"That is good, sir," Mako said. "I came to inform you we were about to make jump to the Phecda system pirate point. We will arrive on the ecliptic, about three days' travel from Phecda."
"You make it sound routine."
"It's fifty-two days from Phecda system jump points to the planet." Mako smiled. "Orbits and intervals for most stable pirate points have been pretty thoroughly- documented over the last four hundred years."
"I can imagine." Paladin Marik looked around his Spartan quarters. "You may inform the captain that I am as rigged for jump as I'll ever be.
"Operation Fair Play can launch at his command."
Kentwood, Irian
Former Prefecture VII
Brigadier General Antonio Blatz had stopped using his Dragon's Fury rank of Chu-sa when he assumed command of the Irian Defense Force. First, the Draconis title tended to confuse members of IrTech Security and the Irian Planetary Militia under his command. Second, it translated directly to "lieutenant colonel," which meant the ranking officers of the two local forces—now seated as far from each other as possible at the oval situation table in his large, utilitarian office—were his superiors.
He had performed a similar adjustment in "standardizing" the ranks of all his former people. Raising them a grade, in some exceptional cases two; giving the former members of the Dragon's Fury Brotherhood regiment on Irian every advantage he could in this new order.
For they were all former members of the Dragon's Fury. There was no point in pretending Katana Tormark or even Ichiyo Rusch—who had trained him, had pronounced him fit to command, had pinned the two green katanas of rank to Blatz's collar himself—cared whether any of them lived or died. They had been left behind— whether as a sop to a planet they had sworn to defend or as a misdirection to confuse observers as to their true intent did not matter.
Considering the way the Dragon's Fury had descended from an independent corps with a proud heritage to a puppet of House Kurita, none who remained on Irian was eager to be included in their number. Blatz knew he wasn't the only one in his former command who found the memory of the bushido code they had embraced bitter.
As castoffs, their position was similar to all of Irian. The Republic had imploded, leaving its former member worlds to fend for themselves. Any shame they might have felt in their discarded condition was absorbed in the betrayal suffered by their entire world.
Though that was little comfort now. With the disappearance of The Republic, the Senate Alliance had risen as a greater threat than their worst-case scenarios had anticipated. The senators had long presented themselves as a loyal opposition—the Senate itself as a balance to the exarch and the paladins within The Republic. Only recently had indications of the full extent of their opposition—and the limits of their loyalty—begun to surface. Blatz doubted anyone outside Genève would ever know the full story.
Of greater immediate concern was what the Senate Alliance had become. A nascent nation-state of seven star systems, still rough and unformed. Seven united worlds that could at any moment decide they needed the resources Irian had to offer.
Blatz's promise to defend the world until help from The Republic arrived was no longer meaningful. There would be no help from The Republic. He knew diplomatic overtures had been made to neighboring worlds coreward and antispinward of the Alliance, but had heard of nothing good resulting.
They were on their own.
Which meant responsibility for welding three military forces that did not like each other into a unified defensive force was his responsibility.
He glanced over to his desk—at the pewter sculpture on his desk. About ten centimeters by twenty, it depicted a thin and evidently beaten man in rags pushing a boulder up an incline. It had been a gift from Senator Hughes when she had commissioned him as commander of the Irian Defense Force. He suspected the figure had some historical or mythological significance. However, even without cultural subtext, the little figurine captured the spirit of his life in the weeks since accepting the position.
His own people he was fairly confident of. They had been competent—otherwise they would never have made it into the Brotherhood regiment—and were now regaining some of their spirit, adjusting to their new status. At the very least they were a known quantity who delivered what he expected of them.
IrTech Security—former IrTech Security—regarded themselves as the elite combat force on the planet. They had the best BattleMechs—the best of everything, in fact. Including salary. Irian Technologies had spared nothing in giving the troops protecting their factories more than they could possibly need.
IrTech had also agreed to outfit the nascent Irian Defense Force with materiel from their various ordnance plants. But at a price. Last he'd heard, the particulars were still in negotiation.
