Dragoon foot soldiers, support personnel, and dependents had been arriving for nearly half an hour. The square was almost full, with every Dragoon present on An Ting anxious to hear Wolf's address. The only ones not attending were those charged with keeping the remnants of Ryuken-ichi away from Cerant or with maintaining high guard in the aerospace above the city.
A familiar sound reached Dechan's ears, carrying easily above the noise of the milling Dragoons. It was the unmistakable thunder of giant BattleMech feet striking concrete. Dechan slid his arm free of the climbing rung. Gripping it tightly, he swung his body out to get a better viewing angle.
“What is it?” Dominguez called. From his position, he couldn't see through the crowd.
A smile lit Dechan's face. “It's the kids.” As the crowd nearest the street raised a hurrah at the sight of the new arrivals, the shouting became contagious and spread across the square. The cheering took up the rhythm of the pounding feet.
A half-dozen machines entered the square. Each was a training 'Mech and carried the insignia of the Training Command. These young pilots had distinguished themselves by saving the Dragoons at Boupeig barracks from the first onslaught of the Ryuken and had continued to prove themselves as warriors in the fighting that followed. They had served as the mobile reaction force for the defense of the barracks area, freeing the more experienced warriors of Lean's and Fraser's companies for the tricky work of city-fighting. The young pilots were to be decorated today, which was the last time they would pilot the training machines. After this, they would be assigned to BattleMechs and duty among the regiments. They had earned their places. The heroes of the Training Command piloted their 'Mechs into the roped-off area reserved for them and powered down. The open-topped groundcar that had been following in their wake pulled through their formation and halted before the steps of the administration building. Dechan could see a white-haired officer, who had to be Colonel Ellman, exit the car. Though exhaustion slumped his shoulders, he still radiated pride in his charges. That pride was well-justified, Dechan thought. Those kids had come through in a spot that would have challenged experienced ‘MechWarriors.
The excitement of the trainees' arrival died away, and the gathered Dragoons returned to their mutterings. From his perch, Dechan listened in on a few within earshot. The desire for revenge was on everyone's lips, and people seemed to differ only in their opinions of the best way to go about it. Most seemed to want to burn Luthien around Takashi Kurita's ears and to use Warlord Samsonov as kindling.
A flash of movement in the darkness inside the administration building caught Dechan's attention. Eyes straining, he squinted through the sun's glare before remembering that the Binox goggles, which he had brought along for a better view, had a polarized setting as well. He pulled them up from the thong around his neck and snugged them into place. Now he was able to peer into the gloomy hallway that ran from the open doors deep into the building.
Colonel Wolf was on his way up the corridor, his step steady and strong, his head held high. Dechan couldn't understand how a fifty-plus-year-old man like Wolf could bounce back so quickly. It was the young ones like himself who were supposed to be resilient. Dechan knew that Wolf had to be as exhausted as the rest of them, but the Colonel didn't show it.
The crowd quieted when they saw Wolf approaching the microphones that would carry his words to the repeaters scattered throughout the square, and even further to the Dragoons stationed in orbit.
“Dragoons,” Wolf began, gazing around at the gathering. “Today we welcome new ‘MechWarriors to the ranks of our fighting forces. I call upon all present to witness that honor.” Cheers followed the former trainees as they marched up the steps to receive their badges of rank from the hand of Colonel Wolf.
Rituals completed, the young ‘MechWarriors filed down from the steps and returned to their training machines to hand the neurohelmets over to the new trainees who would take their places. Colonel Ellman did not go with them, but took his place behind Wolf, joining Colonel Arbuthnot and the other senior Dragoon officers present on An Ting. Dechan took it as a sign of solidarity among the upper ranks.
From somewhere in the crowd, a voice shouted a question to the Colonel.
“When are we going Snake hunting, Colonel?”
Somehow Wolf spotted the speaker and fixed him with a hard look. “Your answer's coming, Rodrigues. Sit tight.” Both the question and answer were transmitted through the repeater system. When the thronging Dragoons heard Wolf's words, they roared their approval, anticipating vengeance.
