Текст книги "Decision at Thunder Rift"

Автор книги: Уильям Кейт

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Vehicles! Those were the special responsibility of the technical section, which was expected to procure, maintain, and service them. He needed HVTs and weapons carriers – ground effect HVWCs as well as the slower, heavier, tracked or wheeled vehicles. Unfortunately, there were only two sources of military vehicles in Sarghad, the Militia and the Royal Guard. Neither unit was prepared to release even one scout hovercraft to the newly-formed Lancers without guarantees that the unit would become the private elite of either the Militia or the Guard. Grayson wasted days just going through the mountain of official requisitions for service hovercraft and HTs before he realized that what he was fighting was not bureaucratic stupidly, but inter-service politics. There was, Grayson learned, intense and bitter rivalry between the Royal Guards and the Militia.

Trellwan's human population was divided among three cities – Sarghad, Gath, and Tremain – plus a scattering of homesteads, agrodome collectives, and mining sites that stretched along perhaps a third of the equator. Sarghad was the largest city, by far, and the center of the planetary government Each city was the center of a Militia military district, with a resident regiment to serve as tax collectors, fire department, garbage collectors, and police on a world where there was little need on a day-to-day basis for a standing army.

The Royal Guard, on the other hand, was based in Sarghad in a modern barracks beneath the Palace Grounds. Their function was purely military and primarily cosmetic on a world with a single government. They served as escorts for the King, staged parades and military reviews, and generally worked to create the image that there was indeed a monarchy in Sarghad, one rich and powerful enough to provide his private guard with attractive green uniforms. Though they claimed to be an elite force and though the Guard received the lion's share of military appropriations and equipment from the various government councils, Grayson had seen little evidence yet that they were any good as fighting soldiers.

They had the vehicles Grayson needed, and they wouldn't release them until he could assure them that the First Trellwan Lancers would be designated as a part of the Royal Guard.

The Militia, in turn, controlled such essentials as distribution of water and communications within the city. They provided these services only grudgingly, while awaiting word that the Lancers would be designated as a branch of the Militia.

Grayson began his attack on the situation by giving the vehicle problem to Lieutenant Nolem, who was obviously a spy for the Guard staff command. By assigning him full-time to the task of acquiring eight hover transports, Grayson kept the Lieutenant out of his hair while keeping his need on the desk of the requisition and supply officer at Guard HQ. Perhaps if the clamor was raised long enough, loud enough...

He won cooperation from the Militia by pointing out that his two combat platoon sergeants were both Militia, and that, while he had to go along with His Majesty's original idea that the Lancers should be drawn from both services, surely his choice of fighting sergeants was proof of where his loyalties really lay. That won him a steady supply of food and water, installation of half of the visors he needed, and the loan of one aging HVT for running errands throughout the city.

Perhaps most ironic was the problem of his own uniform. Grayson had been decked out in Guard full dress for the ceremony at the Palace Reception Hall, but had never been issued any other uniforms or personal equipment. Guard uniform regulations required that he always wear the Crimson Star with full dress, which fact Lieutenant Nolem had tactfully pointed out to him when Grayson arrived for work without the heavy starburst. Though he was beginning to feel a proper popinjay in the elaborate green and gold, his requests for uniform requisitions went unanswered. At least, Nolem did not protest when he refused to wear his dress sword to work.

With all that, his biggest worry was personnel. Volunteers were numerous, but painfully few were skilled as machinists, electronics techs, robotics experts, weapons handlers and armorers, mechanics, and so on. On the other hand, the troops being formed into the unit's pair of combat platoons had experience, but little equipment. Half of them were drilling with lengths of pipe. When they had been transferred to the Lancers, they'd been ordered to turn in their weapons, and so only a few had brought guns with them. There was only a handful of shoulder-fired missile launchers, heavy weapons autofire weapons, armor-piercing shells and missile warheads, plastic explosives or j detonators, or fitted body armor, and no man-portable lasers at all.

Even when well-equipped and supplied, ground troops are woefully inadequate against an attacking BattleMech. If the Trellwan Lancers were to accomplish anything, they would have to assemble a working BattleMech Lance. He had five men in training as MechWarriors, but so far he'd had little success. Learning to pilot one of the battle machines was an agonizing and drawn-out process. Anyone could strap himself into the cockpit and move the machine's arms and legs, but it took a whole new way of thinking to control the automatic movements through the computer-linked neural helmet, and without that link, the best and strongest 'Mech in the galaxy was just so much inanimate metal and spare parts.

