer's armor from the explosion, and the concentration of raw heat and power left the structure twisted, melting. Streiger cut the commlink without listening to Lippard's arguments and played his fingers across his targeting board, searching for the PPC that had missed him by less than ten meters.

  So he was going to get his confrontation with the Gray Death, it seemed. The smile still on his face, Streiger found his target and returned fire.

  This would be a day to remember, after all . .

  28

  Dunkeld, Glengarry

  Skye March, Federated Commonwealth

  7 April 3056

  "Damn it! I missed the bastard!" Caitlin DeVries muttered under her breath. She'd had a clear shot at the big Warhammer that had to be the enemy command 'Mech, but her PPC beam had gone wide. The Marauder was reputed to be one of the finest BattleMechs in the entire Successor State arsenal, but she was finding the controls hard to manage after the easy responsiveness of her Centurion.

  Caitlin started to line up a second shot with her left-hand PPC when the Warhammer opened up. A PPC beam washed across the Marauder's left leg, and a second particle beam impacted against the wall of the hangar behind her. As her Marauder lurched back under the impact of the hit, a pair of lasers scored hits on the machine's chest armor, followed by a volley of short-range missiles raining down on her position a moment later.

  Caitlin muttered another curse. That Warhammer pilot was going for broke, firing off his full arsenal in a single massive attack. It took guts to fight like that, risking a rapid heat build-up in order to saturate an opponent's defenses.

  She checked the computer's damage board. Laser and missile hits and flying debris from the near-miss behind her had left the Marauder's chest and back armor and one arm-mounted PPC pockmarked with half a dozen small, shallow pits, but none was particularly threatening. The enemy PPC had caused the worst damage, scoring away armor in a wide crater on the 'Mech's leg just above the knee joint. It hadn't penetrated, but another hit or two in the same area was likely to take out the whole leg and leave the Marauder helpless.

  Stepping sideways awkwardly, she started retargeting frantically. The Warhammer was slightly lighter than her Marauder, but just about equal in armaments. And that pilot was no cadet. He knew his business, all right.

  "Ghost Four," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "I need help. That Warhammer's out for my blood."

  Even before she could finish reprogramming her firing controls, the Warhammer cut loose again.

  * * *

  "Ghost Three, this is Leader," Alex Carlyle said through clenched teeth. "Give Caitlin a hand! That Warhammer's too much for her to tackle on her own!"

  "Roger, Leader," Davis Clay came back. "I'm on it!"

  Alex had to fight down the impulse to focus on the fight between the Marauder and the Warhammer. Much as he wanted to back up Caitlin DeVries, that wasn't his role now. The battle plan required that his Archer do more important work than merely slugging it out toe-to-toe with the enemy on the ground.

  He switched to the special-purpose commlink channel that had been set aside for the 'Mechs and tanks tasked for special duty. "This is Ghost Leader," he said. "Commence Operation Skysweep . . . now!"

  Alex was feeding instructions into his targeting computer even as he spoke. Operation Skysweep was designed to discourage the Free Skye DropShips lifting clear of the port from lending anything more than moral support to the troops on the ground. McCall had suggested it first, and the plan was as simple and elegant as any really good one had to be. Most commanders regarded DropShips as their most important assets, preferring to keep them out of danger unless absolutely necessary. So Skysweep called for the Legion elements equipped with long-range missile batteries to focus all their attention on the enemy ships until they decided that the battlefield was too unhealthy a place for their craft.

  But they couldn't afford to spend too much time on the two DropShips. Not with a reinforced company of 'Mechs on the ground.

  "Targeting," he announced. "Nolans, Hansen, you stick with the Leopard until McCall or I say differently."

  "Locking on now," Mech Warrior Sergeant Rachel Nolans responded. Her Cataphract and Paul Hansen's Dervish were part of Denniken's fire lance, and both were well-suited to the role of engaging the smaller DropShip. The probability of doing serious damage to either ship was low, but repeated bombardments by missile salvos would make any ship captain nervous.

  "Commencing fire," Hansen added a moment later. Then, "Missiles away!" Alex saw the swirling trails leaping skyward from the fire lance position off to his right.

  "Captain Radcliffe, concentrate on the Union." Radcliffe's tank platoon included a trio of Harasser missile platforms, two fitted out with SRM launchers, the third mounting a heavier LRM system. Although they lacked the punch of the fire-support 'Mechs, the hover tanks had the advantage of being fast and maneuverable. They could get in close, take their shots, and withdraw again quickly before the DropShip gunners could react—or at least that was the plan. Combined with sustained fire from Carlyle's Archer, they wo
uld certainly make the crew of the Union Class notice the Legion.

  Alex waited for the targeting cross hairs to flash red, then hit the firing studs for both missile racks in quick succession. The Archer staggered under the multiple recoil of forty missiles streaking from the tubes.

  Slow and stately, the DropShip was lifting off, but it gathered speed as it rose from the tarmac like some impossible prehistoric flying beast disturbed from an age-long slumber. There was a rippling of explosions near the underside of the spherical vessel as some of Alex's missiles found their mark, but he didn't even bother with the BDA readouts. He knew the attack wouldn't cause enough damage to penetrate the thick armor. Not yet.

  While waiting for the green lights on his board to register the end of the automated reloading cycle, Alex was struck by another thought. He switched to the private channel that linked him to McCall. "Major," he began, feeling foolish and worried all at once. "Are you tracking those fighters the tower reported?"

  "They're nae on my screen yet, laddie," McCall replied. "But I'm aye watching for them. When things get hot doon here ye can bank on yon bastards tae call them in tae cover their asses." The major paused, then went on. "You tend tae the business at hand, young Alex. I'll watch the skies."

  Alex glanced left out of the cockpit, his eyes lingering on the towering form of McCall's Highlander. It was an old design, mounting a highly accurate Gauss gun with tracking and fire control gear even better than a Rifleman's. They were scarce as hen's teeth in the Successor States even today, having fallen out of use long ago as Star League technology disappeared, but the schematics had been contained with the other data in the Gray Death memory core that McCall had helped Carlyle's father retrieve all those years ago on Helm. The Caledonian hadn't been able to resist the notion of driving such an aptly named 'Mech into battle, and most of his share of Gray Death profits over the years had gone into buying the fighting machine, which he'd named Bannockburn in honor of a famous Scottish victory on ancient Terra. Heti painted it in a tartan color scheme for the Day of Heroes festivities, and there hadn't been time to change it since. Now it stood like a gigantic clansman, weapon mounts slowly traversing back and forth as McCall scanned the skies for the first signs of enemy fighter support.