As he approached the entrance, the Dragoon guards drew to attention and saluted him in Kurita fashion, fists across their chests. Their posture seemed respectful. Most of the mercenaries Minobu had met in the past had been remarkably lax about military etiquette. Some had not even known how to perform a proper salute. Minobu found himself wondering if the Dragoons' visored helmets hid derisive smiles. It might be their idea of a joke to pretend to be respectful. It did not matter. They were only door guards and their thoughts were of no relevance. Minobu ignored them as he passed from the blazing sun into the shadows of the building.
Just beyond the archway waited a young Lieutenant in the camouflage field uniform of the Dragoons. He noted that her pale hair was cropped close after the fashion of most ‘MechWarriors. Cool air from the blower units rushed past Minobu, to be lost in the sweltering heat outside as she stepped up, saluted, and said, “Colonel Wolf will be pleased to meet you, Chu-sa Tetsuhara.”
He returned her salute without reply.
“If you will follow me, sir,” she said, turning. “I'm sure the other officers will be along in their own time.” She led him through the debris of yesterday's fighting, chattering at him over her shoulder. He had only enough time for single-word answers to her questions concerning his flight down from orbit and no time at all when she wanted his opinion of the local weather conditions. Before long, Minobu's attention drifted from this one-way conversation. His body followed hers through the corridors, but his mind wandered through other passages. Lost in thoughts of duty and what it meant to him and to his future, he was startled when she excused herself and left him standing before an archway.
Beyond it was a large open area that had recently been a passenger concourse. Its function had now changed. Scattered about were several tables and piles of electronic hardware. Techs, in an activity common to their kind throughout the Inner Sphere, bustled about, checking cables and exposed banks of circuitry. A heavy cable snaked through the arch to a large table where sat an inactive holoprojector and other machinery. Around the table stood and sat several soldiers in Dragoon uniforms. The late morning sunlight glittered off rank insignia. Five of those present wore the triple stars that marked them as Dragoon Colonels.
Understanding dawned on Minobu. He had spent over twenty years threading his way through the mazes of protocol and the labyrinths of status that underlay the Draconis Combine. This was an old game. One that was older than the Successor States, older than the Star League, older even than man's first departure from the cradle of Terra. That homeless mercenaries would set up such a test was unexpected and hinted at an unsuspected sense of propriety and proportion.
Now he knew the reason that no solidographs or datapics were included in the briefing materials. Only one of the five Colonels could be Jaime Wolf. Minobu must identify Wolf correctly or suffer a loss of face that would hamper all further dealings with these people. He would have to observe closely and rely on that. He calmed his mind and looked about him.
Nearest to him was a tall, angular woman whose dark blonde hair was pulled back tightly at the nape. She paced while speaking to an aide, and the spring in her step suggested that it was chained energy rather than anxiety that drove her. Her movements were fluid.
In her pacing, she went past the second Colonel. Because the man was seated at the table studying reports, his height was indeterminable. His uniform hung loose on a spare frame. Whenever the blonde passed, brown eyes in a face as dark as Minobu's own flicked up in distraction. The man's movements were as sharp-edged as his eyes.
The next was a short man with gray-streaked hair, erect carriage, and steady, economical movements. His uniform was tailored perfectly to the well-muscled body of an athlete. Though he was giving most of his attention to the fourth Colonel, he seemed to miss little of what the others were doing. His calm was a pool.
His partner in conversation was of a height with him. Her body was strong, hardened by use yet softened with feminine curves. Her dark hair showed no signs of age. Minobu took her to be quite young until he caught the wrinkles about her eyes that could only have been acquired from years of squinting into harsh suns. A brittle shell surrounded her, protecting a yielding yet strong center.
The last Colonel was seated, relaxing. He was a big man, massive through the chest and shoulders. He would stand tall, probably taller than Minobu's own two-meter height. No aides approached him while he sat back and listened to the others. Occasionally, he offered a comment. His strength lay dormant.
