He looked up at Janice with a shy smile. "But you were asking me about my dad," he said suddenly. "You know, the Cap'n kind of reminds me of him. I don't mean he looks like him or anything. It's just that, well, when the Old Man chews us out about something, I can sort of picture my dad, like when he chewed me and Gunter—Gunter's my brother—chewed me and Gunter out for sliding down the meergrass stacks or chasing the naffers until they got sick." He laughed, a high boyish chuckle. "They sure did look funny!"
Then his face clouded-over, and his eyes grew dark. "Corporal, how're we going to get out of here?" Janice could hear a thin edge of panic in his voice. "First they blow up our . . . our home, and now they say we're outlaws! Why are they doing this, Corporal? What'd we do? We didn't do nothing!"
"Private Chen! Control yourself," Janice struggled to keep from showing the sympathy she felt. Chen was on the verge of hysteria, and he needed to hear authority in her voice. "What do you think the Old Man would say if he could hear you right now? Do you think he'd be proud? We're soldiers, Private. Did anyone ever tell you that a soldier's life is easy? Well, if anyone did, then anyone is a malting idiot!"
Chen swallowed hard as he worked to regain his composure. Janice softened her voice.
"We've just got to hold on, Nik, and make the Old Man proud of us." She smiled. "Make your dad proud, too."
Chen nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching in a weak attempt at a smile. "Thanks, Corp." He got up slowly and brushed himself off. "I reckon I'll go over to the med tent, see if Burke needs any errands run or anything."
Janice watched as Niklas Chen walked away between the trees, and shook her head. If this is what the burden of command is like, I don't ever want to be a sergeant! She hadn't answered any of his questions, questions that burned just as fiercely inside her brain. How the hell were they going to get out of this one?
Would they have to disband? She didn't even want to think about that possibility, but she forced herself to it. She'd watched the Grey Death go from a handful of 'Mechs on her homeworld of Verthandi to a full-scale mercenary unit, almost a full battalion, though they all thought of it as "the regiment." She hated to think of the Legion that Grayson . . . that all of them had been working for so hard to build being dismantled.
But did they really have any other option? With the
DropShips captured, they were marooned on the planet that should have been their home. They had lost so many people, and those remaining felt shattered by their losses. From what Grayson had said earlier, they didn't even have the option of surrender. As outlaws, they would not be treated according to the Conventions. In fact, they could be summarily executed. How long could they hold on out here, with food supplies dwindling, with so many wounded needing expert medical attention, even if the Marik forces didn't make any moves to root them out of their hiding place? And even if they could get offplanet by some miracle—recapture the DropShips or something—what good would that do them? The evil reputation that had been foisted on the Legion would precede them wherever they went. No one would hire them.
Corporal Janice Taylor clenched her fists in pain and anger as the thought struck her full force. The Legion was as good as dead.
* * *
Grayson Carlyle walked through the encampment, noticing the many small groups huddled together in earnest conversation. The usual light-hearted banter typical of a soldier's campgrounds was missing. It was always bad after a battle, when so many were wounded, but there was more than that here. This time, it was the whole Legion in danger, not just individuals.
Most people fell suddenly silent when Grayson walked past, but he had overheard enough to know that many were afraid the Legion would disband, and that many more thought it should disband.
Maybe they're right, he thought.
Grayson had been raised to be a soldier, a Mech-Warrior, and so he was used to fighting. He was also used to being able to see his enemy, too. How did one fight a rumor, a lie? The story had been running on the local news service, Atkins had said, and had probably been vised on a thousand other planets as well. Even if the Legion managed to get off Helm—and right now he had no idea how to accomplish that—what chance would they have of ever getting employment again? The lie would precede them; they'd be branded forever.
Yet, if they disbanded, then what? A few of his people might be able to obtain passage offworld, but most would be stuck here forever. Not that Helm was such a bad place. In its cold, severe way, it was actually a beautiful planet. But it wasn't home. Not anymore. And even assuming that Marik left them alone, what could ex-mercenaries do for a living?
