"That's ridiculous," Thaddeus said. "The Capellans are going to thrust well spinward of New Canton. The Zurich move was a feint. They're hungry to get back some of what they think the Federated Suns owes them—particularly with the problems the Feds seem to be having."
"The Triarii—those that remained outside the Fortress—did move off New Canton to support Alde- baran." Green's tone was thoughtful. "Then there's Zurich, Genoa, Nanking . . . Altogether the strategic landscape should seem obvious. But they still think of themselves as facing down Liao with The Republic as their backup."
"If House Liao really does have their eye on New Canton," Thaddeus said. "That's more reason to prepare to defend themselves, not look to The Republic. For all practical purposes they're staying inside their Fortress."
"There are stories of knights outside the walls of Fortress helping some of the worlds they value stay independent. And you yourself are proof there are paladins in play," Green pointed out. "There are even rumors that Exarch Redburn is taking a hand."
"Hoping for a wayward knight or wishing for a no- doubt-mythical intervention by a retired exarch is even more foolish." Thaddeus said. "And one knight or one paladin is still only one knight or one paladin. We have no superpowers. If New Canton is looking for protection, they need to look to themselves."
"I didn't say they were making sense." Green spread his hands. "I'm just reporting what they said."
Thaddeus nodded, conceding the distinction. No point in arguing with the messenger. "The other three can't stand without New Canton," he said.
"Granted."
Thaddeus sighed and considered the completely bare surface of his desk. He found a clean slate was more conducive to creative thought than a view of distracting potential symbols.
"Military intervention," he said at last.
"That didn't work on Phecda," Green pointed out. "And these worlds have even less military potential than those."
"Our mistake on Phecda—my mistake on Phecda," Thaddeus said, "was not anticipating they would hire mercenaries. Or that they would appeal to Milton for long-term help.
"New Canton has already appealed to a rescuer we know will not answer." He raised his eyes to meet Green's. "So when they are attacked, their rescue will come from an unexpected quarter."
He gave Green a long five count to figure it out.
"Hire mercenaries to attack New Canton," he said. "Then have the neighborhood militia fly to the rescue."
"Indeed."
"It would have to be a real fight," Green said. "Too easy and the New Cantonese would see through the ruse. The mercenaries can't be in on it. I can only think of a few commands that would sign contracts to have their own people killed staging a fight and we don't want any of them anywhere near a civilized world."
"I have a group in mind," Thaddeus said, pulling a data crystal from an inner pocket. He held it up to the light for a second before passing it to his agent. "I am already familiar with their fighting style. Impressive. But small enough that the combined forces of three middle- class worlds are enough to help the New Canton Militia throw them off-planet."
Green fed the crystal into his pocket reader. "This group's name has come up recently," he said.
"How quickly can you set up the invasion?"
"Without attracting notice?" Green asked rhetorically. "Five months. Six at the outside."
"I'm assuming from your report that the other three worlds need no guidance in aligning themselves?" Thaddeus asked. "Good. I'll be able to arrive in five months or so to offer assistance in organizing their mutual defense and be on hand when New Canton calls for help.
"In the meantime, I believe I will relieve you of one of those crystals," he said. "There's a situation I think 1 may be able to resolve in the interim."
"Six months to prepare for invasion," Green said, reviewing the timetable. "Five for the neighborhood to form and one for you to organize their military. Maybe an extra for safety's sake?"
"Seven months, then," Thaddeus agreed. "In seven months we take New Canton."
32
Plains of AI Jizah, South Arragon
Zebeneschamali, Jade Falcon Territory
7 April 3136
Jerry eyed the three-sixty over his viewport. The image was enhanced, yellowed to boost contrast. The orange- red of natural sunlight on Zebeneschamali robbed the world of depth and definition. Or, more accurately, his own eyes, trained to the light of a yellow-white primary, were unused to interpreting images that faded from salmon through umber.
The rolling Plains of A1 Jizah stretched away in three directions, with the ocean and the hardpan coastal plain where they'd left the DropShips lost below the eastern horizon behind them.
Ahead of them rose the abrupt foothills of the western range, at this angle concealing the higher peaks that rose behind them in successive tiers before dropping abruptly into the sea. The stone hills rose directly from the prairie with almost no transition from sod to bare rock.
Only a few hundred meters at their highest, the long ridge of barren rocks looked to Jerry like a scale model of a rocky mountain range. Or, with a slight change in mental perspective, they became a shoreline—cliffs rising out of the sea of prairies. The cones and ridges of exposed stone thrusting from the matted ground cover— some over a hundred meters tall—helped the illusion, needing only foaming waves and circling seabirds to become offshore islands.
Jerry pulled his head back inside the still, prebattle cool of his cockpit and made another visual check of his command.
The formation was holding its integrity, a broad triple line moving broadside across the undulating plain toward the wall of basalt hills. His Sagittaire, in the center of the middle line, was aligned with their objective— a deceptively narrow opening in the wall of stone before them. The largest of the "offshore islands" was a domed monolith of stone, reminiscent of the Carnwath ruins, flanking the defile, concealing it from anyone approaching from the south or southeast.