The Irian Planetary Militia was laboring under the impression that they were the only legitimate military force on the planet, IrTech Security being weekend rental soldiers and the Dragon's Fury being misguided pretenders to a culture that wasn't theirs and that had in the end rejected them. The fact that they were the smallest and most poorly equipped of the former commands served to somehow reinforce their self-image as professionals who overcame hardships.
"We are professional soldiers," Colonel Jon Greene, former commanding officer of the former IPM broke into Blatz's thoughts to underscore that very point. "We need to remain an independent, cohesive force. Spreading us thin to shore up amateur units is a fundamental mistake. You're sacrificing your only effective fighting force to make what are at best supporting units marginally less impotent."
"Colonel Greene, you last fired a shot in combat nearly two decades ago," Blatz pointed out. "The IPM has served admirably in disaster relief and law enforcement. There is no question of your professionalism or courage. But over half your troops are virgins. Combat against pirates—both on Irian and in hunting them elsewhere—has been the purview of the Dragon's Fury—"
"From which your people were discharged—"
"Because our commitment to Irian was greater than our loyalty to Katana Tormark!" The standard explanation came easily, now. "The fact remains, every former member of the DF is a veteran.
"And IrTech confirms Colonel Sander's troops"—he indicated the head of IrTech Security with a tilt of his head—"have had experience in small-unit antipirate actions."
In addition to what they called "industry-specific sorties"—a fairly transparent euphemism for industrial black ops.
"So while no one questions the competence of your troops, the former IPM is in fact the least experienced in actual combat," Blatz concluded. "Integrating them into other units maximizes their effectiveness."
He turned to the other colonel, shaping his face into a smile of false bonhomme.
"Just as integrating the former security personnel across the board makes best use of their experience and equipment."
Brigadier General Blatz nodded to the expected explosion, appearing to consider each point while letting Sander's outraged blather wash over him unattended. He let his eyes rest again on the pewter statue.
If Irian was going to survive an onslaught by the Alliance, they were going to need help.
21
Atlantic Coast, Gamurmaj, Phecda
Former Prefecture VIII
10 December 3135
"Unknown BattleMech!" someone called over the general frequency. "Not part of the Phecda militia."
The transponder ID told Thaddeus the speaker was a lieutenant with the Alchiba Planetary Militia piloting a Firestarter. That struck him as an interesting choice for an ice world where little would burn.
Around him Kriegaxt, his personal Warhammer IIc, was cool and secure, confident as it strode across the icy permafrost between hills of frozen rock. He knew the name he'd given it was a poor translation of the BattleMech's model designation—and not very creative—but the sound, the feel of the word was satisfying. Kriegaxt had a focus and finality Thaddeus appreciated.
"Details," said Co
lonel Ozawa, commander of Operation Fair Play's ground forces. "Report."
"Computer says it was a Havoc" the lieutenant answered. "Had an ax. Colors were gunmetal gray with the cockpit picked out in red—like he was daring you to target it—and what looked like a red paw print. He withdrew at first contact. South-southwest."
"Contact! Koshi" said a new voice. Captain Rollins, commanding the Alchiba militia and piloting a Centurion. "Looked like the laser and SRM load out. Turned and ran south-southwest. Add a big red triangle to that color scheme—on top. pointed forward. And I think that paw print is supposed to be dripping blood."
Thaddeus dialed up the command channel.
"Two scouting 'Mechs that could have stayed out of sight running south-southwest," he said. "Sounds like an invitation."
"Topo shows a broad valley leading to nothing but hills and ice and hills of ice in that direction." Hernandez, captain of the small Alhena contingent, said, her voice thoughtful. "Either they want to take the fight away from AtlanticCoast or they want to lead us into a trap."