Through the binox, Dechan could see the Colonel close his eyes at the crowd's response. For an instant, the strength that Wolf projected faltered and his exhaustion was there for Dechan to see. Then the shields slid back into place and Wolf was the quintessential commander again. He positioned himself squarely behind the microphones.
“Blood has brought us here today,” he said. “Blood shed by our comrades. Blood shed by our enemies. But most of all, blood shed by the men, women, and children of our kin. That blood calls us. It calls for vengeance.”
The Dragoons roared their approval.
“We stand where we are today because of the actions of others. We have been forced to this crucial point through no choice of our own. We gave fair service, but self-seeking men have betrayed us. They have cost us dearly, and we have only begun to make them pay.
“We have choices,” Wolf said over the cheers.
“We can take the torch to Luthien and burn out the cancer at the heart of the Draconis Combine. We can avenge ourselves as we did at New Delos. Is that what you want?”
Hundreds of voices screamed, “Yes!”
Dechan did not feel the same way, though. He had not been a part of the Dragoons at New Delos, yet he had felt the pain of the losses here on An Ting. He had wanted revenge, too, but what he had done to Jerry Akuma did not bring a single Dragoon back to life. It had not made anything better. It had not let him sleep easier. He looked to where Wolf stood, hoping that his commander would say something to help resolve the contradiction.
Wolf stood impassively while the crowd took up the chant of “Blood! Blood!” When he held up his hands to quiet the crowd, they gradually complied.
“We would indeed see blood on that course. Our blood as well as Kurita blood. It is a long, hard road to Luthien. It is a road that would be under constant attack by Kuritan forces. The Draconians would not take kindly to our march through the Combine, and they would send strong forces to intercept us. Stronger forces would defend Luthien. It is, after all, their capital planet, a focal point to their own sense of unity. That is something we did not face at New Delos. On Luthien, we would face a unified people, not one split by civil war. The might of the Draconis Combine cannot be dismissed.
“We are the Dragoons. No unit, House-sponsored or mercenary, can match us. But even we are not invincible. If enough pressure were brought to bear, we might crack, crumble. The road to Luthien would be our path to oblivion.”
A low grumbling began in the crowd. The mob animal growled, sensing it was about to be driven from its prey.
“I cannot ask you to forgo your revenge. I, too, swore that there would never be another New Delos. What I do ask is that you think about where we are, what we want to achieve. Think about those we have to protect.
“Here on An Ting, we had to fight. We will have to fight again. Nothing we do can prevent that. The Kurita High Command knows that they have lost us and that we will leave the Combine. You have all heard what the terrorists said aboard the Hephaestus. Surely you can see that Kurita means to target our kin, to hold them hostage against our actions? We must protect our people.”
Wolf's appeal to the real concerns of the individuals who made up the crowd struck home. Having won them again, he pressed on.
“We could simply go with them. That would lead the Dragon right to them. The Draconians are alerted now; they will follow the regiments to the rendezvous point. We cannot allow that to happen. We
must distract Kurita from our people.
“To do this, we will call the Draconis Combine to the field of battle. We will present a challenge to their honor. They will not be able to refuse. Even if they call us outlaws, they will not resist the chance to crush us completely.
“When they accept, they will come to a place of our choosing, and we will fight. The troops of House Kurita pride themselves on being warriors. We will show them what being a warrior really means.
“As I speak to you, our challenge is on its way via the ComStar network from the facility here on An Ting. As insurance, couriers are en route to other planets, to use their stations. The Inner Sphere will hear our side of the story. Once that word is out, House Kurita cannot deny us what we want... a chance to make them pay. And I promise you that we will make them pay.”
The roar of the crowd was pure approval.
“That is why I am now ordering all the regiments to Misery.”
Excited, curious babbling interrupted. The Colonel waited patiently for a few moments, then raised his hand for silence. When he had the crowd's attention once more, he continued.
