“You did the right thing, Tucker,” Patricia said.
He looked at her. He knew that he was either sending men to their deaths, or sending them to kill others. It may have been the right thing, but it wasn’t easy.
* * *
The Spirit Cats’ charge to attempt to shatter the militia’s rear force was not a surprise to Alexi. The warning of their sudden turn had come from numerous sources, including Tucker’s semipanicked voice from the mobile HQ. Their subsequent retreat also was not a surprise, but their pattern of fighting did catch her a little off guard. Her opponents did not seem as interested in engaging in battle as they did simply in getting out of the trap she had set. The Star captain’s Warhammer slowed only long enough to level a blast at the legate’s Panther. The shots from the Warhammer’s quartet of heavy lasers sheared off the left leg of the Panther, dropping it like a hamstrung warrior in a medieval battle. She returned fire to the Star captain with her PPCs, turning the Warhammer’s left arm into a torn, burned and mangled mess that hung limply from the elbow joint. Even then the Star captain did not stay and fight her.
A ConstructionMech Mark II B tore into the Militia ForestryMech, but only for a moment. It hosed down the smaller ForestryMech with its arm-mounted flamer and scared the Militia pilot into breaking off his assault and fleeing. The Spirit Cat pilot must have been pleased with himself—the Militia’s Fox armored car rammed the ConstructionMech at full speed. The impact was a grinding moan of metal and armor, and the right leg of the ConstructionMech wobbled for a moment, fighting for balance, then the ’Mech toppled down, right on top of the Fox. White and gray smoke rose from the carnage. Alexi was glad to see it drop; she had watched it nearly fry her own MiningMech a minute before.
A Condor hovertank came down the road to the intersection, bleeding black smoke, dragging part of its armored skirt on the pavement and showering sparks in its wake. As the Spirit Cat vehicle limped away, it was followed by one other ’Mech, a Black Hawk. True to its name, it had been hit so many times by fire it was blackened, its gray and white paint long gone. It limped slowly along, dragging its left leg with each step. She lined up a shot on it, but its course took it to the far side of the legate’s fallen Panther.
The militia Donar swept in, strafing the Condor, but banked off when a Clan Demon tank came into view and began firing. The Demon crew held their ground, refusing to fall back until the last possible moment, sending several well-placed shots into the Fox as it struggled to get free of the ’Mech on top of it. Then, as quickly as it had jumped into the fight, the Demon broke off and fell back.
Alexi wanted to pursue, wanted to order a full assault, but she knew better. She had been lucky so far. “Tucker, get on the horn. Signal everyone to hold and secure their positions.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Did we win?”
“For now,” she replied. “For now.”
* * *
From the small clump of brush above the highway, Reo watched the Spirit Cats turn to face a pursuit that just wasn’t coming. He took stock of what was missing: a Locust that he had seen in Kinross was not there, and also a modified ConstructionMech. From the look of the Star captain’s Warhammer IIC and the limping Black Hawk, Reo Jones had to say this round went to Knight Holt.
But as he watched the repair vehicle extend its mobile gantry and the teams of techs pour out to repair and refit the damaged force, he knew that a battle won did not mean the war was over. Also, he was very curious about this Clan commander, having now seen him in action; he had never heard of a Clan force breaking off a battle.
Reo set aside his binoculars and uncapped his canteen. He’d report what he’d seen to Captain Chaffee . . . in his own sweet time.
20
Highway Seven
North of Kinross, Wyatt
The Republic, Prefecture VIII
19 May 3135
Tucker stood on the battlefield after the fighting had ended. The smell made an overwhelming first impression: a mix of the aroma of diesel and burning rubber and armor. As he walked through the debris littering the pitted, cratered highway, he caught the sharp smell of feces. He turned reluctantly to find the source, and recoiled in horror at what he saw. Lying on the road only five meters away was a blackened pile of what looked like clothes. It was a trooper—actually, half a trooper. He, or she, was burnt black from whatever had blasted him apart. The smell came from the intestines tangled on the blacktop. The legs were simply gone. Tucker pressed his hands against his mouth, fighting the urge to throw up. Looking away, he saw what he thought was a log on the road surface, then realized it was the severed armored arm and hand of an Elemental warrior.
