He watched the horizon. The distant mountains were dark, and other AgroMechs in the field sometimes were lost in their silhouette. The ’Mechs moved heavily, plodding, as if the soil was a deep swamp. None of them appeared to be conscious of anything other than their work.
Carleton thought about calling to one of them and talking about what he had smelled. But since he didn’t know what it was, and certainly couldn’t guess what the smell might mean, he stayed silent. He’d just do his work and hope he could go home soon.
* * *
There was a large circle of weeds, those around the perimeter leaning toward their neighbors and away from the charred ground behind them. The burnt plants were a dark brown on the outskirts of the circle, transforming to pure black and then to ash closer to the center. Some of those ashes had been crushed into the ground by the ship that had just settled on top of them.
There were several other circles like this spread across the empty field. The Clan Wolf landing had gone without a hitch.
The trinaries were already forming up while infantry troops prepared to follow. Alaric had brought few aero units, mostly scout craft, and they were already out looking for Marik troops. They had found some farmers but no hostiles yet.
The ground was wet, the weeds thick in places—’Mechs would be slow in these conditions. Not slow enough to truly matter, though.
“All units, follow Battle Plan Alpha,” Alaric said. “Move out.”
Helmdown was 120 kilometers to the west. Battle Plan Alpha called for a more or less direct approach to the city, with a quick stop to destroy an electric plant on the outskirts of town. Striker Trinary should be in range of the plant in ninety minutes, if all went smoothly.
“Aero One, have you seen where the Lyran units landed?”
“Yes, sir. They have put down in the mountains north of the city.”
“How deep into the mountains?”
“Approximately five kilometers.”
He saw it. He saw it immediately. “All units halt! Stay exactly where you are. Except minesweepers—minesweepers, move out front and proceed in active scanning mode.”
There were few good landing points in the mountains, and most of them were within range of Marik artillery. Alaric had chosen to land in the fields, preferring to deal with ’Mechs after he landed to artillery before. Vedet, though, had chosen the more difficult landing, and Alaric had a good guess about why.
The confirmation of his theory was not long in coming.
“We have found mines and begun neutralizing them,” reported one of the sweepers after only a few minutes of searching. “There are not a lot of them, but they are irregularly placed. Progress will be slow.”
Alaric nodded to himself. There had been nothing in the information he received from the Lyrans about a minefield here, yet Duke Vedet had landed in the mountains—as if he had known of its existence all along. The duke’s lack of honor was neither disappointing nor surprising. Alaric had come to expect nothing less from the leaders of the Inner Sphere.
“Focus on clearing a kilometer-wide path. All units, prepare to follow directly behind the sweepers, with Striker Trinary in the lead. Move out.”
Ahead of him there was a muted rumble. The first mine had been harmlessly detonated. Clan Wolf’s march on the capital would continue.
* * *
“There’s smoke on the horizon.”
The music in Carleton’s ’Mech shut off as soon as the comm came to life.
“How many plumes?” he asked.
“Two—no, now there’s a third.”
“Okay,” Carleton said. “They’ve chosen their path and they’re on the move. You all know what to do. Just don’t be obvious about it.”
There were various grunts and noises of assent, and then many of the AgroMechs made a subtle shift. It would not be immediately obvious, but they were all slowly coming around to face the distant columns of smoke.
Carleton pushed his left joystick back and down, planting the tilling attachment on his left arm into the soil behind him, then took slow, plodding steps forward. He hoped, soon, someone would be able to benefit from all the work he had been doing out here.
He took a few more steps. The tilling attachment stayed buried behind the jury-rigged ’Mech, in the dirt.
* * *
“Aero One, all those units are AgroMechs, quiaff?”
“Aff.”
“All units, cut speed by half. Everyone except the sweepers.”
That meant they were going from plodding to near-motionless. As long as they did not stop moving entirely, though, Alaric’s purposes would be served.
He kept his eyes glued to his scanner, carefully watching the movements of the AgroMechs. They were slow, but still significantly faster than Alaric’s troops at their new speed. Their movement appeared random, uncoordinated. They drifted across the fields, never getting within a quarter of a kilometer of each other, but never losing sight of each other either. Alaric doubted that was a coincidence—their meandering appearance was likely just for show.
It took almost half an hour before he finally could be certain that he was seeing what he thought. He could draw a line on his scanner, an invisible border that the AgroMechs never crossed. They knew exactly what they were doing—or, to be specific, what they were avoiding. And they had told Alaric what he needed to know.
“Sweepers, the mines end two kilometers in front of you. Once you reach that point, move aside and get out of our way.”
His units knew better than to ask him how he knew this. They simply complied.
Alaric switched to a broad channel on the comm. “Helm farmers, this is Star Colonel Alaric Wolf. You have ten minutes to abandon the field or you will be treated as enemy troops. That is all.”
He switched back to his unit’s channel. “These ’Mechs will attack us within five minutes. Be ready.”
* * *
“Are we leaving?” Carleton asked over the comm.
