As befit a warrior, his quarters were spare and unadorned. There was a bed, a pair of chairs, and a small dining and work table, which was currently spread with piles of Battle-ROMs and a portable reader. For West, there was little in life but his duty and his work. He was a Clan warrior, single-minded in-his dedication to the Clan he served.
Winters closed the door behind her. "I was making a last tour of this garrison before moving out to one of our other units. Before I left, I felt the need to speak with you. I hope that the hour is not too inconvenient, Star Colonel."
"Neg—of course not." He motioned her to one of the room's two chairs. "May I offer you a refreshment of some sort?"
"Would you happen to have any of that Timbiqui beer I have heard so much about? I understand it is quite similar to some of the brews we know at home."
Santin shook his head. "Neg, Oathmaster, I have no alcoholic beverages here. Alcohol dulls the senses, a risk I cannot take when I might be called upon to fight at any time."
Winters nodded approval. "You serve the Nova Cat well, Star Colonel. But there are also times when it is better to let the mind go. Sometimes we must give up control. In disorder, one can sometimes find sanity and order."
"I understand the need, but duty always comes first."
Winters said nothing for a long minute. Remaining seated, she reached out and picked up one of the BattleROMs, holding it in front of her for study. Even as she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed on the small computer chip. "You have not asked why I came here."
"I assumed you would tell me," he returned, puzzled by her seemingly odd behavior.
"Last night I saw you in my dream," she replied, setting the chip down and looking at him squarely. "You were in your battle armor and were grappling with an enemy in combat, a cat whose colors were gray. The fight was here on Tarnby in Deep Ellum, and its outcome was unusual, to say the least ..." They spoke for over an hour, and in the end, Santin West understood more of his own vision, and knew that more than one battle was to come.
BOOK II
Honor's Price
In forty hours I shall be in battle, with little information, and on the spur of the moment will have to make most momentous decisions. But I believe that one's spirit enlarges with responsibility and that, with God's help, I shall make them and make them right.
—General George S. Patton
The ordinary man is involved in action, the hero acts. An immense difference.
—Henry Miller
19
Bay of Kurita Prime
Wayside V (Wildcat)
Deep Periphery
5 July 3058
"So there you have it," Loren said, standing at total parade rest before the assembled ranks of the Kilsyth Guards. At his side was Colonel Stirling, holding herself tall and proud, her mere presence offering support for his words. They stood with their backs to a cluster of what were the equivalent of trees on Wayside, the command van parked in the closest thing to a clearing in this terrain of broken rocks. As always, the greenish sky cast an eerie light over everyone, as if a thunderstorm were about to break despite the lack of clouds.
Loren and Cat Stirling had spent the long night hammering out the plan together. Their minds working well despite fatigue, they gave additional shape and form to the scheme Loren had originally conceived. Much of the mission would be at his discretion in the field, but planning and preparation would provide a solid foundation no matter what happened later.
"I'm looking for ten volunteers who think they can measure up," he told the group looking back at him expectantly. "You'll be piloting Clan OmniMechs you've never handled before, and you'll be working under some tight operational orders. I need people who think they can deal with that."
Stirling walked along the front row, and looked each trooper in the eye as she made her way past. Her dark hair gleamed even in the dull noon sun of Wayside. "Before any of you steps forward, I want you to remember one thing. You won't be doing this for yourselves, you'll be doing it for the regiment. If the mission fails, we'll all go down, one way or the other. Succeed, and you save the Fusiliers, your family."
Lieutenant Trisha McBride stepped forward without hesitation, along with the other three members of her lance. Loren had hoped she'd be one of those willing to face the risks. And it was exactly why he'd decided to ask for volunteers. Pulling this off was going to take special people, the kind who were willing to put their lives on the line for the regiment. "With yer permission, sir," she said proudly. "I and my lance would like to offer our services to this operation, if ye'd have us. Like you say, the fate of the entire regiment is at stake."
