“That is not our intention.”
“But it’s a story that will keep Ken there from dancing from his sign. The Black and Reds really want those farmers.”
“I can well imagine. But if they are not this far—”
“They will be. Not by any road that sends ’em through towns where people can see ’em. Someone’s bound to report ’em. No, they’re traveling the back roads. I can think of a few I’d use.”
“You would show me, quiaff?” Benjork reached for a map.
“White Hair, I don’t know maps. Don’t know the names of most of the roads I been driving since I was knee-high, but I’ll take you there,” he said, climbing into a dilapidated truck that might once have been red. “My Elly died last winter, and my kids are all moved away. If a guy like me can’t do this, nobody can. So you follow me if you can keep up.” And he gunned out of town in a cloud of dust and oil.
It took no orders to get the militia troops moving; they’d heard the man. Their eagerness as they piled into the gun trucks told him they believed every word. Benjork mounted up and led his team at a trot into the red truck’s dust.
The old man raced with wild abandon over gravel roads and dirt tracks that were hardly more than wheel ruts. They passed ranches and homesteads, some looking more abandoned than lived in. The truck bounced over bumps and rocks Benjork feared might be too much for the hovertrucks.
After a while, the Lone Cat wondered if the truck was leading them on a wild chase after nightmares. Then the truck braked to a halt, sliding sideways as it did. The old man was out, gazing at a low butte not much taller than Benjork’s ’Mech.
Benjork raised his ’Mech’s arm to signal his battle team to a halt, then paced off the distance to where the butte ended in a ridge of eroding yellow dirt. With all the rolling terrain around Falkirk, Ben had had a periscope installed in his MiningMech MOD. Now he raised it.
In the next valley a battle raged.
The farmers had abandoned half a dozen trucks in front of a large outcropping of red rocks three kilometers away. They shot from its cover. Behind the rocks, one green and two yellow AgroMechs stood, stained with dust and rocket fragments. Their scythes spun slowly at the ready.
Black and Red infantry were strung out along a dry wash, half a klick to the left, riflemen and rocket launchers keeping up a desultory fire, giving Ben the feeling that this was the middle of a long and not all that successful battle.
In the broken ground between wash and red rocks, a burned-out Black and Red ’Mech MOD lay, still smoking. Its chest was blown in. Benjork guessed the farmers had explosives and knew how to use them. He thought for a moment on how a satchel charge might be delivered and shook his head. Desperate men did desperate things.
Two klicks behind the rifle line towered a dozen ’Mech MODs, some Black and Red, others still Agro green or Industrial gray. Most sported a single machine gun. One had a twenty-millimeter autocannon. Several showed recent damage. Well back from them and out of SRM range, a Black and Red Black Hawk squatted like a toad. It fired a pair of long-range lasers randomly, rarely hitting the rock pile.
Someone had a nice ’Mech they did not know how to use. Used properly, that Black Hawk could take out Benjork’s entire troop. “To you, I will send my best,” he whispered.
Then he studied the terrain. The wash twisted and turned as it made its way around the harder rock outcroppings of the eroded butte. A red-and-yellow streaked pinnacle shot up to his left. That should hide ’Mechs on an approach march. He activated his magscan and breathed a small sigh of relief. All that red in the rocks was iron. The magscan was hosed. Surprise was possible.
Benjork returned to his battle group, dismounted, and faced the old rancher. “I am grateful for your help. You have led me to my battle. You may go now. May you have blessed dreams for your service.”
“I got a rifle in my pickup. Them farmers are just like me. Don’t see how I can come this far and drive away,” the man said. Returning to his rig, he pulled a scoped weapon from its scabbard with easy grace.
“You are welcome within our ranks,” Benjork told him. Among his team, dust covers came off rocket launchers. Machine guns were lovingly checked. Maintenance crews climbed over the gray ’Mech MODs under the watchful eyes of their militia pilots, making last-minute checks on rocket launchers and Gatling guns. He had to remind himself that these were green recruits. Their purposeful strides and hard eyes would do any warrior proud who knew what he faced and ran to meet it.
With rifle fire and the occasional explosion to remind them of what lay ahead, Benjork called his ’Mechs and Lieutenant Hicks’ drivers into a circle. In the red dust Benjork drew a map. “Over that hill are Black and Red infantry and ’Mech MODs. They are led by a Black Hawk that could destroy us all.” He gave them a smile. “So we will ignore it and concentrate our fire on the ’Mech MODs. Hicks, that includes your gun trucks and infantry dismounts. Once I am sure you have the ’Mech MODs under control, Sean and Maud and I will redirect our fire to the Black Hawk. No battle is ever won by being strong everywhere. Today we will win by being strong against their ’Mech MODs first.
“But remember, the Black Hawk’s SRMs are Streaks. If he gets a lock on you, every missile will hit. Never stand still. Never take more than four or five steps without changing direction. You must zigzag if you are to live through today.”
That got solemn nods from everyone.
“Remember that the four rockets you carry have no reloads. Use two of them on my command. The other two are yours to use sparingly. Take care with your thirty-millimeter Gatling gun. Mick and Johnny did their best with the guns and ammo, but do not forget that your caseless ammo will dirty up your guns. If you fire bursts that are too long, the gun will overheat and jam. Wait too long between bursts, and your gun may gum up and jam. Once you start shooting, keep shooting.”
There were resigned smiles at that reminder.
Benjork turned to Sean. Maud stood at his elbow, she of the flashing brown hair and dancing freckles. Maud claimed she’d been driving ’Mechs since she was a child, whenever her pappy would let her. After watching her run the obstacle course Benjork had designed, he would not gainsay her. The MechWarrior remembered now how often Sean and Maud were elbow to elbow and tasted both joy and sorrow as he gave his orders.
“Sean, you and Maud stay close to me. As soon as the ’Mech MODs are suppressed, we hit the Black Hawk. If the Black Hawk attacks aggressively, I may order us to attack it immediately. Are there any questions?” There were none.
“Maintain radio silence until I break it. Hicks, give me ten minutes to get in place. Know that this is how the battle will start. How it ends, only the true dreamer can tell,” he said.
The militia pilots and gun crews went to their posts. Benjork, Sean and Maud grouped at the head of the ’Mech MODs line. Lieutenant Hicks stood in the lead gun truck, eyeing his watch, waiting patiently for the moment to lead the gun trucks forward. The old rancher stood behind him, fondling his rifle, lips moving in prayer.
Gravel crunched under Benjork’s ’Mech as it crossed the dry wash, headed south. He kept an eye on the ridge that separated them from the sound of battle. Sometimes it rose higher, other times it dipped. It never dropped low enough to reveal the ’Mechs he led. He found a rough gully just past where he needed one and led the three lances of ’Mech MODs through its rock-strewn bed.
Most rocks crumbled under the footpads, but one ’Mech came to grief when a rock rolled out from under it; even double gyros could not keep it upright. The following ’Mechs stood in place as that pilot struggled back up, leaning on a bent mining drill. As the ’Mech continued on down the path, it limped visibly.