Tactics of Duty

by William H. Keith

  Caitlin reached out, put her arms around Alex, and kissed him deeply. He relaxed in her warm and fragrant embrace, savoring her softness.

  "You know," he said, after a long while. "We really shouldn't, um, get involved out here. I'm so tired, I can hardly stand up"

  "Then you should take a nap," she whispered in his ear. "Right here."

  He could feel her fingers unsnapping the catches in his clothing. "But—"

  "Lie down. I'll help you...."

  They had no blanket, but their clothing would pad the rough spots on the ground. Soon they were totally absorbed in one another, and even Alex's tiredness could not block his enjoyment of this loving woman.

  Neither of them saw the RX-30 SpyEye perched among the branches of a tree ten meters away.

  * * *

  "Baby, baby, baby!..."

  The words were low and murmured, barely audible, a softly chanted litany of lust.

  George Sidney Groton was a 'Mech tech, a native of Glengarry who'd joined the Legion less than a year ago. Though his duties normally kept him occupied in a Legion 'Mech Bay, his technical expertise with electronics occasionally got him out of the 'Mech drek and behind a sensor or electronics suite. That was how he happened to be in the Citadel command center today, operating an RX-30.

  SpyEyes, as they were popularly known, were small gadgets used by governments and militaries throughout the Inner Sphere, especially by the various security agencies. They were little more than a camera and a transmitter mounted on six walking legs, a primitive, battery-powered robot small enough to hold in the palm of your hand. Too slow and too fragile to be efficient as scouts in battle, they were invaluable as silent, near-invisible sentries around a military base— especially out in the wilderness where they could scuttle behind rocks or vegetation or, with the aid of small, sharp hooks on their feet, even climb trees.

  And right now, Groton had SpyEye Seven in a tree about three meters off the ground, and he was focusing in on Caitlin—a gorgeous girl, daughter of the Governor of Glengarry, no less, that he'd drooled over in his fantasies even before either of them had joined the Legion—while she did a number on the Colonel's kid.

  "Oh baby, baby, ba—"

  A hand and arm dropped across his field of vision, blocking the view of a great deal of lovely, pale skin and snicking off the camera feed with an angry stab of one finger.

  "Give me one good reason, Mister, why I shouldn't arrest you on the spot."

  "C-Colonel! I'm, I mean, I, I, I didn't see you—"

  "Obviously." Carlyle snicked off an entire line of switches on the console, killing the power in the distant remote. "Voyeurism isn't a crime in the Legion," Carlyle said darkly. "With no privacy to begin with, rules to make slimes like you keep their eyes to themselves are a bit silly. However, when individuals go out of their way to spy on brother and sister Legionnaires, I'm damned tempted to add it to the sixteen farms."

  Groton swallowed hard and had to work to keep from falling out of his chair. To most techs, Grayson Carlyle was a bigger-than-life figure, heroic, remote, talked about but rarely seen. To have the man descend on you like this was worse than facing a BattleMech unarmed and unarmored. The "sixteen farms" Carlyle had mentioned were the sixteen paragraphs in the Gray Death's Regimental General Orders that ended with the ominous phrase, "shall be punishable by death, or by such other punishment as a court-martial may direct."

  The sixteen ways a man could "buy the farm" in the Legion, short of actually getting killed in combat, things like murder, rape, betrayal of unit secrets to the enemy, or refusing a direct order in combat.

  "What's your name, Mister?"

  "G-Gordon. Sir. 'Mech tech, Third Battalion."

  Carlyle made an entry in his hand computer. "Groton, you are on report. Dereliction of duty. Inattentiveness on watch. Conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline."

  "Sir, I can explain! I just—"

  "Explain it at mast. You're relieved of duty. Now. Get out of my sight!"