The chorus came back quickly. “No!”
“Even though we’re all going to die?”
They were louder this time. “No!”
“All right. No more planting, then. Let’s reap.”
Just like that, the AgroMechs went from being randomly scattered across fields to marching in a staggered formation toward the Clan Wolf forces. The ones closest to the minefield walked the slowest. The first line of defense against the Clanners was gradually abandoning its camouflage, and Carleton hoped their subterfuge would make up for the barely-off-the-scrap-heap equipment fate had forced them to use.
“Don’t get into a slugfest if you can avoid it,” Carleton said. “We’re here to slow ’em, not beat ’em. Start shooting before they get out of the minefield.”
He was near the back of the pack, wishing he was in firing range but reminding himself he was supposed to be in charge. His job in the battle was to die late.
The first shots were fired, LRMs and autocannon rounds flying toward the advancing brown ’Mechs. And his blood was up.
He wasn’t fast, he couldn’t be fast, but he was smooth. He knew how to work the pedals, how to ease off just before the ’Mech’s feet hit the ground, to keep it running clean over the damp dirt. Except when he was turning or changing direction—then it was a hard stomp, planting the foot into the ground and letting the gyroscopes figure out what kind of shift he intended. Damp farmland was his element.
He had no real plan. He never did. You could figure out how many troops you would send into battle, he always thought, and where they would meet the enemy, but once it started…once it started, you let it take you. You get into the current of the battle, the flow, and let it push you. The battle itself tells you how to win it, if you know how to pay attention.
Or, in this case, the battle would hopefully tell Carleton how not to get wiped out too quickly.
The Wolves were firing back. Their lasers, those damn Clan lasers, were firing, and the slow, modified AgroMechs couldn’t avoid the fire. Armor o
n the frontline ’Mechs was melting away quickly, and some of them had started to fall.
Earth was flying through the field, flecks of dirt spattering Carleton’s cockpit window. He could feel the pressure in front of him, like the heat from a furnace, burning his face the longer he looked at it. He moved right, plodding over the ground, calling on his troops to come with him, to rally in the face of the Clan Wolf pressure. The mud was everywhere: all the ’Mechs were becoming a uniform brown.
Carleton was relying on his autocannons, filling the air in front of him with metal, hoping to slow the Clan advance. He looked at his scanner, then looked again. There were too few green lights. What had happened to all his troops? It was happening too fast, they were losing too fast. Missiles were coming at him from two different directions, and there wasn’t much he could do but watch them come. He blasted his autocannon, hoping at least to make the machines that had fired at him pay for stopping long enough to take a shot.
Then he felt it. He felt the flow, and the current pushed him forward, and he ordered his units to come with him.
He hoped he would live long enough to find out where his instincts were taking him and why.
* * *
They came like Alaric thought they would. They tried to bottle up his troops near the edge of the minefield. They obviously hoped their ruse of using modified AgroMechs and trying to look harmless would buy them some time, but it did not. Alaric was ready for them, and the AgroMechs did not get a single shot off in surprise.
That charge on the left side of his lines, however, was somewhat unexpected. The AgroMechs were badly outnumbered, and a charge into his lines seemed like it would gain them nothing but a quick death.
Then Alaric saw it. It was not a large advantage they would be gaining but, if their commander executed the maneuver properly, he would be able to isolate a cluster of ’Mechs while handcuffing a large part of Alaric’s forces, who would have to shift to avoid catching other Wolf units in friendly cross fire. It was, Alaric had to admit, a cunning and brave move.
It was also a move he could counter.
“Striker Trinary, divide and pull apart. Give them space as they are coming through. Alpha and Beta, swinging gate.”
The frontline units of Alpha and Beta would remain essentially in place, keeping the AgroMechs engaged, while the rearward units would swing around into a new position that would set up a charge to push back the enemy—or destroy them outright.
He was farther back than he wanted to be, so he swung around with the maneuvering forces. It was quiet back here, so quiet that it barely felt like a battle. He needed to move forward fast. Or as fast as he could make the Mad Cat go.
The ’Mech’s feet felt heavy and slow beneath him, even slower than normal. His fingers kept reaching for his triggers, but he was not approaching the front fast enough. When he got there—once he was there, he could picture it, his lasers and PPCs cutting through everything, beaming blue into the heart of the defending ’Mechs. He could destroy them as soon as he was in position.
Then he was there. He had made his way around. He was moving forward, into the battle, and he pulled the PPC trigger. It was a wild shot, poorly aimed, and did not hit anything. But it was a shot, and Alaric felt much better for it.
The AgroMechs saw what was happening. Alpha and Beta were closing on them, and they had no choice. Their short-lived charge was over, and they started falling back.
“Keep a solid line,” Alaric ordered. “We want to keep them moving backward for the time being.”
He had position now, he had the correct facing, he could fire at will, and he did. The AgroMechs were falling faster now—Alaric saw one stop in its tracks when his laser caught it up high. The enemy was retreating faster, almost running. The victory would soon be a rout.
