Jonah waited for the command, his ’Mech echoing the forward lean of his body.
“Execute,” Smith said.
Jonah exhaled. There wasn’t anything for him to do yet, but at least something was happening.
The boat group, which had been circling near the island shore, straightened into lines running parallel to the beach. Unless the pirates were blind or lax, they knew what was coming and were preparing their response. Jonah glanced at his secondary screen, displaying a feed from a boat-top camera. The coast was silent and looked empty, but offered plenty of dense foliage to hide the hostile guard.
“Turn course zero-one-seven, again, zero-one-seven,” Smith said over the comm. “Speed at five knots.”
The boats turned, three lines starting a curve toward the shore. Infantry would land first, then artillery, then missile tanks. If Jonah did his job, most of them would make it onto the shore alive.
Flashes like fireworks sparked across the coastline, followed brief seconds later by dim reports. Missiles arced into the sky, closing on their targets.
“Hold fire. Don’t let them startle you,” Smith cautioned, but it wasn’t necessary. The pirates had fired early and their missiles fell short, vanishing in white sprays and exploding columns of water.
“Gentlemen, let’s get wet,” Smith said, and the first wave dove into the water churned up by the pirate missiles. More missiles fired, most still missing their marks, but a few denting hulls in the first line of boats.
“They’re starting to feel cocky,” warned Brigham, captain of one of the forward boats.
“All right, let ’em know we see ’em. Area fire!”
Jonah reached for his trigger reflexively, but it was still too early.
Greenery along the shore exploded into black-and-brown clouds. Tree trunks shredded, their broad tops falling onto the rocky shore.
The pirates weren’t deterred, and sent a more intense wave of fire. Jonah watched columns rise around him like geysers, strangely beautiful in their way.
Finally, Smith came through with a message meant only for him.
“One minute to position, Paladin. Flood the hold.”
“Copy that,” Jonah said, trying to hide the relief in his voice. The crewman disconnected his ’Mech and scurried out of the hold, sealing the watertight doors. Water flooded in as Jonah waited for sixty seconds to pass.
“In position now. Release.”
The door beneath Jonah opened, and he fell quickly into the dark sea. He flicked on beams to help him navigate to shore.
Soon the feet of his Atlas touched sand. Walking underwater was only slightly faster than moving through quicksand, but at least he was pushing ahead. Above him, the incoming attack waves would continue their arc toward land while he made a beeline for the shore. If the timing was right, they’d arrive on the beach at the same time.
He checked his secondary screen to follow the progress of the battle above, but between the poor signal and the sprays of water above, he couldn’t make out anything. He flicked it off and waited for Smith’s commands to tell him what he needed to know about the fight.
“First wave, report. Looks like you lost one.”
“Yes, sir,” Brigham crackled back. “One ship hit and entirely lost. Others proceeding apace.”
“Second?”
“We’ve had a breakdown, one boat out and heading away. No hits from the hostiles.”
Smith didn’t bother asking about the third, which was still out of range.
“All right, fill the gaps. Keep the pressure on.”
“Yes, sir,” came the replies, and Jonah added his own assent as he slogged through the water. The pirates could have no idea what kind of pressure they were about to feel.
The surface of the water drew closer to his ’Mech’s head. He could see waves passing, though not yet breaking. Missiles and shells skipped overhead, some from in front of him, some from behind, echoing through the sea like a sounding dolphin. Jonah slowed his ’Mech further, making his machine squat as it practically walked on its knees. It wouldn’t do for his head to stick out too soon—it would just make an inviting target, and it would ruin the surprise.
Smith spoke again. “Wave one, prepare to launch; wave two, hold your fire. Launch on my mark… execute! Nail it down!”
Jonah thought he could hear the jump jets of the armored infantry firing, though that might have been his imagination or the blood in his ears. Either way, his time had come.
He came out of the water and stood outlined against the churning sea, the saltwater streaming off the carapace of the ’Mech.
