Tactics of Duty

by William H. Keith

  But schedules did change, and military vessels in particular often made a practice of being as unpredictable as possible.

  It was safer that way.

  "The vessel is an ST-46-class shuttle," Mendez said. "Federated Commonwealth military registry. One hundred tons. It's carrying three passengers besides the pilot. Fed-Com clearance, code green three. They only say that they have urgent business with you."

  "Me?"

  "They asked for you by rank and name, sir."

  Grayson frowned. Code green three meant a liaison officer or medium-ranking attaché. If Alex or Davis had been aboard, they would have said so. But the only other people who would know that he was here would be the people who'd sent him here.

  Field Marshal Gareth, of the Lyran State Command in Tharkad.

  "Well, I don't mind seeing them if the Rubicon's skipper doesn't. Coordinate the docking with him, will you?"

  "Of course, Colonel."

  JumpShip skippers had to be careful about the approach of strange vessels at jump points. Attacking any JumpShip was a direct violation of the Ares Conventions, but that particular measure aimed at slowing the relentless slide into atechnic barbarism had been ignored more and more frequently in the past few years. Some DropShips could carry hundreds of troops, and something as big and as valuable as a JumpShip always made a tempting target—especially when it was stuck helplessly at a jump point, its Kearny-Fuchida capacitors drained and not yet recharged.

  An ST-46 ought to be safe enough, however. Captain Walters already had a warbook display on the shuttle, which showed a rotating, full-color computer graphic of a flat, delta flyer that was almost all wing, with a one-man crew, the pilot, and room for up to nine passengers. There could be a bomb aboard the thing, of course, but there was no way that four people were going to take out a JumpShip the size of the Rubicon.

  "The Rubicon's skipper has agreed, Colonel," Mendez said. "The shuttle will be docking at three-forward, as soon as sail deployment is complete."

  "Very well."

  "The skipper says we can use the conference room on the number-two carousel deck to conduct your business."

  "My compliments to the Rubicon's skipper," Grayson said. "And my thanks. Tell him I'll be up as soon as the sail's unfurled."

  "Aye, sir."

  "Uh, Colonel?"

  Grayson turned. Caitlin DeVries was standing a few meters behind him, looking small and trim and very appealing in her dark gray, form-hugging jumpsuit. "Hello, Sergeant," he said. "What can I do for you?"

  "I was just... wondering, sir, if there was any word about our people on Caledonia."

  Grayson sighed. He was well aware of the feeling Alex and Caitlin had for one another. He was also well aware that the two of them had quarreled, and bitterly, just before Alex had left Glengarry on his mission to McCall's homeworld. He suspected, in fact, that the fight was part of the reason Alex had agreed to go.

  Still, when Grayson had been putting together the Third Battalion's deployment orders in preparation for this mission, it was Caitlin who'd come to him with the suggestion that they include First Battalion's First Company 'Mechs and equipment on the roster as well. The First of the First's Command Lance currently consisted of Grayson's Victor, Alex's Archer, Davis McCall's Highlander ... ... and Caitlin DeVries's Griffin. Grayson had already been planning on coming along, and both Alex's and Davis's 'Mechs were stored in the Endeavor's cargo hold. Caitlin had simply wanted to make sure that she was included as well.

  Grayson had mixed feelings about the relationship between Caitlin and Alex. He liked the girl, liked her a lot, in fact. She was smart, she knew what she was doing, and she hadn't let the fact that she was the daughter of the former governor of Glengarry spoil her, She also knew how to go after what she wanted; she'd joined the Legion despite her father's rather vehement protests.

  But Grayson was Alex's father, and he knew what the death of young Davis Clay had done to his son at the Battle of Ryco Pass. It was never a good idea, he thought, to have two people who were especially close assigned to the same outfit. Too often, they paired off and began looking out for one another—and worrying about one another—to the exclusion of the others in their unit.

  It also made it a hell of a lot tougher when one of them was killed or seriously hurt. Still, Lori had started out in Grayson's unit, back when he'd just been getting the Legion started, and every man and woman in the modern Legion knew that story well. It didn't make sense for him to try to enforce rules that he'd not followed himself.