Several other individuals stepped out of the rank and file of the Guards, each one known to Loren by name. His Captains Fuller, Lewis, and Chandler did so without any reluctance. In the case of Lewis, of course, the gesture was more symbolic. His infantry was not suited for this operation, but Loren was moved by his show of solidarity.
The action of the command staff was immediately followed by MechWarriors Burke, Killfries, Gilliam, Jura, Miller, and Macallen stepping forward—all strong MechWarriors who Loren had trained personally. Suddenly others also began to come forward—McAnis, Dollson, O'Brian, and others. In less than a heartbeat, every one of the Kilsyth Guards had volunteered. Loren was stunned. He'd expected a strong response, but not all of the Guards. Damn, these are fine troops...
"Hector, Macallen, Miller, Gilliam, Killfries, Burke, McAnis, Jura, and McBride, welcome to the Smoke Jaguars. 'Mech assignments will be posted once we're on board. I honestly wish I could take all of you, but those who remain behind will report to Jake Fuller, who now ranks as a Major, thanks to his field commission." Fuller's face lit up with embarrassment and a hint of pride.
Stirling spoke up again. "Major Fuller has my complete confidence. Regimental Executive Officer duty will go to Major Blakadar and regimental command will be transferred to his Black Adders."
She smiled at the small group that had been selected.
"Godspeed all of you. The spirit of the Highlanders be with you."
Loren was caught short, suddenly overcome by his emotions. For so long a time he'd wondered when he would know for sure that he was truly part of this unit, not just someone holding rank and position. He would wonder no more.
Major Blakadar spoke first. "Major Craig and I both have concerns, Colonel, but I assure you we will follow your orders exactly."
"Good," Stirling said. She'd brought the two officers to her immediately after the call for volunteers had broken up. "Is your Black Adder force locked and loaded onto the Claymore?"
"First and Second Companies are ready for a hot drop, sir. It's our heaviest gear. They should be able to hold the isthmus until the rest of the regiment is in place. Third Company will position to the perimeter just ahead of Major Craig's battalion. They'll form up on our advanced force."
"Major Blakadar, you've prepped your force for near-vacuum operations, correct?" Stirling asked.
"Second and Third Company BattleMech forces have been checked out and sealed by our techs. My biggest worry about them is that a 'Mech might fall and rupture up on the airless continent."
"You'll only have them up there for a little while, if everything goes as planned," Stirling said. She checked her chronometer, then looked back at Blakadar. "Are you ready to assume your duties as XO, Blackie?"
"Yes, sir," the tall man replied.
"Glad to hear it because it's time to move. Order your perimeter forces to start the advance, as planned. Bring the rest of the regiment to standby and await my word for final deployment. Order both the Claymore and the Bull Run to launch status and to link up to you and me on regimental command channel two. Get with Major Fuller and provide him a full update of our status."
"On it, Colonel," Blakadar said.
"Lads, we've been over this a few times, but let's make it clear. We've got two objectives here and we can't afford to fail on either. One, the Claymore has to decoy that destroyer long
enough for the Bull Run to get free, hopefully dropping the majority of the Black Adders into position on the way.
Second, we're taking the Jags to task. I want those kitty-cats bloodied and bloodied bad; enough to make them back off and rethink their strategy. On this mission, every day counts. "Execution of start orders is in thirty minutes."
Loren stepped onto the bridge of the Bull Run and saw the lanky Captain Spillman seated in his command chair, staring at the doorway as though waiting for him. Loren crossed the bridge to the secondary command seat, and dropped his carrying bag on the deck alongside it. There would be time to secure the bag before launch, but at the moment he was more concerned about a talk he needed to have with the stubborn ship's captain.
"Captain," he said with a nod.
"Major Jaffray, are you secured and loaded yet? I have a lock down order on hold from command."
"My team is aboard, Captain."
Spillman's eyes never left Loren's as he spoke. "Engineering, secure for launch. Communications, signal command we're locked down and ready for take-off." Tilting his head forward slightly, Spillman raised his finger to Loren and made a motion for him to come closer.
