One, the fact that he'd seen a man in what looked like Nighthawk armor get shot and fall into a canyon did not necessarily mean that the man was either Davis McCall or his son. It could have been someone else.
Two, the fact that the person had fallen into a canyon after being shot didn't necessarily mean that he was dead. There was no way to tell from that brief glimpse on video how deep that canyon was, and Nighthawk suits were astonishingly tough.
Three, Grayson had decided that he didn't trust Folker— not when the man was the representative of a government that clearly preferred to control all information about itself in order to control its own people. Folker had a sliminess about him, about his manner that set Grayson's teeth on edge, and Grayson could easily believe that the man might have staged or forged that entire video sequence.
Why? Grayson still wasn't sure, but he had the distinct impression that Folker was trying to tie Grayson and the Gray Death more closely to Wilmarth and the governor's stewardship of Caledonia. Rather than returning to Caledon in the shuttle, Folker had remained aboard the Endeavor, where he'd spent much of the past five days in attempts to convince Grayson that the Jacobite/Jihadist rebellion was the work of anarchists, of enemies of the Governor, and of enemies of the Federated Commonwealth.
The Legion, Folker had insisted, was one of two BattleMech units being deployed to Caledonia—an indication, he claimed, of just how important this world was to the Federated Commonwealth—in order to keep the peace. He'd brought with him several memory clips filled with hundreds of gigabytes of data, with detailed operational orders for the Legion to deploy from New Edinburgh spaceport, secure New Edinburgh, and then initiate martial law. The second unit, Folker said, would be a battalion of the Third Davion Guards, formerly stationed on neighboring Hesperus II, but soon to arrive in-system for deployment either at New Edinburgh or at the city of Stirling, to the north.
Grayson had done a lot of thinking about the situation during the final leg of the passage to Caledonia. He was in a damned tight position, both politically and ethically. As the Baron of Glengarry, he owed his primary allegiance to Victor Davion, Prince and ruler of the Federated Commonwealth. That title of nobility, however, meant little to him personally. The Legion was his life, and his life's work.
So far as his allegiance as a mercenary was concerned, that had been purchased decades ago by House Steiner. Though mercenary units didn't necessarily stay loyal to one employer—those that did were, in fact, rarities—Grayson Carlyle's political sympathies lay more with the Steiners than with any of the other Great Houses of the Inner Sphere. The Steiner world of Verthandi had given the Gray Death its first contract those many years ago when Grayson had first formed the unit. And in their current stint, he had actually signed on with Katrina Steiner before she'd abdicated in favor of her daughter Melissa. His contract had never officially been with House Davion or the Federated Commonwealth. He sympathized with the disaffection many Lyrans felt for the Davion emphasis being given to the alliance of their two great realms. Prince Victor was currently ruling from New Avalon and seemed to be more concerned with maintaining his power than being fair to all his subjects.
Quite apart from the politics of the matter, though, Grayson disliked it when people in power—those accustomed to having their own way—attempted to use the Gray Death Legion for their own political ends. That had happened more than once in the past, and Grayson was certain that someone was trying to do it again. Who? And for what purpose? Not Folker, certainly. The man was a go-between, not a mover. Wilmarth? Possible, but from what he'd heard so far, unlikely. Field Marshal Gareth? A distinct possibility. That one certainly had ambitions ... and sympathy for the Skye separatists as well.
But there was no way to sort out his conflicting emotions, or loyalties, before he reached Caledonia and found out for himself what the situation there was.
One thing was certain. Major Kellen Folker was not making it easier to feel sympathy for the legitimate government of Caledonia. The man was there at Grayson's side at every opportunity, attempting to sway him, reminding him that the Jacobites and Jihadists were in rebellion against their legally appointed Governor and against the rightful authority of the Federated Commonwealth. He continually harped on the same theme: "You are the Baron of Glengarry, Colonel. You owe your oath of fealty to Prince Victor. We are facing the Prince's enemies here, and it is your sworn duty to destroy them!"