The Spirit Cat Locust loomed ahead, what was left of it. The legs were stripped of armor; snapped and burned myomer muscles hung limp where they had been severed. A sickly green liquid, ’Mech coolant, oozed from one of the holes in the armor of the podlike body, forming a puddle under her legs. Her. There was something about ’Mechs that seemed inherently feminine, at least in his mind. Two technicians were standing on the ladder rungs on the legs, one half inside of the cockpit.
Through a light haze of smoke, he spotted the Behemoth II on the rising slope of the road, back toward where the Knight Errant had led the assault against the rear of the Spirit Cats force. The Behemoth was operational, its hull pitted with laser gashes and cratered bursts in the armor plate. Tucker allowed himself a brief, satisfied smile. He had worried that he had sent those men to their death. They had survived—or at least the tank had.
Tucker looked around. He saw wounded, bandaged infantry all around. Their uniforms and body armor were stained the brown of dried blood. They all seemed dirty enough to have been in the wilderness for weeks, rather than two days. When he looked into their eyes, they seemed harder than before the battle.
“You shouldn’t be here,” said a voice at his side. He turned and saw Legate Singh standing next to him. The commanding officer was wearing only the T-shirt and shorts of an ordinary MechWarrior, with no rank or insignia to identify his position.
“My sister is handling the HQ,” Tucker replied in a flat tone.
“This is still a combat zone,” the legate replied.
“I had to see for myself,” Tucker said, looking around at the carnage.
“I knew these men and women,” Singh returned, following Tucker’s glance. “It is now my responsibility to contact their families and tell them that their children, their brothers or sisters aren’t coming home.”
Tucker wiped his eyes and ran his hands through the mess of his hair. “Devlin Stone brought us peace. Maybe that was a mistake.”
“I beg your pardon?” came another voice, this one belonging to Alexi Holt, who had moved up on his other side. She looked more tired than he had ever seen her. Her eyes looked bruised.
“Many planets have been so insulated from war in The Republic that we’ve forgotten what it’s like. Maybe if we had seen war from time to time, we wouldn’t be in such a hurry to start a new one.”
He looked into her eyes and saw that she understood. In the next moment, she closed her eyes and turned away, but he knew that his words had struck home. “The legate is right, Tucker, you shouldn’t be in the open like this. The Spirit Cats might regroup any time and strike back.”
He resented that both leaders were so concerned for his safety. “Knight Holt, Legate Singh,” he said bitterly, “I sent some of those troops into battle. They’re all here because of me in some way. I’m not going to hide in the mobile HQ while good men and women die to protect me. I want everyone to see I’m willing to fight, too.”
Singh cut him off. “I know how you feel, Mr. Harwell, and your support from Command One was appreciated. But you are too great a prize to risk being killed by a random shot.”
“You don’t know the first thing about how I feel. I’m not some prize,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. “I’m a man, just like you, just like them,” he gestured to the armored infantry. “I won’t
hide.”
The legate didn’t acknowledge his words, but he saw compassion on Alexi’s face. “Tucker, I don’t know what you’re feeling, but I think I understand what you’re saying. You’re not qualified to pilot a ’Mech or fire an assault rifle. But you’re still qualified to help us. Our equipment is damaged. We’ve captured enemy gear that might be repairable. Your skill is with technical things. Use your skills to help, so that when the Spirit Cats come back, the rest of us can do our jobs.”
That wasn’t the answer he wanted. He wanted to fight. He wanted a gun, or a shoulder-mounted missile launcher. But she was right, and he knew it. “Thank you, Knight Holt,” he said. “Where do I start?”
She turned and pointed to the Behemoth. “That tank packs a hell of a wallop. See what you can do to make sure she’s operational.”
Tucker nodded and jogged away.
* * *
“Are you mad?” Legate Singh asked as Tucker took off at a trot to catch up with the repair team heading for the tank. “If he gets killed, all of this was for nothing.”
