"They could," she conceded. "And they will, if the Buddhas smile. But that is only a diversion. My senshi and these fine BattleMechs, which have been lost in transit to the ComStar compound here"—at this Nezumi bowed—"are to take advantage of Port Paix's merchants. We will capture their DropShips at the landing field. Once the ships are secured, we will use them to board and take their JumpShips."
"So ka. Then they will join the chain of vessels that make our bridge across the stars."
Tomoe laughed. "You have a poetic way about you, Nezumi-san. That's hardly what I would call the hodgepodge of JumpShips we've got out there. They're mostly tramps, pirates, and smugglers." At Nezumi's slight frown, she added, "And merchants." He accepted her emendation with good grace. Many of the JumpShips hiding among the uncolonized suns between the Combine and Theodore's targets had Come from companies run by the yakuza. Some of those ships had never been involved in illegal activities. In all, the yakuza assets far outnumbered the very few military vessels in the "bridge across the stars."
That "bridge" was a chain that would allow rapid transfer of Kurita assault units into the heart of the Draconis March. As one vessel jumped into a system, it would transfer its DropShips to a waiting vessel with its Kearny-Fuchida drive charged and ready. The passengers would not have to wait while the original ship recharged its drive, a process that could take a week or more. The technique was commonly used for couriers and to transport the rulers of Great Houses, but merchants usually found that the reduction in transit time was not worth the expense.
"Even merchants honor the Dragon, Jokan. You will find our captains experienced and efficient."
"I'm sure we will, Oyabun," she said with a smile.
A young secretary called to Nezumi from the catwalk outside the office suspended fifteen meters from the ferrocrete. He acknowledged her with a wave, then bowed to Tomoe.
"It is time for the signal broadcast."
"Let's go."
They took the lift up to the office suite, arriving in time to see the ComStar logo fade from the room's news monitor. A yellow-robed Adept greeted her invisible audience and gave a rundown of the daily receipts of newsworthy messages received at the HPG station.
Tomoe and Nezumi waited patiently through the war news, as they had each day of the week since she had arrived. Nezumi sweated, though the office was cooler than the busy workfloor. A glance assured him that the window's broad, frosted pane was slanted open to let air into the room. Nerves, he told himself. Somehow I think that today is the day.
The general news crawled by, to be followed by the standard list of messages awaiting pickup or private broadcast. Nezumi scanned them avidly and found it. A transmission from Mister Gan of Port Paix to his sister, Rose.
Nezumi looked to Tomoe for confirmation. She nodded.
He stepped behind the desk and tapped out the code for the ComStar station on his comm deck. As he waited for the connection to go through, he readied the speech synthesizer that would be the voice of Rose Gan. Soon they would verify the order to move by checking the seemingly innocuous contents of the traveling salesman's message to his sister.
Nezumi gazed out the window as he waited for the link to open. The synthesizer spoke, beginning its conversation with the ComStar Acolyte who answered the call. He noticed smoke rising in the northeast. Soft and muted by the distance, the sounds of battle drifted through the opened window.
"That will be Chokei," Nezumi decided. "He always was overeager to get to the action."
62
Government Center, Nevcason, Vega
Dieron Military District, Draconis Combine
12 July 3039
Hauptmann-General Kathleen Heany scowled as the group of laughing officers entered the room. It was not that their light humor was offensive. The Good Lord knew that the current success of the invasion was likely to foster such cheerfulness among the young soldiers.
No, it wasn't the young officers who bothered her, but the way Field Marshal Nondi Steiner treated them. These youngsters and their counterparts throughout the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces were the fair-hairs, the golden children who received preferential treatment from the promotion boards as well as the quartermaster corps. What made it worse was the way General Steiner and the rest of the High Command listened to their ideas—ideas tainted by Davionist thinking.
Ymir's sword! Even having all Nagelring grads like Patrick Finnan in the High Command would be easier to bear.
