The troops shifted back, one of them, a tall man, raising his Gauss rifle and firing from the shoulder at something Griffin couldn’t see even as he set out toward the rear.

“Good idea,” said Griffin. “The best defense is a good offense.”

He started running toward the attacking Wolves. Time now to confuse them. Make them turn to one side or another. Keep them away from Tara. He checked the time readout on the cockpit chronometer as he ran.

The Countess had asked for twelve hours more. So far he’d given her eight. He could do another four… the readouts for ammo said that his left arm was down to what was in the pods, then no more reloads. Heat wasn’t bad, though.

A Schmitt tank lay in his path ahead. Something the Steel Wolves had brought along for fighting in the streets of Tara, no doubt. Well, it wouldn’t get there.

Griffin jumped, and aimed for the turret of the tank. His impact with both feet blew two of the tires on the vehicle’s left side. That would slow them down. He rolled off toward the back of the Schmitt, avoiding its flamers. He was too close for the long-range missiles to lock on to him. And unlike the infantry, he could ignore its machine guns.

A set of shocks up his right arm and across his back reminded him of the Schmitt’s autocannon. While the tank might be immobilized it could still reach out and hit him.

He dodged around a rock wall, and came face-to-face with an SM1 Tank Destroyer. He sent a battery of missiles into its turret. He turned before he could see what damage he’d inflicted, saw the crippled Schmitt, and sent two more missiles into the tank’s rear armor. The hatches blew off and a smoke ring of oily black shot from the top. That one, at least, wouldn’t be repaired.

Griffin headed back for the Highlander lines at a run.

“Retreat, fall back,” he said over the command circuit. “Drop back to rally point one. Set up hasty defenses. Every man—take out one Steel Wolf and we’ll call this day ours.”

He looked at the countdown clock. Hold out three hours and forty minutes more. He would. He had to.

It was the damned Koshi, Darwin thought.

He had seen the Highlanders falling back and had rejoiced, knowing that when they abandoned the fight the way would lie clear for the main body of the Steel Wolves to pour through the mountain pass and out onto the rolling plains north of Tara. But the seeming rout had not lasted; the fleeing infantry had halted and reformed their battle line and were once again standing fast.

The MechWarrior in the Koshi was everywhere along the line, courting heat overload with reckless abandon, using his jump jets and his hundred-plus kilometers per hour maximum speed to take himself to wherever the fighting was thickest and the infantry needed the most support. He was the heart and soul of the Highlanders’ resistance, and Darwin knew better than to hope that the Koshi’s superior heat efficiency would fail in time to give the Steel Wolves any help.

He keyed on the command communications circuit. “Star Captain Greer. Take whatever forces you need, and kill me that Koshi.”

The Highlanders’ new defenses were holding, but Michael Griffin knew better than to expect that his own luck would do likewise. The Koshi had to be one of the most tempting targets on the entire battlefield, and the enemy commander had to have guessed that the Highlanders’ MechWarrior was the leader responsible for their deceptive rout and fresh resistance.

The massive volley of short-range missiles that came down on his position was not unexpected—the level of overkill was almost a compliment if you looked at it the right way—but the simultaneous disabling hits to the Koshi’s left leg, right shoulder, and torso were more at once than the ’Mech’s internal stabilizing systems could take. The cockpit instruments blinked and faded, the footpedals and pressure controls ceased responding, and the Koshi’s entire massive body swayed and fell.

The command couch took the greater part of the impact, leaving Griffin mostly unhurt, though he would have bruises later and perhaps a broken bone or two—if he lived long enough to count them, he thought, struggling with the couch straps. The cockpit displays were all either down or wavering erratically, but what he could see of the field outside with his own eyes didn’t look promising.

Missiles hadn’t been good enough for the enemy commander, when it came time to take out the Koshi. The Wolves had sent in a follow-up crew of Elemental infantry to make certain the MechWarrior inside didn’t get out alive.

Griffin reached for the slug pistol he kept in the Koshi’s cockpit for occasions such as this. He couldn’t do much damage with it, not to genetically enhanced warriors in powered armor, but at least he could go down fighting.

Then the bright beam of a laser cut across his field of vision, and he heard, dimly through the Koshi’s metal hull, the ripping noise of machine gun fire and the crunching sound of a long-range missile impact. The Elementals scattered and backed off, and a moment later Griffin heard the sound of hammering on the Koshi’s cockpit hatch.

“Colonel Griffin, sir!” a voice was shouting. “Lieutenant Jones says to get your ass out of there and into his Joust before the gorillas pull together and come back to try again!”

Griffin checked the cockpit chronometer—amazingly enough, it still ran. Fifteen minutes left, he thought; close enough. We’ve done it.

The infantry had held the line.

PART FIVE

The Battle for Tara

Northwind, Early Summer 3133

44

The plains north of Tara

Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

Rain had been spitting down in a desultory fashion ever since the middle of the morning; now the clouds were growing thicker and the wind was picking up. Will Elliot, along with Jock Gordon and Lexa McIntosh, paused by the side of the road to take a breath before moving on.

Will hadn’t slept in a day and a half now—and the half day most recent had been full of fire and speed, shooting and running, hitching rides along with Jock and Lexa on any vehicle they could find after the scout car assigned to the three-person team developed too much yaw from a near miss. The Highlanders’ holding action at the mouth of Red Ledge Pass had turned into a long retreat, a retreat prevented from becoming a rout only by Colonel Griffin’s solid example and careful orders. At one point a rumor had flown through the Highlander ranks that Griffin’s ’Mech was down and the Colonel was dead, but the sound of his voice giving orders over the command circuit soon put that idea to rest.

“When do you think it’ll be over?” Lexa asked wearily. She was leaning against a boulder and working the tangles out of her dark hair with a pocket comb. What she hoped to accomplish that way Will couldn’t imagine, since she was as covered with sweat and ground-in dirt as her two comrades, but since it seemed to make her feel better he forbore to comment.

“It’ll stop when we’re dead or they are,” he told her instead. He checked the power pack in his Gauss rifle. Close to redline—and he only had one more replacement in the cargo pocket of his fatigues. “Damn—where’s Central Supply when you really need them?”

“They got lost, same as everyone else,” Jock said.

“I’m not lost,” Will said. “Tara’s up ahead a day or so, depending on how fast we run. Closer, if we get a ride.”

“There’s no safety if we run.”

“If you wanted safety,” Will said, “you should have stayed home on the farm. Let’s see if the Sergeant has any orders for us. If he doesn’t, maybe we can make our own fun.”