by Andrew Keith
"Right with you, Captain," Lieutenant Gillian Lockhart chimed in. "Let's party!"
Vargas fell in with the loose diamond formation and turned toward the port. Lockhart spoke for all of them. It was time to party . . . and the invaders were the guests of honor.
31
Dunkeld, Glengarry
Isle of Skye, Federated Commonwealth
7 April 3056
"Fighters closing, fighters closing," Weltalleutnant Sean Ferguson said, chanting the warning like a mantra. "Bearing three-four-two degrees . . . Range fifteen, closing ..."
"I see them, Red Leader," answered Reggie "Lancer" Peck, his voice cool, calm. It reminded Ferguson of Hobart's patient tone, but that was no comfort now. The memory of Hobart and the others was still too vivid. "All right, boys, looks like we don't play ground support for a while after all. Break off and get some altitude. We'll engage those fighters from above."
"Understood." Ferguson made his reply absently, and barely noticed Chevalier Henderson echoing the response. Weltalleutnant Peck had watched his wingman and the two Sparrowhawks from the Raven go down to the guns of that lone Gray Death pilot, but it didn't seem to faze him at all. His thoughts seemed focused entirely on the job at hand, with no time for regret, for doubt... or for fear. Ferguson wished he could do the same, but his guts were churning with emotion and he had to make an effort to follow Peck's Lucifer up toward the clouds.
"Troika attack pattern," Peck announced a moment later. "I'm on the point. You two rookies give me cover, or I'll personally climb out of this cockpit and kick your butts while we're still in the air. You got it?"
"Troika pattern," Ferguson answered. "Chevalier, you're on the right."
"Roger that," Henderson said. He sounded tense. He, too, was probably picturing those last moments before the Gray Death JumpShip had taken out Hobart and the others.
The three fighters settled into the loose triangular wedge and started a long, shallow dive toward the enemy fighters. Ferguson double-checked with his weapons board and muttered a prayer he hadn't used since childhood.
War to the knife. It was a fine phrase but didn't convey anything of the fear, the brutality, of combat.
"Heads up!" Peck shouted over the commlink. "Here they come!"
A pair of Corsairs led the enemy squadron, long, needle-sharp, like two daggers pointed straight at the Free Skye wedge. Each one carried a pair of heavy lasers in nose mounts, with several lighter lasers backing up the two main weapons. They weren't as large or as well-armored as the three Free Sky Lucifer's but their pilots showed no signs of fear as the distance closed between the two formations.
Both Corsairs focused all their firepower on Peck's craft, and as they flashed past, Ferguson unloaded most of his weaponry at the right-hand fighter. His BDA sensors reported several hits on his target, but nothing crippling. He fought back the urge to break formation and go in pursuit. The troika attack pattern was designed to provide mutual support and concentrated firepower, and breaking up the wedge at this point could leave Peck and Henderson in trouble.
But Henderson was evidently letting his enthusiasm override his common sense. The third Lucifer was already pulling away from the wedge and turning in pursuit of the Corsair that had just shot past him.
"Red Two! Red Two! Get back in formation!" Peck shouted.
"Chevalier!" Ferguson added his voice to the call. "Not yet! Troika pattern!"
Henderson didn't reply. He already had his hands full with two Gray Death Sparrowhawks that had spotted his move and sheered off to concentrate their attention on him.
"He's under attack, Leutnant," Ferguson said. "We've got to support him ..."
"Too late!" Peck shot back. "I'm taking fire from the Slayer. Give me a hand, Shadowcat. That first pass screwed up my targeting computer!"
"Shadowcat! Shadowcat! Christ, Sean, they're all over me!" That was Henderson, his voice wild. "Can't fight all of them off!"
Ferguson hesitated for an instant. Peck's opponent was the heavy Corsair that had already taken out three of their fighters. With his targeting computer off-line, Peck would have to fire blind, trusting to instinct and training to get him any hits. And Peck was his superior officer and had given Ferguson a direct order to support him.
But Henderson was up against the two Sparrowhawks and the Corsair he'd been chasing, with the second Corsair still unaccounted for. Henderson, his wingman ... his friend since college ...