Off to his right, he could see the power discharges of lasers and pulse cannon. In a moment the defenders would notice him—which was the plan. Moving into their gut, he’d draw and return fire, allowing the landing wave to get into position and, hopefully, maneuver around the sides of the pirates’ forces. He pushed forward hard and the ’Mech surged ahead.
A scout vehicle with a rear-mounted heavy machine gun burst through the vegetation ahead of the Atlas BattleMech. Jonah didn’t recognize its markings. The vehicle turned and its gunner opened fire, hosing down Jonah’s Atlas with fifty-caliber armor-piercing rounds. They had no effect on the ’Mech.
“No, you don’t,” Jonah said. He leaned on the throttle, kicking the speed of the Atlas up a step, closing on the scout vehicle. A quick push on the left pedal while easing on the right sent the ’Mech’s leg into a kick, pummeling the scout vehicle. It flipped over on its side, one wheel hanging at an angle that told Jonah the axle had broken. He then brought the ’Mech’s foot down heavily on the machine gun.
The wrecked vehicle, and its scattering troopers, weren’t worth any expense of ammunition. Jonah headed straight in from the beach, turning his Atlas toward the area marked on his heads-up display as the location of the pirates’ headquarters.
Someone in that area was broadcasting at high power over multiple frequencies. Jonah couldn’t make out what was being said—the broadcasters had good crypto, whoever they were—but he figured that taking out command and control would be a fine way to start the morning. He vectored in on the transmission site and pushed the Atlas into an earth-shaking run.
The beach continued to explode with fire from both directions, rocks and dirt pattered across his side, and his footing kept slipping as the impact of the artillery altered the landscape beneath him.
He felt calmer than he had all day.
6
Red Barn Cafeteria, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
22 October 3134
The greater Geneva metropolitan area contained twenty-four Red Barn restaurants, and each of those restaurants had a table six. It was in the middle of the restaurant’s floor, away from the windows and far from the restrooms. Table six, in each of these locations, would be the first choice of exactly no one.
Cullen Roi liked it that way. No matter which Red Barn outlet he chose for his meetings, he knew table six would be open. He also knew that, as long as he kept rotating between the two dozen locations, he would never be remembered. The staff at each restaurant seemed to turn over every six months or so, and no one ever treated Roi or his companions as regulars, since they went to each restaurant only once or twice a year.
The other customers were almost as transitory as the staff. Red Barn restaurants thrived in areas filled with cheap apartment buildings, pawnshops and all-night convenience stores. People in these neighborhoods generally didn’t get to know their neighbors, knowing that within a year, either one or the other of them was likely to have moved on. In the middle of this sea of shifting faces, Cullen felt at home.
Plus, truth be told, the food at the Red Barn really wasn’t that bad.
Today’s meeting was southeast of downtown, and Cullen had arrived early, munching on sausage rolls and sipping watery coffee while he waited for the others to arrive.
He was short and wiry, with intense brown eyes, and he wore his hair cut short after the fashion of t
he Mech Warrior he had once been. The leather jacket that he wore over his drab work clothes bore a dark spot where a Stone’s Revenants patch had once been.
He heard Hansel approach long before he saw him. By now he could recognize Hansel by the way he opened a door—forcefully, a whoosh of air followed by the crack of the door against the outside wall. Thudding footsteps, seemingly loud enough to drown out conversation, paced to Roi’s table.
“Captain,” Hansel said as he slid behind the table. It was an old habit from their days in the Revenants, and it died hard. Cullen just nodded. Hansel squirmed to fit into the too-small wooden chair, dwarfing the table that fit Cullen just fine.
They sat wordlessly, Hansel only speaking to order roasted chicken. Cullen continued to eat, watching Hansel’s eyes to see when Norah entered. Then it came—the flinch, the slight squint that flickered across Hansel’s brow whenever Norah came in.
She was seated to Cullen’s right before he heard anything. Her distaste for small talk extended even to greetings, so neither Cullen nor Hansel spoke. They waited for her vegetable stir-fry to arrive, which customarily signified the meeting’s commencement.
