The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  "And he'll ignore Lee's Pass?" Lori asked.

  Grayson shook his head. "I don't know. Again, if it was me, I'd send a small force—maybe a company or so—through there, too. It might serve as a diversion. Certainly, it would give the other guy something to worry about and might tie down part of his forces." Grayson looked up from the map, and into the eyes of each of the others in turn. His voice took on a new, firmer, and more decisive tone. "We assume that Langsdorf is coming through all three passes. He'll rush a fairly strong force through Drango, trying to catch us off guard and to hold us long enough for the main force to come up. He'll send a small, light force through Lee's Pass, partly as a diversion, partly in hopes of slipping ten or twelve 'Mechs into our rear to threaten our DropShips. And his main force will come down the Vermillion River, through the canyon. He'll figure that we'll try to hold one or another of the passes, and be swept aside or pinned. The rest of his army will reunite on the Vermillion Plains, move against our DropShips . . . and then he'll have us."

  Clay looked unimpressed. "So? Where does that leave us? It doesn't look to me as though knowing what Langsdorf is up to is going to help us much. I mean, it's nice to know how the guy's going to kill us, but it doesn't make me feel any better."

  "Well, my friend, when we know the other guy is going to commit a classical tactical error, we take advantage of it." Grayson looked at Lori and winked.

  Clay's eyes widened. "You bastard! You're going to take them on one at a time!"

  Grayson's smile broadened. "Hey, it's unexpected, right? That gives us quite a nice tactical advantage." He pointed at the mountains again. "Besides, we know some things about these mountains that Langsdorf doesn't. That's worth at least a regiment in itself."

  Clay shook his head, but his smile matched Grayson's. "Only one regiment? Well, then it damned well better be an elite regiment of heavy assault 'Mechs, or Langsdorf's going to cut them to pieces!"

  "I've got a question, Gray," Lori said. "This Langsdorf . . .he's probably got orders to find the Star League cache, right? What makes you think he's going to be coming through the passes at all? He might be trying to figure out how to open the east gate right now, and if he can't figure out how to open it, he'll figure out how to blow it down. Like we were going to do."

  "Good point, Lori. But put yourself in his boots. You know the Legion vanished into those mountains. You don't know what's inside or where things lead. You don't have a map. You go in after the prey, and you might lose your whole army.

  "But suppose you see the Legion ... or most of it, right out in the open? Like about . . . here." His forefinger touched the northeastern end of the Drango Gap. "You've got scouts and recon patrols out. You see the Legion 'Mechs that you were chasing out in the open now and moving through this pass. What do you do? Keep trying to open the door? Or try to catch the bastard while you can?"

  "Gotcha," Lori said. "He won't take the unknown road if he sees us clear in the open."

  "And when he sees us in the Drango Gap, the idea of splitting his force in an attempt to trap us or get at the DropShips will occur to him ... if it hasn't already." Grayson spread his hands. "After all, he may have decided to send a force through the mountains as soon as he saw the DropShips coming in last night."

  "We'll have a hard march if we're going to get across the Drango Gap before he decides to move, one way or the other.”

  "Agreed. But we're not going to march, at least, not all the way," Grayson said.

  "No, I think what we'll do is give the Nagayan Mountain League Facility's transport system a workout."

  * * *

  Colonel Langsdorf crossed his arms and closed his eyes. The ComStar Precentor had the most annoying habit of stating and restating the obvious.

  "Sir, I understand what you are saying. Lord Garth will be eager to get into that mountain and find the weapons. And I can understand that you are as anxious about that as he.

  "But please, sir, understand my position." He looked at the Precentor, then let his eyes rest in turn on each of the cowled and hooded ComStar Adepts. Langsdorf's personal belief was that the pseudo-religious hokery of the Order was a mix of superstition and baseless mysticism. If this was the hope of modern civilization . . .