The placement of that hill was one of the arguments the Zebeneschamali Planetary Militia used to support their theory the Blakists had chosen the valley as a stronghold. If there were Blakists, Jerry would expect any trouble to happen in the narrow valleys of the range, where a smaller force could engage the Juggernauts piecemeal. However, if the battle did spill out into the plain, that rock was going to create a defensible pocket the enemy could exploit.
If there was a battle.
Jerry still doubted there were any survivors. Or, if there were, that they'd be in any condition to fight at all after over sixty years of scrabbling for existence in this wilderness.
Hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
The first of the three lines was a mix of fast tanks and scout vehicles from both the Zebeneschamali Planetary Militia and the Juggernauts. Their job was to establish their quarry was in fact in place, making hard contact if necessary, then split. Moving north and south along the range of hills they were to quickly determine the extent of the quarry's defensive perimeter.
The second line—Don Avison in his beloved Schiltron and the heavy and assault 'Mechs of the Juggernauts ranged to either side of Jerry—would hit the hills. They'd go straight in if possible, but funnel toward the narrow central valley where they could not climb.
The third line was made up of lighter and faster machines, which would move in as needed to support the second line or to scout hills too steep for the heavy 'Mechs. Also in the third wave were the armored personnel carriers and the Juggernaut infantry.
The Zebeneschamali goal was unconditional surrender or total annihilation. Jerry favored the former option. Usually people who called for the destruction of an enemy had never faced a slaughter, or dealt with the consequences of carnage.
Of course, the whole debate would be rendered moot if they discovered no one at all in the valley beyond the gap or the caves riddling the hills.
Personally, Jerry expected . . .
A Demon tank upended in a fountain of flam
e and dirt.
The laser turret spun through the air like a thrown hubcap, arcing toward the Mithras on its flank. A dozen meters short of the other tank, the barrel of one medium laser hit, gouging deep into the sod. It bent, and the turret slammed into the earth with flat finality.
"Mines!" someone shouted needlessly.
"Hold position." Jerry ordered. Also needlessly, since the front line had halted as soon as the drivers realized what they were driving into. Had driven into.
Jerry surveyed the scene. At ninety-five tons each, his Sagittaire and Molly's Sirocco were the two heaviest things on the field, and from the size of the blast crater the mine would have brought down either one of them. The 45-ton Demon hadn't stood a chance.
The tank lay on its right side, its naked back angled toward Jerry. There was surprisingly little smoke trailing from the round throat of the turret collar. About a third of the body, radiating from the left front drive wheel, was gone.
There was no movement, of course.
More letters—
Widening his survey, Jerry examined the field between his front line and the ridge of metal-heavy stone. As nearly as he could tell, the grassland was undisturbed. The mines had been set a long time ago. Long enough for the ground above them to have healed. Years? Decades? It didn't matter. They were still there and still lethal and, judging from the depth of the crater, buried far enough beneath their triggers to be very hard to spot.
From up here.
"Elementals forward," he ordered. "Mark all mines."
Textbook would be for them to clear a path, but that took time Jerry didn't want to give the defenders. If there were defenders. Mines like this would stay effective years after the last survivor had died. Or left to mingle in with the native population.
"Front line, pull back in your own tracks two hundred meters," Jerry said. "Diverge for lateral survey of objective."
A little far for scanning. Particularly when the quarry had been eluding detection for generations. But he wasn't going to lose anyone else a little common sense could save.
The Svantovits moved forward. There was little risk their air cushions would touch off mines calibrated for BattleMechs. but still—
"Elementals deploy," Jerry ordered. "Everybody with reach, watch the hills."
Jerry's own weapons would be inaccurate to the point of uselessness at this range. But the Juggernauts packed enough long-range and extended-range ordnance to saturate the cliffs.
To his left. Don pulled the Schiltron forward a few dozen meters. Since the quad Artemis IV fire control system could place sixty long-range missiles with deadly precision at this range, Jerry knew the move was psychological. Let the Elementals, and anyone who might be watching, know that Jameson's Juggernauts covered their own.
Graceful despite their massive battlesuits, the Elementals fanned out from the fighting vehicles. With weapons at port, they were clearly unconcerned about possible threats from their surroundings. They focused instead on the ground, moving in a rapid but thorough search pattern that wasn't from the Juggernauts' playbook.
Jerry tried to discern Fiona by eye, but the suited shapes were too similar. With his own weapons useless against the hills, he set his scanners to making a detailed study of the prairie around them. No signs of trapdoors from which hordes of Blakist BattleMechs might emerge. Then again, there were no signs of mines ahead of them, either. He kept scanning.
In ten minutes the Elementals had made it halfway to the cliffs. The thickly matted groundcover behind them was marked with a dozen circles of fluorescent paint— the perimeters of danger areas above each mine.
Okay, where do they carry the spray paint?
A causeway through the minefield became apparent as the Elementals continued to paint the sod. A broad serpentine path led to the north before hairpinning to come back south in a nearly straight course parallel to the cliffs. The pattern fairly announced gun emplacements in the cliffs to the right of the opening, positioned to cover anything following the clear trail through the minefield.