Alexi gave the legate her best stern gaze. “You heard him on the comm channel, Legate. He ordered that crew into the fight just like a trained soldier. He needs to deal with his guilt over any losses they suffered, and this is the best way. Anyway, he could be killed in the mobile HQ just as easily as in the open.”
“This is reckless. Their remaining helicopter has already skirted us twice, taking potshots.”
“We are taking a risk,” Alexi corrected him. “But we’ll hedge our bets,” she said, signaling one of the men wearing Guila suits to join them. “We’ll assign a trooper to protect him—from a distance, of course.”
* * *
Tucker and one of the tank crewmen, Private Ugus, held the temporary armor-plate patch in place while a tech welded it. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw an infantryman standing only ten meters away, with his massive assault rifle at the ready. As the white-hot metal tossed sparks from the welding torch, Harwell averted his eyes and considered the trooper.
“Hey,” he called.
The corporal cocked an eyebrow. “You callin’ me?”
“Yeah,” Tucker said, casting a quick glance at the armor plate on the hull of the tank to see if the welding was finished. It wasn’t.
The corporal walked forward a few steps. “What?”
“Are you watching me?”
“Something like that,” he replied. He was now close enough for Tucker to make out the infantryman’s name on his uniform. Pusaltari.
“The legate put you up to this?” Tucker asked.
“Nope. Knight Holt ordered me to protect you.”
Tucker cursed silently. Damn it. He didn’t want this kind of help, and he knew he didn’t need it. “You can go. I’m fine.”
“No offense,” the corporal said calmly, “but I don’t take orders from you. She told me to watch you, and that’s what I’m going to do.” As he stopped speaking, both men heard a low, thumping sound in the distance, getting louder. Tucker wasn’t sure what it was at first, but then the noise became clear. Rotors. A helicopter. He checked the tech working with him and noticed that he was welding much faster, much sloppier.
“Is that ours?” Tucker called out to Corporal Pusaltari.
They both saw it as it came over the edge of the cut in the highway. It was a beast, a predator. It was the Spirit Cat Balac again. The copter paused for a moment at the apex of the hill, then turned toward the Behemoth where they were working.
It fired.
Tucker half fell, half dove off the hull of the tank the moment he saw the puff of smoke from the Balac. He hit the road hard and rolled to get away. The Behemoth crew leapt into action as well. The tank roared to life and began to back up, turning its turret to fire. Private Ugus disappeared down a hatch and buttoned up.
An explosion rocked the ground near where the tank had been. Tucker instinctively, uselessly threw his arms over his head for protection as coin-sized chunks of concrete rained down on his body. Next to him, the corporal raised his assault rifle and poured a barrage of fire upward. Other infantry troops joined in. Laser shots stabbed upward at the Balac. Tucker looked in front of him and saw something he had missed before—a pistol.
The gun wasn’t much. Against the helicopter, it was a toy. But these men and women were fighting, and he felt the need to be doing the same. Picking up the heavy weapon, he rolled onto his back, leveled it at the Balac and pulled the trigger. The gun jumped in his hands as he emptied the clip. He was convinced that every shot missed, but it felt good. He was trying to kill that craft—kill or be killed. The infantry fire rocked the Spirit Cat craft, and it broke off.
Corporal Pusaltari looked at Tucker down on the ground. “You okay?”
“I guess so,” he stammered. It wasn’t the truth. Physically, he was fine. He dropped the pistol to the road. Mentally, he now understood what it was to be in combat. All of his boyhood daydreams were shattered. This was not the heroics he envisioned. This was dirty and deadly.
As he rose, he dusted off the most obvious chunks of roadway debris. He looked over at the Behemoth II, where repair work had already begun again. “Where are you going?” the corporal asked.
Tucker turned to look at him, resolve gleaming in his eyes. “I have work to do.”
Pusaltari paused for a moment. “Right,” he said slowly. He followed his charge by a few meters, rifle at the ready.
