The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  A flash of light caught his attention. White smoke trails stabbed out from a bunker thirty meters downslope and toward the north, reaching toward the Locust as it lumbered up the slope below. One of the shoulder-fired missiles struck the machine squarely on the plate armor across its cockpit, but left no visible sign of damage beyond a blackening of the 20-ton 'Mech's tan and brown camouflage paint pattern.

  "Number three, fall back!" Ramage yelled. The Locust was almost upon the hidden bunker now. There was an agonizing pause, and then two men broke from under their sheltering tarpaulin and bolted up the hill, just as the Locust's massive foot smashed down on their roofing, splintering the roof logs into spinning white slivers.

  The Locust paused, its turret tracking side to side. The pair of machine guns mounted high up above its back on either side of the massive, round leg actuator casings swung around and down, falling into line with the running men. There was a high-pitched rattle and a twinkling fall of spent shell casings. Geysers of dirt stitched up the hill toward, through, and then past the two men, slamming into boulders and leaving white scars on trees. Ramage heard one of the men scream as heavy-caliber rounds shredded flesh and bone, spun them around and down, and left them as torn, bloodied, rag-limp forms still on the ground.

  Enough is enough. Ramage thought. War is hell, but gunning down fleeing, unarmed troops isn't part of it! He stooped in his trench, grasping a heavy canvas satchel. He would take on this particular bastard by himself.

  The Locust had taken three more uncertain steps forward, then paused again, towering on its spindly legs. Ramage bent low as he raced along the trench, twice stepping across the twisted, broken shapes of Gray Death troopers cut down by the advancing 'Mechs. At the end of the trench, he rolled out onto the ground, rose in a low crouch, and raced the remaining thirty meters toward the enemy BattleMech.

  Farther up the hill, near the crest now hidden by smoke and low, scrubby trees, the insistent, deep-throated voice of a heavy machine gun began yammering above the general roar of battle. That would be the 15 mm Spanner machine gun he'd ordered set up at the crest of the hill above the center of the line. The gunner must have spotted the Locust and be trying to bring it down.

  At the moment, the machine gun was far more dangerous to Ramage than it was to the 20-ton BattleMech. Even armor-piercing explosive rounds would have to score many hits before they could do more than scratch that armor plate. As he ran, Ramage heard the snap and whine of heavy-caliber bullets high above his head.

  The goddamned idiots, he told himself. They're firing too high again. Drop your aim, you bastards!

  Fortunately for Ramage, they didn't heed his unspoken advice, and the rounds continued to bark and snap among the tree branches overhead, an occasional round flashing in miniature pyrotechnics against the hull of the Locust. The Locust was holding its ground, its hull canted back to give its medium laser a clear shot at the machine gun nest on the hill above. The laser fired, a beam of white-lit fury boring through smoke, haze, and branches, toward the brush at the top of the hill. After a moment, the machine gun fired again, to be answered again by the laser. The battle was like a game of double blind man's bluff, with two clumsy and half-blinded opponents feeling for one another through the fog.

  The exchange also meant that the Locust pilot was too busy to see the man running through the swirling smoke toward its feet.

  Locusts do not have vulnerable knee joints as do Stingers, Wasps, and similarly constructed humanoid 'Mechs. A Locust's weak point was in the joint between foot and leg, where the ankle joint allowed the four broad foot flanges to fold and flex as the machine took each step.

  The Locust took a step forward, Ramage put on a last burst of speed, leapt, and came down on top of the 'Mech's right foot just as it began to sweep forward in its next step. He reached up and grasped the slender leg above the lower leg sheathing, hanging on as he swung dizzily forward. Somehow, he hung on without being knocked clear as the foot came down on the grassy hillside. Ramage took the canvas satchel and waited, watching for his moment. The Locust fired its laser again. The white-hot bolt discharging six meters above Ramage's head sent a wash of heat across his body. Then the machine took another step, and a narrow opening between foot and ankle sheathing opened as the machine's right foot flexed closed. Ramage jammed the satchel into the narrow opening, letting the closing of the joint itself wedge the package into the weak point in the Locust's foot. Then he grabbed the pull-ring igniter, let go with his left arm, and tumbled toward the ground. The igniter ring yanked free of the igniter, leaving a curling trail of smoke as the 'Mech lurched forward. Ramage hit the ground with a thump, and rolled. Then he was up and running as fast as possible down the slope.

