"Duke Ricol..."
"Yes, Colonel. And if you have not satisfactorily carried out your mission by that time, if the rebels have not been eliminated, then you will be eliminated. Do I make myself clear, Colonel?"
"P-perfectly, my Lord."
"Good. Just so we understand one another. Your failure could well mean my disgrace, even the forfeit of my life. But before anything happens to me, I'll see to it that, well...I will not fall alone."
"I understand, my Lord. We will find and eliminate the rebels to a man!"
"You have twenty-eight days, my man. Dismissed."
Nagumo waited until Kevlavic had saluted and hurried from the office before crumpling the printout into a disposal chute. Then he went over to the window, where he stood watching with hands clasped behind his back. Kevlavic was a military man, and he would use those means to carry out his orders. Nagumo was thinking now, though, of the other methods at his command. He was not about to entrust his own life and future to the actions of any subordinate.
He touched the panel on his desktop intercom. "Get me Company A of my personal Guards. I want to talk to Captain Mills." This time, nothing would be left to chance.
* * * *
The rebel forces returned to Fox Island as dawn was breaking across the jungle. Grayson gave hurried orders to the ‘Mechs to hide themselves within the cave. Two ‘Mechs had quit on their cursing, battle-fagged pilots while still moving along the jungle trail down from the Basin Rim. Those machines, a Stinger and Montido's Dervish, had been carefully hidden under tarps and cut branches, well back under the forest canopy. They might eventually be able to repair the damaged machines where they stood. Enough, at least, to get them moving and back to the base.
Grayson's Shadow Hawk entered the cave mouth, followed by a tight cluster of the tracked and hover vehicles that had fallen in with him during the descent down the Basin Rim. All around him, battle-grimed men and women were carrying or tending to the wounded, meeting comrades, or gathering in small clusters to talk about the battle. The MechWarriors, meanwhile, were descending from their machines. Techs and astechs swarmed around each BattleMech as it entered the shelter of the cave. More casualties were coming in, too, carried by comrades or smoke-stained hover transports. The Gray Death's support company included five medics, and the rebel forces also included a handful of men and women with medical training. Almost immediately, they were swamped by the wounded almost immediately.
For Grayson, the hardest part of a battle was this aftermath—the casualty lists and repair estimates, the tactical assessment, and the endless worry about what the enemy would do next. That, and facing the rebel leaders. They would surely want to know what he planned to do next, but Grayson hadn't the faintest idea.
Indeed, the Rebel Council members stood waiting for him as he swung down the chain ladder dangling from his Shadow Hawk. Also with them was Colonel Brasednewic. The grim expressions on all their faces told Grayson that the Colonel had already filled them in on the battle before the walls of Regis.
"We got them out," he said cautiously.
Carlotta brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face with the back of her hand. From the weariness of her expression, she must have been lacking sleep. Indeed, the whole group looked as worn as Grayson felt
"Tollen told us what happened," she said, "how you showed up and broke the enemy trap." Grayson noticed the glance that she and Brasednewic exchanged. There was warmth there and...something more?
Ericksson gestured toward the casualties being carried into the cave. "I told Thorvald this plan of his wouldn't work. Our army is... shattered!"
"You told him?" Olssen said. "You? As I recall, it was your suggestion to use the tunnel from your AgroMech plant."
"Only because that fool wanted to storm the main gate!"
"Citizens!" Carlotta interrupted. "Enough is enough!"
Brasednewic looked pointedly at Grayson. "What next?"
Grayson relaxed, letting his eyes close. After combat, he always felt weak as the tension finally released. He was as weary as if he'd just run ten kilometers on foot but this day had a long way to go before he'd be able to sleep.
"I don't know. Colonel. We're still bound by our contract of course, but I'm not sure how much good more training will do now. Your army has been beaten in the field. It'll take some doing just to repair the...the psychological damage."
Tollen let his eyes stray toward the jungle. Shafts of orange sunlight were beginning to cut through gaps in the blue-green canopy. "Some are wondering whether you plan to take your...services elsewhere. To the Dracos, perhaps.'*
"Hardly," Grayson said, shaking his head wearily.