Loren complied and Spillman leaned forward, speaking softly enough that no one else could hear. "Major, you and I haven't worked together very much. I just want to make sure we understand each other clearly."
"I thought you might say that." Loren kept his voice equally low.
"If the life of the regiment wasn't at stake, I'd never have volunteered for this mission," Spillman said with a slight Scottish burr. "But I've got to tell you that yer aboard my ship now, and there's something that will make both our lives easier.
"When we're involved in space operations, I'm in command. You've got the clusters on yer lapel, but I've got the experience and know what I'm doin'. I'll appreciate yer comments, but dinna be surprised if I don't follow what ye say. I know ma duty and will act accordingly. When we're on the ground, I'll do push-ups if ye say so.
"So, Major Jaffray, do we have an understanding?"
Loren studied the other man's drawn face, aged beyond his years by the experience of combat. Rules and regulations were clear: the ranking officer, in this case Loren Jaffray, could order a ship's captain to do anything. Command and authority lines were well drawn—on paper, in books, far away on Northwind. This, however, was real life, and sometimes the lines of command got blurred in the field, especially in a situation like this one far beyond the borders of explored space.
I need him, as much as he's a stubborn mule when it comes to authority. "Captain Spillman, with all due respect, I am in command of this mission. I also have no intention of contradicting you unless I feel your actions are in direct conflict with my mission objectives. If such a conflict occurs, Captain, I'll do more than resist you."
Spillman did not relent. "This flight crew is mine, Major, they've crewed with me for ten years. They know whose orders to follow."
Loren lifted his eyebrows slightly. "That may be true. But I served a long time as a Death Commando. Part of my training is in DropShip piloting and gunnery operations. In fact, I'm qualified to pilot this class of ship and I could do a pretty damn good job. If any of your people decide to mutiny, I'll deal with it accordingly." He reached over and patted the laser pistol resting in its holster on his hip.
Spillman broke first with a broad smile. He wrapped one arm around Loren's shoulder in what seemed at first a gesture of camaraderie, then lightning-fast pulled Loren even closer till their faces were only centimeters apart. "I like you, laddie. Anybody who threatens me on my own bridge either has titanium testicles or is bluffing. Either way, you and I will get along just fine. Hell, I pity those Nova Pussy-Cats when the two of us come up against them!"
He let go of Loren and held out his hand for shaking. Loren took the hand and returned the near-crushing grip. Looking around he saw that everyone on the bridge had been watching, half-eavesdropping, half-wondering how the two men would get along. Loren looked into Spillman's eyes and saw the ship's captain for what he was. Part-actor, part-poker player; all leader. Yes, this is a man I can work with ... and god help the Clans when they see us coming.
20
DropShip Bull Run, Bay of Kurita Prime
Wayside V (Wildcat)
Deep Periphery
5 July 3058
"Go signal was just sent to the Claymore. We're on flashing green light for launch," the communications officer said from her station just below and in front of Loren's seat aboard the DropShip Bull Run. The tension level on the bridge soared by a geometric proportion. He glanced up at Spillman, sitting tall and proud in his command seat. Solid Green Light was the code phrase for take-off. The flashing green light meant that the ship was to be ready for take-off, but was to wait for "special circumstances."
"Send the following message to Captain McCray: 'Best of luck and take care of my ship or I'll keep this one.' "
The comm officer smiled as she tapped in the words. "Message sent. Incoming from Cat One."
"Patch that one direct," Spillman said.
"Bull Run, this is Cat One," came the firm tones that Loren had come to know so well. "You are clear for take-off at your discretion. The Bait is up and on the move."
"Acknowledged," Spillman replied. "We're monitoring the destroyer." A shake of the head from the sensors officer told him there was no movement yet. "She's sitting still there."
"Understood. Bull Run, call the ball," Stirling said. Spillman stiffened slightly in his seat as he accepted the responsibility for everything that was to come. "Bull Run has the ball."
