Fire at Will

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  The fight had torn up his Third Lyran Regulars. Two weeks ago Bernard had been forced to call in his reserves for the first time in this campaign—and it ate at him. His Regulars should have been able to finish the job on their own, but the Silver Hawk Irregulars combined with the local Bondurant Bombardiers had turned Banja Luka into a death trap. He even considered extracting his Regulars, but disengaging from the fight was actually a more dangerous proposition.

  I always believed that if I ever got into a fight like this, I would handle it with the forces allotted to me. Now I’m watching good men and women die—and they deserve better. Shelving his ego and asking for help had not been easy—only to be informed that the Lyran Royals Regiments designated as his reserves had been shuffled to “liberate and protect a holding in Skye.” The duke had signed the orders for this, but Bernard knew someone else was pulling the strings: a Skye strike had been a contingency plan, and getting it moved into action required someone with more authority than the duke, either Trillian Steiner or the archon herself. Now the help Bernard had been promised was coming from a different source, and he was not happy about it.

  I gladly would have taken help from anyone else.

  “The First Hesperus Guards are on the field,” Duke Vedet announced on the general channel for all the Lyran forces to hear. His voice made Bernard flinch.

  His resentment of Vedet Brewster ran deep. Even though the duke had funded his education and helped advance his career, Bernard knew he considered Bernard nothing more than a tool. The Brewster family had profited from the lives and deaths of the Nordhoffs for generations, and his situation was especially galling to Bernard. He didn’t like owing anything to the duke or his family. I have never asked for his help . . . and I certainly don’t want it now, in this way.

  “Duke Vedet, this is Stalker Actual,” he replied in a neutral tone. “I appreciate your coming.” He could tolerate the lie only because he knew the duke’s arrival might save some of his troops’ lives.

  “Indeed, General. I look forward to personally finishing off these Silver Hawk Irregulars.”

  Bernard shook his weary head. Brave talk from someone who has yet to face Anson’s elite unit. He

  knew the duke was looking to make headlines; that was why he had taken the attack corridor in the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey. The real fight is in the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth. Now he’ll see what war is.

  “Sir, I suggest you move along the edge of the swamp to sector twenty-eight. From there you can enter and move along the old maglev line. You can be the anchor on our right flank.”

  “General, my troops are fresh,” Duke Vedet responded. “Why waste them on flanking duties? We are an assault unit . . . let us do our job. I read the tactical reports during burn-in. Your men are exhausted. Why not simply cut north of our position and hit them directly in the center? They won’t be expecting fresh troops.”

  “With all due respect, sir, they most likely got word of your landing two days ago. The local militia—these Bombardiers we keep locking horns with—is guiding them through the swamps.”

  There was a slight pause, and Bernard prepared for a debate. The comm channel switched to the discreet line between the two commanders. “Bernard,” the duke said, deliberately avoiding his rank and speaking as if they were old and personal friends. “I would hate to pull rank on you. My authority as the commander of this theater gives me the authority to direct this operation as I see fit. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your Regulars.”

  He had said nothing damaging, yet the threat was there. Bernard slumped forward, sick and tired of fighting both the enemy and his nemesis. Vedet did have the authority he claimed, but Bernard knew his lack of experience would play to the strengths of the Irregulars.

  He saw one glimmer of hope. The fighting had been vicious so far. Perhaps his ego would put the duke into a situation from which he could not escape. They may kill him and do us all a favor—the archon included. It was a seductive thought. If the duke was killed, Bernard had friendly officers already stationed on Hesperus II, poised to seize the other members of the Brewster family and take control of key installations. With Defiance Industries in my hands, I could cut my own deal with the archon.

  The last eight hours had been quiet—too quiet. According to their pattern, the Irregulars should have been popping up and striking at the Regulars. They had adapted once again, a trait Bernard found both dangerous and irritating. They seemed to have disappeared into the shadowy swamps just as a thunderstorm rolled in and began to dump down sheets of water. This vanishing act worried Bernard: when they were shooting at him, at least he knew where some of them were. For them to simply fade away alerted his instincts and focused his years of training.

  About three kilometers away, Duke Vedet was leading the First Hesperus Guards into what should have been the center of the enemy line. From what little he could make out on his long-range sensors, there was no indication of firing in that area. Bernard allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, to flirt with sleep. His head bobbed slightly as he listened to the muffled waves of rain hit the ferroglass of his cockpit.

  Each time his head dropped, a ripple of cold sweat forced him to snap it back up. The comm chatter had been sporadic. Most of it he simply ignored in his dreamlike haze. Then the voice of the duke cut through, loud and clear. “Stalker Actual, this is Guard One.” In the background he heard the rumble of artillery, a sound he knew all too well. Now it was the duke’s turn.

  “Go, Guard One.”

  “I’ve got contact with the enemy. They have a lot of artillery dug in. We can’t seem to locate them, but they sure as hell have a bead on us.” Bernard could hear the nervousness in the duke’s voice, and didn’t bother trying to suppress a grin.

  “The Irregulars broke off from us. They must have swung around into your path of advance,” he said.

