Wolves on the Border

by Robert N. Charrette

  Terasu barked a laugh as Minobu twisted to avoid the contact, then stomped on down the corridor after his companion.

  Minobu watched their backs, shaking his head. The code of bushido embraced a diversity of adherents. Some might even consider those two to be exemplary samurai. De wa, he thought. A man had to mind his own honor.

  4

  Baton Territory, Quentin IV

  Draconis March, Federated Suns

  13 June 3023

  Hamilton Atwyl never remembered hitting the ground.

  When he opened his eyes, the Dragoon Lieutenant was lying on his back, looking up at the sky. A cool breeze blew over his face. The rich smell of loam and humus almost covered the harsher stink of burning oil, plastic, and blood.

  “Gianni, he's awake!”

  Atwyl winced at the shout. The tensed muscles sent pain shooting through his head, closing down his vision to a pinpoint. The vibration of footfalls approaching at a run sent another wave of pain through his head. This one rippled through his back as well. The pleasant warmth of the sun disappeared as the remaining pilots of Blue Flight crowded around him.

  Something pricked his arm, then Gianni Bredel's voice cut through the haze. “You O.K.? We thought you'd taken up farming when your Lucifer plowed in.”

  “So did I.” Atwyl's voice scratched out of a throat raw from breathing the superheated air in his Lucifer's cockpit. “Guess Colonel Carmody will have my rank disk for that stunt.”

  “Damn fool stunt,” Bredel chided, “but impressive, Ham. Your cockpit recorder must've been working overtime on the last pass at the 'Mech. Too bad your heroism will go unrewarded.”

  Atwyl didn't understand what his wingman was talking about. Damn, but his brain was foggy. Bredel caught his confusion.

  “The black box is dead,” he explained, caressing the holstered laser pistol at his side. “There's no record of your suicide charge, and”—he winked at Gordon and Hall—”we'll never tell.”

  The other pilots nodded, grins brightening their faces.

  Now Atwyl understood. His flight members had pulled the black box and destroyed it. With the box gone, so was the record of his lapse in command judgement. Carmody would never know. Blue Flight was rewarding the protective loyalty Atwyl had shown for those under his command. To them, such loyalty was much more important than some brass-trimmed Colonel's idea of professional detachment. Atwyl didn't even feel the pain his answering smile cost him.

  The beeping of the communicator in Bredel's fighter interrupted them. Bredel heaved up and ran to answer it. Hall and Gordon were discussing something, but Atwyl couldn't focus on their words. Their voices faded from his awareness. His brain felt sodden. Finally, he decided that they must have given him a painkiller.

  When Bredel returned from his Lucifer, he was carrying a rucksack. He stopped and spoke quietly with Hall and Gordon before bending next to Atwyl. “That was the man upstairs. He says it's time for Phase Two. And since we are so nicely situated here, he wants Blue Flight as part of the air cover for the Pathfinders.”

  Atwyl tried to get up, but Bredel was ready for that and held him down. “Blue Flight don't mean you this time, boss man. Your ship's a mess, and so are you. You're sitting out this part of the party.”

  Ignoring his protests, the pilots lifted Atwyl and got him onto a makeshift stretcher. They carried him up a slope and into the shade of the nearby forest. As careful as they were, the unavoidable jolting sent pain through the drug's shield of isolation. Bredel took care to prop him up while the others cut saplings and brush to build a blind. Hall spread a thermal blanket over the framework before covering it with brush. When satisfied that Atwyl was as well-concealed as possible, Bredel handed him a Binox image intensifier.

  “Now, your majesty, you have a front row seat for the festivities. And your own private sound system.” He patted the comm unit lying next to Atwyl. The wingman's smile dropped a little. “Stay put, Ham. We'll be back for you as soon as we can.” Then he was up and calling for Hall and Gordon to get to their fighters. Feeling a detachment that he knew was chemically induced, Atwyl watched them trot down the slope to the waiting fighters.