  Five seconds passed, then the air at his back was rent by a shrieking blast, and bits of metal whipped past his ear. Ramage flopped face down to the ground as metal rattled through the grass. He rolled to the side and looked back. The Locust had settled back on its haunches, its spindly legs folded high above the cockpit. It was evident that the 'Mech had sustained serious damage to the foot, but, so far as Ramage could see, the foot was still attached to the leg.

  He cursed. A five-kilo block of C-4 should have sheared the foot off cleanly, crippling the vulnerable light 'Mech. As it was, the damage could probably be repaired in a few hours.

  The top of the Locust broke open as the twin escape hatch panels swung apart. A helmeted head appeared in the opening. Ramage cursed again. His TK was back in the headquarters trench, and his holster carried an empty flare pistol. Except for his combat knife sheathed high on his armored tactical vest, he was unarmed.

  Idiot, he told himself, what do you expect, chasing after 'Mechs and leaving your sidearm behind? Ramage, old son, it's time you retired . . . before these unfriendly people do it for you.

  The Locust's pilot swung his legs clear of the hatch and dropped to the ground. He was bare-legged and bare-chested, wearing only red shorts and his incongruous, massive visored helmet, but the subgun clenched in his hands was short, mean, and deadly.

  Time to go, Ramage thought. Keeping his eyes on the Marik pilot, he began to work his way backward down the hill, toward the shelter of some heavier brush twenty meters further downslope.

  Another trench lay concealed there within the brush, but it was empty now, its occupants long since fled. Looking about him, Ramage realized that he was now quite alone, cut off from any friendly troops. He scavenged through the bottom of the trench, searching for a weapon. Apart from some spent shell casings, there was nothing. He glanced back up the hill. The Locust was still there, its pilot on the ground in the shadow of the crouching body, apparently working on the damaged ankle joint.

  As he turned away, movement caught his eye farther down the hill. The Wasp strode forward out of the dust and battle fog, its Diverse Optics medium laser cradled high in its metal arms. Ramage watched it come, helpless to do a thing about it. From seventy meters away, he could see the missile pod cover above the joint of its left leg pop up, exposing a pair of stubby black tubes.

  My God, the bastard's after me, Ramage thought. He's got me nailed! The machine's pilot had seen him—or his trench—and was preparing to open fire with deadly, short-range missiles.

  Ramage scrambled back up out of the trench. The tubes spat fire, and a pair of SRMs shrieked across the short distance between the Wasp and Ramage's temporary shelter. The twin explosions caught Ramage in the back, lifting him clear of the ground and hurling him with unimaginable violence up the hill.

  The universe was engulfed by an all-consuming darkness before he hit the ground.

  9

  Static continued to crowd the tactical frequencies, growing louder and harsher as Grayson's 'Mech column closed on the DropShips. There was no way a message could be punched through that interference even to alert Use Martinez that his 'Mechs were on their way. The interference was so bad that communications between the 'Mechs of the two lances was becoming difficult.

  "Motion, G
ray," Lori warned from her Shadow Hawk. He could barely hear her through the jamming noise. "Sector front-center. Reads like a skimmer, at range . . . eight hundred meters."

  Grayson's Marauder paused, its weapons-heavy forearms swinging into combat attitude. An armed skimmer posed little risk to a BattleMech, but it was never wise to take chances. Skimmers loaded with plastic explosives had been known to make suicide runs that had shattered 'Mechs or caused massive damage to control and actuator systems.

  Brush thrashed aside 500 meters ahead, and a small, two-place skimmer whipped into view. Grayson removed his hands from the Marauder's firing controls. The skimmer was a Legion scout craft. The lone pilot wore the camouflage greys of a Legion trooper.

  "All units, hold fire," Grayson ordered. "It's a messenger! “

  The messenger echoed the sentiments with a message of his own. "Don't shoot, Colonel!" he yelled, his light voice transmitted by the Marauder's external audio pickups. "I've got a message from Captain Martinez!"