Even if the Legion did disband, how many of them would be able to make it offworld ... or strike bargains with new employers? More to the point, how many would escape the Marik nets? If Marik had gone to this much trouble to crush the regiment, they were not going to be content with the mere dissolution of the unit. From the look of things, they were bent on annhilation. Was it possible that the whole thing had been created just so they could seize an ancient Star League weapons cache?
Grayson stopped just then, letting his gaze travel around the encampment, watching as men and women cleaned their weapons, prepared food over low fires, worked or talked or simply rested in their tents.
There had to be something they could do!
The biggest question was whether there was enough of the regiment left to do it.
* * *
"We are not disbanding."
The men and women of the Gray Death Legion were drawn up in ranks under the trees along the Araga River. The Aragayan Mountains, tipped in gold and ice, crested to the north against a chill sky of blue crystal.
The Legion stood silent as Grayson addressed them from the open dorsal hatch of his Marauder, using the Marauder's, external speakers as amplifiers to carry his words throughout the crowd. All eyes, from those of Clay, Sharyl, Bear, and the other MechWarriors to those of the older children of the astech families whose homes had been torched in Durandel, were fixed on him; every member of the Legion stood waiting, expectant, and very still.
"I've heard all the arguments," Grayson went on. "We could disband, and go to ground. We could live here as farmers, as machinery techs and factory laborers, until the Marik troops go away. Maybe someday a few of us could hope to buy passage to Galatea, or some other mercenary hiring center, and join new regiments. But we're not going to go that way, people. And I'm going to tell you why.
"Disbanding the Legion is not the answer . . . not the answer that will help every man and woman in the unit. If we go to ground, maybe . . . maybe a few people will put together enough C-Bills in a few years to buy passage offworld . . . but where will that leave everybody else? Can any of you plan to work toward getting offworld, when you know that nine out of every ten . . . that ninety-nine out of every hundred of your comrades are going to be stranded here on Helm for the rest of their lives?
"And the Marik troops aren't going to be satisfied if they pick up just a handful of us. I would ... I would ..." He paused, momentarily unable to continue. He was no longer trying only to rally his people. These words came from the core of his own heart and will.
When Grayson found his voice again, it was quiet with certainty. "I would turn myself in to Colonel Langsdorf this afternoon if I thought that act would set the rest of you free. But they aren't going to leave it at that. They've convinced the Inner Sphere that we are murderers, renegades, bloody-handed monsters . . . and they won't be content until we are hunted down and exterminated.
"And even if we could get offworld, past the Marik troops, out of Marik space . . . could we live out there among the stars with the reputation they've branded on us. We are the Legion. Our name, our reputation . . . those are as much a part of who we are as our eyes and hands. If we lose that, as a unit or as individuals, we are crippled!”
He paused again, searching among the faces below him. From the altitude of a Marauder's cockpit, it was hard to read individual expressions. What he co
uld see was Lori almost directly below and in front of him, and she was smiling. McCall was next to her, grinning, too. Sharyl looked grimly determined. Tracy Kent looked drained, pale and expressionless. Khaled appeared as motionless as a statute, and as cold. Clay's face was unreadable as ever, but his hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically at his sides.
"I am not ordering you to stay," Grayson continued. "Any of you, any of you who want to can go, with no restraint and no bad feelings. As long as Langsdorf has some kind of unified force to chase after, he'll probably leave you alone. Perhaps you can eventually pick up your lives offworld. Perhaps you can find a home for yourself, here. Helm is a good world ... a place for a good life. If that is your choice, I sincerely wish you well.
"But the regiment will not disband! The regiment will prepare to break camp and move out. Tonight!" Grayson's gaze swept the ranks again. No one moved or spoke. The only sound was the rustle of wind among the leaves of the trees.