"The way I understand it, you were brought in to help train our people, our army, in how to fight ‘Mechs. But right now, there's not much of an army left Lots of our people have scattered and headed home by now. It'll be some time before they come back."
"Let's talk straight," said Ericksson. "Some of my people are wondering if we can trust you mercs. Your money's safe offplanet. We don't have anything more to offer you, that's certain! What's to keep your people from just...buying out of their contracts with you? Buying out and then hiring on elsewhere!"
Brasednewic smiled bitterly. "The Revolutionary Council must have gambled everything they had to hire you and to buy the supplies we needed. Your people just might have a chance if you sell out to the Brownjackets."
"Maybe we would," Grayson said, pausing as though to consider the suggestion. Why did they assume that mercenaries were loyal only to the highest offer? "We might have a chance...a small one, if the Dracos were feeling merciful. But what do you think our chances would be next time we went looking for an employer?" He shook his head. "People have the idea that mercenaries just get up and switch sides for a better offer, but it doesn't work like that. If we broke our contract with you, we'd not only lose our bond on Galatea, but ComStar would see to it that we never got work again."
"Well, I know that but..." Ericksson stopped and looked hard at Grayson. "Maybe what we're wondering is just how much of a stake you have in our war here...besides the money."
"You have no reason to hate the Combine," Tollen added. "Not like we do."
A sensation of ice spread through Grayson's stomach. No reason? He remembered his father, dead in the ruin of his Phoenix Hawk on the spaceport tarmac on Trellwan. He remembered the sight of the Draconis Combine Warhammer that had killed him.That memory had driven him on Trellwan, and probably drove him even more now. More than he wanted to admit.
His hand closed into a fist, which he slowly made to relax. "Even mercenaries can have reasons to fight besides... money. Believe me."
"Maybe." Brasednewic was not looking at him, but toward the jungle outside. "But you'll have to prove it."
"You give us the support we need, and you'll have your proof." He saw Ramage waiting to talk to him. "Excuse me...gentlemen? Ma'am?"
"How'd it go?" Ramage asked. He wore a worried expression and his eyes strayed continually to the rebel leaders. As they argued some point, they also cast occasional glances back at Grayson and his NCO.
"What...with them? They're worried that we'll sell out. Can't say I blame them."
"What about the battle? We didn't pick up much through the comlink, other than the fact that you'd made it in and out."
"We got to them, but only just. Have you been talking to the rebel staff? What's the butcher's bill?"
Ramage shook his head. "I was with them in the comshack listening in, but I didn't learn much. Unit commanders are still reporting in, but it might take a week to hear from all of them. Figuring that maybe half have reported in who are going to, the rebs lost forty, maybe fifty, either dead or captured. Maybe twice that wounded. What about Thorvald? I heard he bought it."
"Dead." Grayson sagged back against the foot of his Hawk, vastly weary. "He was a brave man."
"Begging the Captain's pardon," Ramage said stiffly, "the man was a fool."
Grayson lo
oked sharply at the Sergeant, but was too tired to do more than shake his head sadly. There was no point now in discussing Thorvald's mistakes.
"You got 'em out, sir. You did."
"Maybe. But now we have to decide what to do with them. At this point, there's not a whole lot left of the Verthandian rebel army."
His eyes caught the movement of two young men crossing the sandy cave floor toward him, the lights overhead scattering faint, contrasting shadows as they walked. It was Felgard, the senior rebel Tech, and Sergeant Karelian, the Gray Death's senior Tech. They were in deep conversation, and Grayson knew what was troubling them without needing to be told. Every BattleMech in the little rebel group had sustained damage. To repair them, to even get them running at minimum efficiency again, was going to require a small mountain of spare parts and supplies, which the Verthandian rebels simply did not have.
"We're going to have to start over," Grayson continued, as he turned to greet the two Techs. "From the beginning."