  “I need you to get up here with at least a company,” the duke demanded as a rumble, either thunder or another artillery barrage, echoed in the background. “You can move up the right flank, and together we can take them.”

  General Nordhoff knew better. These were the Silver Hawk Irregulars. They were prepared. They knew the ground. “Sir, we’re fighting on their terms. The swamp in your sector is almost impassible. My hover units can get in, but that’s about it. Infantry support will be hampered. I suggest you get out of there and fall back to sector nineteen. There’s high ground there where we can operate.”

  “I do not intend to fall back,” Duke Vedet snapped. “I didn’t come all this way to retreat.”

  “Sir,” Bernard said, as calmly as he could. He understood exactly what the duke was saying, and he agreed with him. That bothered him; if he could identify with the duke, it made his superior more human. He didn’t want to identify with the man. “Now that you and your Guards are here, we can take back the initiative. We can force them to dance to our tune for a change.”

  “You have a plan?”

  Bernard did, though it was still sketchy. He knew one thing for sure: spending another few weeks in the Banja Luka Lowlands during the rainy season was not the way to seize the initiative. No—they would have to take the fight somewhere else, somewhere they could draw the Silver Hawks and the Bombardiers into fighting the battle he chose.

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Very well,” the duke replied. This time there was a rumble of thunder over Bernard’s Xanthos as the storm intensified for a moment. A wave of rain swept through the trees and pummeled his BattleMech. “I will divert our supply vehicles to your encampment. When I arrive, I want to hear your ideas. Then I will lead our forces out of this swamp.” The duke’s voice was cut off by the explosion of another long-range artillery round near his ’Mech.

  A deep unease gripped Bernard Nordhoff at the duke’s assumption that he would lead their combined forces. If the man had a military background, he would know that the most experienced officer should lead, regardless of rank. But he was a businessman, and in
business perception ruled. Bernard waited a moment before responding, trying to choose his words carefully enough to avoid insulting the duke.

  “Sir, with all due respect, I must point out that I have tangled with the Silver Hawks several times in the past few weeks. I concur that our forces should unite under a single commander for this operation. Given my tactical experience and familiarity with the Irregulars’ style, I believe I should lead. You would, of course, oversee strategy.”

  “Your track record with these Irregulars has not been exactly stellar.” There was a pause, which told Bernard the duke was probably issuing orders on another channel, or moving to another position.

  “Sir, I have forced the Silver Hawks into retreat in every engagement. I have beaten them off-planet each time we fought.”

  “We will discuss this when I arrive at your position. For now, you may assume I will be leading these forces. If anyone is going to get the credit for crushing Anson’s prize regiment, it is going to be me. Guard One out.” The channel went silent.

  Bernard stared at the sheets of rain falling in front of his ’Mech. Anger and frustration tore through his chest like a living entity. If he would give me these combined resources, I would mop up the Irregulars and the Bombardiers, here and now. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, then closed his eyes and rested his head against the side of his command couch. The duke assumes that I am his man, but I’m not.

  “I’ll show you what I’m capable of,” he murmured to himself. Outside, the wind whipped the rain against his cockpit and lightning flashed through the soaked trees.

  12

  LCAF Staging Base Boelcke

  Cavanaugh II

  Bolan Military Province, Lyran Commonwealth

  3 October 3137

  Trillian watched the massive Prime Hauler grind its way up the ramp and into the DropShip Archon’s Pride. It was piled with crates, barrels, massive bundles of supplies—the stuff of war. She knew the loading process had been going on most of the day. Roderick’s battalion was preparing to deploy.

  Most of the first-wave objectives, except for a few in the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth, had been taken. The lack of HPG resources put some gaps in their information, but the intelligence projections looked promising. While some worlds were stubbornly resisting their occupation, still the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces were coiling like a massive snake, ready to strike at new targets. Trillian knew that Duke Vedet had gone to reinforce General Nordhoff’s efforts on Bondurant, a situation she had forced by diverting some of the heavy reserves to strike at Skye. He had complained, and Trillian had ignored his complaints, which added to his frustration.

  With Bernard Nordhoff and Vedet Brewster both on Bondurant, Trillian felt she had consolidated her troubles. The duke had earned good press with his successful attacks against the lightly defended Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey. Trillian had tempered his self-promotion by calling in some favors to carefully edit the content of the duke’s news bites. Because of his relationship to the duke, Trillian was also closely monitoring General Nordhoff’s activities. He did not seem to be seeking the limelight—he apparently just wanted to fight a war, and was getting more than enough action with the Silver Hawk Irregulars seemingly one step ahead of him on each planet he struck. If Nordhoff had an ulterior motive, he was keeping it close to his vest.

  Trillian leaned against a ferrocrete retaining wall, apparently ignored in the bustle of the spaceport. She usually liked the feeling of blending in, though it happened so rarely that she also found it somewhat disconcerting. She decided that, at the moment, she was okay with a lack of attention from the military personnel. As she watched the crew of the Pride unload the hauler, Trillian considered her knowledge that the war was about to enter a new phase.