He jerked the joystick hard over. "Hang in their, Chevalier!" he said. "I'm on the way!"
"Red Leader, Red Leader, get your ass back here!" Peck ordered harshly. "I need assistance—"
Static crashed over the commlink, and Peck was gone. Ferguson's sensors showed the fireball where Peck had been a moment before, and the Slayer and one of the Corsairs rising triumphantly through the shower of debris. Peck was gone . . .
And Ferguson was in command now.
"Chevalier!" he shouted. "Chevalier! Break off the action, Chevalier! Return to base!"
Sean Ferguson wasn't going to hang around to let the Gray Death claim any more victories today.
* * *
"All units, all units," Streiger said harshly over his 'Mech's command frequency. "Re-form on me. Repeating, all units to re-form on me!"
As he uttered the words Streiger knew the bitter taste of humiliation. He had underestimated the determination of the Gray Death defenders, a cardinal sin in a military leader. They had lived up to their reputation for unpredictability— and for fighting skill—to the fullest, and now the Black Watch vanguard was falling apart.
They had lost at least four 'Mechs, not counting Sokol's Archer, which had stopped transmitting but that MechWarrior Lawson had seen moving under its own fire a few minutes earlier. Three more, including his own Warhammer, were in bad shape. And now the fighter support had broken off, leaving the defenders in control of the skies over the Dunkeld spaceport.
Not that the defenders could be doing very well either at this point. They had confirmed kills on three Free Skye 'Mechs, and a fourth probable, along with a hovertank and the fighter that had crashed during launch. Some of the other Gray Death machines, like the Marauder he'd been playing tag with right from the start, must be hurting by now. The losses didn't match up, but the Gray Death had started with fewer assets and didn't have an entire regimental combat team in orbit overhead to draw on for reinforcements.
And the battle still wasn't over. If the Rangers could just hold out for a little while longer, there was still a chance to turn things around.
Streiger checked his tactical map as he hurried the Warhammer toward the center of the port, away from the ragged skirmish line that marked the Gray Death's front. With their DropShip fled—evidently Grayson Carlyle's aerospacers were as unreliable as the ones who'd abandoned Streiger—the Legion no longer had the landing force completely boxed in. What Streiger needed now was some kind of secure cover they could use to keep the fighters and long-range 'Mech weapons from pounding them until Lippard could bring down the Anastasia for some serious fire support.
The DropShip captain wouldn't be eager to bring his vessel back into the fight, but he'd do it. Even an old woman like Lippard would know that it was the only way to salvage a victory from this mess now.
Streiger stopped the scrolling map display and allowed himself a tiny smile of triumph. That was the answer—the disabled DropShip still on the field back toward the open side of the enemy crescent. It was big enough to provide shelter for all the Black Watch BattleMechs, and the Gray Death, crazy as they might be, would never deliberately damage something as valuable as a DropShip. Not without a lot of debate and soul-searching first—exactly what would buy Streiger the time to bring in Lippard. "All units, all units," he said, speaking rapidly. "Take up positions around the crippled DropShip at grid coordinates White-six."
Then he switched to the DropShip channel, already mentally rehearsing what he would say to Lippard.
* * *
"They're doi
ng it, Alex!" Davis Clay shouted over the commline.
Alex Carlyle couldn't help but grin in response to the elation in Clay's voice. Finally, the rest of the battle plan was falling into something that resembled what they'd wanted in the first place.
"Don't count your chickens yet," Alex warned. He'd been burned once already. Now he wasn't taking too much for granted.
"My sensors say they're all weil within the zone, laddie," McCall reported. It was a measure of how hard the fight had been these last few minutes that the old weapons master had forgotten to address Alex formally over the open channel. "I dinna think we should wait . . ."
Alex double-checked his own display before answering. "I'm with you, Mac," he said. Someone chuckled, probably Caitlin DeVries, and he realized he'd just called his dour tutor by the nickname even Legion veterans didn't dare to use.