“You want to know why I have chosen Misery. There are several reasons.
“Misery is well-suited to the operations we have planned. The system is within short-term transport range of our fighting units. At this time, we can expect to land and consolidate onworld without facing significant opposition. Once we are down, the resources for fortification are plentiful. These are all valid reasons, military reasons.
“The planet's name is appropriate, too. House Kurita will learn that betraying the Dragoons has brought them Misery.
“The most important of Misery's qualifications is that it is far from the rendezvous star, and so our people will be able to assemble out of harm's way. They can safely begin the trek out of Combine space. When we have finished with the Kuritans, we will join them.
“You have all proved yourselves true Dragoons. I will be honored to have you with me on Misery. Together, we will meet whatever Lord Kurita sends against us, and we will kick the Dragon's tail out through its teeth.”
49
DCMS Headquarters, Laerdal, Misery
Galedon Military District,
Draconis Combine 1 February 3028
Minobu stood rigidly at attention, waiting for Warlord Samsonov to acknowledge his presence. The Warlord had ignored Minobu for the past twenty minutes, busying himself with requisition authorizations. It was nothing new. Samsonov had been ignoring him ever since he had arrived and commandeered the office two days ago. No explanation had been given. Even the Warlord's subordinates had nothing to say to Minobu's officers.
Shuffling the papers aside, Samsonov looked up, his face flinty. “You have, of course, heard the ridiculous challenge that Wolf's Dragoons has flung at the Combine.”
“I have seen the text.”
“And what do you make of it?”
Minobu scented a trap. The Warlord would be looking for a scapegoat after the calamity on An Ting. Any officer showing sympathy for the Dragoons might be singled out. Minobu knew he had made an enemy of Samsonov years ago when he had taken Wolf's side during the Warlord's attempt to gain control of the Dragoons. Every time he had spoken out against Samsonov's plans, the Warlord's hatred of him had deepened. Samsonov would probably be glad to find evidence implicating Minobu in the recent disastrous events. Minobu's previous service as PSL Officer to the Dragoons and his known friendship with Jaime Wolf would prejudice many staunch Kurita officers against him. As much caution as honor would permit was in order.
“As the Warlord must know, I left An Ting on the morning after the rioting started. At that time, Chu-sa Akuma seemed to believe that he was in control of the situation.
“Many things are claimed in the Dragoon statement. If their allegations are true, their challenge offers House Kurita more honor than it deserves.” To forestall the expected outburst and to soothe Samsonov's ego, Minobu went on quickly. “But you are Warlord of Galedon and you would not allow such infamous deeds to take place in your district. Therefore, the Dragoons must be lying. Their challenge is so much bluster, sheer bravado to hide their own criminal nature. As a man of high position, you will, of course, ignore the empty braggadocio of your social inferiors.”
Samsonov gave him a predatory smile, as though Minobu's words pleased him. “On the contrary, I cannot ignore the situation.”
The Warlord's reaction caught Minobu off guard. Shimatta, he thought. I have given Samsonov whatever it was he wanted.
Obviously pleased to see Tetsuhara off balance, Samsonov went on. “I am a loyal samurai and know my duty. This battle that the Dragoons desire must come to pass.”
“I doubt that combat is their desire,” Minobu offered, angry at Samsonov's enjoyment of his discomfort.
“Do not doubt it, Tetsuhara,” Samsonov said, eyes sparkling like a cat playing with its quarry. “Wiser heads have expected as much for some time. The Coordinator has known this day was coming and has prepared for it. The mercenaries' challenge fits smoothly into his plans.”
Minobu was confused. He did not understand what the Warlord meant. The Coordinator had always sided in favor of the Dragoons. If Minobu had been able to speak with Wolf about his visit to Luthien, perhaps this might make sense.
Leaning back in his chair, the Warlord folded his hands over his paunch. His next words brought Minobu's attention back to the present.