After only a few minutes, the pacing Colonel stopped, dismissed her aide, and gave Minobu an appraising glance before turning her attention to the table. She said something to the big Colonel who answered her. She laughed.
Minobu knew the time had come. He was expected to make his selection. To delay would be a loss of face, even if he selected correctly. He walked forward.
Drawing nearer, he pierced the curtain of white noise that had muffled the voices around the table and prevented him from hearing their conversation. At his approach, the talk stopped. He passed the pacer and moved around to the far side of the table, stopping behind the short man. “Colonel Wolf?” he said, making the polite interrogative into a statement. “I am to be your Liaison Officer.”
The man turned to face Minobu. His cool gray eyes scanned up the front of Minobu's tunic, stopping momentarily at the Bushido Blade on the left breast pocket. He stared briefly into Minobu's eyes, breaking contact before the stare became impolite. “More than just a lucky guess, I think. What gave me away?”
“It was obvious.” Minobu's voice was calm, almost casual. “Yours is the only ki in the room strong enough for the command you hold.”
“Ki, is it?” Wolf, one eyebrow arched, glanced around at the other officers. “I think we are gong to have an interesting relationship, Colonel—or should I say Chu-sa— Tetsuhara.
“Let me introduce my officers. Footloose down there is Kathleen Dumont, Delta Regiment. This is Jason Carmody, AeroSpace Operations Group.” With a thumb over his shoulder, he indicated the other female Colonel. “Wilhelmina Korsht, Gamma Regiment. The lazy bear in the chair is Andrei Shostokovitch, Beta Regiment. The young sprat is Kelly Yukinov.” Wolf indicated a Major standing near Carmody. “He's the one who really runs Alpha Regiment.
“I'm afraid you'll have to wait to meet the rest of the command staff. Transport timing didn't work out.”
“Colonel.” The speaker was Major Yukinov. When he had his commander's attention, the Major inclined his head toward the archway. Through it, they could see the two Sworder officers approaching, led by the same blonde Lieutenant who had met Minobu. Her face was set and she was not speaking. No doubt Terasu or Hawken had commanded her to silence, for neither man thought much of a woman's conversational abilities. Without hesitation, the Sworders walked through the arch. Behind them, the Lieutenant shrugged and turned away.
“Which one is Wolf?” Terasu only looked at Minobu long enough to direct the question to him. Then, like Hawken, he scanned the assembled mercenary officers. Their disdain was evident in the way they held their bodies.
“I'm Wolf.” The Colonel spoke before Minobu could.
“You will brief us on the current situation,” Hawken commanded.
Wolf made a small bow of acknowledgement and began a rundown of the Dragoon dispositions. If he was annoyed by the peremptory manner of the Sworders, he showed no sign.
The bow was a surprise, though. It showed that the mercenary commander had made at least a cursory study of the forms of courtesy prevailing in the Combine military. Minobu wondered if Wolf was aware that no commanding Tai-sa, or Colonel, of the DCMS would ever make a bow-to-superior to a Sho-sa, or Major, as he had done. Perhaps he thought it appropriate from a mercenary to the soldiers of his paymaster. The Sworders certainly accepted it as their due. From what Minobu had seen today, Wolf might be merely playing to their arrogance the way one humors a small child. Minobu decided that this mercenary Colonel was a man who would bear
watching.
Wolf apologized that the holoprojector was not yet operative and proceeded to sketch the situation in words. His briefing was succinct and clear, interrupted occasionally by comments or queries from the Sworders. They seemed more interested in Davion activity in the immediate area of the port and the aerospace above. Though their questions were pertinent, Minobu could tell from the structure of the mercenary's presentation that he would eventually have answered all their questions in the course of his outline. Once satisfied that matters were proceeding according to schedule, the Sworders announced that they would personally inspect the security measures taken to secure the port.