* * * *
It wasn't until late that evening that he was able to assemble his command personnel around a fire just beyond the cave. The site had been carefully chosen for the overhang of rocky cliff that sheltered it from detection by either orbiting spy satellite or patrol along the Basin Rim. The surrounding jungle was pitch black, though light spilled from the nearby cavern mouth. The continuing sounds of repair work on the rebel vehicles and ‘Mechs mingled with the whistles, chirps, and squawks of the forest. Each of the Gray Death's MechWarriors was there, as well as Sergeant Ramage representing the non- ‘Mech military personnel, and Sergeant Karelian, head of the unit's technical staff.
Grayson stood outside the circle of firelight, hands on hips. The ten of them were a dirty and ragged-looking group. Each had been up all night during the march to Regis and then been through the battle there, and again up all day working to get the Legion's ‘Mechs fully operational. Except for catnaps snatched here and there, some had had no sleep at all for thirty hours or more. The strain was showing.
"Thank you all for coming," Grayson said, stepping closer to the firelight. The faces looking up at him were dulled by fatigue and showed little emotion. "Before anything else happens, I thought we'd better decide what we're doing, where we're going."
Lori laughed, a bitter sound. "What choice is there?"
"You still think we should keep helping these malfing pongoes?" Clay asked. He twisted a short stick nervously between his fingers. "Their general, so-called, is dead...and good riddance."
Grayson stooped beside the fire, reached down, and thrust a half-burned brand deeper into the flames. Red sparks spiralled into the night. "The way I see it," he said finally, "is that we haven't got any choice. At the very least, we're stuck here until Captain Tor jumps back in-system. And what do you think his chances are of slipping in another DropShip past the Kurita blockade?"
There were murmurs from some. As Lori stared into the flames, a tiny muscle twitched near one eye. Grayson studied her face carefully, and decided that what he saw there was defeat. It was the same sense of futility he felt in himself. To behave otherwise took a strenuous effort. "All we can do is fight," he said. "Fight, and win."
"Win?" Clay snapped the twig he'd been playing with and tossed half into the fire. "The Dracos have four ‘Mech regiments on this drekwater planet, and God knows how many troops! We have...what? Our few ‘Mechs and a handful of farm machines!"
"It's a start, Delmar." Grayson attempted a smile. He was faced with a sudden, ludicrous vision. If everyone in the Gray Death resigned, he would have to fulfill the unit's contract obligations himself, a literal one-man army. Well, he could give classes in anti- ‘Mech warfare.
No, Lori would stay with him. And Ramage, and the others who had been with him on Trellwan. Though he'd not known McCall as long, he felt fairly sure that he would stay, too, no matter what. "All we need is a start. But I didn't say it would be easy."
Clay tossed the second piece of wood into the fire with a sharp, backhanded flip of the wrist. His expression showed disapproval.
"We can win," Grayson insisted. "They have the regiments, but they're scattered all over the planet. A planet, any planet, is one hell of a big place." He spread his hands."The argument hasn't changed since we signed the contract. Not really. With our ‘Mechs, and the people we have with us, we could turn things around for the rebels' campaign."
"How?"
"By hitting the Dracos where they're weak, when they’re weak. By fighting a strictly guerrilla war. By refusing to fight on their terms. Keeping good relations with the civilians and the rebels, and using them as our source of food and non-military supplies." Grayson's answer had come out like rapid-fire.
"And what will we fight this war with?" said Clay. "We need military supplies, too."
"Wha', laddie," McCall said. "If tha' Dracos hae got the ammo an' weapons to fight with, then we just go an' takit wha' we need frae' the source!"
Clay snorted, but Grayson nodded. "Exactly right. Our rebel friends will be able to pinpoint enemy supply dumps and depots for us, or put us in touch with Verthandian civilians who can. After that, it's just a matter of picking our time and method of approach very, very carefully."
Jaleg Yorulis stirred uneasily on his mossy log perch. "There is another choice," he said. "We could go over to Kurita."
The only sound was the crackling of the fire. Yorulis looked at the others, defiance quirking at the corners of his mouth and eyes. "Well? Why not? What chance do we have fighting them?"
"Plenty of chance," Lori replied slowly. She, too, seemed to be winning her inner struggle against despair. "They're big, clumsy, and slow," she said. "We're not. We'll have the help of the Verthandians. They won't."
