Текст книги "Wolves On The Border"

“Give 'em cover,” Dechan called.

The Light Company responded with a blistering sheet of fire that drove the Horsemen back. All the 'Mechs on the embankment, except the Zeus,pulled back as well. The battered machines of Stane's Company made it to Fraser's position. Once its prey had gone to ground, even the Zeuspulled back rather than be the sole target for vengeful Dragoons.

Silence descended over the valley, giving both sides a respite and a chance to vent the crippling heat buildups incurred in the last furious exchange.

Dechan used the time to count up the surviving Dragoons.

The Light Company still had eight functional 'Mechs, while Captain Stane's company had nine, including the Captain's own. A check by one of Stane's troopers told Dechan that the Captain's 'Mech might still be capable of fighting, but she was out of it for the duration. That left sixteen battle-capable 'Mechs. No, seventeen. At some point, one of Captain Waller's men had become separated from his own company and had joined the group. Every machine had been mauled.

Dechan, who had dreamed of commanding a company, was now senior officer for two companies. Instead of a dream come true, however, this was a nightmare.

The BattleMechs of a unit could fight for some time before their numbers were appreciably reduced. Eventually, the cumulative damage would begin to tell. Machines would fall and men would die. The term Combat Loss Grouping came unbidden to Dechan's mind. He had learned the formulae used to calculate CLG in the academy. Those harsh mathematics stated that, given an even volume of fire, BattleMechs of the same weight class were likely to reach dysfunction at, for combat purposes, the same time. An unpleasant thought, but one he could not avoid, faced with the battered remnants of his two companies. They were not far from devastating losses among their lightest members.

The ammunition situation was even worse. Dechan knew his own SRM ammo bay had run dry, and a quick check with the others revealed that all were low on expendable ammunition. Some had only one or two rounds, which would soon reduce them to energy weapons. All in all, the balance sheet had too many zeroes on the bottom lines. If the battle went on much longer, they would be into red ink.

To make matters worse, the unit was out of contact with Major Chan's team and Captain Waller's Company. They were on their own.

“So, where's the help, Fraser? We're being slaughtered!” Tennler again.

“Unity! How should I know?” Dechan shouted into the taccomm. “Maybe they got caught by the Horsemen, too.”

As soon as he had spoken, Dechan bit his lip. He was losing his cool. The other Jocks looked to him as the only officer left. Shouting wouldn't solve anything and could only make morale worse. When he felt calm enough, he said, “I think we're going to have to get out of this on our own.”

“What about the loot?” asked a voice Dechan didn't recognize. It had come over Stane's Company's frequency.

“We could make another grab for it,” Corporal Rand suggested halfheartedly.

“We could get our asses shot off, too,” Tennler objected. “Why don't we just jet out of here and head for the D-Ships? The Feds will let us go if we leave them their toys.”

“I don't think so,” Dechan said. “Once we're back on the plains, we'll be an easy target for the Witches. Our CLG is too high, we'll be leaving bodies behind before we can clear their range. Besides, the Horsemen have enough jumpers to keep the pursuit hot.”

“Why should they bother?” Tennler countered.

Corporal Dominguez cut in to answer her. “We're Dragoons. Right now we're easy meat. The Witches remember Quentin. They could use the rep of having swatted us. The Horsemen don't need the rep, but they're more trouble. They got pride. They got memories of Hoff, too. None of our friends out there are going to want to see us leave this party before they've had their fun.”

“And since our real friends haven't shown up,” Dechan interjected, “we're left with the emergency escape plan. We have to keep falling back along the riverbed. The river banks get lower to the west and the land rougher. When we get there, we can use the terrain as cover for our retreat without worrying about anybody targeting on our naked backsides.”

There was some grumbling, but no one offered a better idea. Dechan had started to sort the survivors into short lances when missiles impacted near them. Two caught his Hawkand another one hit Donal Cameron's Javelin.Most shattered only the rocks above the 'Mechs, sending fragments clattering down on them.