  * * *

  Grayson watched the technician hurry off, his face burning a bright red. He looked back at the RX-30 station's blank monitor screens and shook his head. Leaving this one station dead would not seriously jeopardize the Legion's perimeter. Damn it, though, those two should be more careful! Half the Command Center crew might have been looking over Groton's shoulder and cheering the pair of them on if he hadn't happened by. If Alex and Caitlin wanted to provide a free show to the more libidinous members of the command staff, fine ... but that kind of mass distraction could put a serious hole in their defenses, not to mention shooting unit morale to hell. There was a definite morale problem in the general knowledge of the CO's son being intimately involved with a woman under his command. If nothing else, people might think Caitlin's next promotion was due to some factor other than her efficiency and skill as a Mech-Warrior. Grayson wondered how he could stop Groton from spreading juicy stories around the unit.

  Impossible, probably, sort of shooting the man. Damn it all! Once upon a time, about a million years ago, he'd thought running his own merc unit might be fun....

  He still didn't think he approved of Alex's relationship with DeVries. If something happened to either of them, the other would be ruined as well.

  And they would be in combat very soon. Perhaps as soon as two days from now.

  But he also knew that they needed each other. "Enjoy yourselves, you two," Grayson said to the blank monitor, very, very quietly. "I'm afraid you won't have many more opportunities like this. . . . "

  * * *

  Two men talked together in the similitude of privacy offered by the vastness of the 'Mech bay of the Citadel. The huge chamber was filled with the bustle of men working on BattleMechs arrayed like so many suits of armor in their maintenance gantries. The flare and hiss of welding torches, the crash of armor on armor, the ratcheting clash of heavy cranes and travelers, all conspired to make conversation difficult and eavesdropping nearly impossible.

  "So, Groton," the officer said with an easy smile. "I heard you got gigged the other day by the Old Man himself."

  Groton looked up from the circuit test bed he was working on, then snorted. "Damned long-nosed son of a bitch. I wasn't doing anything wrong!"

  "Hey, easy, pal. Easy. I know that. You think you're the first tech to get nailed by that SOB? Sometimes Grayson Carlyle thinks he's Almighty God or something. All this merc hero stuff over the years has gone to his head!"

  "Yeah. It wasn't like I was asleep at my post or nothin! I was watching my display all the time!"

  The other laughed. "Yeah. Selby up in Command Control said you got an eyeful of something good. What'd you see, anyway?"

  "Ha!" Groton started to say, then stopped, suddenly uncertain. "Uh, look, sir. I'm probably in enough trouble already. ..."

  "Hey, tell me your troubles. Do I look like the kind of guy who'd rat on his buddies?" He snapped his fingers. "I don't give that for that officer-and-gentleman drek. I started off as an enlisted grunt."

  "I didn't mean—"

  "Look, I got some people in Admin who owe me some favors, right? I may be able to get things squared with you."

  "No drek! Really?"

  "Sure. I'd need a favor or two in return, of course."

  "Hey, anything, sir! Anything! It wasn't like I was asleep or—"

  "Well, tell me, for the love of Blake. What'd you see that ticked Carlyle off so bad?"

  "Well ... you know that looker in Command Lance One-one? The daughter of the Governor back on Glengarry?"

  "Sure."

  Grinning, Groton began describing what he'd seen on the monitor in loving, libidinous, and anatomically explicit detail.

  "Man, that's juicy. With the CO's son, huh?"

  "That's right, sir. They was really goin' at it!"

  "Yeah, well. I guess rank hath its privileges, huh?"

  "Sure as hell does. Uh, meanin' no disrespect, of course, Captain."

  The officer laughed. "Drek, Groton. Do y
ou think captains get any special privileges in this damned unit? Except for Captain Carlyle, of course! The rest of us? We're bottom of the ol' pyramid, just like you. Well, except for ensigns and lieutenants. But they don't count!"

  "Never thought of it that way, sir. Least it's good to know some officers are human."

  "Ha! Not like some we could name!"

  "Damned straight!"

  "Listen, Groton. You're a good man. And I do need a favor. Now, I don't want to make it like I wouldn't help you if you don't help me, but ..."

  "Hey, no problem, Captain. That's the way the military works. You scratch mine, I'll scratch yours, right?"

  "Right." The officer glanced back and form, as though checking for unseen listeners. "Okay, you've got access to a jack key, right?"