  It was easier for Lori to unbutton her Shadow Hawk's canopy and hope to get it sealed again than it was for Grayson, whose Marauder's egg-shaped body was massively armored and sealed. The hatch on top of her cockpit swung aside, and Lori's helmeted head appeared in the opening. "We recognize you! What's the message?"

  "The Captain says the DropShips are under attack! She says the infantry line isn't holding, and the 'Mechs at the ship aren't going to last long! The enemy's attacking with at least ten 'Mechs, maybe more! She sent me to try to find you ... to warn you ..."

  "You did well," Lori said. "Fall in behind our column, and stay clear when the shooting starts." A moment later, her voice came across on the tac band, heavily filtered by the static. "We don't have much time, Gray."

  "I know. Let's pick up the pace." He could hear the firing, like the distant rumble of summer thunder coming from straight ahead, over his 'Mech's pick-ups.

  As his Marauder surged into motion again, Grayson fretted about the lance of BattleMechs he had left on guard with the DropShips. Lieutenant Roget had some combat experience, as did Graff, but Vandergriff and Trevor were unknown quantities. Though they were no longer apprentices, their lack of actual combat experience meant Grayson could not rely on them in a BattleMech firefight. That was why he had left the lance behind to mount guard. He had expected a fight at Durandel.

  He had not expected the Marik forces to respond as quickly as they had, however, with this headlong race to seize his DropShips.

  The 'Mech column crested a low ridge, and suddenly the battle noise was louder, a thundering roar that rumbled on and on, the crackle of small arms fire interspersed with missile explosions and the rapid-fire thud of BattleMech autocannons. The DropShip LZ was less than a kilometer away now.

  The jamming was louder, too. Grayson heard Lori saying something over the radio, but he couldn't make out her words. He recognized other voices as well—Davis McCall's and Hassan Khaled's among them—but the words were drowned in the hissing sea of static.

  Grayson thought furiously. It was obvious that the enemy had elected to fight according to a set plan. Indeed, that was the only possible approach when using jammers, for there was no way either side could communicate changes of plan or issue new orders. Though the jamming put the Gray Death at a disadvantage, the attackers were operating at a handicap as well. With no way to issue new orders, they would be slow and cumbersome in reacting to the unexpected.

  And Grayson Death Carlyle was a master of doing the unexpected in battle.

  His motion sensor was chirping a steady, monotonous pinging at him, showing something large moving across his front. He twisted the Marauder five degrees right and stepped up the speed. The land here was gently sloping, but heavily screened by light woods and boulders, some of them as big as a house. It was impossible to see more than a few tens of meters in any direction.

  Trees parted for Grayson's Marauder. A Thunderbolt rose above the low-twisting trees eighty meters ahead, its out-sized arms hanging apelike on either side of its massive, black-painted body.

  Grayson's Marauder outweighed the other 'Mech by ten tons, but the Thunderbolt had the edge in armament. Its right arm-mounted Sunglow Type 2 heavy laser was one of the largest lasers ever carried by a BattleMech. It was backed up by a massive, tube-shaped LRM rack slung across its left shoulder, a battery of medium lasers and short-ranged missiles in its torso, and a pair of heavy machine guns in its left arm. The Thunderbolt was armored to match its weaponry, with heavier armor than the Marauder's in some key places.

  Grayson knew that the Thunderbolt's weakness was that so much weaponry generated a hell of a lot of heat. Thunderbolts suffered more from heat build-up than many other 'Mechs, and that fact would work to Grayson's advantage.

  Or rather, it could work to his advantage, if he had the time to exploit it. Grayson's immediate concern was the situation back at the DropShips. This Marik Thunderbolt had obviously been thrown past the LZ positions to block just such a movement as his. Grayson did not have time to play tag with the Thunderbolt, and it would take time to wear his opponent down to the point where heat became a serious concern.

  The one certain way to knock out a heavy 'Mech fast was to concentrate overwhelming firepower against it. Grayson knew that such a maneuver took quick timing and good communications. The Gray Death Company had no communications at all at the moment, but they did have a considerable body of shared experience and training to draw on. It might work, but it would have to be done quickly.

