Patriot’s Stand

by Mike Moscoe

  Feet up on the porch rail, chairs pushed back, they tried to ignore the gray MilitiaMechs that loomed over their one-story town, but they nodded to Benjork as he introduced himself and asked if they had seen the hunted farmers.

  “They ain’t been here. May not make it if them Black and Reds have any say—not that I know nothing about this, you understand,” said a man with boots of tooled leather.

  “They will likely travel this road, quiaff?”

  The men looked at one another, then shook their heads. “Nope,” “Not likely,” “Wouldn’t do it if I was them,” came back at him. He waited for silence to fall, then asked a new question.

  “What road would you travel to Falkirk?”

  “You come from there?” one asked.

  “I fight with Grace O’Malley,” Ben answered.

  “We don’t much want to fight with anybody,” the one with the fancy boots said, letting his chair come down hard. “You see, them Special Police are hanging anybody they think might know anything about them farmers. They’re stringing ’em up to signs, power poles, windmills, by God. Stringing them up like they had all the rope in the world.”

  “They string up a man, then go looking for his woman and kids,” another man added.

  “We don’t need to know nothing about this fight. It’s not ours, so you’d like to get your gas and get out of here,” Fancy Boots said, standing and leading his cronies inside.

  Benjork thanked them for their time and returned to his ’Mech. It was fueled, as were all the rigs. He offered Wilson’s smart card to the young man who had watched them pump the gas.

  “Your money’s no good here,” a voice came from behind Benjork. He turned. One of the men from the store was sauntering their way. “Ken, don’t touch that card,” he told the boy, who frowned but returned the card.

  “Best we say that you took the gas at gunpoint. Hell, you got enough guns, don’t you?”

  “That is not our intention.”

  “But it’s a story that will keep Ken there from dancing from his sign. The Black and Reds really want those farmers.”

  “I can well imagine. But if they are not this far—”

  “They will be. Not by any road that sends ’em through towns where people can see ’em. Someone’s bound to report ’em. No, they’re traveling the back roads. I can think of a few I’d use.”

  “You would show me, quiaff?” Benjork reached for a map.

  “White Hair, I don’t know maps. Don’t know the names of most of the roads I been driving since I was knee-high, but I’ll take you there,” he said, climbing into a dilapidated truck that might once have been red. “My Elly died last winter, and my kids are all moved away. If a guy like me can’t do this, nobody can. So you follow me if you can keep up.” And he gunned out of town in a cloud of dust and oil.

  It took no orders to get the militia troops moving; they’d heard the man. Their eagerness as they piled into the gun trucks told him they believed every word. Benjork mounted up and led his team at a trot into the red truck’s dust.

  The old man raced with wild abandon over gravel roads and dirt tracks that were hardly more than wheel ruts. They passed ranches and homesteads, some looking more abandoned than lived in. The truck bounced over bumps and rocks Benjork feared might be too much for the hovertrucks.

  After a while, the Lone Cat wondered if the truck was leading them on a wild chase after nightmares. Then the truck braked to a halt, sliding sideways as it did. The old man was out, gazing at a low butte not much taller than Benjork’s ’Mech.

  Benjork raised his ’Mech’s arm to signal his battle team to a halt, then paced off the distance to where the butte ended in a ridge of eroding yellow dirt. With all the rolling terrain around Falkirk, Ben had had a periscope installed in his MiningMech MOD. Now he raised it.

  In the next valley a battle raged.

  The farmers had abandoned half a dozen trucks in front of a large outcropping of red rocks three kilometers away. They shot from its cover. Behind the rocks, one green and two yellow AgroMechs stood, stained with dust and rocket fragments. Their scythes spun slowly at the ready.

  Black and Red infantry were strung out along a dry wash, half a klick to the left, riflemen and rocket launchers keeping up a desultory fire, giving Ben the feeling that this was the middle of a long and not all that successful battle.

  In the broken ground between wash and red rocks, a burned-out Black and Red ’Mech MOD lay, still smoking. Its chest was blown in. Benjork guessed the farmers had explosives and knew how to use them. He thought for a moment on how a satchel charge might be delivered and shook his head. Desperate men did desperate things.