Nondi and her clique ignored the sound and time-proven advice of officers like herself. Instead, Heany and many of her contemporaries were relegated to staff positions and given hollow honors. A poor thank-you for talented and loyal people who had served with distinction in Davion's war against the Capellans, soldiers who had borne the brunt of Operation Gotterdammerung and then been betrayed by the politicians who had thrown away hard-won gains.
Ah well, she told herself with a sigh. The Lord works in mysterious ways.
Heany swept her gaze across the room. The bright light of the planet's sun, though reduced by the tinted vitryl panel that dominated the outer wall, provided more than enough illumination for the large square chamber. She paid little attention to the posh furnishings and fine-painted screens that decorated the chamber; her interest was in the officers who had gathered. They stood talking in clumps or sat on the room's original upholstered armchairs or newly gathered straight-backed and folding seats.
Across the room, her old rival Patrick Finnan sat alone, looking as sour as she felt. He, too, had taken his lumps from that sneaky Kurita kid. The media wags made much of the mistakes he had made against the fledgling heir to the Dragon. She understood that treatment, for she'd suffered the same herself. It almost made her sympathetic to the hard-nosed Nagelring graduate.
Her thoughts were derailed as the great double doors of the room opened, and Nondi Steiner entered. The Field Marshal waved the assembled officers back to their seats as they rose to salute her. She walked to the fine imported mahogany table where Heany and the rest of the senior staff waited, and placed her compdeck down before addressing the assembly.
"Good morning, gentlemen, ladies. I'm pleased to see that you are all looking rested and fit. You'll need to be." Her face was stern for a second before a grin began to spread over it. "This morning's fax transmission contained the go-ahead for the second wave."
The room burst into enthusiastic cheers and martial shouts. Heany felt a rush of excitement that momentarily let her forget that she would have little part in the offensive.
A single sharp sound reached her ears through the tumult. A gunshot? Incredulously, she turned to look out the window. Many others had heard the noise as well. Heads craned, searching for an explanation.
An infantry helmet of Steiner style tumbled past the window on its way to the ground. A moment later, three lumpy objects splatted softly against the window, sticking where they struck. Heany spied the thin wires trailing toward the roof and was on her feet in an instant. Others were moving as well, but many officers had only just recognized the disturbance among their fellows when the globs of explosive detonated, shattering the vitryl panel. Shards rained in a crystal storm across the room, shredding uniforms and flesh with callous indifference. By the grace of God, she was untouched, but a wide-eyed Kommandant fell at Heany's feet. His mouth worked soundlessly, a vitryl splinter protruding from the back of his torn throat.
Another explosion blew the room's double doors from their hinges. The concussion tumbled furniture and people in a direct line from the blast. The room filled with smoke and screams.
Motion in the corner of her eye caused Heany to pivot back to the window. A half-dozen black-suited figures swung through the jagged-edged opening in the outer wall to land cat-footed in the chaos. The cords they had descended on snaked out the window to hang limply as the intruders' subguns coughed out death to those nearest them. Through a rift in the hazy air, Heany saw a dozen more DEST troopers pound through the demolished doorway. Their guns added to the
cacophony.
Suddenly, Heany found herself face-to-featureless mask with one of the invaders. In that frozen moment, she imagined the cold eyes behind the red-tinted mirror faceplate. She felt them take her measure before the muzzle of his gun rose slightly. A cough and stir at Heany's side broke the tableau. Nondi Steiner struggled to rise from behind the overturned table. The DEST trooper pivoted to turn his gun on the Field Marshal. Without thinking, Heany threw herself to the side, knocking Steiner down as the intruder fired. Hot pain flared in Heany's leg as she collapsed atop her superior.
"I'm too old for this," Heany moaned.
Laser pulses clawed through the dissipating smoke, cutting down three of the DEST troopers. Around the room, intruders were breaking free from melees with Steiner officers. Two stood their ground, laying down suppressive fire against the Lyran troops who had finally arrived. Regrouping by the window, the Kuritans locked the dangling lines into devices at their belts and hurled themselves out the window. A high-pitched whine filled the room as they ascended to the roof. Lyran guards cut down the two remaining intruders and hurried across the room to fire up at the vanishing shadows.