He took a major step toward solving the personnel problem when he brought Lori – now Staff Sergeant Lori Kalmar – aboard as senior Tech. She could answer technical questions and showed a flair for diagnosing 'Mech problems on scant information. Though there was no way to repair the damaged Waspwithout procuring a complete new head and cockpit assembly, she was able to ready the 'Mech for combat in every other regard. Somehow, she even managed to rig up test circuits and relays that allowed the 'Mech to be handled (in clumsy fashion) by remote control. That meant it could serve as a mobile target for the five apprentice MechWarriors training under Grayson. They could practice dry-run tracking and weapons locks aboard the Locust,without Grayson's having to try to rig a simulator.

Then a new trouble surfaced. Despite her obvious skill, many of the new astechs in the technical section refused to work for Lori Kalmar. She was, after all, from Hendrik's bandit confederacy. Her people, they contended, had killed many Trells in raids and skirmishes across the better part of a century, and she was certainly not to be trusted now. Add to that, she was a woman in the male-dominated Trellwan culture. Women held few positions of real power, were never found in either military branch other than as secretaries or clerical assistants, and there was the continuing unspoken tradition that the place for woman was at home, raising children. A young, pretty woman giving orders to men on the job was simply not taken seriously.

That problem would never go away entirely, though Lori had made some progress on her own. Once, after she gave an order to an astech, he simply ignored her. Though she repeated the command, the man responded with a leer and a suggestion about what he'd like to do instead. But warrior apprentices on Sigurd were well trained in the martial disciplines. They learned not only how to pilot a 'Mech, but how to use firearms, sticks, knives, and bare hands to deadly effect The insubordinate astech woke up to find himself a guest in Sarghad's hospital, where he was being treated for a broken jaw. From that time on, Sergeant Kalmar found her orders greeted with considerably greater enthusiasm.

* * * *

Grayson was dismayed by the fact that there were no spare parts to repair machines that broke down, little oil to lubricate machinery, and the computer programs used to coordinate schedules and duty rosters and muster lists were hopelessly inadequate. A team detailed to salvage diamond monofilament wire from junked sections of boron nitride armor plate was stalled by a lack of the proper chemicals for the extraction process.

He grew short on sleep, became impatient, and drove the unit harder. Morale sagged, and five men were placed on report for fighting in one period alone. Seven enlisted men simply walked away from the barracks during another period and never returned. No one stopped them at the door because the man on sentry duty was one of the seven. When troops restricted to the post routinely showed up for work drunk or failed to show at all, Grayson had to detail three of his junior NCOs just to patrol the area for hidden caches of alcohol.

Then, a new difficulty arose with Lori. If the Lancers were to have any chance of operating against offworld forces, they needed more than the single Locustoperational. The first step would be capturing the other Wasp.If necessary, they would have to destroy it and use its head to replace the shattered one on the Waspnow in the Lancers' possession. Lori had been troubled when Grayson had asked her about the man who would likely be piloting the Waspthey intended to capture or kill.

"Private Enzelman and I were never what you'd call close," she told him. "But he's a Sigurdian, and a long way from home, like me. I... I don't think I can help you to... to kill him."

The pain in her eyes touched Grayson. Many of her critics still didn't trust Lori's willingness to work for her former enemies, and she was trapped between the need to prove her loyalty and her loyalty to a fellow warrior.

"I can take you off the project," he said.

"And go back to that dungeon? That's where your General Adel wants me, you know. Him and Lieutenant Nolem." She shuddered.

Grayson leaned back, reflecting. "You know, everything depends on our taking that Waspwith its cockpit intact. What we need to do is develop a diversion that will let me get close enough to cripple it without touching its head or your friend Enzelman." He spread his hands. "I can't promise more than that"

She managed half a smile. "What I'd really like is to get him to come over to the Lancers. The only reason he's fighting for themis that he doesn't know there's an alternative."

Grayson thought of his five warrior recruits, and nodded gravely. During the practice session earlier that period, one of the men had tripped the Locustover its own feet, and it was only fool's luck that had kept the irreplaceable machine from being badly damaged. Grayson was despairing of any of those five ever taking a 'Mech into combat.

