Tactics of Duty

by William H. Keith

  "In that case, Colonel, I'm going to have to place you under arrest. Your weapons please, all of you!"

  Grayson's hand had moved automatically to the butt of his own laser, but at the same instant, he heard the snick of drawn bolts all around the public lounge. The small group of Gray Death officers was surrounded by black and yellow armored militiamen, who had them covered from every side.

  "The Gray Death Legion," Folker said with a dark grin, "is now under my command and you will do exactly as I say ..."

  22

  New Edinburgh Spaceport

  Caledonia, Skye March

  Federated Commonwealth

  1436 hours, 13 April 3057

  They rode the elevator back down to the main terminal level. There'd only been room for Grayson and Major Frye, Major Folker, and two armored militia troopers as guards. The rest were still in the observation lounge, waiting for another car.

  "Tell me something, Major," Grayson said as they dropped to the main level. "Would you issue an order like that if you were Governor? Fire on women and children, just because they're protesting what they see as murder?"

  "Of course I would. If they're interfering with the proper functions of the state? If they're threatening the smooth functioning of government? Damn right I would. The people have no business telling the ruling class how to rule!"

  "Funny," Frye said. "I always thought that was what democracy was all about."

  "Democracy, my dear Major Frye, is a much overrated sham to placate the masses. Too much democracy is nothing more than mob rule, and dangerous...."

  Grayson glanced at Frye as the elevator slowed to a halt. "Major Frye?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I've heard enough of this, haven't you?"

  "Damned straight. Sir."

  The door hissed open. Grayson stepped out, followed closely by Frye. "Security," Grayson said, his voice scarcely rising above a murmur. "Carlyle. Take them. Now."

  A half dozen men in dark gray armor stepped up close, ringing the party in with the ugly, heat-pitted muzzles of laser rifles and pistols. The two militia guards gaped their astonishment and meekly gave up their weapons, raising their hands. Frye pulled the laser pistol out of Folker's hand and checked him for other weapons. "He's clean."

  "No," Grayson said, taking back his sidearm from one of the guards. "He's filthy. But we'll discuss his personal habits later."

  "Orders, Colonel?" one of the Legion security men said.

  Grayson glanced around the terminal. It was crowded with both civilians and Legion personnel, but there were none of the militia troops in black-and-yellow that had been so evident earlier. "You get this level cleaned out?"

  "Yes, sir. Some of them, uh, resisted. We weren't too gentle with 'em, I'm afraid."

  "Radio communications?"

  "Okay for short range line-of-sight stuff, sir. We're still looking for the source of the jamming."

  "What the hell is the meaning of this, Carlyle!" Folker demanded.

  "Command Sergeant Lafferty here is my chief of security, Major. He tends to get concerned when I'm out of his sight for too long." Grayson turned to face the security chief. "Lafferty, there are eight more of these militia troopers upstairs in the lounge, holding six of my officers. Some may be coming down already in another elevator. Send a team up to secure things."

  "Already done, sir. O'Grady took a team up by the maintenance stairs a few moments ago when I decided you'd been out of sight for too long."

  "Well done!"

  Folker was looking around the terminal with an expression of complete bewilderment. "But ... my men ..."

  "I gave orders to my people to secure this terminal building before you took me on that little sightseeing tour, Major. I dislike having two different armed units controlling the same area. Makes me nervous. There's too much chance for misunderstanding."

  "What! You have no right—"

  "I am following my orders, Major, and to the letter. My orders are to restore order in the New Edinburgh area, and I have decided to begin with this spaceport. We have dealt with that threat and now control the installation. You can assist us by giving orders to switch off the jamming, which is hindering my forces far more than it could possibly be hindering the rebels."

  "Your orders, Colonel, were to place yourself under the direct command of Governor Wilmarth...."

  "Whom we still haven't seen. And who, I think, we'd better pay a visit to, right away."

  "I am the governor's representative, with full—"

  "Sergeant Lafferty, be good enough to place the Governor's representative under arrest. Lock him up aboard the Defiant, and keep him under guard."

  "Yes, sir. A pleasure!"