  A roaring in his ears brought him back from the dreamy fog into which he had begun to slip. He looked out to where the fighters of Blue Flight had been. They were gone. The noise, however, was still there. When shaking his head didn't stop the sound, he looked up for its source. Two Aero-Space Fighters with Dragoon markings shot out over his head. They screamed toward Batan and the spaceport at its edge. Behind them came a bulky Leopard CV DropShip, whose insignia showed it to be Colonel Carmody's flagship. Around the ship swarmed a dozen or more fighters, and he thought he saw the remnants of Blue Flight among them. As he watched, the small craft spread out in front of the big DropShip. Like the first pair of fighters, this flight dropped to the deck as they blasted toward the spaceport. Like Blue Flight before them, they were trying to come in under the port's defenses.

  To Atwyl's blurred vision, the attempt at tactical surprise seemed to be working. Port defenses were slow and uncoordinated in response to the closing enemy. The Dragoon aerospace forces opened up on the spaceport as soon as they had range. The usual assortment of missiles and rainbow of energy weapon beams bombarded the defenses of the port. Despite the seeming chaos, Atwyl thought he could see the raiders concentrating on gun emplacements and avoiding the landing surfaces and port facilities. He fumbled for the image intensifier.

  Just as he reached it, a wedge of three spacecraft cleared the trees. They followed in the path of the earlier ships. At first, Atwyl feared that they were Davion forces intent on smashing the Dragoons, but the grinning wolf's-head that adorned each tail fin told him otherwise.

  The Leopard Class DropShip in the first flight could carry AeroSpace Fighters. Its complement of six were, no doubt, part of the swarm that accompanied it. The new arrivals were also Leopard Class, but were the more common design for carrying BattleMechs. Each ship could carry a full lance of four giant battle machines, as well as two AeroSpace Fighters. Atwyl guessed that the fighters from these ships were operating in the advance wave.

  When the second flight was halfway between the forest and the port, another four DropShips rocketed down the path. These, too, carried the Dragoon wolf's-head, but they were a different type. They were Fury Class troop ships, each able to carry a company of troops and eight support vehicles.

  Atwyl switched the comm unit to scan so that it would pick up the Dragoon battle frequencies. Then he focused the Binox on the port in time to catch the finish of the first flight's run. Several of the Dragoon craft were engaged with some atmospheric fighters that the Davion command had managed to get into the air. Atwyl wondered whether they were brave or stupid for pitting mere atmospheric fighters against the Dragoon aerospace craft. The transatmospheric ships were so superior that the outcome of the fight was a foregone conclusion.

  The 'Mech carriers reached the landing field. Atwyl could see their landing gear still was retracted even though they were barely ten meters above the ferrocrete. When he noticed that the 'Mech egress doors were retracted, too, and that the ships were not slowing, he knew what was coming. In his ten years of service in Wolf's Dragoons, he had heard often enough about this maneuver, but he had never seen it. It took well-trained warriors and reliable equipment to pull it off. Dragoon ‘MechJocks called it downloading. Lesser men called it crazy.

  The Leopards opened fire to suppress any hostiles who had survived the sweep of the fighter cover. The right wing ship dropped back to clear a fire lane for the starboard weapons of its partner as well as for its own port weapons. The Pathfinders' BattleMechs appeared at the edges of the bays.

  The winds of the DropShips' passage buffeted the mighty machines. Atwyl heard the jump command come over his comm unit. In unison, the 'Mechs hurled themselves clear of the ships, some firing jets from back units, others using the jets set into their legs. In either case, the terrible momentum was slowed.

  Sp
arks flew as the 'Mechs skidded to shaky stops on the landing field. One, a Stinger, crumpled to the ground as its left leg buckled on contact with the ferrocrete. The remaining BattleMechs began to spread out at top speed. Some opened up with their own weapons as they targeted on emplacements that the aerospace forces had missed. Behind them the Furies roared closer.

  Again Atwyl's comm unit barked with a command. The BattleMechs on the landing field threw themselves prone and ceased their fire. Like the Leopards before them, the Furies came in as a staggered vee with clear firelanes. Coherent light, charged particles, and missiles rained on the defenses.