"Believe me, Lori. I intend to try to do just that. We need 'Mech pilots, and we're not going to grow them ourselves here in Sarghad."

She'd looked up at him, her eyes shining. "Do you... do you mean that? I mean, that I might con a 'Mech again?"

Grayson rubbed his eyes. "I can't promise it, not now. But damned if I know where else I can get 'Mech pilots. It takes years of apprenticeship to learn how to con one. Ha! Look at us! Apprentices half our lives, and neither of us had even graduated yet when we found ourselves... here."

Lori laid her hand on Grayson's arm, a warm and gentle touch. "I'll do whatever has to be done, Gray."

How had they slipped into a first-name basis? Grayson could not remember. He did know that he felt comfortable with Lori, able to talk to her, to discuss plans, and that he missed her when she was not there. Perhaps their growing friendship had something to do with the fact that they both felt so alone here.

"Well all do what has to be done," he said. "It's called 'survival.'"

Two periods later, Lieutenant Nolem filed a report with General Adel on 'subversive elements within the unit.' He named no one, but it was clear he had Lori in mind as the one directly responsible for the unit's poor morale. As the sun rose on a crisp, clear, -20 degree morning on Seconday, the First Trellwan Lancers seemed farther away from being combat ready than ever.

18

 

The Lancers needed combat to draw them together. More importantly, Grayson realized, they needed a victory.

By the time the red sun had reached its zenith in the clear chill cold of Seconday, the Lancer T.O. & E. showed the two combat platoons as having 40 men each. This force constituted the Ground Strike Unit and had been trained in anti-Mech infantry tactics. How well they would be able to put Grayson's lectures into practice remained to be seen. The astech support platoon now numbered 63, and Tech Sergeant Brooke – under Master Sergeant Lori Kalmar's direction – had both ‘Mechs mechanically sound and operational. The Wasp,however, still lacked a head.

Written out on the unit T.O. & E. chart, it all looked quite impressive, but Grayson knew that even a full battalion with four times as many men – even well-trained and experienced men – would be hard pressed to handle even one attacking 'Mech. And when one of those ‘Mechs was a 75-ton Marauder...

The heart of any 'Mech unit was the combat Lance – the 'Mechs themselves. Ideally a balance of four 'Mechs working together, sometimes accompanied by an air Lance of aerospace fighters, the unit's 'Mechs were the whole reason for the existence of support combat units. Except for special units, most 'Mech Lances, especially mercenary units, had no ground strike force at all and consisted of 'Mechs and Techs alone. Without 'Mechs, a unit consisting of mere men was practically defenseless.

And the Lancers had exactly one combat-ready light 'Mech.

It was a few tens of hours shy of midday Seconday, and the Trellwan Light Lancers were deploying for combat As Grayson had explained to General Varney when he submitted his proposal, "We fight now, and win – or it's all been for nothing."

There was more than the fighting morale of the Lancers at stake. Grayson needed more than one 'Mech if the Lance was to have any chance at all. And the only way they were going to get another 'Mech was to take one away from the enemy.

The spaceport north of Sarghad was an unsightly sprawl of gray and white buildings across the otherwise empty countryside. The ground there was largely barren, broken by thick clumps of blue-tufted qykka and patchy swards of blue-green prairie grass. The highway that linked port and city was pocked and rutted by Trellwan's vicious weather cycle, and had been but rarely travelled even before the coming of the bandit raiders.

Below the road was a chain of arroyos, gulleys carved through the arid ground by repeated Thirday meltwater floods. Grayson had noted this particular wadi during terrain-mapping expeditions when it was Carlyle's Commandos who occupied the Castle some ten kilometers northeast, on the other side of the port It had survived the last series of floods and existed now as a broad, dry channel through the desert, encrusted with frost and ice in the overhangs where the weak sun did not penetrate. In some places, it was fifteen meters deep, with steep slopes of treacherously balanced rock and shifting sand.

The Locustpaced along the floor of the canyon with Grayson at the controls. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since he'd last been strapped into the Mech Warrior's hot seat. As he gripped the controls and leaned into the reassuring weight of the neuro-impulse helmet, he knew how right it was that he'd trained for it half of his life.