Dechan looked up to see the Zeus,its arm swinging to track the target for its next volley. Other 'Mechs joined it in firing down on the startled Dragoons. The Witches had worked their way around behind the Dragoon position. From the height of the embankment, the Fed mercs had a clear field of fire down to the crouching 'Mechs.

Dragoons started down the riverbed, looking for better cover. Dechan stood his ground and tried for a target lock-on. He wanted to pump a few LRMs into their nemesis. Before his target reticule flashed green, the enemy 'Mech staggered back from the brink, its armor dissolving under heavy laser and PPC fire. The Witches pulled back.

Dechan didn't understand what was happening until a massive BattleMasterloomed up on the opposite bank. The 'Mech's glittering reflective coating dazzled his eyes, but not before he had seen the grinning wolf's-head.

“You guys need a hand?”

The BattleMastercontinued to fire on the retreating Witches while its pilot spoke to Dechan. Then an Awesomeappeared on the Master'sleft and a Stalkerrumbled up on the right. Zeta Battalion had arrived.

“What took you guys so long? We thought we were orphans.”

“A little trouble with a hardheaded Snake.” The frivolous words were delivered in a grim tone. “Hold it. Colonel Jamison wants to talk to you.”

There was a delay while the pilot set up the relay.

“Who's commanding?” Jamison's gruff voice barked.

“Guess it's me, Colonel. Lieutenant Fraser, sir. I've got Light and Stane's Companies here, sir.”

“What happened to Major Chan and the others?”

“They took off through other channels to try and draw off most of the Horsemen. We lost contact with them an hour ago. Captain Laskowski went down and is presumed captured. Captain Stane's with us, but she's unconscious.”

“Unity!” Jamison was quiet for a moment. “Where's the prototype?”

“Down here on the riverbed, out in the open where it was dropped when Stane got hit.” Dechan hesitated, then resolved to give the Colonel the full situation. “Nobody wants to go get it. It's a killing zone out there, and we're on the edge of a CLG. Even with cover from Zeta, we'd lose at least half our people in the attempt.”

Dechan was cut out of the circuit while Jamison checked in with his subcommanders.

“I've got contact established with Chan and Uchimaya,” Jamison announced as he cut Dechan back in. “They're thirty-five klicks down river, but Waller's unit is still unaccounted for. The situation stinks.

“Fraser, its time to cut our losses. Get ready to move out.” The link stayed open while Jamison spoke to his Captain in the BattleMaster.“Lucas, blast that damnable piece of junk to atoms. If we can't get the prototype out, we won't leave it with the Feds. Then give cover for Dechan's troops to get out of there.

“We're going home. Let's hope we find Waller's people on the way.”

“What about the Ryuken?” Dechan asked.

“They left you folks to the Feds, so we'll just return the favor.”

25

Ryuken Field HQ, Barlow's End

Draconis March, Federated Suns

4 October 3026

“Kantel's Recon Lance reports that the Dragoon ambush force has joined Zeta Battalion and is continuing to move north toward the landing zone,” Michi reported. Tai-saSatoh only nodded.

Michi stood staring as the unresponsive Tai-saremained slumped in his chair. Could he not understand what that meant? Most of the fighting force that had landed on Barlow's End was now retreating from battle. The Ryuken was in danger of being surrounded, especially if Federated forces broke off pursuit of the Dragoons and turned toward Landova. Davion troops were forcing the Ryuken out of the city. Before long, their advance forces would reach the command camp's perimeter.

Something exploded outside the command hut, followed by more detonations. Time had run out. The Davion forces had arrived. The guard 'Mechs fired in response to the assault.

Satoh started at the first noise, but then slumped into list-lessness again. His lack of reaction set off a wave of alarm through the Kuritan Techs and troops manning the command post. With the sounds of battle growing ever nearer, a panic began.

Michi waited for Satoh to give orders for the defense of the camp, but others did not. Tai-iWakabe, commander of the Headquarters Lance, ran to direct his ‘Mech Warriors; the rest scrambled in all directions. Some took it on themselves to grab weapons and join the support troops firing on the enemy. Others simply dispersed in terror, a few to temporary salvation and ultimate capture in the wilderness, while most merely ran into the arms of death. In moments, the hut was deserted except for Satoh, Michi, and a single commtech.