The plate arrived, the weary waitress strolled away, and Cullen began the meeting of the Kittery Renaissance.
“It will only be the three of us tonight,” he said, “but we’re going to need to bring in more people soon. The pace will be rapid, starting now.”
Hunger for something other than food showed in Norah’s face. “You have word?” she asked.
Something in her voice suggested that she might have been originally from Liao, but Cullen knew not to broach the subject of Norah’s past. She had made it quite clear that the subject was off limits, though her intense hatred for the Capellan Confederation and its rulers in House Liao—an intensity unmatched throughout the whole of Cullen’s organization—kept Cullen curious.
“Yes,” Cullen answered her. “My source tells me the elections will be held shortly.”
“Already?” Hansel asked.
“You’re sure the information is reliable?” Norah asked at the same time.
“Yes. My source saw copies of documents summoning the Paladins back to Terra for the meetings preliminary to the election.”
“‘Meetings preliminary to the election’?” Hansel echoed. “That doesn’t sound too definite.”
“It is,” Cullen said. “Remember, this is the government—it does not move quickly. This is the start of the process, and everything points to it ending before the year is done.”
“This is going to throw our timing way off,” Norah said.
Cullen shook his head. “Not really. We’ll just need to step up the pace a bit.”
Norah, protesting, said, “The people won’t—”
“Our people will,” said Cullen. “And they’ll make sure that the rest of the crowd follows where they’re needed.”
He looked from Norah to Hansel. “Most of the hard work is going to fall on the two of you—sounding out potential crowd leaders, training them so that they can train their groups, keeping everything undercover until the day. If you don’t think that you’re up to the job, say it now so that I can bring in somebody else.”
Hansel said only, “I’m all right with it.”
Norah shook her head peevishly. “If it were anyone but you, Cullen Roi, I’d be bowing out right now. But if you say that it can be done, then I suppose I’m in.”
The shadow of a thought passed across her face. “How about our man on horseback? How is this going to affect him?”
“It shouldn’t affect him at all,” Cullen Roi said. “The beauty of all this is that our man doesn’t even know he’s involved in our plan.”
He smiled. “Genuine sincerity. It’s the hardest thing in the world to fake—so we aren’t even going to try.”
7
Bernhard Island
Kervil, Prefecture II
22 October 3134
Jonah had lost track of the beach a few times, so he couldn’t be sure, but he thought the attackers were about to put down the third wave of the assault. If he wanted this done smoothly, that meant he didn’t have much longer to keep the defenders away from the beach.
Tradition dictated that the fifth wave was when the attackers would come under the heaviest fire. The defenders, confused, disoriented, and unsure what they were facing during the first waves, would rally for a push against the landing defenders. The casualties of the fifth wave could be far heavier than the first. Unless Jonah made sure the defenders didn’t get organized.
Two SM1 tank destroyers appeared around the corner of a building, off to Jonah’s left. They had him locked in and tracking. He sent out a beam from the Atlas’ extended-range large laser, just to let the Smileys know that he saw them and—with luck—to ruin their firing solutions. Then he swiveled the ’Mech, bringing its torso-mounted and right-arm-mounted weapons to bear. The tanks were worth expending some missiles on; Smileys were dangerous.
He pushed left hard, firing, letting the weight of the Atlas pull him sideways as it leaned. Leaves and woods exploded, and a secondary explosion followed closely. He’d gotten something.
He sent his ’Mech forward in a lumbering trot toward the Smileys. One tank was a heap of burning, twisted metal now, its fuel and ammunition cooking away. The other, intact, fired.
A stream of metal slugs mostly passed wide of the Atlas, but a few connected, catching the ’Mech in the left shoulder. They packed enough of a wallop to push the ’Mech’s torso back a little, and Jonah let it move. As it swiveled, Jonah pushed his joystick out, let the ’Mech’s right arm fly up a little. His aim stayed on the Smiley.
Pulling the trigger, Jonah sent a volley of missiles into the Smiley’s teeth. It soon became an exact twin to the other smoldering tank.