After spending endless standard days at his report-smothered deck in the dim recesses of the city Armory, Grayson felt alive again.

His hands rested lightly on the weapons controls and maneuver overrides. His electrode-padded and cable-heavy helmet picked up neural impulses relating to routine movement and balance, while a sophisticated computer built into the cockpit seat translated those signals to the 'Mech's four-meter walking stride. The Locustwas an extension of his body.

The popular warrior mythos held that MechWarriors actually became their 'Mechs, that there was a personality transfer from man to machine, that the machines moved and fought because the Mech Warrior's mind was directly controlling them. None of this was true, though certainly the neuro-impulse helmets had been a first promising step toward combat systems doing just that. What the helmet did do was to direct the machine in such routine tasks as maintaining its balance, which left the pilot's mind free to deal with analytical tasks such as sorting out friend from foe and engaging in combat.

"Striker One, this is Striker Two, do you read?"

The voice in his helmet speakers was electronically filtered and reproduced, and required practice to understand. Transmissions were beamed on an extremely narrow frequency band in order to penetrate enemy electronic countermeasures and to defy hostile code breakers. Often, such transmissions were made in battlespeech, an artificial coded language known only to the users, but there'd been no time to design and teach one to all who would need to know it. Computer scrambling should make the transmissions intelligible only to the Lancers. At least, that's what Grayson hoped.

He bit down hard to flex the masseter muscles below and in front of his ears. Sensors in the helmet read the flexing's electrical signature, and opened a channel.

"Striker Two, this is One. Go."

"We're in position below the fence. No patrols... no suspicious activity."

"Good. Keep alert."

The assault force's movement up the wadi in broad daylight had been a calculated risk. The raiders had helicopters, and there was no guarantee they didn't also have a military surveillance satellite capable of counting rivets on the Locust'sdorsal armor. The Locustwas shrouded in folds of camouflage netting, and Grayson was operating the heat sinks at their lowest settings to cut down the 'Mech's IR signature. What the assault team was really counting on was luck. Careful observation of the bandit bases at the port and up Mount Gayal at the Castle suggested that they held the Trell armed forces in very low esteem and were not maintaining a proper watch on the approaches to their encampments.

"Striker One, this is Three."

"Three, this is One. Go."

"No activity at the Castle. I have the Marauderin clear sight It's still parked on the parade field outside the Repair Bay doors."

"Right, Three. Keep on them."

The Locust'scockpit was so small that he could touch opposite bulkheads with outstretched arms. The viewscreen formed a 180-degree strip across the front of the tiny room, showing the sharply stratified layers of water-deposited sediments in the walls of the channel outside. Most of the deck was taken up by the pilot's seat and the jungle of cables, consoles, exposed circuits, and instrumentation that kept this small walking mountain moving and fighting.

Perhaps the dominant feature of the cockpit was the smell, a sharp, sour tang that seemed to emanate from deck, bulkheads, and seat despite scrubbings and liberal dousings with chemical absorbents. The Locust'son-board logs and equipment installation dates showed that this particular 'Mech was over a century old. The distinctive odors of sweat, fear, and battle fury of 40-some pilots had become as much a part of the cockpit as the armor encasing it. The smell was unpleasant, but already fading from Grayson's awareness.

It was getting warm inside the cockpit. A tiny blower behind Grayson's head struggled with the impossible task of cooling the pressurized space, but before long, it would be unequal to the 'Mech's heat build-up. Grayson had already stripped to briefs and a light tunic of net fabric. Though he was not uncomfortable yet, very soon it would become much worse.

Grayson looked down through electronic eyes at the troops... his troops, he thought. Their TK assault rifles had come from the armory that was now the Lance's HQ (though the proper forms had never been approved by the Militia supply staff). Grayson had only obtained the weapons because he knew that a thousand of those sleek auto-fire weapons had been given to the Militia by Carlyle's Commandos. The men were bundled against the cold in camo-mottled winter combat jackets and gloves unofficially liberated by Sergeant Ramage from the Guard supply depot across from the Palace.

He worked his jaw muscles twice, opening a line.

"Striker Two, this is One. Give me a feed."

"Right, One. Patch in."