“The Davion forces are surrounding us,” Michi said to his unresponsive superior. “We must pull back to the Drop-Ships, Tai-sa.”

Satoh slowly turned his head to look at Michi for a long moment, his eyes dull and face slack. Then he said, “It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was promised.”

The Tai-sa'scomment seemed disconnected from the drastic situation at hand. Michi ground his teeth in anger at this poor excuse for a commander.

“Brace up, Tai-sa,”he exhorted. “We are not beaten yet. You must take command of your troops.”

Michi caught the commtech looking nervously from him to the Tai-sa.The man had something to say, but he didn't know to whom to say it.

“Speak up, man,” Michi snapped. “What is it?”

“A call from the commander of the Eridani Light Horse, sir. He wants us to lay down our arms and surrender.”

“No surrender,” Satoh mumbled.

Michi looked at him in disgust. A surrender refusal should be made with force, to impress with determination.

“The Tai-sais right,” Michi told the commtech. “We will not surrender. Tell the Eridani commander that we refuse his request.”

“I can't, sir. All frequencies are being jammed.”

“Then he really does not want us to surrender.”

Michi glanced at Satoh to see how he took that news. The man was listlessly pawing through the maps, seemingly oblivious to what would be a death sentence for the Kurita forces on Barlow's End. If the Davions could not accept a surrender, no one could fault them for killing all the Kuritans they found. They would claim that any attempts to give up were merc tricks to get closer before attacking.

The end was in sight.

Michi turned to the commtech, “You can no longer serve here. Find a rifle and join the brave soldiers defending the camp.”

“We must hold here,” Satoh mumbled softly. “We must complete the plan ... the plan ... the plan will succeed.”

The commtech had not moved, despite Michi's order. His face was a study in fear, his eyes begging salvation from the young officer.

“You have an order, soldier,” Michi said harshly. “Now move!”

The man almost ran into the door in his haste to leave. Michi watched Satoh as the Tai-sashuffled through his maps—maps that were hours out of date. Satoh was lost in his own mind. Unnerved by the disaster unfolding around him, he began to give orders to subordinates who had been reported killed or captured in the fighting with the Davion forces.

Satoh's failure of will and his retreat from reality betrayed the men under his command, his last order condemning each of them to a useless death. Minobu's carefully nurtured troops would be wasted, thrown away uselessly.

This could not be considered good service to Lord Kurita, Michi decided. His face hardened into a grim mask as he saw what needed to be done.

Against the roar of the battle outside, the sound of a single pistol shot was lost.

26

Office of the Commander, Galedon City, Galedon V

Galedon Military District, Draconis Combine

2 November 3026

“Warlord, the ComStar Precentor of Galedon requests an audience.”

The aide stood at rigid attention, his right fist over his heart in the formal Kurita military salute. Speaking to Jerry Akuma, Samsonov ignored the aide. “That is an interesting reversal. I usually have to visit with a battalion at my back to get a moment of the Precentor's precious time. What do you make of it?”

“Perhaps the venerable Precentor Phud is motivated by something more impressive than three dozen BattleMechs.”

Samsonov coughed a rough laugh. “There is little more persuasive than that, unless it is more 'Mechs.”

“Even ComStar Planetary Coordinators are men, Warlord,” Akuma said, face lit with a knowing smile. “Most men find self-interest to be a powerful motivator. Perhaps our Precentor desires a favor.”

“You may be right. If he wanted to make trouble, he would have barged past anybody in his way, wailing about the sanctity of his office. He must want something.” Samsonov thrust out his lower jaw and stroked it with his hand. “Whatever it is, it'll cost him. Let him start with a wait.”

Samsonov's eyes speared the aide. “Bring the Precentor here in an hour.”

“ Hai,Warlord.”

Exactly an hour later, the Precentor was ushered into the Warlord's office, but the man who walked through the door that Akuma held open was not Jhi To Phud.