  "Perhaps the Gray Death Legion went through that wall. The tracks and signs we have discovered, plus those bubble tents they left behind, suggest that. But on the other hand, we have seen their forces in a pass ten kilometers northwest of here. Seen them, do you understand? It may well be that my engineers could open this wall with explosives, as you suggest. But it would take time . . . and a great deal of attention that I simply do not have to spare. I will need my engineers for crossing the mountain passes. It is they who will detect and clear mines ahead of our main forces.

  "I cannot take my force into an unknown and unmapped network of caves, not unless I know where we are going. I cannot expose the rear of my force to attack, should the enemy slip around through the passes and into our rear. And finally, I see no reason to blunder around in caverns when the position of the enemy is known. He is in the Drango Pass, travelling northeast. I have launched Boomerang observation aircraft to follow his movements. I intend to meet him in the Drango Pass, and that is where I intend to crush him.

  "Now, I'm willing to grant that you, Precentor, and your Adepts have important work inside that cave. I will be delighted to detach an engineer group to assist you, once we've completed this operation.

  ' 'But whatever you have to do can damn well wait until I've done my job!"

  Langsdorf surprised himself as much as the ComTech people with this outburst. He was normally quiet-spoken, and not given to emotional outbursts.

  The campaign was taking its toll on him. There were too many people eager to give him advice, but refusing to give him help. With twenty-seven BattleMechs and a fair-sized armor force, he had an overwhelming superiority against the enemy. Yet, Langsdorf knew 'Mechs well enough to understand a twist of luck, or some stupid mistake on his part, could just as easily wipe out his advantage.

  "I understand your position," the Precentor said. "You will do me the courtesy of understanding mine. Whatever you may believe, personally, this expedition is here for my benefit. I suggest you remember who gave you command of this force, despite the objections of Lord Garth. It is imperative that I and my assistants enter that cave as quickly as possible. I am willing to grant you . . ."He looked at his wrist computer. "Let's make it six hours. That should give you time enough to crush Carlyle's force and recapture his DropShips. But if you have not won through the pass in that time, I will insist that you dispatch engineers on my command to undertake the opening of this gate."

  Colonel Langsdorf burned with a slow, inner fire at the ComStar Precentor's arrogance, but he channeled his anger, brought his anger under control. All that showed was a tensing of the muscles in his hands, closed now in fists at his side. "Very well, Precentor. Six hours should be time enough. I warn you, however, that this man Grayson Carlyle is a resourceful and able foe. He may be a renegade. He may have massacred those people on Sirius V. As an enemy to be met, however, he is worthy of respect—and the most extreme caution.

  "The one thing we must not do is underestimate the man. If we fail to understand the way he is thinking, then six years would not be enough for us to beat him."

  * * *

  Drango was a small village of perhaps three hundred people on the road leading south from Helmdown to the Vermillion Plains. The people were lammen herders, for the most part, though there were many farms scattered along the broad, mountain valley. Ferrisgrass was a nutritious grain that had found a place as one of Helm's few offworld exports, and the tough, fast-growing plant flourished at Drango's high altitude.

  It was midmorning when Drango's citizens heard the growing thunder of an approaching army. Some of the town's children had reported seeing army vehicles and BattleMechs earlier in the morning, and there had been rumors of mysterious fires in the night; of strangers, strangely d
ressed, working in the fields east of the town at night; of spaceships flying overhead on the previous day and landing on the plains to the south; and of strange sounds echoing down from the surrounding glaciers and mountains.

  It had been easy enough to dismiss the earlier reports as children's pranks or the overly active imaginations of adults. Not even the most skeptical observer could dismiss the sight that greeted the townspeople who ventured out to investigate that growing thunder.

  Altogether, there were twelve BattleMechs travelling slowly at the head of a column of dozens of tracked and hover vehicles. The eagle crest of House Marik was plain to see on 'Mechs and vehicles alike. While the inhabitants of Drango had heard little of the news of rebellion and bloodshed to the north, they knew trouble when they saw it. Most found refuge in the sturdy basements of their homes. A few fled further afield, and by hiding among the rocks and crags that surrounded Drango Gap, they inadvertently won a splendid view of the developing battle.