"I need volunteers for a special mission tonight, one that will give the rest of the unit a chance to get away. If you're interested, speak with your team leaders. The rest of you . . . you who are staying, pack your things and prepare to move at dark." He paused and swept the group with his eyes once more.
"That is all."
Normally, it would have been up to Ramage to take his cue from Grayson by smartly swinging about-face to give the order to dismiss. With Ramage still unconscious, Grayson did it himself.
"Reg'ment . . . dis . . . MISS!"
There was no movement among the ranks. Not a man or a woman moved in all those ranks upon ranks.
Somewhere, off to Grayson's left, a thin, reedy voice rose in song, trembling, though whether in fear or emotion, Grayson couldn't tell.
Home is the Regiment, across the sea of stars . . . Another voice, a deep bass picked up the tune.
On worlds hot, on worlds cold,
where Warriors tread afar.
Though place of birth and family,
though loved ones all be lost,
Home is the Regiment, across the sea of stars.
Then they were all singing it, the entire regiment together, the song buoyed by a surge of emotion that swelled and rose, sweeping the Legion forward, together.
Home is the Regiment, though warriors travel far.
They cannot take our home from us,
our home is where we are!
With brothers under arms we share
a bond that draws us where
Home is the Regiment, across the sea of stars.
Home is the Regiment, the price of glory high.
We stand with brothers at our sides
to pay that price, and die!
The blood of comrades cries to us
long after glory's past:
“Home is the Regiment, across the sea of stars.”
Home is the Regiment, in honor's proud refrain—
blood brothers forged together as
drawn steel quenched in flame!
They stand by us in blood and fire
and share with us the cry:
"Home is the regiment, our family and our own!"
Then the song was gone, and there was only the rustle of wind among the leaves. The regiment remained for another full minute, then gradually dissolved, its members breaking away toward the tents, alone or in small groups.
But Grayson knew that the regiment remained.
19
The mobile headquarters rested just off the ferrocrete roadway ten kilometers south of Helmdown, its parabolic antenna trained on an invisible point in the sky above the southern horizon. During the days of the old Star League, mobile headquarters trucks had been built with small but highly efficient fusion power plants beneath their forward cabs. There were probably still a few fusion trucks scattered here and there across the worlds of Man. The majority were like this one, however, its fusion core removed centuries before to replace some light 'Mech's damaged power plant. In its place was a rattling, clanking monster of an aging, twin gas turbine-charged internal combustion diesel. Vent stacks crudely welded along the armor belched volumes of sooty black smoke as the driver gunned the engine. Above the cab, the low turret mounting a single Hesperus B3M medium laser slowly traversed the horizon.
At the rear of the long, heavy, eight-wheeled trailer, a door swung open between a pair of armed sentries standing watch, dropping a shaft of white light into the night and across the gravel on the ground. A lone man in a tattered jacket stepped down the ramp, returned the sentries' salute, stood for a moment staring out into the darkness, then began to walk forward past the trailer. The door closed behind him, chopping off the rectangular pool of light.
A Thunderbolt, brutal scars still marring its right arm and shoulder and the heavy laser mounted along the outer forearm armor plate, turned at the man's motion, then resumed its patrol of the area. An Archer stood guard on the far side of the trailer, silent and unmoving. The air stank with the foul miasma of the diesels, and the night trembled under their heavy rumble.
Grayson lay on his stomach in the dark, his black-painted face and hands and black Special Ops uniform invisible within the shadowy foliage from only a few meters away. A whisper of movement stirred next to him. Lori placed her mouth close to his ear, but her words were scarcely more than a subvocal murmured. "Only two 'Mechs. Six sentries. No patrols."
He nodded, letting her sense the motion in the dark. Their assault force had taken nearly three hours to creep into position at this spot, ringing the huge mobile headquarters van. They had taken special care to make sure that enemy PBIs—ground infantry—had not been deployed as roving patrols and to identify the locations of any sentries with absolute precision. Lori's report meant that the last scout had reported in. Six sentries, two 'Mechs, and no patrols, at least none out at the moment.