* * *
For Alexi, the hours passed quickly into the evening as the battered force of the Wyatt Militia regrouped. Overall, their personnel losses had been light, but the damage to equipment was heavy. The good news was that they had managed, with help from the ComStar techs, to repair the former Spirit Cat Locust to fighting condition, though it was made mostly of spare parts. Most of their vehicles sported patchwork armor, and some had makeshift replacement weapons, a few of those salvaged from the equipment the Spirit Cats left behind.
The amount of equipment the Cats had left behind showed that they had taken a hit as well. Her trap had worked as well as could be expected; they were hurt, but as dangerous as an injured animal. The Spirit Cats had sent several recon sorties to test their perimeter defense, but each time they got close Patricia jammed their comm systems from the mobile HQ. It was enough to keep the suspicious Spirit Cats from pressing too far forward, fearing they might stumble into yet another trap. Good, Alexi thought. In just six days a DropShip will arrive in-system, and I can get Tucker Harwell out of here and to safety. I just have to hold off until then.
As she walked across the encampment, a whistling noise caused her to duck instinctively. There was a thump and hiss some fifty meters ahead, near the militia’s Sniper artillery. Shouts rang out from the infantry and she saw people running—with good reason. A wisp of phosphorescent smoke rose into the air, glowing yellow-green in the twilight.
A spotting round.
A whooshing roar followed a moment later with a blast that knocked her off balance. Artillery! She kept her feet under her but was staggering like a drunk as she headed toward Miss Direction. This was the first she knew of the Spirit Cats boasting artillery among their assets. “Fan out! Move that artillery piece out of here!” she shouted.
All around the Sniper artillery rounds exploded, eating the ground as the slow-moving piece tried to get clear. A chunk of its side armor twisted away in one bright-orange blast. Damn! Alexi rocked back from another concussion in the evening air, this time losing her footing.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the rain of artillery stopped. Personnel shouted status reports, sounding oddly quiet compared to the blasts. People still were running in every direction. Her right ear was ringing from the last burst, and Alexi barely heard her wrist communicator beeping.
“This is Knight One,” she said.
She heard Tucker’s voice. “We’re getting a message for you.”
A message? “Send it.”
The wrist communicator crackled and a booming, arrogan
t voice drowned out the ringing in her ear. “Knight Holt, this is Captain Chaffee of Chaffee’s Cut-Throats. You’ve just experienced a taste of the firepower at my disposal. I know you’ve been fighting the Spirit Cats and are in no condition to face fresh troops.
“Turn over Tucker Harwell to me and the Wyatt Militia will be spared. If you refuse, I’ll just kill you all and take him anyway. You have fifteen minutes.”
21
Highway Seven
North of Kinross, Wyatt
The Republic, Prefecture VIII
19 May 3135
The Knight Errant stood in the road for a moment, just thinking. This was what she had trained for her whole life, to lead men and women in battle. She always won her fights—with the exception of her trial against Star Captain Cox. No, now was not the time to think about losing or surrender. This was the time for action. Through the haze of the artillery barrage, the jogging figure of Legate Singh emerged, his face spotted with black dots from blast-smoke. Alexi saw him coming and spoke into her wrist communicator.
“Tucker, have Lieutenant Johannson scramble our air defenses and fan our ground forces up into the hills. Chaffee has to have some forward fire controllers up there for that artillery to be so accurate.”
“I heard the message,” Legate Singh said, huffing slightly from the run. “You intend to fight Bannson’s people?”
She shook her head. “No, I intend to beat them.”
“But the Spirit Cats . . .”
In her mind the entire topography of the area came into focus. “He must have used a secondary road and come cross-country to our east. That’s the only way he could have gotten a force from Kinross close enough to hit us. Chaffee thinks we’ve been bloodied pretty badly by the Spirit Cats—”
“He’s right.”
“We’re not as battered as he thinks we are, Legate,” she returned. “We’ll leave behind our modified MiningMech—what’s left of it, in case the Spirit Cats push us at the same time. That covers our rear enough to give us warning.” Overhead, the Donar rose into the air and headed for the high ground over the roadway, looking for the Cut-Throats spotters. “The rest of the force will move a half kilometer north, then go off-road to the east. If we clear out his observers, we should be able to turn his flank and come down on him from the north.”
Target of Opportunity Page 22