  A Davion BattleMech lance appeared near the control tower, but the lead Fury cut down the first two 'Mechs with its particle beams and missiles. The third 'Mech, an ENF-4R Enforcer, went to ground while the fourth disappeared back behind the tower. The prone 'Mech opened fire, bringing its autocannon to bear on one of the Dragoon 'Mechs. Shell craters pocked the ferrocrete and ripped into the target 'Mech's armor. The Dragoon ‘MechJock held his fire. The Davion pilot probably never had time to wonder why as beams from the passing DropShips converged on the Enforcer's position. As the only fusion-powered combat machine firing weapons on the tarmac, the Enforcer was an easy lock-on for the DropShips' targeting systems. Limbs flew as its ammo storage blew. The Enforcer's Federated autocannon fired the last shells in its chambered cassette round as the arm assembly spun through the air.

  While the guns of the DropShips were wasting the Davion BattleMech, a third order came through on the Dragoon battle frequency. Trooper after trooper leaped from the speeding Furies, each wearing an individual jump pack. Like the 'Mechs before them, the Jump Troops used the exhaust as a brake so they would hit the tarmac at something approaching a reasonable speed.

  Having laid their troops, the DropShips leaped for the sky to rejoin the rest of the aerospace forces. They would be harassing the Federated Suns troops trying to flee the port, discouraging the arrival of any reinforcements. Atwyl knew that part of the mission well. He had flown on it many times.

  The comm unit at his side came to life. Now that the time for split-second commands had passed, the channels were clear for normal battle traffic. The Dragoon 'Mechs were up and attacking again. The infantry, highly mobile with their jump packs, moved swiftly to hold what the 'Mechs had won.

  Surprise and the lightning assault made the rest easy. In short order, the Dragoons were in control of the port. From his vantage point, Atwyl observed the Davion troops retreating in good order out of Batan. As they headed south and away from him, the battle calls and commands on the Dragoon frequency changed. Victory yells and postbattle chatter filled the channels as the Furies returned to unload the infantry's vehicles.

  Atwyl relaxed as he listened to the excited talk. The tension of watching the battle had drained his strength. He was drifting off to sleep when the babble cut out suddenly, overridden by the command call buzz.

  In the comm silence, Colonel Carmody's voice was clear. “Landing zone secure, Colonel Wolf. You may begin landings, as scheduled.”

  5

  Batan Spaceport, Quentin IV

  Draconis March, Federated Suns

  14 June 3023

  The gee forces made breathing hard, but they were not enough to explain the difficulty Minobu was having. He had made combat drops in the insubstantial ablative shell that protected a BattleMech as it fell through the atmosphere. He had ridden down through the firestorms of enemy defenses while locked in the cockpit of a 'Mech that was, in turn, locked in the belly of a DropShip. Those were harrowing times. Why a problem now?

  He closed his eyes, blotting out the small stateroom. Was it because this was the first time he had landed on an enemy-held planet without being in the cockpit of a 'Mech? Was it the lack of a 'Mech's protective armor? Was it fear of death? No. Death held no fear for a true samurai. The old, old proverb of his spiritual ancestors said it best, “Death is a feather; duty is a mountain.”

  It was the duty, then, that raised his pulse and made his breathing shallow. Or rather the fear of it. The message with his assignment had been clear. He was walking a narrow line, facing concerns that were new to him. He feared failure and the shame it would bring. He had always been calm before battle.

  Minobu forced his head around and opened his eyes to look across the compartment. Sho-sa Gensei Terasu lay stiff on the lower bunk across the stateroom the Kurita officers shared. He was pale, with sweat beaded on his forehead, and his muscles were taut with more than just the strain of acceleration. Fear etched the face that a short time ago had been set with disdain for Minobu, the Dispossessed ‘MechWarrior.

  Minobu found it ironic that Terasu feared a descent outside his control. ‘MechWarriors, accustomed to the feeling of vast power that came with piloting a 'Mech, often showed quirks and superstitions when traveling in machines piloted by other men.

  Minobu turned away. To see a warrior in such fear only added to the shame of that warrior. Such enslavement to fear was pitiful, even in so crass and overbearing a man as Terasu. The man's combat record was superb, indicating that he had courage. Minobu wondered if Terasu's courage in battle was really fear of shame, which could overmaster him as thoroughly as fear of death did now. That would fit with his bullying attitude, too.