  The explosion shook the entire building, sending a fine spray of glass hurtling across the terminal lounge. Grayson tumbled to the floor, knocked down by the concussion and momentarily stunned. A woman screamed, and men were shouting as white dust boiled through the air. Most of the Legion security men were down as well. Major Frye staggered to his feet, then turned to help Grayson.

  "Folker!" Grayson snapped. "He's getting away!"

  Folker was running, knocking two women aside as he bolted for a side door. Lafferty drew his laser and took careful aim, but Grayson reached out and lifted the muzzle.

  "Too many civilians about," Grayson told him. "Someone might get hurt. Let the son of a bitch go."

  Folker plowed through several more civilians in the confusion created by the explosion and vanished through the door. "I hate to see that bastard walk," Frye said, holstering his weapon.

  "Looked more like a flat-out run to me, Major. Don't worry about it. We have other things to worry about right now. Sounds like we have 'Mechs out there."

  Shouts and warnings echoed through the terminal, punctuated by sharp gunfire. Behind the noise and confusion, the creak and clank of heavy machinery could be heard ... coming closer.

  "Major!" Carlyle ordered. "This building isn't hardened. Get our people back into the lower levels."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And see if you can clear the civilians out too."

  "They'll be in our way...."

  "I know. But we can't leave them to be buried or burned up here."

  "I wasn't protesting the order, Colonel. Just pointing out a fact. Benford! Imura! Round up those people on that side! Start falling back to the underground levels!"

  Through the hole now gaping in the north wall of the terminal, beyond the piles of rabble and broken glass, a black and yellow Wasp could be seen moving slowly across the center of the plaza toward the terminal. Its right arm, with the menacing bulk of a laser, was raised. Beyond it, a second 'Mech, a Locust, was walking with delicate and mincing steps across the plaza.

  Grayson trotted across the terminal floor to a position sheltered by a massive stone pillar, from which he could look out through the gaping hole and into the plaza beyond. Moments ago, that plaza had been packed with people, with demonstrators and agitators protesting Wilmarth's rule. Now, there were still people everywhere, but the mob had broken and scattered. There were people running, people screaming, injured or dead or unconscious lying sprawled on the pavement, a handful of people facing the oncoming Wasp with handguns and rocks....

  High above the plaza, a green flare streaked into the sky.

  What the hell was that all about? "Colonel!" Frye said behind him. "Our people are falling back to the lower levels. You should get out of here!"

  "I'll be along in a minute."

  "But sir—"

  "Major, what is the status on our 'Mechs?"

  "About half are deployed, Colonel. The rest should be out and clear within ten or fifteen minutes." He looked puzzled. "Uh, but ..."

  "But what?"

  "Sir, you're not going to attack the city, are you?"

  "Hell no! But I'm sure as hell going to restore order!"

  * * *

  "There's the signal!" Alex cried, pointing. Overhead, a brilliant green star fell across the sky, trail
ing white smoke from the general direction of the spaceport terminal.

  " 'Mechs on the move!" McCall said.

  "Ready when you are, Major," Alex said, reaching down to key in a line of power plant switches. The AgroMech, already powered up, began to hum and vibrate as the actuators switched on. Alex picked up his Nighthawk helmet and snapped it in place on his suit's shoulder girdle with a sharp half-twist, then gripped the handholds of the jury-rigged laser and thumbed the power feed on. "Ready, Major!"

  "Let's move out then," McCall said. He was having some trouble with his own helmet, which was almost impossible to don one-handed.

  "Let me help with that," Alex said. "Damn, this was a screwball idea. You shouldn't be trying to work in armor with that shoulder."

  "Nonsense, lad." McCall winced as Alex twisted the helmet home in the locking collar. "This she'll keep me from bangin' the thing worse."

  Helmet in place and visor locked down, McCall gave a thumbs-up to the Reiver troops around the AgroMech's feet, then engaged its walker drive. There was a loud popping sound, followed by the clatter of ancient valves. Though power was provided by a fairly modern bank of fuel cells, the main drive was a relic, a smoky, wheezing internal combustion engine.