  "I'm sorry, Caitlin," he told her. "There hasn't been a word. All of the regular communications frequencies with Caledonia are being jammed, and we still don't know why."

  "The last we heard, sir," she said, "Alex and Major McCall were consulting with the locals. But we don't really know what's going on down there, do we?"

  "Not really. But I'm willing to trust those two to do the right thing. We wouldn't have been able to get much data from them anyway, even without the jamming. You never know who's listening in. But Alex knows we're coming— we told him that much in our last HPG transmission—and I'm sure they'll have the situation pretty well sorted out for us."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you."

  "I'm counting on them to brief us on the real situation on Caledon."

  Though their mysterious visitors in the shuttle might have some useful information as well. Grayson sincerely hoped so.

  Several hours later, Grayson was waiting in the Rubicon's conference room, standing on the deck for a change, instead of floating free. The carousel deck was one of two circular structures mounted on the Monolith's forward hab module, angled in such a way that the out-is-down spin gravity generated by the carousel's rotation canceled the almost insignificant acceleration gravity induced by the ship's station-keeping thruster. Though the coriolis effect could produce some queasy effects in the stomach if you stood up or moved too quickly, the carousel deck afforded a chance for the Jump-Ship's crew to exercise and stretch their legs in a full gravity—vital if they were to be able to walk again once they returned to the surface of a planet after a long series of jumps.

  The conference room was small—space aboard even the largest JumpShip was always at a premium—and nearly filled by the table mounted on the slightly curving deck. One bulkhead was taken up by a deck-to-overhead wallscreen that could be used to display computer data or a vidcom image, but which at the moment displayed a view of the now fully deployed jump sail astern of the Rubicon. He was staring at the stars beyond the black eclipse of the sail when the room's door hissed open.

  "Colonel Carlyle?"

  "I'm Carlyle. And you are ... ?"

  The first man into the room was tall, with a closely trimmed beard and glossy jet-black hair, and wearing an ornate, full-dress F-C staff officer's uniform. Close on his heels were another, younger man, and an attractive woman, both wearing combat fatigues instead of full dress. "I'm Major Kellen Folker, sir," the man in the dress uniform said. "Have, er, have you heard of me?"

  "Can't say that I have, Major." Carlyle looked the officer up and down, noting the details of his uniform. It was heavy with braid and multiple loops of gold aiguillettes across bis shoulder. A device worn above the rows of campaign ribbons on his left breast identified him as staff liaison to a planetary government. "I take it you're Governor Wilmarth's liaison with the AFFC."

  "Exactiy right, Colonel. And may I present my staff assistants, Lieutenant Churnowski and Lieutenant Dahlgren."

  "A pleasure. I understand you wanted to meet with me. I didn't expect to talk with anyone official until after we'd touched down."

  "It was, ah, necessary, Colonel, to see you at once and apprise you of the deteriorating situation on Caledonia."

  "Indeed? Does this have anything to do with the communications blackout that appears to be in force?"

  "Yes, sir. We regret that. I, ah, realize that you have people already on Caledonia. I'm sure you must wish to get into immediate communication with them." />
  "That would be appreciated."

  "I'm very much afraid, however, that it will not be possible. You see, we have reason to believe that the unit you've already deployed here has been operating against the Governor's militia. Two of his BattleMechs were damaged in a skirmish in front of the official residence. The purpose of my meeting with you here, now, is to ascertain from you directly just what your intentions are. It is possible that the Gray Death Legion is already in violation of its mercenary contract with the Federated Commonwealth. Needless to say, the Governor would like to straighten out any potential, ah, misunderstandings now, before there are further incidents."

  "Whoa! Hold on a second. What do you mean, 'the unit' I've deployed? I have two men on Caledonia, one of them a native of the planet who was here on what amounted to compassionate leave. I admit that I asked them to look around and prepare reports on the political situation on Caledonia. At the time, there was a good chance that the Gray Death was going to be deployed here, and it always helps to have an idea of the political situation before blundering in with a battalion of 'Mechs."