By the time they'd completed their final deorbit burn and entered Caledon's atmosphere, Grayson had no idea who was right and who was wrong on that world. All he knew was that the first thing he must do was find Davis and Alex. And if they were alive, he would learn from them the true situation on Caledonia.
If they were not, then someone was going to pay for their deaths, and pay very dearly indeed.
* * *
"There they are!" Alex said, pointing excitedly into the sky.
McCall, one-handed, held a set of electronic binoculars to his eyes and peered up toward the zenith. Three brilliant white stars set against the blue of the afternoon sky were drifting swiftly down. Through the binoculars he could make out details of hull and laser turret, and the stylized skull of the Gray Death.
"Aye, lad, tha's them. Looks like the Endeavor, the Defiant, and the Valiant, all three of Third Batt's DropShips, though I would nae be surprised t' see your father wi' 'em."
"Now all we have to do is figure out how to contact them."
Wearing their Nighthawk armor but with the helmets removed, the two men were seated together in the high, open cockpit of a spider-legged AgroMech, a relic of a CK-3 CherryPicker at least two centuries old that had been volunteered to the cause by a Dundee farmer. The man was a Jihadist and a pacifist, but, as he'd put it when he'd showed up at the Reiver camp the morning after that meeting in Morayport, "I'm aye a peaceable man, but enough is enough! These bastards can takit their damned tribulation a' the righteous elsewhere!"
The CherryPicker had been equipped with machine guns and a jury-rigged laser—the igniter from a small, household fusion plant with the safeties stripped off and the output boosted by removing the governor. The device was now the equivalent of a small laser, and though no one could promise that it would fire more than once or twice before burning out, it gave the CK-3 at least that many shots before the AgroMech was smashed to pieces.
McCall hoped the thing wouldn't have to see combat this afternoon, but he knew better than to take that as a given. He'd been certain that the Legion DropShips were arriving when Reiver lookouts had reported that Bloodspiller troops had begun getting into position around the spaceport several hours ago. Wilmarth obviously wanted to keep the rebels away from the Gray Death forces, at least until he was sure that the Legion was on his side.
The rebels' response had been suggested by the two Legionnaires with them—another huge demonstration to be held in the plaza outside the New Edinburgh spaceport terminal. Nearly twenty thousand people were expected, a crowd that would test Wilmarth's crowd-control capabilities to their limits and distract them long enough for McCall and Alex to make the sprint to the DropShips.
The AgroMech had been partly disassembled three days ago and moved by truck and cargo hovercraft to the spaceport's warehouse district. There, inside a warehouse donated by another secret member of the Reivers, the CK-3 had been reassembled and its makeshift weaponry mounted. That jury-rigged firepower would be useless in a tangle with a real BattleMech, but if Wilmarth's troops tried pursuing them out onto the landing field, a burst of machine-gun or laser fire might discourage them.
Now, McCall and Alex were sitting inside the 'Mech, waiting for their chance. The roof and south wall of the warehouse had been rolled open by the half dozen armed Reivers waiting there with them, and, once the building's interior was open to the sky, the two Legionnaires could watch the DropShips' final approach.
The squat, spheroidal shapes were close enough now that McCall could see details of their hulls and markings even without the binocul
ars. If he and Alex only had some laser comm gear, they could've flashed a message to the Endeavor right now....
The distant rumble of the demonstration off to the west was swiftly drowned out by the piercing, shrieking thunder of the descending trio of DropShips. Once again, he wished they could use their radios to contact the Colonel directly, but the planet was still blanketed with heavy jamming. Narrow windows had been reserved for government communications, but without the necessary codes and frequency sets, there was no way for the Reivers to take advantage of them. Laser communications would have been better yet. Even though limited to line-of-sight ranges, there was no way you could jam a lasercom. That equipment, however, rare and valuable, was simply not available.
Actually, McCall thought with a wry grin to himself, there was another way they could have used laser communications, though it was too late to do it. Hand lasers took too long to recycle after each shot to be useful in transmitting a code, but there were targeting lasers and ranging devices that could have been adapted. Aimed at the Endeavor and switched rapidly on and off, they would have attracted immediate attention from the DropShip's defense computers, which registered any laser energy striking the ship's hull. If the ship's weapons officer had noted the irregular pattern of dots and dashes ...