  "Huh? Sure. But what would you want with one of those?"

  "Well, it's like this. In a way, see, I've got the same problem with the Colonel that you do. The guy can kinda sneak up on you even when you're both inside BattleMechs!"

  "I can believe that. He's got eyes in the back of his head!"

  "There are times, when I'm out in my 'Mech, that I need a little extra room, know what I mean?"

  "No, sir. I don't think I do."

  "Contraband, son. Goodies from the locals. Things like cantly and fresh fruit and dopesticks and stimmers that'll fetch a good price on the market... meaning, of course, the rest of the battalion."

  "Smuggling, you mean."

  "What's the matter, Groton? You have a problem with that?"

  "Nah. I enjoy a stimmer hit once in a while, same as the next guy. I just don't like weaseling around the point, know what I mean?"

  "I know exactly what you mean. Well, the point is, when we're out on patrol, or a march like this, I sometimes have the opportunity to pick up a little something on the side. Problem is, if Carlyle catches me, it's a court-martial, maybe even a bounce out of the Legion. I don't know why they're so damned tough on stimmers and such. I mean, everybody does it, right?"

  "Just about. So anyway, how does a jack key help you?"

  A jack key was a magnetic disk that, applied against a key spot on a 'Mech's armor, opened a small hatch to give techs access to wiring nodes or service tunnels.

  "A jack key and a few minutes alone in the 'Mech bay where the Colonel's 'Mech is being stored lets me open up one of his access panels, say, in the leg. It lets me wire in a little device as big as my hand that acts like a radar transponder. Sends out a coded signal that only I can pick up, and lets me know when the Colonel's in the area."

  "Slick!" Groton nodded, but he was still looking uncertain. "That's not somethin' an enemy 'Mech could use, is it? To home in on him, like?"

  "Nah! Strictly short range, and the only way it shows up out of background emissions is when you have the descrambler, like I would in my 'Mech's tracking system."

  "Those keys are restricted, you know. They're not supposed to leave the 'Mech bay, and we have to sign for them. Unauthorized people aren't supposed to even see 'em. Just the techs and the individual warriors."

  "I'm a MechWarrior."

  "Yeah, but you're not supposed to have access to anybody else's key."

  "Why do you think I'm asking you? I figure a smart guy like you would let his crew chief know he was doing some late work, tonight, maybe? You could let me in, let me plant my package, and I'd be gone again in ten minutes. Maybe five. And ... you know, Groton, I could make it worth your while. Besides getting the charges against you quashed. I could cut you in for a piece of the action."

  "Yeah? How much, you figure?"

  "Hard to say. Couple thousand C-bills the first month, though, easy. That's your share. Say ... twenty percent of the net?"

  "It would have to be late tonight. Oh-two-hundred, maybe, when the late shift changes. Not so many folks around to wonder what an officer is doing poking around the 'Mech gantries."

  "Fine by me. I'll be up late tonight anyway."

  "And ... you'll kill the mast on me?"

  "Absolutely." The officer stock out his hand. "My word on it!"

  Groton grinned and accepted the hand. "Done, then! Uh ... sir."

  "And done! I'll be over there ... that entrance, at oh-two hundred tonight. Don't fail me, Groton!"

  "I won't, Captain Dupré! You can count on me!"

  25

  Advance Deployment Base Delta

  Twenty kilometers south of Falkirk Caledonia, Skye March

  Federated Commonwealth

  1305 hours, 16 April 3057

  The bubble dome had been inflated earlier that afternoon, and the electronics jacked into the small, portable fusion plant outside. Armor plate had been added over the plastic framework, though it would provide protection against nothing heavier than small-arms fire or shrapnel. As a semi-mobile field headquarters, the dome was far more luxurious in terms of space than one of the big, twenty-five-ton, eighteen-wheeler HQ trucks sometimes used by larger BattleMech formations, but was decidedly less mobile and more vulnerable.

  One major advantage of the dome over mobile HQ trucks was space ... space enough, in this instance, to allow Grayson's regimental command staff to set up a large holographic projection map table in the center of the dome's main work area.