It was time to move.
Mobile headquarters vans were frequent fixtures with regiment-sized units, though some regimental commanders, such as Grayson himself, preferred to lead their regiments from the pilot's seat of a BattleMech. Certainly, a mobile headquarters gave a skilled tactical commander a valuable tool in conducting a battle or a campaign. Colonel Langsdorf, it seemed, commanded both ways: from his Warhammer when engaged in relatively small, localized actions, or from his headquarters truck when conducting a far-flung, widely dispersed operation. Langsdorf's search for the Gray Death Legion was becoming frantic in its intensity.
Using Davis McCall's D2j tracker patched into an amplifier salvaged in Helmfast's ruins, Gray Death communications Techs had picked up radar signals from a high-speed multiple source rapidly inbound toward Helm. A new, higher volume of radio traffic suggested that Langsdorf's superiors were even now decelerating for a landing on Helm. Perhaps they included Lord Garth himself. If that were true, Langsdorf's activity on the ground could mean a last-ditch attempt to capture or destroy the rest of the Gray Death before the Duke's arrival.
Grayson began to crawl forward, his passage leaving little trace as he crept toward the rear of the van. As per plan, he crawled to a point some twenty meters from the ramp, then froze in position. Around him, behind him, he sensed more than heard the sounds of other raiders moving into position.
Seconds dragged.
Any sudden motion would be detected by the motion sensors of the twin BattleMech guards. Any closer, and the infrared sensors on board the 'Mechs would pick up the raiders, despite the special clothing and paint that helped cut down their body-heat signatures on an IR screen. Scarcely daring to breathe, they waited in the darkness.
Grayson had explained that the raid was necessary, vital, in fact, if the Gray Death Legion was to have a chance of getting away. If they could somehow destroy this mobile headquarters that their scouts had spotted moving south from Helmdown that afternoon, the enemy's pursuit of the Legion could be hopelessly complicated. With luck, they might even catch Langsdorf here, though the Marik Colonel seemed to spend less time in the headquarters truck than he did in the fiel
d in his Warhammer. If they could catch him, though, they might be able to bargain with his second-in-command, to win time enough for a fair hearing, or a confrontation with their accusers.
There had been no shortage of volunteers after Grayson's speech from his Marauder at the Araga River. The problems did not begin until he had begun choosing who would go. He had ruled out any of the MechWarriors, insisting that they were not expendable and that this mission would very likely result in heavy casualties.
But Grayson nevertheless found himself facing a minor mutiny, one led, he suspected, by Lori Kalmar, but enthusiastically supported by David McCall and the other men and women of A Company. They told Grayson bluntly that if he were going to be considered expendable, then they all were expendable and they all were going on the raid. It had taken an hour of argument before Grayson would relent. He would lead the dangerous raid, but the warriors of A Company would join him, along with thirty troops chosen from among the ranks of Ramage's Special Ops force.
Now they waited near their target, motionless, soundless, listening to the raucous mixture of shouts and song that carried across the compound even above the rumble of the van's twin diesels.
The Thunderbolt seemed to stiffen, its upper torso rotating slightly as it zeroed in on the sound. The heavy 'Mech's left arm came up, zeroing in on the noise, the stubby twin barrels of its paired Voelkers 200 machine guns protruding slightly above the steel-armored wrist. Light spilled from a searchlight mounted above the Thunderbolt's cockpit, glaring into the darkness. Grayson and his comrades were careful not to look at the light or what lay in its beam. They could not afford to ruin their night vision.
Grayson didn't need to look because he knew what the searchlight had caught. Three men wove their way arm-in-arm toward the van. They sang drunkenly at the tops of their voices, and clutched half-empty bottles in hands draped across each other's shoulders.
The Price of Glory Page 19
