“Uh, sir, you probably can’t see it,” the XO reported from the vantage point of the van on the south bluff, “but there are about a dozen pickup trucks beating it for the hills fast.”

“Can you put fire on them?”

“Wait one,” the XO said, and was back well before the full minute was up. “No, sir, First Platoon’s tanks are out of position, and the ’Mechs were either heading down the riverbank or for the bridge. The land over there is full of folds, and we can’t get any good shots as they duck in and out of ’em.”

“So what else is new?” Yonni said, biting back worse comments he didn’t want on the radio. “I’m all right. ’Mech’s only slightly damaged. Call Battalion for the repair truck and try not to say what it’s for.” The cheap client had budgeted the companies for only one maintenance van each. That wouldn’t help his Legionnaire. “Also advise Battalion that we will need a bridging unit here, five spans’ worth.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thirty minutes later, First Platoon was across the river. Third was following them, and the HQ van waded to a stop beside Yonni. Climbing down his ’Mech to join the XO on the roof of the van he asked, “What’s the situation?”

“B Company should be here in two hours. I’ve assigned Fourth Platoon to guard the ford until they get here. We are ready to exploit forward.”

“Did the major have any luck in front of Amarillo?”

“Doesn’t appear so, sir. Snipers made the advance tough sledding. We have the only troops across, sir.”

“So let’s get busy exploiting,” Yonni ordered.

Outside Amarillo, Alkalurops

25 August 3134

“They are exploiting forward, sir,” the XO said.

“Now they are,” L. J. pointed out.

“That’s what they said, sir.” Art worked his jaw. If he wasn’t careful, he’d need caps before he made Major. The Colonel did not like paying high dental bills and did not trust worriers. L. J. made sure his jaw was loose.

“Art, why don’t you take your Arbalest and get yourself over to A Company—make sure its reports are accurate when they’re made, not an hour later. And find out what their casualties are. They’ve made two requests for the repair rig, but I still don’t have any damage report.”

“Yes, sir,” Art said, a big grin taking over his face. Getting free of the HQ in his BattleMech was great. Commanding the battalion’s spearhead wouldn’t look half bad on his next contract’s résumé.

L. J. turned back to his map table. So Grace’s right had turned out to be a bit tougher to crack than had first appeared. Still it was cracked, and as best as L. J. could tell, even the ’Mechs were just shooting and bugging out. If the opposition had any maneuverability, Grace should have counterattacked at that river crossing. Hell, if there was anything really in front of him, it should have attacked him when they saw one company head east, and before the other company got in from the west.

So, Grace, all I have to do is peel you. Wonder what that creamy white skin will look like when I have you down to the buff? L. J. glanced at the west side of his map. The Black and Reds still hadn’t made contact with his lone platoon covering his left flank. L. J. frowned. They were overdue. As much as he really didn’t want them, by later this afternoon he would have to go hunting for them.

Along the Colorado River, Alkalurops

25 August 3134

Jonathan Fetterman, Field Marshal of Special Police, wondered what the holdup was this time. Santorini, er, the Leader had told him it would be easy to get three hundred Special Police up to Amarillo and start cleaning out that nest of dumb-ass farmers who didn’t have the smarts to see which way the wind was blowing. “Send me a lot of pics of full lamp poles,” Santorini had told Fetterman before sending him off.

Well, moving a bunch of commandeered trucks and sixteen ’Mechs in various states of conversion was no picnic—no, sir, it wasn’t. Fetterman scowled at the Atlas under him. Buying it on time had really impressed Santorini back on Nusakan. He’d made him a Field Marshal in a snap, or rather in a snap after Jon had helped another dozen guys buy up every available ’Mech. Like him, they bought on time, mortgaging stuff they really didn’t own and wouldn’t need if things turned out as well as they looked here. Jon grinned, remembering that he’d already tossed his payment book in the trash can. Let old man Benton try to repossess a Field Marshal’s ’Mech on Alkalurops when he’s sitting at the right hand of the Leader. Fetterman enjoyed a laugh, which got his whole body moving. He’d forgotten his hands were on the joysticks. His laugh got the laser-equipped arm of his ’Mech moving. In the truck ahead of him, people pointed and acted as if they were really scared.

He’d never gotten that reaction selling siding on Nusakan. He could have used a bit of that fear-mongering when he was foreclosing on scumbags who didn’t pay, claiming it was his fault for selling bad siding. It had cost him a fortune to keep judges around who believed in enforcing contracts.

“Field Marshal Fetterman, are you having problems with your ’Mech, sir?” Colonel Brisko called over the radio.

“No, I am not, Colonel. What I am is hot in here with the sun beating down. Do we have to travel in the heat of the day? Isn’t it time for a break yet?”

“No, sir, we’re due in Amarillo before sunset. Between potholes and breakdowns, we have to keep moving when we can. This is why I suggested you not wear your uniform, sir. Having it between you and your cooling vest is heating you up, sir.”

“Hasn’t anyone told you that clothes make the man? I am not going to show up in Amarillo half-naked. What’s holding us up?”

“Sir, the lead truck has a flat. It’s off to the side now, being fixed. Had to assign a new lead truck.”

“Well, tell them to hurry up.”

“I will, sir. Remember what I told you about moving those arms.” Brisko started into what Fetterman knew would be another lecture on how to shoot the damn thing.

“I remember how to work it, Brisko. You just keep the trucks moving,” Fetterman snapped. After all, he was the Field Marshal. Three months ago Brisko had been a cashiered merc who couldn’t handle his whiskey. I pulled you out of a homeless shelter. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be singing hymns for your supper.

Fetterman glanced down at his cockpit. Damn, the yellow tabs he’d stuck on things so he could remember what was what and how to work it had come off. He reached down to collect them off the floor and found he’d accidentally bent his ’Mech at the waist almost to the ground and dumped the tabs in a heap on the controls. He’d get them straight later. There was a manual he kept meaning to read. Maybe tonight. Well, not tonight if the hotel had three hotties like last night’s.

Fetterman concentrated on walking. Brisko was right. If you worked the pedals just right, you could miss most of the potholes.

Benjork Lone Cat wondered what he had done to deserve such a fate. The trap was laid, and then the lead truck went lame and limped to the side of the road. Now the convoy was moving again, apparently none the wiser, but six men were standing around that truck while three struggled to change the tire. Already they had all pissed. They had drunk water. Some were now passing around a bottle. How long before even blind men spotted that they were in the very epicenter of a trap?

Through the crack of the door, the MechWarrior eyed the terrain, which had decreed where to spring the trap. Here water cut a narrow passage through a tight canyon, less than a hundred meters wide, with walls of aged and worn rock almost ten meters high. All morning, troops had labored with pickaxes and shovels to dig rifle pits close to the road. Behind two parked dump trucks in a road-maintenance yard, a metal garage gave cover to a dozen gray ’Mech MODs not sixty meters from the road.