Well, McCall could string him up by his own insides when the battle was over. For now there were more important things to worry about. "This is Ghost Leader," he said slowly. "Execute Operation Petard. Repeat, execute Petard."
Alex could well imagine what must be going through Lieutenant David Longo's mind as he heard those words. The idea had first come from McCall, and King's technicians had been the ones to set up the mechanics, but in the end Longo had been chosen to carry out this last, most crucial phase of the battle because it was such a personal matter for him.
In the underground bunker where the erstwhile port control crew had gathered, Longo's hand would be poised over an improvised red switch, waiting for the command. And now the man's hand would be coming down, but not without a last thought of everything that had gone before, years of service aboard the Medea, the ill fortune that the ship should be the one stuck on the pad when the invasion came ...
Yet at least a man should have the option of shooting his own dog.
Suddenly the ground was rumbling, and a thunderclap like an enormous sonic boom ripped through the port complex. Explosion after explosion was tearing through the crippled DropShip's hydrogen fuel cells, spewing fire and smoke and huge chunks of debris in all directions. And the 'Mechs of the Free Skye landing force were standing right there, right at ground zero. Any that survived the Medea's death throes would be in no shape to offer resistance afterward.
But Alex doubted many of them would survive.
32
Dunkeld, Glengarry
Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
7 April 3056
"So there I was, just me and my little Panther up against the two of them. I tell you, man, it was looking bad. This Shadow Hawk's all over me like stink in a Kurita sewer, right up until one of those infantry boys jumps up and plants a big one right on his ankle joint ..."
Alex Carlyle took a sip of his glass of wine and listened to MechWarrior Ehland continuing his tale. Here in the cavernous ballroom of the Residence the traditional postbattle war stories made the fight for the port sound sufficiently remote that the battle might have been something glamorous, glorious even. Perhaps that was what separated the veterans from rookies like him. All Alex could remember was death, destruction, and the certainty of failure, right up to the moment when the Medea's explosion finally clinched the victory for the Gray Death.
A victory, but a costly one. Three BattleMechs had been destroyed, one from Denniken's fire lance and two of Freida Bergstrom's lightweight recon 'Mechs. All three pilots had died fighting in their machines to the last. One of the four hovertanks, Sergeant Wilkie's Pegasus, had been wrecked as well, and both Wilkie and Ethan Radcliffe had been lucky to escape the burning hulk before the enemy Firestarter 'Mech had closed in to finish them off. And two of the precious fighters and their pilots were gone, MacMasters in is Slayer and Ensign Quil's Sparrowhawk, the latter shot down as he pressed too far in pursuit of the fleeing enemy craft and came under the fire from one of the Free Skye DropShips. Five of the armored infantrymen, almost half of Lucci's force, had also been killed or seriously wounded. Beyond that, the cost in civilian lives and property damage in Dunkeld was incalculable.
Yes, it had been a victory of sorts, though the Gray Death had lost close to a quarter-of their force to win it. Alex thought he knew now exactly how that ancient Greek general must have felt when he said, "Another such victory and we'll be undone." Pyrrhus, that was his name—the man who had given military science the concept of a Pyrrhic victory. That was exactly what the battle at Dunkeld had been, a success the Gray Death Legion couldn't really afford.
The detonation of the fuel cells aboard the Medea had finished off most of the invasion force in one blow, and sustained fire from LRMs and the fighters had finished off the rest. The Gray Death had a handful of prisoners locked up in the same cells—hastily rebuilt to repair battle damage—that had held the Legion's officer corps during Governor DeVries' short-lived coup. And the defeat of the first landing force had evidently made General von Bulow think twice before committing more troops. He had longer purse strings to work with than the Gray Death, more men and machines to spend as he pleased, but von Bulow's masters back on Skye would not be pleased if he lost more troops needlessly.
For tonight, it seemed that Glengarry was in no immediate danger, but McCall had assigned a full watch crew to monitor the skies from the underground command center, while technical crews were already hard at work trying to repair the battle damage to the 'Mechs and tanks that had survived the battle. There was no way of knowing how soon the enemy would be back.