  The machine was clumsy, and moved with an annoying, lurching awkwardness. Unlike a military 'Mech the Cherry-Picker didn't have a neurohelmet link to provide balance and orientation feedback directly to the pilot's brain, so operating the thing was more like driving a truck—a bulky, slow, and dull-witted truck—than piloting a BattleMech. A half dozen strides of its four spindly legs and it was out of the warehouse and stepping across the chainlink fence that marked the north edge of the spaceport field.

  "Hang on, lad!" McCall cried, nudging the mechanical beast's throttle to full forward. "Let's see what she'll do on th' open road!"

  "I think Wilmarth's 'Mechs must've moved faster than the Reivers expected," Alex said. "Look!" A 'Mech was just visible beyond the bulk of the terminal building, a black and yellow Wasp that appeared to have just opened fire on the crowd. People were fleeing in every direction in blind and terrified panic as the 'Mech began to advance upon the terminal.

  Laser fire seared the air just above Alex's head. Spinning, he saw to his horror that the fire had come from the Defiant, now looming up above the rim of its grounding pit only a few hundred meters away.

  "Watch it!" McCall yelled, and the AgroMech lurched heavily to the left. White contrails scrawled their way across the sky, arcing from the grounded DropShip. Explosions roared on the tarmac nearby.

  Gravel clattered off the back of the CherryPicker and bounced off Alex's helmet. "Those idiots think we're attacking them!" Alex cried.

  "Those idiots are doing exactly the right thing," McCall replied, struggling one-handed with the clumsy AgroMech's steering bar. "If there's a battle on and a contraption like this heads for one of my DropShips, they'd damn well better shoot."

  The original idea had been for the AgroMech to strike out toward the DropShips before any actual shooting started. The 'Mechs guarding the DropShip perimeter should have stopped the intruder, at which point Alex and McCall could have identified themselves.

  But in combat, things very rarely, if ever, go exactly as planned. The sudden and unexpected attack by the Wasp had pushed the DropShip's defenses to full red alert, and any unidentified piece of equipment coming too close would be subject to fire without warning.

  As resources and as unit assets, DropShips were far too precious for it to be otherwise.

  "We'd better pull back," Alex said. "We're gonna get flambeed if we keep heading for the DropShips!"

  "Aye, lad. I agree." McCall pointed. "We'll make for those supply sheds over there, and see wha' else we can try."

  Another explosion thundered close behind the AgroMech, which rode out the shock by dipping sharply to the right on telescoping, jointed legs. Something snapped inside one of the legs, and the 'Mech's number three driver made an ugly, grating noise. Red lights flared on the control panel and the AgroMech took a staggering, halting step before freezing in place. The engine coughed, rattled, and then died with a wheezing sigh. "What do we do now?" Alex asked. "We surrender," Davis replied. "If they'll let us."

  * * *

  Caitlin DeVries leaned as far forward as she could within the close embrace of her Griffin's command seat, hands on the 'Mech's controls, peering through her viewport. The attack didn't look like much. The Griffin's warbook program couldn't identify the machine stalking across the ferrocrete pavement half a kilometer ahead, but from here it looked like some sort of civilian 'Mech, probably customized for low-intensity combat—a guerrilla special. The political situation on Caledonia was still so damned confused there was no certainty about who might be friendly and who was not. With a sharp, upward slap of her hand, she armed the Griffin's battery of Doombud LRMs.

  She swivelled her cockpit assembly left, turning the 'Mech's head as machinery whined around her. Lieutenant Anders's lance, the Combat Lance of First Company/Third Batt, was deployed in an uneven line of three to her left. Hers was the only One-one 'Mech off-loaded so far; the Colonel hadn't debarked yet, and of course Alex and Major McCall were still ... out there, somewhere. No matter. She would stick tight to the One-three, until she could pick up a wingman. 'Mechs that operated alone in combat, even—or especially?—in guerrilla fights against infantry—tended to end up dead.

  "Ah, CombatThree-one," she called over the tactical frequency. Jamming was still bad on all channels, but in line of sight and at close range, the transmissions could still be sorted from the background noise. "This is DeVries, from Command One-one. Mind if I tag along and make your lance an honest foursome?" Combat Lance Three-one had been short one 'Mech, since losing Albrecht Weiss's Hunchback on Ueda a few months back.