  "I see." Folker reached into a pocket and extracted a computer memory clip. "May I?"

  "Of course."

  The liaison officer placed the clip in the reader slot on the table. The wallscreen at Grayson's back flickered, then dissolved from the view of the Rubicon's energy sail to another scene, equally dark. Apparently shot from a camera positioned high up in a tower of an old Star League fortress, the view angled down across a cluster of towers in a high wall and was focused on the activity on a stone bridge across a canyon beyond. It was night, though the image had been enhanced through a nightscope. Gunfire flashed and snapped from a black line of trees beyond the canyon as a pair of Victors moved slowly across the bridge, leaving the castle's front gate. There was no sound, and the silence lent a surreal and dreamlike quality to the unfolding drama.

  Clearly, a pitched battle was underway. Equally clearly, the battle had been going on for some time. Smoke boiled up from the courtyard inside the walls, where numerous fires and hot metal left blurred, dazzling white after images in the nightscope's electronics. It looked as though the interior of the castle had been under heavy bombardment, though the smoke was so thick that Grayson could get only intermediate glimpses, never a good enough look to tell exactly what might have happened.

  Folker sprawled into one of the chairs at the conference table. "This was taken late on the evening of April first, Colonel. A large number of raiders in advanced combat armor attacked the Citadel without provocation. At this point, they have already knocked out one of the Governor's Urban-Mechs. Watch the lead Victor on the bridge, there."

  Despite the enhancement and light amplification, it was almost impossible to see what was happening. The Victor's legs and lower torso were engulfed in the unheard pop-pop-pop of microgrenades mingled with the larger blasts of defensive antipersonnel charges. An instant later, something landed on the Victor's left foot.

  "Freeze," Folker said. "Enhance image."

  The conference room computer obeyed, zeroing in on the shadowy something clinging to the Victor's leg. Even though Grayson knew exactly what he was looking at, it was impossible to make out much at all save a dark shadow; the chameleon circuitry of Nighthawk armor was damned effective, especially at night.

  Who was he seeing there, Alex or McCall? Almost certainly that blurred shadow was Major McCall; this sort of close assault was virtually a trademark of his, a technique he had helped to perfect many years and many campaigns ago.

  "As you can see, Colonel," Folker continued, "troops in highly sophisticated combat armor are using close-assault infantry tactics on the Governor's 'Mechs. Slow motion, one to five, continue."

  The shadow sprang back from the Victor's foot, the flare from the Nighthawk suit's thrusters briefly reflected by dark metal. Laser fire from the Citadel towers drew interlacing patterns of blue-green and white light across the screen, one of which briefly caressed the shadow and sent it into a tumble. The figure struck the far side of the canyon, then slid back over the steeply sloping rim, vanishing from sight.

  "As you can see, we did get some of the attackers, Colonel," Folker said. He was staring hard at Grayson, apparently trying to read the emotion on his face. "We were unable to recover any of the bodies, however. The locals appear to have dragged them all off."

  "I ... see. How many did you hit?"

  "We're unsure of the exact number. According to the after-action reports I've seen, we had five confirmed kills."

  "Good for you. How many casualties did you have?"

  "Eight dead, fifteen wounded. Of course, the Governor's people weren't wearing armor. The attack came as a complete surprise, without provocation."

  "Yes. So you said."

  Grayson searched the scene, now moving in a dragged-out slow motion, wondering if the figure who'd fallen into the canyon had survived. Had he just witnessed Davis McCall's death?

  Then an explosion suddenly lit up the panorama, a brilliant white flash squarely behind the protective armor plate over the Victor's left knee. The 'Mech wobbled and gave a half turn, then collapsed face down onto the bridge. Abruptly, the scene cut off.