  Two klicks behind the rifle line towered a dozen ’Mech MODs, some Black and Red, others still Agro green or Industrial gray. Most sported a single machine gun. One had a twenty-millimeter autocannon. Several showed recent damage. Well back from them and out of SRM range, a Black and Red Black Hawk squatted like a toad. It fired a pair of long-range lasers randomly, rarely hitting the rock pile.

  Someone had a nice ’Mech they did not know how to use. Used properly, that Black Hawk could take out Benjork’s entire troop. “To you, I will send my best,” he whispered.

  Then he studied the terrain. The wash twisted and turned as it made its way around the harder rock outcroppings of the eroded butte. A red-and-yellow streaked pinnacle shot up to his left. That should hide ’Mechs on an approach march. He activated his magscan and breathed a small sigh of relief. All that red in the rocks was iron. The magscan was hosed. Surprise was possible.

  Benjork returned to his battle group, dismounted, and faced the old rancher. “I am grateful for your help. You have led me to my battle. You may go now. May you have blessed dreams for your service.”

  “I got a rifle in my pickup. Them farmers are just like me. Don’t see how I can come this far and drive away,” the man said. Returning to his rig, he pulled a scoped weapon from its scabbard with easy grace.

  “You are welcome within our ranks,” Benjork told him. Among his team, dust covers came off rocket launchers. Machine guns were lovingly checked. Maintenance crews climbed over the gray ’Mech MODs under the watchful eyes of their militia pilots, making last-minute checks on rocket launchers and Gatling guns. He had to remind himself that these were green recruits. Their purposeful strides and hard eyes would do any warrior proud who knew what he faced and ran to meet it.

  With rifle fire and the occasional explosion to remind them of what lay ahead, Benjork called his ’Mechs and Lieutenant Hicks’ drivers into a circle. In the red dust Benjork drew a map. “Over that hill are Black and Red infantry and ’Mech MODs. They are led by a Black Hawk that could destroy us all.” He gave them a smile. “So we will ignore it and concentrate our fire on the ’Mech MODs. Hicks, that includes your gun trucks and infantry dismounts. Once I am sure you have the ’Mech MODs under control, Sean and Maud and I will redirect our fire to the Black Hawk. No battle is ever won by being strong everywhere. Today we will win by being strong against their ’Mech MODs first.

  “But remember, the Black Hawk’s SRMs are Streaks. If he gets a lock on you, every missile will hit. Never stand still. Never take more than four or five steps without changing direction. You must zigzag if you are to live through today.”

  That got solemn nods from everyone.

  “Remember that the four rockets you carry have no reloads. Use two of them on my command. The other two are yours to use sparingly. Take care with your thirty-millimeter Gatling gun. Mick and Johnny did their best with the guns and ammo, but do not forget that your caseless ammo will dirty up your guns. If you fire bursts that are too long, the gun will overheat and jam. Wait too long between bursts, and your gun may gum up and jam. Once you start shooting, keep shooting.”

  There were resigned smiles at that reminder.

  Benjork turned to Sean. Maud stood at his elbow, she of the flashing brown hair and dancing freckles. Maud claimed she’d been driving ’Mechs since she
was a child, whenever her pappy would let her. After watching her run the obstacle course Benjork had designed, he would not gainsay her. The MechWarrior remembered now how often Sean and Maud were elbow to elbow and tasted both joy and sorrow as he gave his orders.

  “Sean, you and Maud stay close to me. As soon as the ’Mech MODs are suppressed, we hit the Black Hawk. If the Black Hawk attacks aggressively, I may order us to attack it immediately. Are there any questions?” There were none.

  “Maintain radio silence until I break it. Hicks, give me ten minutes to get in place. Know that this is how the battle will start. How it ends, only the true dreamer can tell,” he said.

  The militia pilots and gun crews went to their posts. Benjork, Sean and Maud grouped at the head of the ’Mech MODs line. Lieutenant Hicks stood in the lead gun truck, eyeing his watch, waiting patiently for the moment to lead the gun trucks forward. The old rancher stood behind him, fondling his rifle, lips moving in prayer.

  Gravel crunched under Benjork’s ’Mech as it crossed the dry wash, headed south. He kept an eye on the ridge that separated them from the sound of battle. Sometimes it rose higher, other times it dipped. It never dropped low enough to reveal the ’Mechs he led. He found a rough gully just past where he needed one and led the three lances of ’Mech MODs through its rock-strewn bed.