"Both of the above is a good guess," answered Rollins. "I say keep pressing on for AtlanticCoast—a quick victory there will carry the whole planet. Keep an eye on our right flank for more of these bloody paws, of course. But once we've taken the main objective—and their employers—there'll be little they can do."
"Depends on how big they are." Rollins pointed out.
"We have a superior force," Illya Patel, captain of the Gacrux Planetary Militia, said. "Why not leave a lance to cover the valley entrance? That way we can take our objective but keep our backsides covered."
"Solid thinking," Thaddeus agreed.
Operation Fair Play required that the forces of the local government—the new coalition—be the ones who actually secured AtlanticCoast. This was their new world, their victory. Covering their backs against a rear assault would help ensure their success without stealing any of their glory.
"If you don't mind, I'll hang back, too," he said on the command channel. "You don't need me to take the base and I might make a difference here if the bloody paws have anything heavy to throw at us."
He did not add that—second only to Ozawa's Nightstar—his Warhammer lie was the biggest single roadblock Operation Fair Play could put in the way of a flanking action.
With brisk efficiency an ad hoc lance was formed from the four subcommands to support him. A Shiloh Panther, a Gacrux Razorback, an Alhena Puma, and a Centurion—older than Rollins'—from Alchiba. A democratic representation, Thaddeus reflected, symbolically useful and probably more than enough to hold the valley entrance against whatever mercenary band Phecda had managed to hire.
In fact, it might be enough to clear the valley.
As the main thrust of Operation Fair Play moved on to take AtlanticCoast, Thaddeus led his troops to meet whatever threat lurked to the south-southwest.
* * *
Anastasia Kerensky kept her mouth shut.
The air inside the command hut was cold—not as frigid as the wind outside, but cold enough to make her wish she'd worn more than her cooling vest and shorts. Only her feet deep in their boots were warm. She suppressed the reflex to shiver.
The battle of AtlanticCoast unfolded on the bank of data screens. Each pack of Wolf Hunters deployed along preset patterns, but not rigidly. Each adapted as the circumstances demanded. Advancing, pulling back, redirecting in response to—anticipating—the invaders' moves and countermoves.
This was the fruit of months of retraining, augmenting reflex and instinct with knowledge and cunning. Twice she saw opportunities missed and twice she bit her tongue. The cubs would never learn to hunt if mother wolf directed all their kills too closely.
If the Wolf Hunters were to truly become Pack, they must fight and think together—not just as tools of her will. Murchison had called the concept "all for one and one for all," though to her "all for all" was closer to the spirit.
This was the first test of the Pack in live combat. Their first blooding. And succeed or fail, they would do it as Pack.
"What is this icon?" she demanded, pointing at a secondary screen.
"A Warhammer IIc, not part of the Shiloh Alliance touman," the technician monitoring the satellite feed responded promptly. "Tentatively identified as the personal BattleMech of Republic Paladin Thaddeus Marik."
"A paladin," she repeated. "And he's broken off from the main thrust of the battle."
She considered a moment longer, eyes on the screens showing the battle she would not direct. Then she turned on her heel and headed for the door.
"Good hunting," squeaked a voice—half familiar but unrecognized.
A technician, she realized, terrified at his own temerity in wishing her success directly, but pressing on regardless. She did not acknowledge the salute, but a grin quirked one corner of her mouth as she pushed through the outer doors.
The spirit of the Wolf came in all sizes.
* * *
Thaddeus pulled back on the joystick as he brought his right foot down, throwing Kriegaxt into a buttonhook turn that should not have worked on the ice, but did. The Uziel's particle projector cannon went wide, twin bolts of azure lighting crackling through the place where his Warhammer lie should have been.
He swung back left, unleashing his own extended- range PPC in return. He arced a flight of six missiles above the smaller 'Mech, anticipating its jump to avoid the beam.
His opponent surprised him by staying earthbound, sidestepping to dodge the ER PPC's bolt. Not far enough—the box canyon he had used as an ambush restricted his movement—blue fire scored and fractured armor along its left upper leg and hip actuator.
