36

Tyson and Varney ’Mech Factory

Fairfield suburb

Tara

Northwind

February 3134; local winter

The long, low buildings of the Tyson and Varney ’Mech Factory covered several hectares of the ground in the suburb of Fairfield, to the northwest of the city. At the moment, the ’Mech Factory was anchoring the right side of the Northwind Highlanders’ defenses. Sergeant Hugh Brodie lay prone on the frozen ground behind the end of the Mech Assembly building, with just his head around the corner, binoculars pressed to his eyes.

“Movement,” he whispered into his throat mike. “Squad strength, Gauss rifles, full packs. Steel Wolf urban cammie smocks. No vehicle. Moving toward me in open formation.”

“Roger,” whispered an answering voice in his headset. “If they pass the halfway point, call in mortars. Else stand fast and report.”

“Roger, out.”

The sergeant pulled back behind the cover of the wall. “Right, lads,” he said to the fire team that clustered there. “Things may get hot in a bit. Check your gear, check your buddy’s gear. If anyone’s low, now’s the time to reload. Prepare smoke canisters. But don’t fire until I do.”

The fire team members nodded understanding. Sentry and security duty along the interface between Steel Wolves and Highlanders was wearing on the nerves—everybody was tense after a night spent waiting for the heavy fighting to break out, either from a full-scale Steel Wolf assault or from a Highlander counterattack—but these troops were good at what they did. They went through the motions quickly and professionally, with no excess sounds. The sergeant crawled back to his position looking around the corner of the building.

The Wolf troopers were closer, coming up on the midpoint of the long wall. Not a major attack, Brodie thought. Not yet. This looked like just a probe.

“Company, this is Observation Post Five,” the sergeant said over his throat mike. “Twelve in the open. Position alpha. Request mortar support.”

“Roger.”

A thump. A black flower of dirt bloomed along the road that connected the Steel Wolves’ lines with those of the Highlanders.

“Left two, add five, ten rounds, fire for effect,” the sergeant whispered. A moment passed. The approaching squad had vanished, taking cover along the walls and in depressions in the ground. They knew what was coming. Veterans of many campaigns, the Steel Wolves, too, were good at what they did.

The ground where the Steel Wolf infantry had stood earlier erupted in more geysers of dirt and smoke. The sergeant pushed himself to his feet, pointed to one of his troopers, then pointed around the corner.

“Let’s see what we got,” he said.

“’Kay, sarge,” the trooper said, swinging tight around the corner, pressing his body up against the wall.

“Cover him,” Brodie said to the rest of the fire team.

The sun was rising, the day would be cold but fair. The trooper dashed forward, his Gauss rifle at his shoulder, the muzzle swinging to follow his eyes.

He froze. “Armor!” he shouted, and dashed back toward the fire team.

“Smoke!” the sergeant shouted. Four canisters rattled as they were thrown, rolling along the road behind the running man.

“Fire!”

The team’s weapons shot past their comrade into the screening wall of white smoke. They weren’t planning on hitting anything, just on making the enemy keep their heads down and ruining their aim.

The man got back to the corner. “DI Schmitt tank,” he reported to Brodie between gasps for breath. “At least one. Plus dismounts.”

Damn, Sergeant Brodie thought. Maybe this is the big attack, after all.

“Places, people,” he said. “We’re going to hold here as long as we can, but fall back. We can’t hold against a push on our own.” He crawled back to his position observing around the corner. “Company, this is Observation Post Five. Schmitt inbound. Soft targets. Mortar support, free fire, same coordinates.”

“Roger.”

Once again the crump of mortars sounded from down the street. Mortar rounds wouldn’t hurt armor, but would strip away its infantry support and force the tank commander to button up, limiting his vision.

“Walking ladder,” the sergeant said. “Add ten. Fire. Drop five. Fire. Add ten. Fire…”

The mortar rounds made a crawling curtain of smoke and fire as they crawled down the street away from the Highlanders’ position. The concussions of the mortar rounds, even at this range, felt like punches.

“And here he comes.” The Schmitt came through the mask of dirt and flying rubble. It crawled up the street. The tank’s main guns swung slowly from side to side. Then the vehicle stopped, rocked over onto its left side, then righted itself. A column of flame shot from the top hatch. A Highlander antitank gun inside the building to the right had fired through an open doorway directly into the Schmitt’s side armor at point-blank range.

The wall where the artillery piece hid collapsed as it was struck by a short-range pulse of energy. Shortly after, a second Schmitt crawled around the burning wreck of its mate.

“More armor inbound,” the sergeant said over the radio. “They’re taking hits but not turning back. This could be a push.”

“Roger,” the talker back at Company replied. “Stand fast. We’ll try to get some support out your way.”

“Wait, wait,” Brodie said. “We’re going to have to fall back. They’re backed by a ’Mech.”

“Report!”

“One ’Mech. Industrial mod, MiningMech with machine guns and short-range missiles. Jump-jet infantry accompanies. Steel Wolves combat loadout. Can’t tell which unit. Scout car with machine gun for infantry support. Coming this way.”

“Roger, Observation Post Five,” Company said. “Fall back to the workers’ dining hall. Await instructions.”

“Roger, out.” The sergeant crawled back from the corner, then stood and joined his troops. “Okay,” he said, and pointed toward the cafeteria building—perhaps fifty yards away, and still possessing unbroken glass in its many windows. “We’re going there. Now pop smokes, and let’s move.”

37

The Fort

Tara

Northwind

February 3134; local winter

The Combat Information Center at the Fort was a windowless, subterranean room packed with map displays, data and communications consoles, and specialists in uniform. Under everyday circumstances it would have been a quiet, even boring place to stand a watch, but with the Steel Wolves at the DropPort and a major battle clearly in the offing, the CIC was full of intense but orderly activity.

Captain Tara Bishop had been working in the CIC all night, ever since the Countess of Northwind had sent out Paladin Ezekiel Crow to alert the mercenaries and bring them around into position. That had been a long time ago, as time flowed in wartime, and they still had no word. For some time now, Captain Bishop had been mentally reviewing the varieties of disaster that could have overtaken a single warrior—even a warrior in a ’Mech—while passing through territory supposedly still under friendly control. “Supposedly” being the key word; and Bishop knew that if its implications made her feel concerned about the Paladin’s safety, then the Countess of Northwind, under her highly polished diplomatic exterior, must be close to frantic.

The Countess checked her watch. She’d been doing that at roughly five-minute intervals for the past half hour. This time, whatever feelings she was keeping in check behind the Countess-and-Prefect façade finally impelled her to speak. “What’s taking Crow so long? Even if it took him longer than it should have to roust Farrell’s mercenaries out of bed and get them moving, we ought to have heard something from them by now.”