The briefing reminded Minobu that there were still military concerns in his world that would constantly affect him and those around him. The Sworders' obsession with safety matters seemed uncharacteristic. He had assumed that the presence of the officers and the companies they commanded in this operation was simply a chance to blood some of the newer members of the regiment or for the veterans to sharpen the edge. It was also an opportunity to test coordination, tactics, and, perhaps, loyalty in a relatively controlled combat situation. The First and Seventh Sword of Light Regiments certainly saw little action in their position as honor guards at the capital on Luthien. The planet had seen no military action in Minobu's lifetime. It was secure and safe, as the capital of the Combine should be.
“The city administrator is at the gate, Colonel.” The soft voice broke into Minobu's thoughts. He looked around. The speaker was a slim Captain who had been standing by the table all along. A flat, metallic box fitted to the curve of the young officer's shoulder. A cord led from it to a receiver in his right ear, and another connected to the comp pad he held in his right hand. The boom-mounted microphone partially obscured his mouth. It was obviously a communications device, but Minobu had never seen its like before.
“Thank you, William. Pass him in and have Alpha's mobile HQ brought up.” The Captain was murmuring into his microphone before Wolf had turned to face Major Yukinov. “Time for you to go, Kelly. Reports at regular intervals.”
Yukinov snapped a quick salute, and along with several junior officers, headed for the exit. Each started to fasten on humidifier masks as he went. Minobu marveled that these mercenaries, so informal among themselves, could so quickly respond to orders, as was proper. At least, there were some soldierly virtues among these Dragoons. Wolf's voice caught his attention.
“Kathy, flick that thing on.”
The blond officer, nearest to the holoprojector, did as he said, and a relief map of the Ajan continent appeared, floating in the air above the table. The terrain was depicted in a muted gray, allowing the bright reds and blues of unit dispositions to stand out.
“Let's get this show over with,” Wolf said impatiently, “so we can get ready for our guest.”
Around the table, the Colonels began adjusting their reports, conferring with their comp units, and dispatching aides. The jumble of action reflected Minobu's reactions to Wolf's last comment. Puzzled, he asked, “What is this show, Colonel Wolf?”
Wolf left off studying the holomap. “Our visit from the Baron of Batan. He's here to meet the rampaging mercenaries, and we don't want to disappoint him.”
“So ka. Then the guest you wish to prepare for is someone other than the Davion administrator?”
“Of course,” Wolf said. His brow furrowed slightly for a brief moment. “Didn't they tell you? Your Coordinator wants to be a soldier again.”
Minobu thought he had misunderstood Wolf's word. Perhaps the mercenary had confused the ranks within the Combine. He could not mean Lord Kurita.
“Takashi Kurita himself is coming to visit,” Wolf said.
Suddenly, the Sworders' preoccupation with security became clear. In their pettiness, they had kept the information from him. Now that Minobu knew that the Coordinator of the Draconis Combine was coming to Quentin, he could only wonder way.
6
Baton Spaceport, Quentin IV
Draconis March, Federated Suns
14 June 3023
The road from Batan to the spaceport ran parallel to the landing field for a kilometer. The car traveling that road was a sober gray. From its right fender flew a flag showing the colors of the Federated Suns; from its left, the colors of the city of Batan. Looking out the car window, Baron Augustus Davis, administrative chief of that city, could see the invader marshalling his forces.
In the sky, a DropShip was on final approach vector to join others already perched on the landing field. Beyond the fence, its ragged gaps filled with strands of barbed wire, he could see vehicle parks, prefabricated barracks and, worst of all, row upon row of BattleMechs. Sensor towers stood guard in place of patrolling troopers.
The groundcar slowed as it approached the barricade that had been erected across where the road turned into the spaceport. Davis frowned when he saw the two banners on the flagpole at the guardhouse. One was the black wolf's-head of Wolf's Dragoons, which he recognized from holo reports of battles throughout the Inner Sphere. He knew the Dragoons were mercenaries, soldiers for hire, loyal only to the almighty C-bill. He had heard that those who served under the wolf's-head were better than most of that breed, but it hardly mattered, given the masters they now served. Above the wolf banner flapped their new master's flag, the hated Dragon of House Kurita.
