The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  The presence of a storm system over the area around Durandel had given the DropShips pilots their chance. By plunging into the clouds during the final moments of their approach, they had been able to mask the exact point of their landing among the confusing ground clutter echos of the ridges and hills in the region. Use Martinez had spotted the rocky saddle, and Grayson had agreed to it. The DropShips' fields of fire would be sharply restricted among those boulders and ridgelines, but there was a good chance that the location of the LZ would remain secret until the Legion could figure out what was going on. If the enemy ships tracking his approach to Helm in the first place could be kept in the dark about the Legion crafts' identity and exact LZ, the DropShips might never be found. DropShips stand out like flashing red beacons in the emptiness of space, but it was a different story on the ground. Surrounded by hills, woods, and boulders, the ships became insignificant and almost impossible to find unless the searcher were using extremely sophisticated instruments with square-kilometer-by-square kilometer finesse, determination, and patience.

  Altogether, it had seemed a worthwhile gamble.

  As Grayson crested the ridge east of the LZ, he knew the gamble had failed. There had always been the chance that one of the Marik ships in orbit would tag the two ships by radar or other means. Perhaps they had been spotted by an orbiting picket suspicious enough of the "ducal party" to survey the area where the DropShips had gone down after the storm cleared. Or perhaps a long-range infantry patrol had seen the flare of their jets and reported it to headquarters. Any of a hundred minor giveaways could have revealed their precise LZ to the Marik forces on the planet.

  And now those forces here here.

  Both the Deimos and the Phobos were fully engaged in the battle in the valley. The two ships were grounded 500 meters apart from one another, which gave them excellent control over the ground between them. Inevitably it also created "fire shadows" on either side, which meant that one ship could fire some of its weapons while the other was blocked by the first ship. The attackers were making use of this, with two groups of BattleMechs engaging the DropShips, one in each fire shadow on opposite sides of the pair. More BattleMechs still struggled along the crest of the valley's western ridge. The 'Mechs of the Gray Death's recon lance were there, firing wildly at several light enemy 'Mechs, but it was obvious that the main enemy force had swept around both flanks to attack the DropShips.

  A Marik Archer and a Wolverine moved among the boulders 300 meters in front of Grayson's Marauder. Missiles arced up and across and into Phobos's hull, smashing at laser turrets, and flashing among the damage that had already marred the armor along the Dropship's flank. A Centurion and a Panther crouched nearby, providing supporting fire. Grayson's Marauder kicked up boiling clouds of dust as it raced down the valley's slope, his autocannon hammering into the battle's din.

  His first rounds struck the Centurion in its right side, smashing armor plate and tearing a gaping hole high in the 50-ton 'Mech's shoulder. The Marik 'Mech spun to face him, its right arm Luxor D autocannon barking fire in return. The Centurion's 80 mm rapid-fire rounds struck home on the Marauder's upper hull. The sound inside Grayson's cockpit was hellacious, a crashing that would have deafened him except for the high noise cutouts in his neurohelmet earpieces. He took the fire rather than trying to dodge, bringing his 'Mech's forearms to the point. Twin medium laser bolts lanced out and caught the Centurion side by side, high on its chest. Grayson's PPCs fired an instant later, knocking the Centurion backward off it feet as gobbets of half-molten armor sprayed from blossoming impact craters in its torso.

  Lori's Shadow Hawk dueled with the enemy Wolverine. With the two 55-ton 'Mechs so closely matched in both armor and weaponry, a stand-up battle between the two could have gone on interminably, until both machines were reduced to scrap. McCall's Rifleman stepped down off the hillside seconds later, however, and added his massive firepower to Lori's. Side by side, the two Legion 'Mechs began to advance on the Wolverine, drifting apart slightly to force the enemy pilot to choose between one or the other for his targeting. After multiple hits on the Wolverine's legs and lower torso, the Marik pilot decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and fired his jump jets. The 'Mech vaulted backward across the boulder field, landing eighty meters farther on and partway up the west slope of the valley.

  * * *

  Farther up the valley, Charles Bear's Crusader and Hassan Khaled's Warhammer engaged a Marik Shadow Hawk, a Warhammer, and the Thunderbolt damaged moments before by Grayson. The two Warhammers seemed bound for a toe-to-toe struggle, each massive machine delivering bolt after searing bolt of star-hot energy from their heavy PPCs, scoring hit after armor-boiling hit.