As suddenly as it had begun, the attack was over.
More troopers poured into the room. To Heany, their gray field uniforms and battle vests looked strangely clean, inappropriate to the carnage of the briefing room. As soon as their officer had assured himself that none of the DEST troopers were playing possum, he ordered his men and women to assist the wounded.
Heany rolled off Field Marshal Steiner. The Marshal was ashen pale under the blood that splashed her face. Her own breathing coming quickly, Heany fumbled at Steiner's throat, feeling for a pulse. She huffed with relief when she found one. That comfort evaporated as she noticed the bright blood pumping from the Marshal's thigh. Heany shed her tunic, wadding it into a pad to hold against the wound. Blood soaked through to slime her hands, but the bleeding slowed.
"Medtech!"
When her first call only mingled with the other shouts for help, she added, "Field Marshal Steiner's been hit."
The medics hustled in, relieving her. They assured Heany that, with intensive care, the Field Marshal would live. But her wounds were serious. She would not be commanding any armies for awhile.
Heany stood and caught herself against the wall before she fell. Looking down at the leg that had betrayed her, she found her trousers were awash in blood. She said nothing. There were more seriously injured officers to be attended to. She leaned against the upturned table and surveyed the room, feeling her stomach rebel at the sight and smell of a conference room become abattoir.
So many! She counted heads, looking for faces she knew. Finnan was nursing a slashed arm, insisting that the medtech trying to bandage him ignore his rank and deal with the more seriously wounded. Brian Kincaid and Willy Thompson were among those who had merely taken gashes from flying debris. Uliosha Donovon lay in a pool of blood, face half torn away by bullets and her torso ripped into a mass of undifferentiated meat and fluids. Too many bodies did not move. Too many of the dead were young officers. She regretted her earlier antipathy. They were too young to die like this.
With a start, Heany realized she was the senior officer.
Kurita could not be allowed to profit from this atrocity. She would have to take command. The offensive was too important and the Snakes needed to be taught a lesson.
Such a humbling of the office corps could only be a sign from God. He had made his will known in leaving her the senior survivor. She was given this opportunity to show not just the High Command, but the entire Inner Sphere, that the failures during Operation Gotterdammerung were flukes. She would show them that the old way was the best.
"Get yourselves together, people. Everybody who's ambulatory, downstairs to whatever the Snakes have left of the operations center. We've got a war to fight."
63
West Cerant County, An Ting
Galedon Military District, Draconis Combine
9 August 3039
Marshal Ardan Sortek bit off another chunk of the dark brown ration bar, which tasted to him like old sweat, having picked up the overall ambiance of his Victor's cockpit; the 'Mech had been run too long without a system flush. Stifling a yawn, he decided that he had been too long without something as well: a good night's sleep. Ah, the joys of life in the field.
If war's only price were the discomforts, he would gladly pay it to be free of the endless political intrigues of the Davion court. Years of having to play the court games had improved his ability, but could not make him like it any better. He was relieved to be back in command of a line unit and pleased that the unit was the First Davion Guards. Even with its death and tactical deception, war was cleaner than court intrigue. It left a man feeling less soiled.
There had been too much of the bad side of war, too much death and pain and suffering, here on An Ting. Contrary to intelligence estimates, the Kuritans had been waiting for the assault. Their conventional regiments had been in prepared positions, ready for the Davion attack. The Drac 'Mechs had so far only put in a brief appearance, striking to blunt Davion breakthroughs and then disappearing. In spite of that, the fighting had been ferocious, each day putting them further behind Prince Hanse's schedule.
Word had come in from scouts in the western foothills that the Kuritans were stirring. Wanting to see for himself, Sortek had set out in his Victor, feeling secure enough thirty kilometers behind the lines to travel without escort. That sense of security faltered when he spotted a Vedette tank crawling over the crest of the hill in front of him. The armored vehicle was not emitting any IFF signal that the Victor's equipment could read.