  * * *

  In command of the column was Captain Maranov, and he was pushing his people hard. Colonel Langsdorf had assigned his 4th Light Assault Group the job of clearing Drango Pass and of securing the village itself, with the mechanized infantry and armor of the Marik House Guard as support. The enemy had been seen in this pass earlier that morning, though there had been no sign of them so far. "Close up, men! Press up!" Maranov barked over his taccom frequency so often that, his men grew sick of hearing it. It kept the column moving quickly, though. If Carlyle's Legion was still in the pass, Maranov wold catch them. If Carlyle had already fallen back through the pass and onto the Vermillion Plains, then the Captain would follow, find him, and hold him until Langsdorf could arrive with the main army. Maranov's Warhammer strode ahead with a rapid and determined stride. He was flanked by Colby and Vitner in their two Phoenix Hawks, a powerful and impressive phalanx advancing out of the morning sun.

  The first explosive charge went off under Vitner's Phoenix Hawk, an eruption of dirt and gravel that smashed Vitner's 45-ton 'Mech forward in a cascading hail of smoke and debris. Maranov pivoted his Warhammer, searching for an enemy, but his scanners were clear of all but his own 'Mechs and the buildings of the town ahead. Vitner had begun pulling his 'Mech to its feet when a second explosion erupted to the southeast, close beside Benning's Griffin.

  "Mines!" Bennings called over the comnet. "They've hidden explosives out here, among the rocks!"

  Maranov looked around wildly. All along, he had been seeing the Drango Gap as a broad, straight highway through the mountains toward his goal, the plain that reconnaissance said now served as landing field for a pair of enemy DropShips. Get through the Gap quickly enough, and he would have the enemy helpless, right where he wanted him.

  With the shattering detonations of the mines, Maranov abruptly saw the pass in a different light. The mountains towered on either side of the gap, needle sharp and capped with glinting ice, barriers impassible by something as clumsy as a BattleMech. Indeed, the Marik Captain now realized that the valley was a splendid place for an ambush.

  "Captain!" That call was from Jennings in his Crusader. "Bogies at two-niner-five! I have targets!”

  “Acquire them and bring them down! Range?”

  “Five hundred, and clos ..."

  Another explosion chopped off the radio voice, this time coming from high on a hillside close alongside Jennings's 'Mech. Maranov saw the avalanche started by the mine explosion hurling a mass of broken rubble and rock down on Jennings's Crusader.

  "I'm O.K.!" Jennings said after a moment. "Just shaken. But gods . . . where are they coming from?"

  Maranov had been wondering the same thing. The enemy 'Mechs, each painted with a distinctive grey-on-red skull emblem, seemed to be rising out of the rocks around them. There were four on the northwest side of the pass, and four more to the southeast.

  "All units! Fire! Bring them down!"

  Maranov lowered his Warhammer's PPCs and opened fire, heavy bolts of charged particles searing through the morning air, striking into the approaching 'Mechs and across the rocks around and behind them. His fire was joined by the other 'Mechs in his group, as lasers stabbed at the approaching 'Mechs, and rockets wove their delicate, white contrails through the sky toward their targets.

  Multiple rocket warheads slammed into Maranov's Warhammer, exploding, sending chunks of armor spinning wildly in every direction. He returned fire, but he realized with growing alarm that his right arm PPC was overheating with each discharge. That weapon had taken battle damage against Liao six months before, and it still malfunctioned, despite everything he or his Tech could do. That malfunction was a critical factor in his combat now, for if ever he needed heavy and rapid fire, this was it!

  Vitner's Phoenix Hawk triggered its jump jets and rose clumsily into the air, but Maranov could see that the Hawk had taken severe damage to its legs, probably as a result of the mine blast. The 'Mech came down heavily, awkwardly, and nearly fell. One of its backpack jets had been burning roughly, too.