  Then the Marik Warhammer began to withdraw, backing up the slope step by step, and the 'Mechs with it followed.

  Charles Bear followed, too, his Crusader's arm mounted medium lasers burning away at the Warham-mer’s massive body. Inside his neurohelmet, his features remained as stonily impassive as ever, but the muscles of his jaw clenched in anticipated frustration.

  Charles Bear's ancestors had been colonists on Tau Ceti IV, a loose coalition from among eight of the surviving Amerindian tribes of North America. On Tau Ceti's South Continent, the People's Nations had established a federation dedicated to preserving and continuing the ways of life of their ancestors. That cultural heritage rode with Charles Bear. He was a warrior and the son of a warrior, though his sense of the word was subtly distinct from its use in 31st-century technic society. For Bear, "Warrior" was a spiritual concept that could be fully realized only through hand-to-hand combat with one's personal enemy.

  In the vast majority of battles, however, a Mech-Warrior fought unknown foes, and he remained unknown in return. Indeed, there was a comforting anonymity within the steel hull of a BattleMech. So few Mech-Warriors survived long enough to become well-known that most of a warrior's opponents were reduced to the level of targets. Dangerous targets they might be, but targets on tracker screens and HUD displays, nonetheless. It became easier to press the fire button when your target was a 50-ton steel monster, and not a man of flesh and blood, with his own hopes, fears, ambitions, and berserker's battle lust.

  MechWarrior Bear's training and cultural conditioning had given him the need to face a known enemy, to prove himself in hands-on combat between worthy foes. Bear's ancestors on Terra had kept the custom of "counting coup," a way of winning glory, status, and warrior's rank by actually touching an opponent. In the past seven years, since his apprenticeship under his father in the Ceti Rangers, Bear had served as a mercenary MechWarrior with both the Ceti Rangers and the 21st Centauri Lancers. He had racked up a score of seven kills and five assists, but never, never, had he destroyed an enemy 'Mech in hand-to-hand combat. Until he had counted coup, however, Charles Bear would never consider himself a true warrior, the son of a warrior.

  Now once again, the enemy was withdrawing as he advanced, pulling back beyond the reach of his Crusader's outstretched mechanical hands. He triggered laser fire again, scoring hits on the Warhammer's left arm and side. The Warhammer dodged left and returned fire, a PPC bolt striking Bear's Crusader squarely in the chest, knocking him back a step.

  This was a worthy opponent, one skilled with his weapons, and courageous in battle. The scars in its armor, the evidence of patches and old repairs, a line of white-stenciled kill marks on the 'Mech's armor to the left of the cockpit all spoke of this warrior's prowess in combat. Bear ignored the other Marik BattleMechs, concentrating on this one machine.

  They exchanged fire again. The Warhammer retreated, placing itself close beside a house-sized boulder. Bear triggered his Magna Longbow long-range missiles, sending a salvo lancing across the valley and into his foe. For a moment, smoke and swirling dust blocked out that portion of the hillside. Bear urged his Crusader forward at its fastest speed, thundering across the valley floor toward the enemy's last position.

  When the dust settled across ground torn and cratered by Bear's sal
vo, the Warhammer was gone. Before Bear had a chance to wonder where, missiles smashed into his Crusader from behind. Bear dropped his Crusader in a roll toward the giant boulder. As rocks and dirt flew around him, he brought his machine around to face the rear, prone on the ground. In that position, supported by his left arm, he could only bring his right-arm weapons to bear, but he was targeting and triggering both the LRMs and the medium laser mounted in his right forearm before his 'Mech had stopped moving. The enemy Warhammer had moved with superhuman speed and agility, ducking behind a nearby boulder and circling around to hit Bear from behind. Now he circled again, moving and firing with lightning speed. Bear's 'Mech took another hit across the right shoulder, while his own fire missed. Dust from the explosion began closing in again. Bear pulled his Crusader to its feet, but rather than charge the hidden enemy, he circled to his right, seeking the shelter of the rock the Warhammer had used moments before.

  Hoping to catch his enemy while he was moving, Bear readied his weapons, composed himself, then moved with lightning speed back into the open.