  There was a rippling flash, and long-range missiles lanced from the Thunderbolt toward Grayson's Marauder. Grayson twisted at his 'Mech's controls and trotted to the left. Savage explosions shredded trees and ripped across the floor of the woods. A giant boulder ahead offered shelter, and Grayson made for it.

  More explosions shattered through the woods behind him. Lori's Shadow Hawk was in the Thunderbolt's line of fire now. Her autocannon dropped across the shoulder of her 'Mech as she engaged the heavier 'Mech in a stand-up slugging match. McCall's Rifleman stepped into line at her side, his paired autocannon and lasers hurling fire into the larger 'Mech. The Thunderbolt responded. Missiles exploded on the Rifleman's flank and on the Shadow Hawk's right shoulder and leg. Autocannon shells slammed into the Thunderbolt's upper chest, scoring the armor and gouging it with deep, ragged craters.

  Grayson paused behind the boulder, checking his weapons systems and estimating the Thunderbolt's position from the sounds of gunfire and explosions. Then, when the T-Bolt was concentrating completely on Lori and Davis, he lunged around the boulder.

  The Thunderbolt filled his sighting scanners, barely ninety meters away. Grayson's 120 mm autocannon began slamming high-explosive armor-piercers at the enemy machine, scoring hit after hit on its arm and upper chest. Grayson's PPCs cut loose with a twin torrent of blue-white fire that barked and crackled as discharged electrical current leapt like blue lightning from the stricken Thunderbolt to the ground.

  The Thunderbolt turned to face this new challenge, but Grayson was already pulling back behind the boulder. Lori and McCall continued to pour fire into the enemy 'Mech, with both Khaled's Warhammer and Delmar Clay's Wolverine also joining the action.

  Grayson saw missile fire strike Clay's Wolverine on its left arm, leaving scarred and broken plates of armor. The T-Bolt's heavy laser fired, lighting up the woods with a supernatural radiance that edged every leaf and limb in blue-white light. Grayson winced as he saw that fire touch McCall's Rifleman, melting armor across the Scotsman's torso. Swinging his Marauder around the rock again, he targeted on the Thunderbolt, and opened fire with everything he had.

  Smoke billowed from a savage gash in the Thunderbolt's side. Autocannon shells smashed into the heavy 'Mech's right arm.

  The Thunderbolt pilot was quick to respond. His heavy machine spun, the right arm heavy laser swinging up to point directly at Grayson's cockpit. Looking down the black maw of that lethal weapon, Grayson knew what it was to stare into the throat of Death.


  But nothing happened. Sparks arced and snapped at a power connection high up on the T-Bolt's laser mount. Either Grayson's autocannon shells or perhaps an earlier hit scored by one of the others had damaged the laser and made it inoperable.

  Grayson shrieked a victory yell and fired his PPCs again. Great chunks of armor spun from the stricken Thunderbolt, which was now backing slowly toward the cover of heavier woods to its rear. Grayson urged his Marauder forward.

  The two antagonists stopped, facing each other across fifty meters. For a moment, Grayson thought the other 'Mech was going to rush him, putting Grayson at a severe disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat with a handed 'Mech.

  Then the Thunderbolt lurched to the left, turned, and vanished into the woods in full retreat. Grayson couldn't be sure, but the 'Mech had probably taken enough hits that even this brief combat had begun to threaten the pilot with heat overload and an automatic shutdown.

  The way was clear. Grayson and his seven Warriors swept through the woods and up the hill.

  The DropShips were down in the valley beyond.

  Accepted military doctrine had DropShips ground in a broad, open field with an unobstructed field for fire. The reason is obvious. Typical military Union Class Drop-Ships mount as many as twenty lasers of various sizes, as well as missile launchers, PPC turrets, and autocannon. Though the range of those weapons is sharply reduced from what it would be in the free reaches of space, in strategic terms, a grounded DropShip still represents a small fortress that BattleMechs treat with great respect.

  Grayson had ordered that the Deimos and the Phobos set down in the rocky notch of a saddle valley for a reason, however. With no sure knowledge of how strong were the unknown but probably hostile forces on the planet, he had to assume that an open landing could result in the LZ being surrounded by enough BattleMechs to eventually overwhelm even the DropShips' firepower and armor.