"They'll catch us and..."
"Jaleg," Grayson interrupted. "Do you want out of your contract with the Legion?”
“Huh? No! I just..."
Grayson probed the fire again with his stick. Sparks showered and swirled. "This unit will not work for the Draconis Combine. Not while I'm in command." He raised his eyes from the fire until they met Yorulis', challenging the younger pilot. "Do you want to contest my command of this unit?"
"Of course not, Captain! But, I mean, it’s ridiculous to think that we can take them, one on one! It seems to me that our contract with the Verthandi rebels is ended now. They have nothing left to fight with."
"They have us," Grayson said. "That's why they hired us. That's why we're here. To train them and to organize their army into an effective force. You, sir, may help us, or you may buy out of your contract."
"You know my bond's on Galatea."
"So is mine. We'll trust you for it. But I'm telling you, if you buy out, you'll have to stay here. We won't have passage out until we control a port facility and Captain Tor can get a ship through the blockade to us. That's going to take some doing. Unless we can figure a way to get you out on a Kurita freighter. Even then, the chance of you getting picked up by their security is plenty high. The choice is yours. Pilot. Fight with us, or stay here out of the way until we can figure out what to do with you."
Yorulis muttered something.
"Eh? Speak up."
"I said I didn't sign a suicide pact! This whole thing is crazy!"
Grayson sighed. He switched on his wrist computer, then flicked a tab that flashed the word RECORD on and off in green letters on the small screen. He extended his wrist toward Yorulis. "MechWarrior Jaleg Yorulis, do you hereby renounce the legal contract between yourself and the mercenary company known as the Gray Death Legion?"
"Huh? I didn't..."
Grayson switched the recorder off. "Son, I can't have you a part of this unit if you are not wholeheartedly committed to it...'to us! If we get into a scrap and you’re standing on our flank, we have to know we can count on you! The people who hired us have to know that we're not going to switch over to the other side first chance we get. That means we had damn well better do everything legal, in the open, and strictly by the book
, or they'll have our hides and ComStar will take what's left.
"So, if you want out, just say so! No penalty or bond forfeiture, and no hard feelings. If things go against us, you lie low for a month or two, then work your way on a Kurita freighter to someplace where you can get passage to Galatea. Or you sign on with a merc company working for the Combine. We won't be in a position to stop you...then. So? What'll it be? Are you in or out?"
"What about my ‘Mech?"
Grayson's gray eyes were cold as ice. "It's not your ‘Mech until you've earned it. You can take with you what you brought into this agreement, your personal gear and the bond on Galatea. The Stinger belongs' to the unit."
Yorulis stared into the fire. "I'll stick it," he said.
But can we depend on you? Grayson wondered. It may be best—for you and for the rest of us—if you remain behind for the next few missions. We can't chance having you break during combat.
He shifted his eyes to the others of the group. "How about the rest of you? If you have any doubts, if you want out, now's the time to say it. Davis?" Davis McCall grinned and gave a thumbs up gesture. Grayson turned to catch Clay's eye. "How about it, Delmar?"
Clay nodded too, and added, "It may be suicide, but I don't see any option."
Grayson looked at Piter Debrowski. Debrowski and Yorulis were the biggest unknowns in the situation. Their only combat experience so far had been at Hunter's Cape and in the fracas outside Regis. They'd handled themselves well so far, but...
"Piter?"
"I'm with you, Captain. We can't go back now.”
“You're right about that," he said, looking into the dark beyond their little fire. "God help us, we can't."
20
Tollen Brasednewic shifted the 5mm laser rifle nervously in his arms. He was crouched at Grayson's side in the dense underbrush of the slope above the road across the Basin Rim. "They're coming,"he said, eyes fixed on the lower ground.
"I hear them," Grayson said, cradling a TK assault rifle salvaged from the Phobos after the landing. He checked the 100-round magazine cassette fitted into the weapon's stock, but did not look in the direction of the sound that was beginning to penetrate the rustle of wind and the shrieks of aviforms in the jungle canopy. "You'd better give the signal."
Mercenary's Star Page 20