  The dust was clearing, the Warhammer gone. Sharyl's Shadow Hawk moved across his line of sight several hundred meters farther on, dueling with an enemy Commando.

  Bear remained expressionless, but his hands closed slowly into rock-hard, tendon-strained fists above his controls.

  10

  The Marik Wolverine had fired his jump jets, and vaulted backward eighty meters up the slope of the valley. In response, Grayson raced after the enemy 'Mech. The Marik pilot triggered short-range missiles that hissed at his Marauder, exploding in gouts of flame-shot fury on all sides. Two struck Grayson's 'Mech in the left leg, staggering the heavy 'Mech and almost making it stumble.

  With the enemy forced back from the DropShips, it might be possible for the Gray Death 'Mechs to keep them divided, holding part of the Marik force at bay while they crushed the other. Grayson doubted that the enemy commander would care to keep the fight going if such a large part of his available forces was in danger of destruction. Grayson's one hope was to threaten the enemy commander with enough damage and destruction that he would chose to withdraw. Wasn't that, after all, the central tenet of any military tactical doctrine?

  As a commander, Grayson, too, had to be concerned with preserving his own company. The Gray Death's recon lance was now at the top of the valley's western ridge, engaged in a long-range duel with unseen Marik BattleMechs on the far side of the ridge. The retreat of the heavy Marik forces in the valley could overwhelm the recon lance, or at least cut it off long enough for serious damage to be inflicted on those lighter 'Mechs. Grayson wanted to get at least some of his heavier 'Mechs up the western ridge and among the company's light 'Mechs there, partly to support them in their duel with the Marik forces, partly to allow them to rejoin the company's main body.

  Reuniting with the recon lance was more important at the moment than dealing with the Marik Wolverine. Grayson dropped his Marauder into a low-bodied crouch and discharged a savage left-right-left-right volley of PPC and laser fire that staggered the enemy 'Mech and forced it to retreat again, but he did not follow up his advantage. Instead he sprinted up the ridge toward the isolated recon lance. He could make out three of the lance's 'Mechs at the crest of the ridge, heavily engaged with Marik forces on two sides. There was Roget's 35-ton Panther in the thick of the action, with Vandergriff's Commando and Trevor's Wasp close beside her. Their 'Mechs looked impossibly small, struggling in silhouette against the skyline of the ridge perhaps two kilometers away.

  But where was Graff's Assassin ?

  If one of the lance's 'Mechs was down already, the others must have absorbed plenty of damage as well, and could now be on the verge of being overwhelmed. He increased his Marauder's pace, racing up the ridge.

  Behind him, battle swirled through the valley close about the DropShips.

  * * *

  The Marik pilot's name was Gordon Wilcox, and he had been a Locust pilot in Captain Prosser's Hammer-strike Company of the 5th Marik Guards regiment. When word had come down for the Hammerstrikes to move on Durandel, he had been ordered to remain behind at Helmdown, guarding the DropShips.

  Wilcox had accepted the assignment with relative equanimity. He was young still, as were most Mech-Warriors, and eager to come to grips with the enemy. He had seen enough action in his short career, however, to know that even a relatively simple operation like mopping up on rebel civilians and a handful of light armored vehicles could be a risk to life and limb. How much more true when life and limb were sheltered within the relatively frail armor of a 20-ton Locust.

  He had walked his Locust on sentry-go around the spaceport perimeter and been on patrol when the news had come. Of the nine 'Mechs that had gone to Durandel, only one had returned. That the one survivor was Colonel Langsdorf's Warhammer was significant. Every other one of those eight 'Mechs had been lights. Despite its martial name, the Hammerstrike Company had originally been conceived as a fast recon company, and so the heaviest 'Mech in the unit had been Captain Prosser's Rifleman. Then Langsdorf—the man wasn't a Hammer-striker, but the regimental big-wheel of the 12th White Sabers—had come in and shaken everything up. The Captain had been bucked down to lance leader of the fire lance, and Nakamura's Griffin had been shuffled to the recon lance. None of it made any sense, except perhaps for the decision to leave Gordon's Locust back at Helm-down.