  An explosion staggered Maranov, knocking him aside. He fought the controls of his Warhammer as his gyros shrieked protest. Then the heavy machine responded and slowly righted itself. He swung around to face the new threat and saw an enemy Archer bearing down on him from the east. A second salvo of missiles erupted from the heavy machine's torso launchers as he watched. Then the air was thick with missiles, the ground around him erupting in a nearly continuous cacophony of sound and light and jagged, hurtling chunks of rock.

  The Warhammer's instruments shrieked warning at him, red lights reported a fire in his left leg actuator shielding, of a breakthrough in the armor on his left torso, of a critical failure of his left arm actuator. Stubbornly, Maranov pressed through the smoke and noise. His left PPC was not responding to his controls, its barrel dragging on the ground with each step. His right PPC fired . . . then fired again. Lightning arced from the enemy Archer, leaving a blackened patch high on the machine's right torso.

  Then something slammed into him from the rear of the Warhammer once again. With his 'Mech's right leg dragging because of the knee joint jammed by an imploded section of armor, he managed a slow and clumsy turn. Through the smoke, he could make out another 'Mech lumbering toward him—a Rifleman—and its horrifying firepower was concentrated on him. Twin lasers fired one after another, opening Maranov's armored torso and peeling back the edges. Twin autocannon sent 80 mm rapid fire shells smashing into the ruin. Maranov could see the twinkle of spent A/C shell casings as they flipped from the rapid-cycling ejection ports of the Rifleman's primary weapons. Shells slammed home into the critically damaged torso of his machine, tearing through red-hot metal. He heard the grinding clatter, felt the vibration under his feet as something massive gave way. He shoved the Warhammer's controls forward and twisted hard to the left, hoping to avoid the charging Rifleman's rush.

  The move failed. His gyros were gone, and his BattleMech froze in place. Maranov cursed and smashed at the controls with bleeding fists, but the machine remained as immovable as the mountains around him.

  A strange, keening sound was coming across the tac-com net now. It was hard to tell, of course, but the words seemed timed with that Rifleman's movements, and Maranov could have sworn that it was the Rifleman's, pilot who was screaming. At him. In a totally incomprehensible language.

  Then it was Maranov's turn to scream, as the deck split wide with the stress, and flame licked across his bare legs.

  His fist came down on the large red button that would blast him clear of his crippled Warhammer, blast him clear of the intolerable agony licking at his blistered legs. Nothing happened, for the same explosion that had torn his 'Mech's cockpit deck had torn the ejection release cables as well. Maranov triggered the firing circuits, again, and again nothing. He stopped his screaming long enough to stare in frank disbelief at the ejection hatch half a meter above his neurohelmet, still stubbornly closed. He mashed the button again . . . and again . . .

  Another explosion ro
cked him. Without gyros to compensate, the Warhammer toppled like a falling statue, smashing into the stony, ground with an impact that hurled Maranov forward against his restraining straps and tore the neurohelmet from his shoulders.

  The explosion and fall had split open the Warhammer's coolant tanks. With the 'Mech in a head-down position, most of the superheated chemical fluid that had not already flashed into steam flooded into the ruptured cockpit.

  Maranov was mercifully unconscious by the time the boiling liquid reached him.

  30

  Grayson's command and fire lances had caught the Marik BattleMechs between them, with the 'Mechs near the head of the trap caught in a flame-shot crossfire, while those toward the rear could not return fire without risk of hitting their own forces. Grayson's Marauder strode forward through the battlefog. As manmade lightning flared and flashed, he found himself confronting a Marik Crusader rising from the rubble of a landslide caused by an exploding mine.

  Grayson's Marauder fired with both PPCs and lasers together, scoring great, jagged hits on the Marik 'Mech's hull. The Crusader returned his fire. The Marauder took a hit on its right arm, and another squarely in the hull just below the cockpit. Over the general taccom frequency, Grayson could hear McCall's Scots curses, in themselves spine-curdling sounds that might easily confuse the enemy. He brought his massive, 120 mm auto-cannon down into line and touched off a long, rolling stream of fire that arced into the Crusader. Explosions flashed close by the Marik machine, and a hit on its left leg knocked it down into a kneeling position.