He had not had his missile racks brought to full load and the Victor was running hot, its heat exchanger system still malfunctioning from the hits he had taken in last week's battle. The last thing he wanted right now was a fight. As a precaution, he armed his lasers and opened the ammo feed to the Pontiac 100 autocannon that made up the Victor's right forearm. Optimistically, he kept the 'Mech on its heading. If the tank was friendly, its crew could not miss the wreathed sword-and-sun insignia on the Victor's chest. If not, at least he wouldn't be a sitting target.
"Merde," he cursed aloud when he spotted the puff of white smoke from the Vedette's main gun muzzle.
He cut right, snapping ruby pulses from the paired Sorenstein 4.8cm lasers on the Victor's left arm as he charged. The tank's shot furrowed the ground between his 'Mech's feet. Sortek leaned into the accelerator, jolting with the rough ride over the broken ground. He continued his harassment fire as he closed with the tank. Only two bursts from the Kuritan's autocannon scored, and they did no more than flake off some of the Victor's armor plating in the 'Mech's lower left leg and upper chest.
At seventy meters, Sortek triggered the Pontiac, but the Victor's violent motion threw off his aim. The hillside cratered around the tank. Belatedly, it began to move again.
Sortek tapped a correction into his targeting system and fired again. The high-velocity shells ripped into the tank as it churned at the already-torn ground, seeking purchase for a turn. The armor-piercers cut through the Vedette's ProTecTech plating as though it were merely lacquered wood. Chunks scattered on impact, and a second later, the whole vehicle burst in an eye-searing explosion.
The Marshal had no time to congratulate himself. Two more Vedettes crested the hill. No more point in keeping it quiet, he told himself.
"Sortek to Pangolin Base. Hostiles in sector Tango-Romeo seven-three-six. Need support."
Sortek opened fire on the tanks. Without waiting to see the results, he backed away. A gap in the hill afforded him a glimpse of an entire armored column moving up the reverse slope toward his position. He repeated his call, and this time got a response.
"Pull back, Marshal," the cool voice of the base comm officer advised.
"Too hot, Pangolin. They'll swarm me. I've got a whole company here."
There was a brief delay. "Understood, Marshal. We had a l
ance on its way up to the front. They're vectoring in on your position. Your luck is holding, Marshal. They should be there in ten."
"You'd better be right, Pangolin. If these Snakes get through me, they'll be in your laps in thirty."
"Understood, Marshal. Good luck."
Sortek's battle against the Kurita company was a seesaw affair—him trying to stay out of the line of fire; them trying to get as many vehicles as possible into position to fire on him. The Snakes lost no time adopting tactics that kept them out of range of his Pontiac cannon as much as possible. Meanwhile, the heat in the Victor's cockpit rose steadily.
Just as he was giving up hope of a timely rescue, the shrill passage of long-range missiles announced the arrival of the Davion lance. The Vedette that Sortek had just crippled shuddered under the impact of the rockets. Black smoke boiled up through the gaps the warheads tore into its armor. As soon as he saw the survivors of the crew bail out, Sortek turned his attention to the next opponent.
The Davion lance, two Enforcers, a Dervish, and a Stinger, stormed across the rolling hills. Their sudden, reckless attack stunned the Kuritans. A Vedette burst into a fireball under their concentrated fire.
The Pontiac's last cassette round clicked empty as Sortek bracketed the nearest Vedette with a burst of fire. The turret burst into flames as the main gun rocked free of its shattered mount to rattle down the Vedette's sloped armor. Its drive wheels mangled and treads shredded, the tank ground to a halt.
The odds had swiftly changed.
Outclassed by the newly arrived 'Mechs, the Kuritans withdrew. Sortek forbade pursuit. Feeling nervous about the Dracs' unheralded arrival, he wanted the lance nearby. "Take five," he called to his rescuers. "We're heading back to Pangolin Base as soon as I get this old warhorse's heat down."
"Tough fight, Marshal?" asked one of the Jocks. Soltek's comm board identified the signaller as Sergeant Sally Cantrell, the Dervish pilot.
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