* * *
Star Colonel Roberta leaned over the shoulder of the sensors officer, her hairless head beaded with sweat as she studied the display in the command bunker of Wildcat Station. The interior of the bunker was dimly lit, the faces of the various officers visible mainly by the glow from their monitors. The air seemed moist, almost sweaty, yet somehow odorless—thanks to the filtration system.
Standing behind her, Galaxy Commander Devon Osis stood silent, observing her every move. Silently, his mind ran through every decision she made, monitoring and measuring her performance.
"Plot the course of that DropShip," Roberta said. The younger trooper's fingers flew over the keyboard, and the conical shape of the flight path appeared on the display. Wildcat Station, the Smoke Jaguar base on Wildcat, was near the center of that cone if the ship should attempt a landing.
"Blood Claw One to Stalker Star," Roberta said into her wrist communicator. "Take your fighters up and destroy that DropShip."
The aerofighters were fast compared to the DropShip, and within seconds they were on it. Devon Osis could hear their combat chatter as the pilots made their passes, then watched as they found not a crippled DropShip, but one repaired and putting up a fight. The battle lasted a full two minutes, and in the end, the fighters Roberta had bid were gone. The damage they had inflicted on the Fusiliers were considerable, but in the end, they failed to stop the ship.
Without a word or other warning, Roberta picked up a chair and hurled it across the length of the control room into a redundant tactical feed system, destroying the display. Her bellow of rage echoed through the nearly soundproof room with such fury that none of the staff dared raise their eyes from their workstations.
Galaxy Commander Devon Oasis continued to watch and wait, saying nothing.
"Freebirth!" she cursed. "Do they not realize who they are facing?"
The communications officer did not react, but Osis knew it was because the man had mastered the discipline of control.
As a true Smoke Jaguar, he was suppressing his emotions, showing nothing that Star Colonel Roberta might exploit. "Our OmniFighter tactical feeds show some damage to the DropShip. More interesting is that our reflective motion-sweep scanning shows that a large contingent of the Fusiliers are on the move, heading east by northeast. They are some sixty kilometers from the isthmus and are closing rapidly."
"Tho
se ignorant surat spawn," Roberta bellowed again as she leaned over the sensors data and activated the command channel to her ground forces. "Forces of the Bloodied Claws, this is Claw One." As she spoke, her fingers tapped at the controls, pulling up the nav points on the tactical map. "All forces proceed to Nav Point Bravo Epsilon Ten. Enemy force engagement begins in thirty hours. Run at yellow alert."
Devon Osis guessed, as Roberta must have, that the enemy command staff had not been wiped out by her headhunter attacks. In fact, enough of them remained that they were mounting an offensive of their own. He too found it infuriating that these freebirths were disrupting the true mission of the Tau Galaxy, which was to destroy the Nova Cats. At least it would be over soon. With the Fusiliers rushing to meet them, victory would be swift and clean.
Finally, he spoke. "First your headhunter mission failed to meet its intended objective, costing you two Stars of your Cluster. Now you have lost your bid-fighters as well, Star Colonel." His matter-of-fact tone was an odd constant to her fury. "The Inner Sphere DropShip is still operational and apparently heading toward our base. Act, or I will. I will not let you place this Galaxy's mission in jeopardy."
Roberta somehow managed to curb the inferno of her anger as she looked at her commander. Her hairless skull was uncommonly red, the light gray neural implant that ringed it like a tattoo standing out oddly by contrast. "I must accept a loss of honor to achieve the goals of the Tau Galaxy, my commander. I ask that you allow me to revoke my previous bid and use the Dark Claw. It can easily deal with the DropShip, and I accept this minor loss of honor as a sacrifice for the Clan." She bowed her head at the disgrace.
In the eyes of the Smoke Jaguars, being forced to revoke a bid was nowhere near the shame of losing a battle. Her action was appropriate and told Devon Osis that Roberta understood that the fate of the Galaxy was more important than her personal concerns. The sense of control gave him a warm feeling, one of domination and power.
Impetus of War Page 15