The formal robes of office swayed around a man taller and thinner than the fat old bureaucrat they had dealt with in the past. Light gleamed from the expensive fabrics and ornaments the man wore, as well as from his bald head. The passage of many years was evident on his face, but the new Precentor's firm step gave no sign that advanced age had brought him infirmity. His motions were those of one assured of his own dignity and power. He approached the Warlord's heavy teak desk, bowed, and said, “The blessings of the Sainted Blake be upon you, my son.”

Samsonov gave the man a cold stare. The unannounced change in Precentors was clearly an attempt to discomfit him. Two could play that game, he decided. Rather than reply to his visitor, the Warlord indicated a chair with a wave of his hand. The Precentor showed no outrage at this latest petty insult. He sat where indicated and said no more.

Silence stretched, each man waiting for the other to buckle under the tension. Curiosity piqued and temper rising, it was Samsonov who broke the silence. Smiling coldly, he said, “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Precentor?”

“The honor is mine, Warlord. I regret to inform you that Precentor Phud has been called to other duties.” The Precentor paused for a moment, a look of formal sadness on his face. “He had reported to the First Circuit that his relationship with you was smooth and beneficial to all concerned. That is a pattern I believe to be worth preserving.

“I am Alexandre Kalafon, his replacement. I have come to establish my credentials. All the proper documents are contained in the weekly message pouch that my secretary is holding in the outer office.”

“Surely you have another reason for your visit?”

The Precentor smiled blandly at what they both knew was a statement of the obvious.

“Is this man to be present?” Kalafon said. His eyes never left Samsonov and he made no motion, but there was no doubt he was referring to Akuma, who still lounged near the door.

“Certainly. He has earned my trust many times over in loyal and discreet service.”

“As you wish, Warlord. I am sure you are a good judge of your men. One who enjoys your trust would never need to fear the punishments House Kurita reserves for those who betray its secrets.” On that ominous note, the Precentor began to speak of the rigors of his journey to Galedon and his pleasure at the mild weather that met his arrival.

Samsonov knew that the man was filling the air with nonsense in the approved Kurita fashion of chitchat before business. Samsonov also knew that the first to get to business lost face, according to Kurita custom. It was another of the nuisances he faced every day. Unlike many in the Combine's power structure, he did not feel himself bound by formal ritual and notions of honor. Such things were only of use to him when they could advance his cause or trip up a rival. The Precentor was not of House Kurita and he wasannoying. The sooner the man was gone the better.

“You must be a very busy man, Precentor,” Samsonov interrupted. “As am I. Let us dispense with the formalities and speak as old friends do, without preamble and going directly to the business at hand.” The Warlord leaned forward and said earnestly, “What do you want?”

“It shall be as you wish, Warlord,” Kalafon agreed.

Samsonov could detect no sign that the Precentor was disturbed by the Warlord's breach of etiquette. Perhaps this was a man with whom one could do business.

“I fear that you misunderstand the purpose of my visit,” Kalafon continued placidly. “I want nothing from you. Rather, I have something to offer to you.” He paused and smiled benignly. “I have by chance come into possession of information that may be of value to certain of your current undertakings.”

Samsonov's suspicions were immediately roused. What did this old man know about his “undertakings?” The Warlord's eyes narrowed. “What kind of information?”

“Let me tell you about a soldier. A ‘Mech Warrior by the name of Fadre Singh.”

“I'm not in the habit of buying soldiers, Precentor,” Samsonov snapped. “I thought you had information.”

“MechWarrior Singh is a most interesting fellow, Warlord. Do you know his recent history?”

“No,” Samsonov grunted in irritation. The Precentor was not responding to intimidation and seemed determined to run the conversation his own way. So much for him being a likely business partner. The sooner the old man finished with his prepared babble, the sooner he would leave. “I am sure you can tell me all about it.”

“To some degree I can,” Kalafon replied, his tone still placid. “Singh's most recent success was with Wolf's Dragoons. He produced a brilliant performance in the Hoff raid of 3023—one worthy of a Kurita samurai. I am told that he led a charge from which his superior quailed and thus turned the tide of the battle. The raid on Hoff ended well for the Combine, did it not?”