  Most rocks crumbled under the footpads, but one ’Mech came to grief when a rock rolled out from under it; even double gyros could not keep it upright. The following ’Mechs stood in place as that pilot struggled back up, leaning on a bent mining drill. As the ’Mech continued on down the path, it limped visibly.

  Benjork nodded with understanding. As a cub he had been warned it was not always the enemy who made battle plans unravel. He signaled Sean ahead but paused, cockpit open, until the damaged ’Mech limped up. The youngster opened his cockpit and raised his visor, face set for a dressing-down. Benjork gave him the small smile he allowed for special occasions. “You will fight last in line,” he said, and the MechWarrior winced. “Not because you stumbled. Any of us—even I—could have been given that fate. No, your mining drill is broken. You should not fight in a melee. Stand back and use your rockets and Gatling. You are one of the best with them. Use them well.”

  “I will, sir,” came quickly as Benjork closed his cockpit and made his way to the front of his command.

  They were now beyond the ridge, but a shallow fold in this land of scrub brush and yellow dust hid them from the Special Police. Benjork used his periscope to check out the battle. His team was where he wanted it—behind the ’Mech line, almost even with the Black Hawk and to its right.

  The Lone Cat halted his troop and checked the time. He had three minutes to wait, to let his hot engines cool. He whispered a prayer that Sven and Mick and Johnny had done good work and might enjoy dreams that would tell them much.

  The weapons’ fire increased. Periscope up, Benjork saw change. The riflemen had spread out, up and down the dry creek and were now moving forward on their bellies from bush to bush, rock to rock, closing with the sharpshooters. The Black and Red ’Mech MODs now stepped off the distance to the dry wash.

  Not the Black Hawk, though. It stayed well back. Shooting its lasers more frequently, it slashed streaks in the rocks or started fires in the brush. That must encourage the poor creeping infantry. Now they crawled through hot, blackened ash where concealment once had been. Time to end this.

  Benjork broke radio silence with a firm, “Hicks, attack. Repeat, attack. Militia ’Mechs, charge! Charge and zigzag!”

  Beside him, the militia pilots slammed their throttles forward, and green and gray ’Mechs charged into battle. Benjork charged with them, covering the hard-packed ground to the top of the rise with long distance-eating strides. As he topped the rise, the battle came into full view.

  On his far right, Lieutenant Hicks led the charge of the gun trucks down the wash, dust blowing, Gatlings roaring. The second gun truck loosed a rocket volley at the surprised ’Mech MODs. One rocket struck a glancing blow on the chest armor of an AgroMech. The shaped charge left a long slash. Paint smoking, the ’Mech backpedaled and the other Black and Red ’Mechs suddenly took notice of the new fighters on their battlefield.

  A Special Police rifleman stood up to run. A farmer in the rocks drilled him before he took a step. Other riflemen returned the fire. Here and there a Police crawler began to crawl backward.

  One enemy ’Mech MOD stumbled as all of them turned to face the gun trucks. The Black Hawk fired off two fast laser blasts. One sent Hicks’ gun truck sliding sideways into the wall of the dry wash. It bounced over a large rock, went halfway up on its side, then slid down to right itself. The old rancher steadied his rifle and put a bullet into the cockpit of the Black Hawk. The round ricocheted off, but it was still a hit at that range.

  The Black and Red ’Mech MODs struggled to change the front from the rock pile to the increasing number of gun trucks firing machine guns, rockets and antiarmor grenades at them.

  “Hold your fire,” Benjork told his ’Mech team as they trotted forward, apparently unnoticed. When the Black Hawk to his right continued stabbing out with his lasers at gun trucks, the MechWarrior chose to take a major risk.

  “Militia ’Mechs: Halt in place, target two missiles on a Black and Red ’Mech MOD, and fire immediately. Then charge them for all you’re worth.” It had been Grace’s suggestion that the first round be fired at the halt. The idea had sounded good then.

  Now Benjork throttled to a halt with the rest. “Sean, Maud—with me. Target the Black Hawk.”