  The table was nowhere near as large or as detailed as the map projection he'd used in his simulator match against Jaime Wolf. Measuring just two meters by three, it was large enough for the battalion's company commanders to gather around and study the projection at close quarters. Present were all of the unit's captains and majors, plus several lieutenants on the command staff. The imagery had been gathered from Caledonian data banks—the Legion had no reconnaissance satellites at the moment—and showed a rolling section of terrain as it might have appeared from a few thousand meters up, with roads, hills, forests, and a small town all portrayed in lovingly intricate, fractally generated detail. Rather than projecting BattleMechs as small, intricate models, however, military units were shown as traditional military symbols glowing with red or blue laser-painted illumination. Scale could be changed easily through a computer keyboard or voice circuit, and additional data about particular features was always available from the data base.

  The biggest disadvantage of such systems, Grayson thought, was that the complexity of the presentation could actually mask deficiencies in intelligence. When you could actually look down into the village of Falkirk and see individual buildings—a church steeple, a shopping complex, a textile manufactory—it was easy to assume that you had the entire picture. In fact, that manufactory could have been torn down months before and replaced by a battery of ten-inch Gauss rifles, but if no one had fed the data to the computer, the information could not be displayed.

  "They have to come this way," Grayson said, using a pen-sized laser pointer to indicate a pass through the Grampian Mountains just north of Falkirk. "The only other easy routes through these mountains are way off here to the east, and that would add two days marching time at least. Besides, they can't count on support from the population for food and other supplies. They'll need bases along the way, supply dumps. And Falkirk would offer them plenty of food, water, and POLs."

  Even with portable fusion plants, POLs—petroleum, oil, and lubricants—were still vital for any mechanized army in the field. Some vehicles still ran on internal combustion engines, and all machines needed oil or polysilicarb lubricants.

  "Aye," McCall said darkly. "Y' mean loot an' the spoils a' pillage."

  "Could we block them at that pass?" Major Frye asked. "Maybe even come around through the mountains, here, and get behind them?"

  "I was thinking about that, but that approach could pose some real problems. The pass itself is fairly broad, almost ten kilometers wide here at Falkirk, way too wide for us to simply cordon it off with the 'Mechs we have available. If we simply lined up to snipe at them along the sides of the valley farther north, where it's narrower, we'd knock out a few but the rest would breeze right past ... and then we'd have them maneuv
ering in our rear.

  "No, I think what we have to do is try to predict just what they'll do at Falkirk. They're headed in this direction, we know. Our scouts say they should be through the pass by late this afternoon. Gentlemen? What will they do next?"

  "Encamp for the night," Frye said. "Definitely. The terrain gets rugged farther south, and they must know we're lurking down here somewhere. Only a maniac is going to: push 'Mechs forward over unknown ground at night."

  "And from what we've seen of their profiles," Captain Lang said, "neither Zellner nor Seymour is a maniac. Wilmarth might try it "

  "They won't let Wilmarth gie th' orders," McCall said. "They probably put Wee Willie in th' rear someplace wi' a cold drink an' a monitor. Let him gie all the orders he wants, but keep him out a' the way."

  "That's the way I read it," Grayson said, nodding. "They're going to want to push hard to get out of the mountains before night. If they don't, that would be an open invitation for us to bottle them up. Once they reach Falkirk, though, they're not going to be too eager to push ahead. It'll be getting dark soon, and there aren't too many good positions for quite a distance to the south. So. They encamp for the night here, at Falkirk."

  Captain Ann Warfield, commander of the Third Batt's Second Company, used a laser pointer to trace a bright red line along some hills running east to west about two kilometers south of the town. "This is interesting terrain here," she said. "Provides high ground for anyone holding it and facing a possible advance from the south. If I were leading a 'Mech column south, I'd grab Falkirk and set up camp... here, maybe." She indicated a broad plain south of the town, perhaps a kilometer behind the line of hills. "Send my tax collectors out to raise the supplies I'd need. And dig in my 'Mechs along these hills."