Samsonov was silent. He let Kalafon take the silence as assent and confirmation of his sources.

The Precentor continued, “Alas, the unfortunate Singh was ill-treated. The embarrassment he had created for his commander seemed to weigh more heavily than his military success. The jealous officer had poor Singh disgraced and dismissed from the unit.

“His next assignment was a lonely outpost on Misery. It is a bleak world, cold and unforgiving over most of the continents, but hot and vile in the active volcanic zones. It was a virtual exile, totally unsuited to a hero.

“On Misery, he met a fellow ‘MechWarrior. A mercenary, I think. She was sympathetic and greatly soothed his mind. It was from this wandering Samaritan that I learned of the unfortunate Singh's plight.”

Kalafon stopped, waiting.

Samsonov took time to consider just how a disaffected Dragoon could be useful. This was bait, he decided. Still, a smart fish can steal the bait and leave the hook untouched. “So, this Singh is unhappy with the Dragoons,” he said.

“That is what I have been given to understand,” Kalafon replied noncommittally.

“Why should I be interested?”

“Ah, of course. You do not buy soldiers. Forgive my failing memory. There was something else.

“Once of a long, dark night on Misery, ‘MechWarrior Singh had a lengthy talk with his friend. In the course of it, he mentioned something to this lady, something he called the Hegira Plan. He claimed that this plan involved a full-scale exodus of Wolf's Dragoons from Kurita space. Would that be of any interest to you, Warlord?”

“That is a foolish question and you are not a fool, Precentor. What's the price?”

“Do not speak of price, Warlord.” Kalafon spread his hands in a gesture of openness. A smile emphasized the wrinkles in his face. “I cannot sell you anything. I merely offer a gift out of good will.”

“Good will is maintained through further good will, isn't it?” Samsonov said, staring into Kalafon's dark eyes, which shone with cool and calculating intelligence. There is a dangerous man behind this well-mannered facade,Samsonov told himself. Caution and circumspection would be required.

“I am pleased to see that you are as wise as I have been told, Warlord.”

“Wisdom is slow in coming sometimes,” Samsonov said, joining the game of politeness and euphemism. “You must let me meditate on this ‘MechWarrior's sad story. Perhaps I can find a way to ease his burden.”

“The Blessed Blake looks kindly on generosity.” Kalafon rose. “I shall leave you now, Warlord. There is much to be put in order at our compound. You may, of course, reach me there. The blessings of Blake, my son.”

With that formality, the Precentor moved toward the door, which Akuma opened for him. The ComStar official strode past Akuma, ignoring the Sworder's open stare.

“A most interesting man, Warlord,” Akuma offered. “He shall be much more entertaining than Phud.”

“More dangerous, too.”

“That's what will make it interesting.” Samsonov searched his aide's face and found nothing but confidence. “You'll stick your hand into the fire too long someday, Akuma.”

Akuma's eyes glittered. “I assure you that I am always careful when I play with fire.”

Akuma's words set Samsonov to considering what he knew really of his aide. The man had first come to his attention after he'd requested a transfer into the Eighth Sword of Light Regiment. There had been a rumor of reprisals being planned against the young officer because of his small part in the disgrace of a commanding officer. Normally, that would mark him as a dangerous subordinate, but the ISF had assured Samsonov of Akuma's devotion to the Combine. They attributed the problem to Akuma's rejection of the hard-line code of bushido.Now, that was an attitude Samsonov understood. He considered that outmoded code and its devotees to be so many nuisances. They got in the way of business. If Akuma shared that attitude, a man who understood business could be useful.

Besides, Akuma had disgraced one of Warlord Yorioshi's officers, and the disgrace of the subordinate had reflected on the superior. Samsonov had decided to reward Akuma for his inadvertent aid. He had approved the transfer to the Eighth Sword of Light.

Once on Galedon, the Sworder had shown traits that reminded Samsonov of himself in younger days. Akuma was efficient, smart, and ambitious, and his only scruple was a sense of debt. He repaid those who touched his life, for good or ill. Such a man is a boon to one who has earned his gratitude, and so the Warlord arranged for Akuma to be grateful to him.