An image window unrolled across the viewscreen. On the rim of the wadi above him, a scout poked the sensor end of an optical-fiber remote scanner above the edge of the gully. On the image window, Grayson saw the squat shapes of water and fuel tanks, the crosshatching of a mesh-link fence. In the far distance, the humanoid shape of a Waspmoved through shimmering haze. Hot air was rising from the ferrocrete apron, causing the image to boil.

"That's our target," Grayson said. He opened the channel to Striker Three. "Is the Marauderstill staying put?"

"No alarm, sir. All quiet"

"It won't be for long. Striker Two!" He could see the tac-force strike leader, Sergeant Ramage, touching the microphone at his throat "Yessir!" Move out! Now!"

The small body of troops surged up the slope of the wadi, using ropes that had been set from the rim by the scouts. On schedule and according to plan, Platoon A moved toward the spaceport's outer fence.

Grayson took a deep breath and tasted the sour air of the cramped Locustcockpit. He opened another combat channel. "Striker Four, are you ready?"

"All set here, Lieutenant." Sergeant Larressen was shouting, the electronically-rendered tones of his voice oddly spaced. He must be yelling above the keening of his HVWCs.

"We're ready here. Let 'em know you're there.”

“On our way, sir!"

It had taken a direct appeal to King Jeverid to free up much of the equipment the Lancers needed, including eight battered but serviceable hovercraft weapons carriers, five-man machines like those he had seen and ridden in the battle in Sarghad. Three of them mounted auto cannons, and one a combat laser. Two more carried short-range Skorpiad anti-armor missiles, while the rest carried anti-personnel heavy machine guns. This small armada was no match for the entire enemy 'Mech force. With luck, though, they might knock out one or more of the light 'Mechs in open battle. Grayson had decided that the chance was so slim that the entire convoy would better serve as a decoy force. They were racing across the desert east of the spaceport now, their fans churning up plumes of dust visible for tens of kilometers.

"Lieutenant! This is Striker Two!"

"Go ahead, Two." Grayson paced the Locustalong the gully as he spoke. There was a place farther along where the slope was less steep than the spot where the ground assault force had scrambled up. On his viewscreen, the layered red and ocher strata of the arroyo's wall lurched and tilted as the Locuststrode along its gravel floor.

"There're two... repeat TWO 'Mechs at the port. They're together..."

"Feed me."

The image window opened, and Grayson saw that the Wasphad been joined by a second light 'Mech. It was difficult to see through the churning telephoto view, but the second appeared to be a Stinger.The pair of 20-ton scout 'Mechs were striding rapidly across the apron to the east.

"Striker Four, this is One."

"Go... ahead... One." Larressen must be screaming against the roar of the plenum fans in the weapons carriers' bellies. The transmission carried none of the background noise, but the sergeant's words were paced by the effort of shouting them.

"You've been seen. Two 'Mechs... I say again... two light ‘Mechs headed your way."

"We... copy... One!"

"Striker Two... feed me range figures."

Red numbers sprang into sharp relief across the image window, ticking off range and azimuth readings as the target 'Mechs moved. The two 'Mechs were three kilometers off, moving across Grayson's line-of-sight at an angle that would bring them closer to the Locust'sposition.

Grayson waited, sweltering in the rising heat. If it were this bad now...

He checked the Locust'scontrols one last time. His left hand gripped the con stick that emerged from the left arm of his chair and swung on jointed sliders across his lap. His right fingers closed on a black plastic D-grip on the chair's right arm. Slight movements on the grip moved the Locust'slaser cannon up, down, back and forth, and the red button resting under his thumb triggered it. His indicators showed all systems running hot, combat-ready.

Doubt had begun to plague him as he sat in his too warm cockpit. Attacking one of the two enemy strongholds in broad daylight, with one 'Mech and half-trained men, that had to be a recipe for suicide. Grayson pushed the doubt aside, struggled to ignore it. So much depended on surprise. If they succeeded in winning surprise, the raid should succeed. It WOULD succeed. If not... He pushed doubt aside again, harder this time. The plan will work! It HAS to!

He fished in a webbing pouch at the side of the cockpit chair, and brought out a filmy, blue length of soft cloth. Mara had given it to him the period before they'd left. "I've read how the Knights of Old Earth carried their lady's favors into battle," she'd said.