Too far away to use its short-range missiles and vulnerable to all of the assault 'Mech's weapons, the Uziel jumped. The plasma flare of its jets sheened the ice cliffs with molten water as it cleared the ridge.
Over his general channel, Thaddeus could hear confused shouts and conflicting commands. Apparently the main thrust of Operation Fair Play had hit a combined force of undetermined size—except that it included everything from regular infantry to 'Mechs, including Elementals.
"Find the leader," he broadcast on the command channel. "Cut off their head and the rest of this pack will fade away."
"No designations, no clear leader," Hernandez replied, the sound of her autocannon coming over his headset. "It's like they're—"
It took Thaddeus a moment to realize her signal had gone permanently dark.
His own scanners showed the Uziel, ghostly and distorted through the ice wall, and something more his size moving up from the southeast—a position between AtlanticCoast and the sideshow he'd let himself get drawn into. His read of the field was that the mercenaries had hoped to keep the fighting away from the city, but hadn't really counted on the invaders cooperating.
Thaddeus cut right. His Clan-tech scanners had a slight edge on the Uziel's—there was a chance the other wouldn't track his move. Everyone knew it made no sense to try and take a jumping 'Mech by end-running a barrier it could clear. The other pilot might not realize he was playing the stupid card until too late.
"Paladin, it's like fighting a damn hydra," Rollins' voice was exasperated. "Twice I thought we broke them and both times they reformed on the fly. And if they've got radio chatter, the ECM crew says they can't find it."
No radio chatter was impossible, Thaddeus knew. But battle codes could be squirted fast enough to evade scans. Except that involved highly condensed codes, which implied the bloody paws had anticipated every move the invaders might make—or had a devilishly flexible response structure.
Clearing the end of the ice wall, Thaddeus launched a double flight of extended-range missiles, counting on the advanced tactical missile system's ability to compensate for his hasty aim. He was surprised to note the other machine was already facing his way. Either he was more predictable than he thought or this PPC-mounted Uziel had better sensors than the ones he knew. The missiles stitched the ground and the ice wall, but four
of the twelve hit home—lower left torso and hip actuator.
The Uziel's left leg buckled, but didn't give completely. The bloody paw pilot shuffled his 'Mech around to put its good right armor between him and the damage. At this angle he could only bring one PPC to bear, but he didn't have much choice. He couldn't risk another jump, the left leg wouldn't take landing impact.
Thaddeus keyed an alpha strike under his primary trigger—twelve of the shorter range high-explosive missiles and both ER PPCs.
He toggled his radio to broadcast on a universal channel in clear.
"No reason to die for a paycheck." Thaddeus said. "Surrender, bloody paw."
"That's Wolf Hunter, freebirth."
The woman's words barely registered before Thaddeus was thrown against his harness by a deafening double hammer blow. Crimson blossomed across the right rear quarter of his wireframe display as his damage readout announced Kriegaxt had taken two gauss slugs under its right arm.
Thaddeus turned from the Uziel to face the new attacker.
The assault 'Mech moving up from the southeast was a Mangonel. Twin gauss rifles over and under the center torso and four medium lasers on disproportionately tiny arms. This one was the same gunmetal gray as the other mercenary 'Mechs, with the cockpit, mounted low to the left of the upper gauss rifle, picked out in blood red.
But in addition to the bloody paw print, the Mangonel had a bloodred alpha on its left leg and an omega on its right. Thaddeus suspected he was facing the leader of Phecda's hired defenders.
The four medium lasers clawed for the newly torn armor along his right side, but did little damage. No weapons lock—the newcomer was firing freehand. Which explained the lack of warning, but didn't excuse his being so focused on the smaller 'Mech that he'd let this slower machine get the drop on him.
Wolf Hunters implied yet another fragment of Clan Wolf—or maybe someone who hated the Wolves. Either way, that "freebirth" meant Clan mindset.
Wolf Hunters Page 14