That done, the Warlord promoted Akuma and made him an aide. A fortunate decision, for Akuma served well as an advisor and agent. He was loyal and productive.

Yet, the glitter in Akuma's eyes worried the Warlord. A strong hatred fueled that fire, and it hinted at fanaticism. Samsonov believed that a fanatic was a dangerous man. In his obsession, a fanatic might forget the importance of anything else. Perhaps it was time to abandon this pawn. It would all depend on how well Akuma still responded to the demands on him. If he had stopped thinking clearly, he would be a liability. “What do think about this Hegira Plan?” Samsonov asked. “Is is real? Can we use it?”

“Let us leave aside the question of the reliability of the Precentor's source,” Akuma began, almost pedantically. “If it is an escape plan, we would do well to learn its details.

Were the Dragoons to learn of our arrangements, they might decide to leave. Knowing where they would go could be invaluable.”

“And if they don't go, worthless.”

“Of course,” Akuma agreed. “Did not the Coordinator ask for 'insurance' against just such an eventuality?”

“He did.” Caught up in his concerns over the mercenaries, it did not occur to Samsonov to wonder how Akuma knew what the Coordinator wanted. “How do relations with your charges progress?”

“As per your orders, Warlord. I am pursuing all avenues of legal harassment open to me. The Dragoon position steadily weakens. Battle losses rise and certain members of their forces have been left behind on enemy planets, missing in action. Regrettably, timetables have often forced the abandonment of those unfortunates on enemy planets before a proper search could be performed. It is most unpopular with the Dragoons. I have regularly expressed my condolences, but in each action, I have been forced to point out that the orders to depart were completely legal, by contract. Thus, the Dragoons were required to obey, by contract. Some of these unlucky warriors have been subsequently recovered by the Dragoons, but such rescues are expensive.

“They are less and less able to afford the expense because they are having monetary concerns. Though their pay is supplied strictly according to contract, revenues from An Ting are, regrettably, down. There seems to be little interest in the Combine marketplace for products from that planet. Then, too, there is the high cost of supplies. It is most distressing, but unavoidable because of the economic pressures our enemies place on the Combine. I have offered the Dragoons military sources, but they seem to prefer other suppliers. They may soon find that certain vital supplies have become totally unavailable from conventional sources beyond our borders. I will have warned them. Other plans, too, are coming along as well.”

“Such as?” Samsonov prompted.

“Such as getting their staunchest defender removed from the field.”

Akuma could mean only one man. Since joining the Warlord's staff, the Sworder had shown an unreasonable, but not unreasoning, hatred for Tetsuhara. Had the cold calculator succumbed to a hot-blooded impulse? “Have you assassinated Tetsuhara?”

“Assassinated Tetsuhara?” Akuma repeated indignantly. “I am no crude killer.”

No,Samsonov thought, not crude.

“I was about to inform you before the Precentor arrived,” Akuma said, his calm restored. “One of your most loyal officers, Elijah Satoh, now commands the Ryuken. It seems Tai-saTetsuhara was involved in a skimmer accident.”

“Killed?”

“Badly injured only ... unfortunately. The Brotherhood physician aboard the Dropship was very loyal to his professional code of ethics,” Akuma said. One corner of his mouth twitched, as though in irritation at some annoying memory. “The physician was very skilled, and Tetsuhara has survived. He may be able to return to duty after his convalescence.

“The Barlow's End operation was not compromised, however. Satoh was left with an excellent plan, which he should be able to execute and so return with glory. Even a healthy Tetsuhara will be hard pressed to oust a hero,” Akuma concluded.

“Let us hope you are right. Satoh is unimaginative but devoted. Through him, I can control the Ryuken. They will be a lever in the days to come. The Dragon's Sword might even provide me with a counter to the Dragon's Shadows, should that become necessary.”

Akuma sat back in satisfaction, watching the Warlord take in the success and consider the possibilities. Samsonov was a rising star that could be directed to carry a clever man quite high. Better than anyone. Akuma knew himself to be a clever man.