“Armed forces of the Draconis Combine will meet the foolish Dragoons in battle here on Misery. You shall lead them, General Tetsuhara,” Samsonov announced, tossing a small box onto the desk. The lid of the box popped open, revealing the Tai-sho rank insignia nestled within. One, with no clip to restrain it, tumbled free to lie, pin up, on the desk.
Minobu was shocked. Lead the fight against the Dragoons? He had known that the battle would come, but he had hoped to stand away from it. That hope was dashed as he listened to the order to command the fight against them.
And now he was a Tai-sho. Another empty promotion. No, worse than empty. This one held a sharp, sharp spike to pierce him.
“You are overcome by this honor,” the Warlord said, voice dripping with false sympathy. “You may even think it coincidental. But then, you do not have the farseeing eyes of our Lord Takashi.”
Samsonov rocked forward to place his elbows on the smooth surface of the desk. He interlaced his fingers, holding them to one side of his face. “Yes, indeed. Last October, I was favored with a haiku from Lord Kurita. As you know, he often uses such forms for his more significant orders. I believe that you will find its intent quite clear.”
Samsonov produced a sheet of rice paper from the central drawer of the desk and offered it to Minobu. He settled back in his seat, a smug grin on his face as Minobu read the poem:
Dragon feels spring's chill. Iron hunter aims the shaft. Running wolf must fall. Like the Dragon in the first line, Minobu felt a chill. “You are the iron hunter, Tetsuhara,” the Warlord spat out. “You are chosen by the Coordinator to execute the purge of the rebellious Dragoons. He knows of your loyalty to House Kurita and respects it. He knows that you will not fail him.”
“I shall do my best.”
“Ah ha. No false modesty, Tetsuhara,” Samsonov said mildly. His voice shifted to diamond hardness. “You have my every confidence,” he said. “You will succeed.”
Samsonov heaved his bulk up from the chair and strode to the wall, where he pulled down a map of the district. Grease pencil lines covered the slick plastic surface, all converging at the pale yellow dot that represented the Misery system. “Already Kurita units are moving to take up the challenge.”
“Then you have a strategy in place.”
“Of course, Tai-sho. The Coordinator may wish you to lead the forces that will destroy the mercenaries, but this is still my district. You command through me. Wakarimasu-ka?”
“Hai, Warlord,” Minobu responded instantly.
Samsonov's eyes were hard and glittering.
“See that you remember it,” he commanded.
“Look here,” he said, pulling down a second map, this one showing the local sun and its five planets. “We will meet the renegade Dragoons here on Misery, as they desire. But we will have a few surprises for them.
“You will be in command of the ground forces, including all regiments of the Ryuken and elements from the Seventeenth and Twenty-First Galedon Regulars. Also under your command will be the Eighth Sword of Light. Quite an honor for a new Tai-sho.
“My Fifth Galedon Regulars and the Third Proserpina Hussars will remain in space, hidden here behind the fourth moon. We will allow the Dragoons to land unmolested so that we may destroy them without risking our own valuable space assets.”
“But their BattleMechs will be most vulnerable in the landing phase,” Minobu interrupted.
“I did not ask for a critique of my strategy,” Samsonov growled. “A space battle will increase the risk that the ambush forces will be spotted. The Wolves must not be aware that they are really lambs going to the slaughter.”
Minobu did not see how an orbital battle would endanger well-hidden DropShips on the far side of a moon, but he held his peace. The more detailed Samsonov's planning was, the less responsibility Minobu would have in executing the loathsome orders to fight the Dragoons.
Samsonov seemed to take Minobu's silence as confirmation of his superior intelligence. “Once battle is joined, you will entice the bandit Wolf to commit his troops fully. When he has done that, my forces will leave the moon and drop in behind him. The Dragoons will be caught in a vise and we will crush them.”
“The basic strategy is sound,” Minobu said, careful not to offend the Warlord again. “It will depend on the details.”
“And those I am leaving to you,” the Warlord replied drily.
Wolves on the Border Page 34