  "Colonel, I don't want to put too fine a point on this, but Governor Wilmarth is furious. Your people came to our world, which was already in a state of unrest—virtually open rebellion—and appear to have helped the locals mount a major attack against the Governor's residence. For that reason, we've imposed a total news and communications blackout on Caledonia. I needn't add that Tharkad and New Avalon both are concerned about what is happening here, quite concerned. We were ... we still are counting on you and your men to restore order, Baron."

  Grayson turned on the man, angry. "Don't give me that Baron bunk! Major, I assure you that I had no more than two men on your planet. What you have just shown me was the death of either a very good friend ... or of my son. I don't know who else attacked the residence, and I don't know why. But Field Marshal Gareth directed me to come to Caledonia to help restore order, and that is precisely what I intend to do."

  "Fair enough. In light of what has happened, however, I'm sure you will not be surprised to hear that the Governor has requested additional forces as well. A battalion of the Third Davion Guards will be arriving here from Hesperus II within the next few days"

  But Grayson didn't hear the man.

  He was wondering if McCall was really dead, and if Alex was all right.

  20

  Riever Headquarters Morayport

  Caledonia, Skye March

  Federated Commonwealth

  2115 hours, 8 April 3057

  Alex was excited. Even now, a full week after the penetration of the Citadel, he was still flushed with victory, alert, and filled with an almost irrational joy of simply being alive. It was more, he was sure, than simply relief at having survived the firefight at the Citadel. That emotion would have evaporated with his initial surge of adrenaline, scant hours after the battle's conclusion.

  No, this was a different kind of a joy, one born of the sure and certain knowledge that it had all come back—his combat instincts, the keen edge of his training, everything he'd lost, everything he'd missed since the disastrous hours at Ryco Pass, had been there when he needed it.

  Alex and McCall had been meeting with the local rebel forces during the past week, each garnering larger than the last as rebel cells from farther and farther afield were contacted and brought into the growing network. The Reivers, of necessity, had to keep their meeting places on the move, which was the reason for tonight's being held in the supply shed of a Morayport fisherman. The room was long and high-ceilinged, cluttered with engine parts and tools, the walls draped with nets hung for repairs, the far end of the building taken up by the rusty, torpedo-shaped bulk of a third-hand family submarine. Perhaps fifty men and women were in attendance this night—a larger number than either Alex or Davis felt comfortable with.

  The more people in the group, t
he more likely that some would be spies or traitors. That, of course, was the most ancient and basic problem of all popular rebellions. Even a patently psychotic monster like Wilmarth had a few local people willing to sell out friends and neighbors for C-bills.

  Despite the danger, however, the two Legionnaires had agreed to meet with this larger group tonight. The Gray Death Legion would be in-system soon; indeed the Legion force ought to have arrived yesterday and be en route to Caledonia how. The incessant jamming that had been blocking all radio communications channels for the past week prevented all but laser messages from passing between the jump points and the planet, and Alex and McCall had not brought any laser comm gear with them. Still, if things were going according to plan, at least one battalion of the Gray Death ought to make planetfall within another few days.

  And this time, his father's arrival would be less a rescue than a reunion, a difference greatly contributing to Alex's buoyant spirits. In the meantime, he and Davis had only a few days to pull things together with the locals.

  Perhaps as few as four days, in fact, to mend a serious breach that by itself threatened to undo everything the Caledonian rebels had been fighting for.

  "They should be on their way noo," McCall was telling the group from an improvised stage atop the forward deck of the small family sub. "We last talked t' th' Carlyle by HPG shortly after we arrived. The Gray Death Legion, or a part a' it, is being deployed here by State Command in Tharkad."

  McCall still had his left arm in a sling to keep his burned shoulder immobilized. A couple of days in a medsleeve had regenerated much of the skin and muscle tissue burned by the molten armor, but it would be several weeks before he'd recovered full function and mobility. His face looked worn, however. The strain both of the wound and of what amounted to an intensive political campaign during the past week was taking its toll.

  "Aye, an' then what, Major?" General McBee said from the front row of the audience. "Prince Victor intends for the Legion to put us down, not the legal Governor. We're the rebels here, an' the troublemakers. Or had y' forgotten that?"