The Dragon had brought war to the Quentin system for centuries, and with it, much suffering to both inhabited planets. The total annual output of the mines of Quentin III was less than a single month's quota in the days of the Star League. Quentin IV had fallen on even harder times. Its research facilities were gone, and the few industries struggled to stay alive. Now the Dragon was back, and Quentin IV would suffer again.
Davis's thoughts halted at the same time the car did. The driver opened his window, letting in a blast of hot, dry air, and he handed the guard a safe-conduct pass. The pass had been delivered to City Hall that morning, along with an invitation—or more accurately, an order—to attend the garrison commander.
Behind the opaque faceplate of his helmet, the trooper silently studied the papers for a while. Voice distorted from passing through the helmet's filters, he announced that they checked out. Turning from the car, the guard signaled his fellow soldiers to open the barrier. When the road was clear, he waved the groundcar through.
The car moved into the port, now an enemy camp where DropShips were disembarking men, equipment, and supplies. ‘Mechanics and laborers wearing Dragoon uniforms were at work everywhere. Scattered among them were workers wearing heatsuits of local manufacture. Davis strained to recognize the turncoats whenever one was close enough, but his or her humidifier mask always defeated him.
Once, the car had to pull over to clear the way for a column of BattleMechs. The huge machines were mostly painted in brown, dull red, and gray to blend into the colors of the badlands that dominated the continent's interior. A few sported bright colors or fanciful designs as though the pilot were challenging his enemies to single out the BattleMech for battle. Seen from a distance, the machines had seemed only more impedimenta of war. As the 'Mechs lumbered past his car, Davis shuddered and sat back, his hatred vanishing under a wave of fear. He had known of their size, but the physical presence of the huge legs blurring past the window, each foot large enough to crush the groundcar, was unnerving. He took one of his shaking hands into the other. When that didn't stop the trembling, he held them between his knees. He was still holding them that way when the car began to move again.
When the groundcar reached the main building, he was met by an empty-headed blonde who chattered interminably while leading him through the carnage left by the attack on the port. If this trooper were any indication of the quality of the Kurita invaders, Davis thought that the Davions should have them running for the system's jump point in short order. Before he knew it, his guide was gone and he was looking into a room full of soldiers.
The first to catch his eye was a tall black man in the unifo
rm of a Kurita senior officer. One of the triple-damned Internal Security Force troopers, no doubt. A dog set by the Draconians to watch their warhounds. Batan would be seeing more of his kind if the invaders were around for long.
The others all wore camouflage fatigues. One was, presumably, Wolf. Looking for a Colonel's rank insignia, Davis was dumbstruck to find five. How was he supposed to tell which one was Wolf? The mercs had probably arranged this to embarrass him, to put him off-balance. He'd show them. He examined the prospects carefully and found his man, a perfect picture of the barbarian at his ease, comfortable with the havoc he had caused. Davis approached, and with just the right amount of bored indifference in his voice, he said, “Colonel Wolf, I presume. I am Augustus Davis, Baron of Batan. I understand you wished to discuss something with me.”
The man heaved himself up from the chair. The broad shoulders rose past Davis's eyes, leaving him staring at a chest full of campaign ribbons. “Davis? I don't remember asking for a Davis,” he rumbled. Over the Baron's head, he said, “I'm going to take a nap. Wake me if anybody important shows up.” The big man turned and left the room. Davis glared at his back, silently damning the Colonel's insufferable arrogance in calling him all the way out to the spaceport for a petty insult.
“Baron Davis?”
The noble swung about to find a short, gray-haired Colonel facing him with hand outstretched.
“I'm Jaime Wolf. I'm glad you could find the time to see me today. I'll try to make it brief.”
Davis took the man's hand. The grip was strong. He knew he'd just made a fool of himself by introducing himself to the wrong man. Regaining the initiative would take some doing. Before he could say anything, Wolf spoke again.
Wolves on the Border Page 5