  She had a message ready to send to Melissa in the next diplomatic pouch, in which she personally recommended that the archon approve the second wave, a decision the Lyran high command had been worrying over for more than a week. There was more in her communiqué to the archon, however—suggestions that would help her cousin in his current mission. If he knew about her very necessary machinations, he’d be furious, so she was happy to keep him in the dark.

  Roderick emerged from the crowd about two dozen meters away. Wearing his olive drab jumpsuit, he too seemed to blend in with the background; his family background didn’t make him stand out from the MechWarriors and troopers in his command. His dark sunglasses obscured his eyes, and his casual stride made him appear to be one of the cast, rather than one of the key players. He veered off his path toward her, then leaned against the barrier next to his cousin and studied the Archon’s Pride.

  “I don’t suppose I can get you to reconsider coming along?”

  She shook her head. “You’re smart enough to not ask. You saw your orders? I assume they met with your approval.”

  Roderick cast her a suspicious eye. “If I got the orders because of my family connection, I will request that the high command reconsider. You know that I don’t want special favors.”

  Classic Roderick. Always wanting to make sure that he advances on his own merit. “You got these orders because of me.”

  “That’s almost as bad, Trill.”

  “Labourgiere is a key world in the Duchy,” she countered. “The strikes into Skye have forced us to shuffle units to act as reserves for the efforts in the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth.”

  “I am aware of the current situation,” Roderick said. “I was suspicious of these orders the moment I found out that we were being sent to the front line. New units get garrison or reserve duty—especially a new unit made up of some of the biggest rejects of the LCAF.” He didn’t bother trying to keep his voice neutral.

  She was on thin ice here. She knew Roderick well enough to know that he would balk if he knew the full extent of her involvement in getting his untried unit into combat. “All I did was point out to some of the high command the advantages of sending your unit to Labourgiere. If you succeed in taking it, they don’t have to shuffle other units around, and they have a victory to declare. If you fail, they would be rid of you, and any mention ever again of the events on Algorab.”

  The mention of Algorab seemed to allay his suspicions for a moment. “I’m sure that more than a few of them would be happy to see me disappear.”

  “Apparently,” Trillian returned. She congratulated herself on avoiding a direct lie, which was good because Roderick would spot it immediately. “LIC says that there are two companies of recently reinforced troops on Labourgiere right now. Intelligence projects that they might be planning to hit a few of our worlds in an attempt to capture initiative from us. Your job is simple enough. Crush them, and take Labourgiere for the Commonwealth.”

  He paused, staring across the tarmac as the Prime Hauler, devoid of its cargo, moved away from the DropShip. “I’ve never been a fan of the intelligence corps. They never actually go in and have to do the fighting, so they’re not always accurate. Also, it’s a little disheartening when your commanding officers are sending you on missions with the hope you might die.”

  “My advice is to ignore what they’re hoping, and just be aware that getting killed is a possible outcome, particularly for a soldier in war. My orders are to not be one of those casualties.”

  She got a wry grin in response. “I have no intention of getting killed. And most of the personnel in my unit have something to prove, so they’ll also work at staying alive.”

  “Let me rephrase, cousin,” she said slowly. “I need you to remain alive because I need you in order to keep Duke Vedet in check.”

  Roderick glared at her. “I’ve never even met the duke, and he’s off in the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth right now. How can I help keep him in check?”

  She thought about all the plans she had in motion that hinged on him, but that she couldn’t reveal. “Suffice it to say that you and your unit factor into plans the archon has entrusted to me. I trust her, and you know you can trust me. All I’m asking is that you hon
or that trust and avoid getting yourself killed.”

  He glared at her for a moment longer, then stiffly declared, “I promise not to get my ass killed or captured on Labourgiere, Lady Steiner.”

  She smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Saying the words was easy. . . .”

  “Very well. This assemblage of jailbirds you call a combat battalion—do they have a name?”

  His chuckle told her there was a story behind his response that she was not likely to hear. “I can tell you that the subject has come up. At least three of the names proposed are not allowed under the decency guidelines of the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces.”

  “What do you call the unit?”

  “Their official designation is Auxiliary Battalion B1. We’ve pretty much decided that until we prove ourselves in battle, we are going to hold off on formally naming ourselves. For the moment, when we need to call ourselves something, we use the Broken Swords.”

  “Where is that from?”

  “It’s an old Terran military phrase. In the days when officers carried swords, either as their weapon or as a ceremonial weapon, officers who were busted from ranks had their swords broken as a way of marking them as failures. It’s a little-known custom now, but seems to fit my officers.”

  “The name actually sounds impressive.”

  “Let’s hope the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey feels the same way. Anyway, it’s just until we find out who we really are—after we’ve been in a fight or two.” Warning sirens and flashing lights drew their attention back to the Archon’s Pride, and they watched as the massive bay doors began the closing procedure.

  “It looks like your ride is ready,” she said. “Oh— I’m sending a package to the archon. Any words for Melissa before you leave?”

  Roderick Frost grinned. “Tell her I said hello, and I’ll try to not screw this up. As for you, Trill, all I can say is, it’s time for me to make a little history.”