Mara had handed him a piece of the gown she had worn at the reception. "You could carry this."

Grayson looked at the scrap of material for several seconds, then made his decision. Practicality over romance, he thought. Mara would understand. He used the cloth to wipe away the layer of perspiration that had beaded over his forehead and upper lip.

Watching the readouts on the target 'Mechs, he saw that the range had decreased. A quick consultation with the Locust'son-board computer showed that if the enemy 'Mechs held their course and speed, they would be at their closest point and moving away from Grayson's position just... about... NOW!

Grayson's hand pressed the Locust'scontrol stick forward, and the 'Mech leaned forward, one armored bird's foot clawing at the soft sand slope before it. The machine lurched and seemed to stumble slightly, then Grayson heard the whine of protesting servos as the 'Mech's computer drew on his sense of balance and struggled to remain upright.

One giant foot found purchase, and the other foot lifted. The 'Mech's head lurched above the rim of the canyon. Now he saw the scene directly throught the Locust'ssensors on the 180-screen. He struggled with the stick, willing the machine up and forward. One flat, four-clawed foot cleared the edge, the flanges spilling sand, and then the Locustwas up and onto the hard, flat desert surface. The Locust'sbird-like form leaned forward and its spindly legs swung up, forward, and down with shifting, mechanical movements.

In theory, Grayson knew there was no way one 'Mech could sneak up on another across open terrain. BattleMech hulls mount sensors that cover the entire spectrum, infra-red to ultra-violet, as well as sound, laser ranging, and radar. The 'Mech's computer creates a composite 360-degree scan of the entire battlefield that is instantly available to the pilot. In practice, things were not so simple. MechWarriors are human, and, caught up in the excitement of battle or the thrill of a chase, a pilot might override or ignore a computer's signals.

Grayson was counting on the humanness of the two 'Mech pilots he was stalking now. Lori had said Enzelman was less experienced than she at 'Mech operations. Though Sergeant Mendoza was experienced, his first instinct would be to focus on the decoy convoy of speeding vehicles two kilometers in front of the targets.

Grayson could see the HVWCs off to the side, turning now under a pillar of dust that mushroomed into the sky. There was a flash of light ahead. The enemy Wasphad fired its laser at long range with no visible effect. He touched a control. The screen shifted to battle mode, the landscape subdued, the enemy ‘Mechs outlined in light and bracketed by readouts giving range and sensor-detected information. Drifting red crosshairs showed the aiming point for the laser.

The decline of technology during the Succession Wars had keenly affected the science of weapons manufacture and design. No longer could the complex control systems for fire-and-forget missiles, for long-range particle beams or lasers be packed into units small enough and cheap enough to be casually expended in combat. BattleMech engagements tended to be brutal, short-range affairs, with individual ‘Mechs closing to a few tens of meters to deliver killing shots.

Theoretically, the laser under the Locust'schin could hit anything in line-of-sight clear to the horizon. That range was sharply reduced, however, by the quality of the weapons controls systems that pointed the heavy barrel. Grayson could not count on hitting anything with that laser at ranges greater than about 300 meters. He'd begun his charge when the enemy was one kilometer away. At top speed, he would close to firing range in less than 30 seconds.

The Waspwas between Grayson and the Stinger,blocking the Stinger'selectronic scanners. That was a small piece of luck, for Lori had told him that the Stingerpilot seemed to have had some combat experience. More, certainly, than her comrade in the Wasp. Range 800 meters.

For that reason, he was locking the crosshairs of his laser sight on the rear bit of the left hip joint on the Stinger.The experienced MechWarrior would be the more dangerous of the two.

Range 600 meters.

Well, listen to the old hand talking, Grayson thought wryly. This is YOUR first time in 'Mech combat, he told himself. Even that Wasppilot has seen more action in a 'Mech hotseat than you. Training is great, but remember what Griff was always telling you about there being no substitute for experience. Just then, a flashing blue light on his console told him he was being probed by radar.

Range 400 meters.

The Stingerwas slowing, dropping behind the charging Wasp.It pivoted on stiff legs, the long, black muzzle of its laser coming to the point.

Grayson's throat was suddenly tight, his mouth sand-dry, his nose running, his stomach twisting. Oh God, don't let me screw up, he prayed to he knew not who.