  "Hello, Caitlin," Lawrence Anders's baritone came back, meshed with the static hiss of the jamming. His Catapult, a massive, sixty-five-tonner with a sleek fuselage atop splayfooted, back-angled, digitigrade legs, was taking the lead, with Tom Vandermier's Hunchback in support. "Welcome aboard. You stick with Sharon while she checks out that intruder."

  Sharon was Sergeant Sharon Kilroy, in an old and battered-looking Vindicator.

  "Hey, Lieutenant," Sharon Kilroy's voice called. "I'm getting hostile 'Mechs, north side of the terminal."

  "They're not on my scope yet," Vandermier said.

  "Don't worry about the militia 'Mechs," Anders said. "We're to block that intruder. Sharon? You guys have a better angle. How about the two of you move in close, see what we've got."

  "Combat Three-one, this is Endeavor Combat Command. Watch yourselves. We're reading a laser in that jury-rigged job. It's probably a makeshift ranged weapon ...

  "... but it could be a trigger for a bomb," Sharon said, completing the unpleasant thought. "Roger that. We'll be careful, mama. C'mon, DeVries. Let's check that buggy out."

  "Roger." Caitlin put her Griffin into step with Sergeant Kilroy's slightly smaller Vindicator, and the two 'Mechs strode across the ferrocrete, bearing down on the distant AgroMech.

  * * *

  Grayson Carlyle reached the Endeavor's 'Mech bay on the run, sliding down the railings of a shipboard ladder rather than taking a slower lift platform. The DropShip's cavernous 'Mech bay was a cluttered tangle of shadowy metal parts, the crisscrossing frameworks of multiple gantries and catwalks, and the great, hulking shapes of the 'Mechs themselves, half lost in the shadows, with highlights here and there picked out by spotlights set into bulkheads and on elevated access walkways. The bay deck was made hazardous by the speeding, weaving electric carts trundling out loads of rockets and cassettes of autocannon shells from munitions lockers to 'Mechs. Everywhere, techs and assistant techs were working with the frantic yet meticulously choreographed urgency of imminent combat. On the far side of the bay, daylight dazzled the eye as an external hatch slid open; a Guillotine was moving into the debarkation elevator, its movements cast as shifting black silhouettes against the glare
from outside.

  Grayson's VTR-9K Victor had already been broken out of its storage cocoon and rigged in its ready gantry. It stood there in the shadows lifeless, limp as a puppet strung from a rack, a slouch to its shoulders and torso and its arms dangling free at its sides. The Legion's current crew chief, Tech Sergeant Brunner tossed him a jaunty, two-fingered salute as Grayson trotted up to the boarding lift and hit the button on the frame.

  "She's ready and charged, Colonel!" Brunner called up to Grayson as he rose. "Take it easy on the jumps, though. I'm still worried about the lower-leg shocks!"

  Those leg shocks had been worrying Brunner for months. Eighty-ton BattleMechs weren't really meant for jump-jet flights, and a Victor's touchdown after flight could be hard on the hydraulics that cushioned the landings.

  "Don't worry, Jim!" Grayson shouted down in reply. "I'll bring your baby back in one piece!"

  The cockpit hatch was open, splitting the Victor's rounded helm to reveal the close-set complexity of consoles, screens, and instrumentation within. Grayson slid down into the control seat feet first, slapped the cockpit power, and hit the hatch close switch.

  All around him, lights showed green or amber, and electronics gave off a faint and reassuring hum. Reaching up and back, he grasped the neurohelmet from its rack above and behind the seat and swung it down, positioning it over his shoulders and checking the connectors. He was still wearing his shipboard jumpsuit; there'd been no time to change to cooling vest or other Mech Warrior paraphernalia, but this wasn't likely to be a long or grueling engagement, not against the 'Mechs Wilmarth would be likely to field.

  The Victor had an unusually large cockpit display, with a tall, reinforced transparent fiber-plastic alloy windscreen forward, and large viewscreens mounted to left and right to give an almost seamless, unparalleled breadth of view. Though his primary control console blocked part of the forward window, he could look down between his knees and see through the 'Mech's chin port. Brunner waved up at him, gave him a thumbs-up, then hurried to the side, out of the way.