Unfortunately, McCall hadn't thought of that in time to set something up. No matter. The mere sight of a spindly-legged AgroMech striding across the tarmac would alert the Colonel. After all, it was Grayson Carlyle himself who'd pioneered the use of jury-rigged Agros on Verthandi, over three decades ago, and he'd know what was up.
Just so long as some trigger-happy newbie in the Legion didn't get the wrong idea and shoot first, before the Colonel had a chance to tell him not to....
In swirling clouds of superheated steam, the three Drop-Ships gended one after the other into yawning starport receiving bays, refractory, ferrocrete-rimmed craters half filled with water to cool the walls after they were licked by the flaming, starcore fury of the ships' main thrusters. Settling deeply into the yield of the shock-absorbing legs, the hulls shuddered for a moment as the thrusters powered down.
Then they were still. Enclosed boarding ramps slid out from the receiving bay walls, magnetically locking to each ship's primary entry port. This was luxury; on most combat drops, DropShips landed in open fields and didn't have the luxury of air-conditioned ways leading to underground slidewalks, maglev transports, and the cool, brightly lit interior of the starport terminal.
Now the 'Mech loading bays on the sides of the Drop-Ships slid slowly open, and the debarkation elevators began trundling the first of the battalion's massive battle machines to the ground. Ramps descending into each landing pit gave the 'Mechs easy access to the open tarmac of the port field.
It never failed to amaze McCall, even after all his years of experience, just how huge a DropShip actually was. Their interiors were so cramped that a single company of Mech-Warriors, techs, and auxiliary personnel were crowded into a stinking, claustrophobic, elbow-in-my-eye intimacy that swiftly became intolerable after just a few days of inter-system boost. Aboard ship, there were never enough lavatories, fewer showers, and men and women were crowded together in the troop bays without even the memory of what privacy was like. Civilian transports were somewhat better, but military jobs couldn't afford to cater to humans when every single kilo saved on measures for comfort or privacy could be applied to another kilo of expendables, of 'Mech parts, of military equipment.
Seen from outside, however, even from well over a kilometer away and with the lower halves of each ship hidden in its landing cradle, DropShips were enormous, especially when their BattleMechs began moving about outside to give them a sense of scale. McCall knew 'Mechs better than he did DropShips, knew their sheer mass and bulk and complexity, but a Union Class DropShip, measuring seventy-eight meters from stern thrusters to bridge dome, towered almost eight times taller than a 'Mech and dwarfed the largest Atlas by its sheer bulk. Even nestled in their landing craters, the upper halves of the DropShips towered above the deploying BattleMechs.
McCall studied the deployment through his binoculars. There was a Vindicator, a Catapult, and a Hunchback, obviously working together as part of a lance. That would be Lieutenant Anders's Combat Lance, in First Company of the Third Batt.
He saw no sign of Grayson Carlyle's Victor.
"Weel, lad, there's no sense in waitin' longer. I was hopin' to spot your father first, but tha's Larry Anders's Catapult over there. I think he can be trusted not t' shoot first an' ask questions later. Still, I wish I could spot the Colonel's Victor. It would be nice to walk up t' him, 'Mech to 'Mech."
"We can wait a bit longer," Alex said. "In fact, we probably should. There's no sign yet that the Bloodspiller 'Mechs have started moving against the demonstrators." The signal, arranged early that morning, was to be a green flare fired over the plaza. Once Wilmarth's 'Mechs were moving toward the plaza, the AgroMech could scamper across the tarmac in relative safety. If McCall and Alex broke from cover too soon, it was possible that the government 'Mechs, which had been positioned about the spaceport in order to guard the approaches to the landing area itself, would see the little AgroMech and move to block it. The thing was un-armored. A single solid hit would probably take it down.