  Between the rattling and creaking of the DropShip plowing through the turbulent upper air over the Ajan continent, Minobu caught a softer sound. It was a voice, soft and monotone, reciting a Buddhist chant. If it had been coming from anywhere other than the acceleration bunk immediately below him, he would never have heard it. Minobu had not expected Sho-sa Brett Hawken to have any religious inclinations at all, unless one counted his fervent devotion to House Kurita. Did Hawken feel the same fear that gripped Terasu? Did he intone the prayer from a true religious impulse or was the chant merely a focus to calm his mind? Did it matter?

  As Minobu listened, the Starblade's rattling lessened, but the roar of the drives continued. The ship had slowed its velocity. From his estimate of the time elapsed since they had started the descent from orbit, he calculated that they were beginning the final approach to Batan spaceport. The Dragoon AeroSpace Command had been as good as their word. The Starblade had come through unmolested by the Davion defenders.

  The thunder of the DropShip's engines subsided. As the relative quiet of the hundred-year-old DropShip's normal creakings and hissings returned, Sho-i Rudorff appeared at the hatch to the stateroom. He apologized for the failure of the old ship's intercom, and assured them that it was safe to unstrap. Minobu released the restraints that had held him in place during the descent. As he started to swing his legs out from the confining couch, Terasu's head appeared. His face was flushed with returning blood. “Stay up there till the combat soldiers are clear, Tetsuhara.”

  He put a particular, haughty emphasis on the word “combat.” Hawken, also up now, grinned maliciously at the comment, teeth shining in his black face. Minobu waited patiently while they slung their gear. The Sworders took their time, but Minobu recognized that there was more behind their actions than a simple desire to keep him waiting in the cramped bunk. A hasty appearance on the landing field would not suit a Sworder's dignity, especially on a field captured and held by merc mercenaries.

  Terasu and Hawken finally finished. Terasu exited first, taking no notice as the Second flattened against the hull to give him room. As Hawken started through the hatchway, he said, “Make yourself useful, Tetsuhara. Tell the men to deploy the 'Mech lance into a guard patrol.” Over his shoulder, Terasu yelled back, “Make sure my men are out first.” Hawken frowned and hustled after the other Sworder. Their voices, raised in argument over precedence, echoed through the corridor.

  Minobu found Rudorff had come to help him change from the drab gray shipboard fatigues into his uniform. “I don't know how you do it, sir. Those two are barbarians. Always ordering everyone around. Such arrogance! As if they were the Coordinator himself. But you are never perturbed. Like a zen master. Why do you le
t them speak to you so?”

  “It is in their nature.” As Minobu shrugged to settle the black tunic over his shoulders, the high collar folded and caught on the side of his neck. He straightened it before allowing Rudorff to fasten it. “Just as it seems to be your nature to speak so freely.”

  At that, the man fumbled a fastening. “I am a loyal son of the Dragon, lord,” he stammered. “I meant no offense, lord.”

  “I take none. Here. Hold this box.” From the box, Minobu removed his dress swords and placed them in his belt; first the short one, then the longer. Stowing the box again, he shooed the Second out of the compartment and headed for the ramp. “Have Sho-sa Hawken's order conveyed to the lance at your first convenience.”

  Rudorff bowed. “As you command, lord.”

  The walk through the corridor to the ramp was short, but Minobu was perspiring by the time he reached the exit. Even in the short time the Starblade had been open to the atmosphere, the arid planet had conquered the old DropShip's air-cooling capability. Minobu's sweat evaporated in the first, unfiltered blast of the hot, dry air of Quentin IV, and he could almost feel the water being drawn from his skin.

  As uncomfortable as it was, the climate over most of the planet was far friendlier than that of its sister world, Quentin III. Even in the inhabited zones of that planet's great mesas, a man had to wear a full environment suit whenever he left the safety of a ship or building. Hoping he would not be outside long enough to dehydrate, Minobu looked out across the field.

  Nearer to the control tower, an Overlord Class DropShip stood on the landing apron, its huge, egg-shaped bulk dwarfing the BattleMechs walking sentry-go. The presence of the sentry 'Mechs and the bustling activity around the ship suggested that the Overlord was Wolf's command ship. The Sworders had obviously reached the same conclusion because they had already started toward it. Minobu was about to follow them when he noticed a line of communication cables running from the ship to the tower building. With a small smile on his lips, he walked down the ramp and headed for the port building.