  In a ragged line, eight charging ’Mech MODs came to a halt. Without further orders, rockets rippled out from them, taking the Black and Reds on their flank. Some rockets corkscrewed across the sun-drenched sky. Others slammed into enemy ’Mechs, shredding armor. One smashed into the magazine of an AgroMech’s autocannon. The armor held out against the explosion, but bolts must have sheared. The magazine was knocked up against the ’Mech’s cockpit, and its stream of fifty-millimeter bullets quit chasing a gun truck.

  Benjork turned to face the Black Hawk as its driver became aware of the new threat on its flank. “Sean, Maud—fire two rockets,” he ordered as he emptied his right rocket pack. Far out on the left, the limping ’Mech with the damaged drill also joined in the shooting, sending four rockets straight and true into the Black Hawk’s backside, and following them up with a series of short bursts from his thirty-millimeter Gatling gun.

  The Black Hawk stumbled back as missiles hit him from the other three, shredding armor, but doing no major damage.

  “Everyone get moving!” the Lone Cat shouted, slamming his ’Mech into five quick steps forward at a right angle. Sean and Maud jinked their own way as the Black Hawk salvoed off one of his four quad-packs at each of them. The missiles hit where the three of them had been, but the limping ’Mech hadn’t moved fast enough. The militia pilot took a full salvo on his ’Mech’s chest, knocking it flat on its back.

  Benjork had no time to count his losses. He led his three remaining ’Mech MODs against the Black Hawk, forcing it back even as its laser flashed over them, heating them up. Missiles slashed rock, sent up plumes of dirt, and burned sagebrush around them. Still, they advanced and the Black Hawk backpedaled.

  Off to their right, the eight other ’Mech MODs charged at the remaining eleven Black and Reds, trading thirty-millimeter tungsten slugs as they moved. One enemy ’Mech caught a group of dismounts before they could disperse, cutting them down in one bloody clump. A second Black and Red sent a burst of machine-gun fire slashing into a gun truck, gutting it and throwing its crew to the ground like rag dolls.

  But the Militia ’Mechs were hammering the Special Police, too, sending them stumbling back. With the Black Hawk otherwise occupied, the ’Mech MODs clumped up, leaderless. A pair of rockets took a damaged ’Mech at short range, slashing off its arm with a machine gun and setting fire to its ammo. The ’Mech burned, sending black smoke up in gusts. Another Black and Red fe
ll, its knee smashed by thirty-millimeter shells.

  Now the gun trucks rained grenades and cannon fire on the backpedaling mob. A gray Militia ’Mech closed with a Black and Red, bringing its mining drill to bear on its enemy’s chest. The Special Police pilot had no stomach for that, and popped his canopy immediately, hands up.

  Allowing himself a tight grin, Benjork concentrated on the Black Hawk.

  It didn’t seem to care much for what it saw. Firing off another full volley, it turned in place and shot into the air. Even as Benjork yanked his ’Mech into a left turn to throw off the missiles, he followed the Black Hawk’s jump, trying to lead it with short bursts.

  Behind him came more stuttering fire followed by, “Damn!” in a high-pitched voice. “My bloody gun’s jammed up on me.”

  “Try sh-short jerks on the trigger, Maud,” Sean said.

  “I’m trying, I’m trying.”

  “Get all the power you can get out of your engines,” Benjork ordered. “We’ve got to catch that Black Hawk. He can still snipe at us—pick us off one by one if we leave him alive.”

  “I’m f-following you,” Sean said.

  “Me, too,” Maud said. “I just can’t shoot anymore.”

  Ahead of them, the Black Hawk landed hard on its right leg. Maybe there was a rock. Maybe their fire did something. It fell but caught itself by its big left claw, then took off running again. Something must have happened in the landing, though. Benjork’s infrared now showed more heat radiating from the reactor area than armor and cooling should have allowed. “Did you split a seam?” he asked his pursued enemy as he snapped out bursts of thirty-millimeter slugs at the Black Hawk.

  The Black and Red twisted as he ran, sending a spray of SRMs that did not come close to any of his pursuers.

  Benjork kept the feet of his ’Mech in long strides that ate up the distance. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he said, then suppressed a cringe as a stream of thirty-millimeter shells stitched the ground close ahead of him.