Jerry cycled through channels to the command line he shared with Don and Tal Sender.
"Don, check the cliffs along the path," he said. "Target anything that might have enough metal to be a gun. Then target anything that looks like it might hide a gun."
The Schiltron would not be entering the narrow valley. The wheeled tank's wide turning circle would severely hamper its mobility, making it a liability in the narrow defile leading to the pocket valley orbital images had revealed. The best use of its massed firepower was indirect support, lobbing missiles over the cliff wall at targets painted by target acquisition gear. With its deep pockets, it was the best candidate for expending ammo on the plain.
"Nothing one hundred percent," Don answered after a moment. "Five spots with at least seventy percent possibility of being refined metals, four more fall between fifty and seventy percent and seven my gut likes."
"Any order you like," Jerry said. "Give each spot fifteen birds."
"On it."
The tank moved forward another handful of meters, turning slightly right so its nose battery could bear along with the turrets.
Cycling to the broadcast channel, Jerry warned the Elementals what to expect. He wasn't sure they would be as unnerved as he'd be by unexpected missiles suddenly arcing through the air overhead, but felt they deserved the courtesy.
A moment later the 80-ton tank was shrouded in smoke as the first flight of long-range missiles rose toward the distant cliffs.
"What of the cliffs to the left?" Tal Sender asked over the command channel.
It still startled Jerry that the Thor pointed in conjunction with Tal's words. For reasons they had not bothered to explain, Tal Sender and a MechWarrior named Moran had traded BattleMechs two weeks ago. He wondered if it had anything to do with their discussion about learning to fight in a jumping 'Mech.
Putting the thought aside, Jerry scanned the cliffs briefly. The plain before them was thickly mined with no apparent path. To him that was pretty solid evidence the cliffs above were barren. Depended on how subtle a game the defenders—if any survived—were playing.
"Your eyes are better than mine," he said. "See anything?"
"No," Tal drew the word out. "But as Major Don Avison's gut has selected points along the northern cliffs, my gut believes the promontory deserves special attention."
Jerry realized he meant the "island" hill jutting abruptly from the plain.
"Don?"
"Copy that," his XO answered. "Going with the gut."
The turret batteries rotated. There was a brief pause during which Jerry could see each set of tubes deflect as they were targeted separately. The big machine rocked and forty-five missiles arced to the domed tower of stone.
At this range the target was child's play for the Artemis targeting system and all of the missiles hit in a long, staggering row that climbed from midway up the promontory to its top. Great shards and sheets of rock fell away . . .
"Sweet mother of God."
That was Don on the command channel.
Jerry managed only one harsh syllable.
Peeling away, cascading with surreal slowness in the low gravity, the meters-thick shell fell to reveal a dull expanse of DropShip hull.
"Scanners," Jerry ordered. As though every probe in his command wasn't focused on the wall of metal. On the heels of that thought, Jerry swung his own scanners to cover the wall of cliffs. If ever there was a time for a sally . . .
"Dead and gutted," Don confirmed Jerry's initial guess. Still, it was good to know his command wasn't spread out under a DropShip's batteries. "Structurally sound, though. Anyone with a few billion to invest could have a nice little Mule here."
"Did you expect that?" Jerry asked Tal over the command channel.
"Neg, Star Colonel," the Clanner answered, his stress evident in his word choice. "It merely looked suspicious."
"Don, you've got the best eyes," Jerry said, his own eyes focused on the
Sagittaire's screens. He'd never missed the old Stalker targeting system before. "Are all these hills DropShips?"
There was another pause as Don took his time, checking each hill in turn with his sophisticated sensor array.
"Wrong kind of sensors to tell for sure," he reported at last. "But from its shape and apparent metal content, I'd say that ridge is a Monarch. There's a good chance at least two others are cargo spheroids, but I'd hate to guess their class from these readings."
Jerry nodded. Matching naturally occurring formations made sense. The shells were evidently concrete loaded with metal filings. It had to have taken years—after years of gutting the ships with whatever tools they'd brought with them. He figured whoever had landed here had to have lived at least five and maybe ten years to finish the job right.
And done it a long time ago, judging from the weathering of the ersatz hills.
We're going to start weathering if we stand here much longer.
"Lingstrom. Moran. Waltra, Babcock," Jerry ordered, "pull up your topos."
He waited a moment, giving the MechWarriors a chance to activate their situational maps.
Another one of Tal's suggestions, and one Jerry had liked from the beginning. Instead of lances or Stars, each 'Mech was an individual unit equally familiar with working with all other individuals. Specialized teams could be constructed on the fly as tactical situations demanded.
"Round valley central, objective entrance at six o'clock," he said. "Note high ground above tree level near center, spring lake and river exiting at eleven o'clock. I'll go through first, heading right up the middle for twelve o'clock. Basic sniper bait."
With eighteen tons of armor, his modified Sagittaire could take hits better than anything else the Juggernauts had. He was the logical choice to draw fire while the others spotted gun emplacements.
"Babcock, you're in number two," Jerry said. "Step right when the valley opens up and hold. Cover me."
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