Turning from the light popping of exploding ammunition, Jonah started to wonder what the tanks were guarding.
He had barely taken two steps when a trapdoor in the earth opened and flames shot out. Jonah throttled back, but the hundred tons of steel surrounding him did not reverse quickly enough, and flames scorched his ’Mech’s skin. Angrily, he briefly pulled up then stomped on his right pedal, and the Atlas’ foot came down, shattering the trapdoor, the man beneath it, and the portable flamethrower he carried.
Checking his readouts, Jonah saw that the flamer had hit the Atlas directly enough to raise its temperature into the red zone. He slowed, allowing heat to dissipate.
Jonah took the opportunity to consider the surrounding terrain. Buildings of concrete and steel lay on every hand. The transmitter was off to his right, still a little bit out of range. He detected more infantry in motion, not coming from the proper direction and lacking an IFF signal marking them as friendlies. He lobbed a short-range missile volley in their direction to keep them from planning anything unpleasant and kept on thinking.
This particular spot hadn’t been a good place for an ambush by SM1 tanks—as demonstrated by the fact that the ambush hadn’t worked—which suggested that either his opponents were incompetent, or they’d had some other reason to guard this area. Jonah Levin hadn’t reached the rank of Paladin of the Sphere by assuming that his opponents were incompetent.
He turned toward the closest building, pushed the joystick to move out the Atlas’ powerful right arm, and reached for the building’s outside wall.
That brought the last line of defenders to life, three of them springing from the opposite side of the building, pointing a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher at Jonah’s chest.
Jonah swore. The bastards had done a good job digging themselves into the ground, out of reach of his sensors. But they couldn’t fire a rocket as fast as he could pull the trigger of his laser. Blue light shot out, incinerating the man holding the launcher along with his weapon. His comrades fell back with the heat of the blast from the exploded rocket.
Jonah surged forward and lifted his ’Mech’s right foot high in the air. The burned and bleeding pirates looked at the bl
ack spot that used to be their companion and at the huge metal foot over their heads. They made the easy choice and ran.
Jonah lowered his foot and watched them go. With their burns, they wouldn’t make it far.
He quickly scanned the area for any other late-emerging defenders and found it clear. His ’Mech’s hands once again extended to the tan wall near him, pulling it down into a pile of dust and rubble.
“Well, what do you know?” he said—without amplification, so that nobody outside the ’Mech’s cockpit could hear.
Inside the wrecked building, a group of civilians with blindfolds on their faces were handcuffed and chained to the inner wall on the top floor. Jonah keyed up his ’Mech’s external speakers.
“Friends,” he said. The amplification in the speakers sent his voice booming over the noise of battle. “Stand fast, friends are here.”
Then he keyed the internal communications circuit to the command channel. “I need a squad of infantry over here as fast as possible,” he said quietly. “With medics. I’m dropping a marker-transponder. Get me some people. I’ve found the hostages.”
Below him, by the beach, the defenders scattered as they heard their prize possession had been lost. The fifth wave landed on a beach free of gunfire.
Late in the afternoon, a VSTOL aircraft with Republic markings flew low over the beach, turned and came in for a landing. The beach was littered with broken machines; the ocean had not yet smoothed away the explosion craters. The medics and the Graves Registration unit had already cleared away the bodies and parts of bodies.
The door of the VSTOL opened and a lone man emerged, resplendent in the uniform of a Knight of the Sphere. He walked down onto the sand.
“Paladin Jonah Levin,” he said, taking the arm of the nearest trooper.
“Over there,” the soldier said, pointing, and continued on his way.
The Knight turned toward the Shandra scout vehicle that the trooper had pointed to, and walked over. The man sitting beside the Shandra was wearing only the shorts and light singlet of a dismounted MechWarrior, with no identification or rank insignia visible, but the Knight recognized Paladin Jonah Levin from his pictures on the tri-vids. Levin’s current uniform, or rather the lack of it, also showed what the tri-vid news interviews generally didn’t: a truly impressive collection of battle scars.
The Scorpion Jar mda-13 Page 3