  Now Langsdorf was back, and the word was that the eight 'Mechs he had left behind at Durandel would never return. There were vague hints and dark rumors, the usual mix of fantasy and maybe-fact inherent in all military scuttlebutt. It was said that enemy DropShips had grounded near Durandel, and a regiment of renegade mercenaries had wiped out all eight of Gordon's comrades-at-arms.

  Almost before Gordon could absorb the magnitude of this personal disaster, new orders had come again. He had been ordered to attach his Locust, along with Fred Kilpatrick's Wasp and Hernando De Cruz's Stinger, to part of the 12th White Sabers and to move out against the rebels at Durandel.

  He followed orders, but with a growing hatred. Because of the jamming, there was no way to talk things over with De Cruz or Kilpatrick, though he was sure the other two felt as he did. Not that he would have wanted to discuss all this over a comm frequency! The thoughts Wilcox bore in his heart bordered on outright mutiny.

  As they approached the target area, Langsdorf had used arm gestures of his Warhammer to deploy the troops, and Gordon had found himself and his two friends in the center of the line, with the heavies of the 12th Sabers on either flank. What was the man trying to pull? It was obvious that the renegade meres had deployed in entrenchments along the slope of the ridge facing them, that the enemy was dug in and waiting for them. Could it be that the Colonel was actually trying to eliminate every last 'Mech of the Hammerstrike Company? They'd started off one short of a full company, and then eight had been junked at Durandel. That left the three of them, light 'Mechs all, and Langsdorf was sending them right up the enemy's center, where his firepower and armor were bound to be thickest. The man must be crazy!

  Then Gordon was too busy to think. The hillside had been a warren of cleverly dug and concealed trenches and bunkers. Though no single strongpoint masked enough firepower to seriously threaten even his Locust, the danger was acute, the battle an endless, nerve-twisting fight against fear and an unseen opponent, against rugged ground and hidden pitfalls and the sweat streaming into his eyes. A missile launcher had lightly damaged one leg of his Locust. The troops who had fired on him bolted from cover, then raced up the hill. Gordon's anger had surged out in a need for release. His hands had closed on his machine gun controls. He'd tracked his heavy Sperry-Brownings up the hill after the fugitive mercenaries, and triggered a long, satisfying blast that cut them down kicking. An enemy machine gun had answered from the crest of the ridge, and he had engaged it, trading round after rapid-fire round.

  He didn't see the enemy sapper on his combat view-screens until it was too late. He'd spotted the man racin
g away from under his Locust seconds before an explosion all but severed the 'Mech's foot. He had pulled off his neurohelmet and replaced it with a combat helmet. Dressed only in shorts and combat boots. Gordon's only body protection was the dark visor that would shield his eyes on a battlefield where stray laser beams were still flashing low across the ground. Anxious to find that sapper, eager to kill, he climbed out of his crippled machine while cradling the Rugan subgun.

  It was strange, some detached portion of his mind told him, how his hatred of Langsdorf had been channeled into an all-consuming hatred of the enemy. Had that, after all, been Langsdorf's idea, to take men already so angered at the deaths of their comrades that they would pilot their 'Mechs into the very heart of the enemy's defense, and in the fury of their attack, buy time for Langsdorf to flank and surround them? The DropShips, by all accounts, lay just on the other side of this ridge, a place marked as Cleft Valley on the Company's orbital recon maps. Langsdorf's 'Mechs must be over there now, fighting among the renegade's DropShips in an all-out attempt to take them before the enemy's main force returned from Durandel.

  He had seen the enemy sapper an instant before Kilpatrick's Wasp had fired two SRMs into the enemy's trench. He recognized the man's tactical vest, the camouflage pattern of his combat helmet. It was the same man he'd glimpsed on his screens just before his Locust had been crippled.

  Gordon hoped the enemy soldier was not dead. Killing him with the submachine gun—or better, with his bare hands—would be far more satisfying than the deaths of the two running soldiers on the hill. His anger was out of control now, a torrent raging against the injustice that had cut down eight of his friends and left him stranded on a fire-swept hillside light years from his home.

  The thought of home moved him forward. He had a sister and a mother and his fiancee Mirinda all on Marik, loved ones whom he had not seen in three years. Sometimes, the desire to see them was so intense that he could almost taste it. Yet here he was, twenty light years from home, hurled blindly into combat against murderous renegades by an insensibly stupid Colonel who didn't even know Gordon's name.