"All right, lad," McCall said, deciding. "We can wait another ten minutes. Then we'll go, whether your father is paradin' aboot in his Victor or no."
* * *
Grayson was not in his 'Mech. Instead, he, Major Frye, and a half dozen Legion staff officers had accompanied Major Folker and his two lieutenants through the boarding tube, then gone by underground maglev to the starport terminal a kilometer to the north. There were militia guards in black and yellow armor everywhere throughout the terminal, and Grayson had the impression they'd been there for some time.
"Just what is it you want us to see, Major?" Grayson asked as they stepped into a circular, glass-enclosed lounge. A brief elevator ride had taken them up a slender tower to the saucer-shaped observation area, which gave a splendid three-sixty-degree view of the entire port, as well as the city of New Edinburgh sprawling across gently rolling ground to the north and east. Grayson took one brief glance toward the south, verifying that the Third Batt's 'Mechs were indeed deploying as he'd ordered, then followed Folker and the others toward the north side of the lounge.
"This, Colonel," Folker said. "I got word by radio as we were landing."
"You've been in radio communication with your superiors?" Grayson was angry. "Damn it, man, I've been asking for access to your people for five days!"
"I told you, Colonel. I am to be your liaison with the Governor. I was informed this morning that a demonstration had begun outside of the spaceport terminal. Now, though, it appears to be getting out of hand. I thought this would give you the best view...."
Folker was right. From almost one hundred meters up,
Grayson and the others could look down onto the plaza in front of the starport terminal almost directly below, getting an aerial view even more close and detailed than that afforded by the Endeavor's scanners during the descent. The crowds had filled the plaza with a black sea of people pocked everywhere by the colorful, dancing points of waving flags and hand-carried signs. Grayson couldn't read the signs at this distance but could imagine what many of them said: Down with Wilmarth, perhaps, and Machines = Death.
There was no sign of the four BattleMechs he'd spotted from the DropShip. Perhaps Wilmarth's troops were holding off until things really got out of hand.
"As you can see, Colonel," Folker said gesturing out the window, "things have become impossible here. The Governor only has a few 'Mechs and a few armored vehicles available ... and two of the 'Mechs and a number of transports were knocked out last week by your people. I remind you, sir, that you were brought here to restore order."
"What is it you want of me, Major Folker?"
The Major waved at the window. "You have 'Mechs. Your orders are to deploy your battalion into
the city, seize it, and disperse the rioters."
Grayson's eyes widened. "Major Folker, are you suggesting that I turn BattleMechs against those people down there?"
"Those people, Colonel, are in rebellion against the duly constituted government of this world." Folker drew himself up straighter, his mouth a hard line, his eyes dark. "Colonel Carlyle, as the personal representative both of Governor Wilmarth and of Field Marshal Gareth, I order you to deploy your full force against this rebellion, even if it means total destruction of this city!"
"Good God, man, do you hear yourself? Do you have any idea what you're saying?"
"I'm ordering you to destroy the city and crush the Jacobite rebellion!"
Grayson took a deep breath. There were some orders that must be obeyed, even though obeying them meant death. There were others, though, that meant the death of a man's spirit, of his soul.
"No."
"What did you say?"
"I said, 'no.' I refuse that order."
"Damn you, Carlyle! This is an emergency! The Governor has already declared martial law. You can't refuse a direct order made on the Governor's authority!"
"I just did. I will not see my Legion used to incinerate civilians. What you're asking isn't war. It's a civilian massacre."
"I can have you and your whole damned Legion listed as outlaws!" Folker shouted. "As contract breakers! I'll see you broken for this! You'll never get another mercenary assignment, never! No one in the Inner Sphere would hire a man, would trust a man, who'd refused a legal order from his employer!"
Grayson crossed his arms. "I can't accept the order, Major, and you know it. I couldn't accept it if your Governor Wilmarth were here to deliver it himself."
Folker exchanged a hard glance with his two lieutenants, then gave a nod. His hand dropped to his holstered sidearm, dragging the weapon free with an ugly rasp of steel on learner.
Tactics of Duty Page 24