They had held a memorial service for the dead that afternoon, but now the somber mood had given way to a celebration. Not only had they dished out far worse damage than they'd taken, but word had come from the Glencoe Highlands that the Europa had made good her escape from the battle and found a safe haven—the last crucial goal of McCall's battle plan. Buoyed up by both facts, the officers and men not required elsewhere had gathered at the Residence to drink, swap stories, and toast the triumph of the Gray Death. And of their new colonel, who they praised as the man responsible for it all.
Thinking about the causalities, about the way the whole battle had nearly come apart, Alex would have preferred to duck responsibility than take credit for it.
Without realizing it, he'd finished his wine all the while his mind had been turning over the butcher's bill. He stared absently at the empty glass, barely aware of the celebration anymore. Finally he shrugged to himself and started across the room toward the bar.
Lieutenant Denniken intercepted him halfway there. "Here's the man of the hour!" he said loudly, then plucked a glass from a passing waiter's tray, thrusting it into Alex's hand and putting the empty on the tray. "I've got to admit it, I thought the idea of meeting them with just the Companions was suicide, but I was wrong. Who would've thought a cadet could put together a battle like that?"
Five or six officers close by, including Lieutenant Lucci and Julio Vargas, added a chorus of agreement. "Those bastards never knew what they were getting into," Mech Warrior Hansen, the Dervish pilot from Denniken's lance, chimed in. "Then it's whoosh, bang, and they're dead. Just like that. . ."
Alex felt himself blushing at the unwanted attention, and took a swallow from the glass Denniken had forced on him. It was Earn Valley scotch, far more potent than the wine he'd confined himself to so far this evening. He had to fight to keep from gasping as the fiery liquid seared his throat.
"Your father'll be proud of what you did today, kid . . . er, Colonel," Rachel Nolans said, slapping him on the back. She piloted the Catapult that was the third survivor of the fire lance. Lowdowski's Shadow Hawk, the fourth in the unit, had been destroyed.
Alex found his voice at last, hoarse from a morning spent shouting orders, the overwhelming attention here, and the effects of the scotch. "It was McCall's plan," he protested. "And it wasn't anything to cheer about, anyway. Von Bulow will be back, and next time he won't be pulling any punches."
Vargas shrugged. "Maybe so. Maybe tomorrow we've all had it. But we kicked some butt today, and you know damned well we w
ouldn't have even tried if you hadn't come forward the way you did. McCall planned it, but you had the guts to carry it out."
"But—" Alex felt a hand on his arm and turned to meet McCall's dour stare.
"If the colonel can spare a wee moment . . ." As the major's tone didn't leave much room for refusing, Alex trailed the big man to a quiet corner of the ballroom.
"What is it, Major?" he asked, feeling like a cadet called on the carpet again.
"Dinna be sae quick tae damp doon their enthusiasm, young Alex," McCall said softly. "They all ken as weil as you or I what we're up against. But they've won a wee little tulzie today, and they deserve the chance tae let off some steam withoot being forced tae think aboot what might happen tomorrow."
"It's just . . . what kind of victory did we win today, really? Von Bulow's not going to just apologize for the inconvenience and jump on out of here. And we lost some good people out there that we can't replace for the next fight. We shouldn't be celebrating ..."
"Aye, we should, laddie. We should. Dinna forget, we got the Europa awa' and hidden safe in the mountains, and we took oot better than a full company of 'Mechs in one blow. That's the sort of thing your auld faither would hae done, if he had been here . . . and 'twas you, not me, who first brought up the idea of luring the landing force into a trap. 'Tis that kind of sideways thinking that'll keep us going, no matter how hard the road gets doon the way."
"You really think we have a chance?"
McCall shrugged. "In the long run, I doubt we could hold everything they can throw at us. What we hae tae do is slow things doon, force yon Skye rebels tae pay dearly for all they wish tae gain. It will cost us, laddie, maybe more dearly than you can imagine, but the more time and effort Duke Richard invests in us, the less damage he can do elsewhere. And we willna be alone forever. The rest of the Legion will come, and then these bastards'll pay double for attacking us at home. That I can guarantee."