Then his comm sprang to life.
“Artillery fire incoming! At least ten emplacements are firing!”
Alaric frowned. “Where are the guns?”
“Two groups, one west, one northwest. They just came up from underground.”
“Bomb them. Shut them down.”
“Yes, sir. The emplacements are defended, though. It will take some time.”
He checked his scanner. The AgroMechs had been reduced to a mere handful, but they had slowed. They obviously knew about the artillery emplacements, but that would not be enough to save them. If they were slowing, that likely meant…
“All units, slow the advance. Regroup, form up, prepare for enemy reinforcements.”
The report from Striker Trinary came only moments later.
“Star Colonel, new units are approaching. Mostly ’Mechs, with some ground support.”
“Numbers?”
“Somewhat less than our own.”
Alaric only took a moment to decide. “Move back, beyond artillery range. Then we hold our ground.”
He could still see the battle in front of him, but now he was taking slow steps backward. The artillery rounds had started landing, peppering the ground and making the sky a threat. Alaric did not spare an upward glance, though; he only had a few moments left to fire at the defenders in front of him. He knew that once he started back, the defenders would hold their ground, content to hold him to a stalemate for now. The battle would end too quickly.
He fired a few more times and was rewarded by the collapse of another AgroMech. He consoled himself that there would be more soon.
8
Helmdown, Helm
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
3 April 3138
Like Gannett, Helm was pretty much a rat hole, but it was at least a rat hole that many powerful people had worked hard to turn into something it was not. In some small areas, Helm was palatable, even pleasant.
Unfortunately, Duke Vedet’s troops hadn’t managed to secure any of those spots. They had landed on rocky ground, moved quickly over more rocky ground, then ground to a halt on rocky ground that had the benefit of almost being in eyeshot of the outskirts of Helmdown but had no other positive qualities.
At least Trillian’s quarters were nicer than they’d been on Gannett. That was one benefit of traveling with a Lyran duke instead of a Clanner—Lyran royalty had a much better understanding of the importance of creature comforts.
She had a small room, but it had a soft bed, a reasonably spacious desk and a table where she ate some of the best military cuisine she had ever sampled. She worried that if the capital city didn’t fall soon, the Lyran chefs would run out of their more specialized ingredients and she’d be reduced to regular military chow. For that admittedly petty reason alone, she hoped victory would be swift.
She was at her desk, studying troop positions one more time before she met with Duke Vedet. No matter how many times she looked at the map, it made little sense to her. The map showed two armies, who appeared to have nothing in common beyond the fact that they were on the same planet, invading Helmdown at the same time. Their positions, and the movements that had led them there, showed no coordination. The armies were like two independent arms without a controlling head.
Alaric and Vedet would have been better off staying separate, carving their own paths through the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth. But, Trillian supposed, convergence was inevitable when both were after the same prize. Armies could only inflict flesh wounds for so long before they aimed a blow straight at their enemy’s heart.
The armies were getting deeper into the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth. The question was, which leader would lead the charge that would shatter the nation once and for all?
The answer wasn’t in front of her, so she closed the map. She switched to her incoming messages, hoping there would be interesting news from other parts of the Inner Sphere—maybe something about how the Liaos were proceeding in their attempted friendship with Jessica Marik, or any news about what was happening on the other side of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth, but all she read was dry diplomacy. Official announcements, bureaucratic requests and the other items that helped governments tick
.
She turned off her terminal. She didn’t have the information she needed—and she wasn’t sure that Duke Vedet would be any more forthcoming.
* * *
The meeting with Vedet started on the wrong foot and then went downhill. The duke’s uniform was spotless and smooth, and his face clenched. He didn’t wait for Trillian to sit down before he started speaking.
“I’m sure you have an agenda for this meeting. I don’t care. You are going to listen to what I have to say and then you are going to leave.”
Trillian sat down slowly and managed what she hoped was a friendly smile. “Duke Vedet, I understand there have been difficulties here, but please remember to whom—”
“I know exactly who I’m talking to!” he snarled. “The cousin of the damned archon who created this pile of shit! You need to hear this and then help your cousin pull her head out of her ass!”
“You’re walking on dangerous ground, Duke.”
“I’m walking on ground that has two enemies instead of one! Do you know what that Clanner is doing out there?”
“Please, tell me.”
Vedet picked up a stack of handwritten notes. The pen he had used had left deep impressions, almost tearing through the paper at some points.
“He has not responded to a single communication from me!” He flipped to the next paper. “He has refused to exchange supplies in any way, shape or form!” Flip. “He identifies himself only as a part of Clan Wolf, not as a part of the archon’s forces!” Flip—followed by a crumple as Vedet wadded the paper into a small ball with one hand. “He has refused to conform to protocols for attack schedules that I established shortly after landing!” Flip, crumple and a toss to a small trash can by the desk. The paper landed inside with a light clink.
Trillian held up her hand. “Okay, okay. I don’t suppose I could ask you to just give me the papers and not read them all out loud?”
The Last Charge Page 6
