“Yes, sir! But what about pilots? We don’t have nearly enough.”

“Canvass your men. Find anyone who’s ever sat in a ’Mech of any kind, BattleMech, IndustrialMech—even if they have some simulator time, I don’t care. Tell them, if they ever wanted to be a MechWarrior, here’s their chance.”

“Yes, sir!”

Sortek seemed genuinely excited. Erik hoped the feeling would spread to the troops. Certainly, it was the first good news in quite a while.

“And Commander.”

“Yes, Justin?”

“I think you just channeled some of that light for us, sir.”

For the first time in weeks, Erik smiled the smile of a truly happy man.

18

Fort Ravensglade

Ravensglade continent, St. Andre

Prefecture V, The Republic

23 December 3134

Erik looked at the paper, reading it for perhaps the tenth time, still confused. He looked around the command blockhouse, a nest of computers, cables, and makeshift communications gear. Several dozen staffers circulated around the nerve center of their operation, manning various workstations, monitoring communications, or tracking reported Liao troop movements.

Lieutenant Clayhatchee looked up at him from the watch desk.

“How did this come in again?” asked Eric.

“A civilian courier brought it up through the west tunnel from Port Archangel.”

The stationery was from Port Archangel’s finest hotel, which Erik had heard was none too fine. It was a waterfront place called, imaginatively enough, the Edgewater. The sealed envelope had his name written on the outside, and there was no return address. Written by hand and in large letters, on the single sheet of letterhead tucked inside, were three words: “The Devil’s Punchbowl.” It was signed, simply, “E.”

Erik read it yet again, and sighed.

Clayhatchee looked at him. “Problem, sir?”

“A nagging pain, Lieutenant. Does ‘The Devil’s Punchbowl’ mean anything to you?”

“I think I’ve heard some of the officers mention it. A tavern in Port Archangel some of them used to go to, before the Liao forces landed and the base went on high alert.”

“Where?”

Clayhatchee turned to a woman manning a logistics workstation. “Astrad, where’s The Devil’s Punchbowl?”

“Eleventh and Dock, sir, right on the wharf.”

Erik looked at her. “Close to the Edgewater Hotel?”

“Right next door, sir. It used to be a popular spot for, you know, recreation. Back before—”

“In the good old days—two weeks ago.”

She reddened just a little. “Yes, sir.”

“Clayhatchee, what’s the latest on Liao activity?”

“Still massing on the coast, sir. No sign of an imminent attack.”

“I’m going to need a car.”

“Sir?”

“I’m going into town. Probably no more than an hour or two.”

“Is that wise?”

“Unless there are undetected Liao forces in Port Archangel, I don’t see a problem.” He sighed again. There were times he thought Lieutenant Clayhatchee would have made a good mother hen. “I’ll check with security before I head down.”

As the car left the base, Erik was pleased to see their new IndustrialMechs running close-order drills just outside the base. He noticed that the roofs of nearby structures were covered with off-duty soldiers, watching. The training of their ersatz MechWarriors had become a spectator sport, and a major morale booster. That alone made them worth the trouble.

Of course, he knew that in combat, it would be a different matter. They’d added as much armor as they could to the units—especially around those exposed natural gas tanks. But none of them would last long against ranged weapons, and their own attack capabilities, limited as they were, could be used only in close combat. In a conventional military sense, they were almost useless—though Erik had some ideas…

As the car left the base, he had yet another opportunity to assess their defensive situation. There were no natural breaks in the steep cliffs that a vehicle could use, or even a ’Mech. The only way over the cliffs would be by air, precluded by their defenses, or in a ’Mech equipped with jump jets.

Two tunnels angled down from just outside the base to the foot of the cliffs below. The west tunnel connected the base directly with the wharves; the east, roughly four kilometers away, led to a barge terminal. These tunnels were sized for bringing up heavy construction, mining, and oil-drilling machinery, and were large enough for almost any conventional armor, though too small for BattleMechs. A similar, though smaller tunnel also existed in Boiler Bay, fifteen kilometers to the east.

All of these were heavily guarded by SwordSworn forces, but any attack would logically focus on opening them to the enemy, and on taking out the air defenses, making them vulnerable to an air assault.

Erik found himself shuddering. The intelligence reports indicated they were outnumbered. Liao could leave adequate forces to hold the capital and other mainland strongholds, while mounting an overwhelming attack.

The tunnel curved slightly as it burrowed down through the cliffs to the town below. The car emerged on Dock Street, which served as the town’s main thoroughfare. It was nearly deserted. Many storefronts and homes were boarded up—however both the Edgewater Hotel and The Devil’s Punchbowl appeared to be open for business.

The Edgewater was an ugly, gray, three-story structure that appeared to have been constructed from stacked and interconnected modular units. Exposed piping and ductwork crawled up the sides and twisted at seemingly random angles over the roof.

The Devil’s Punchbowl at least appeared to have been built on-site, and for something like its current use, though it was old and run-down. It was a two-story frame building. Erik thought the paint on the outside was dark green, though it was so streaked and weathered it was hard to be sure. Perhaps, he speculated, it was just a coating of moss. An animated neon sign over the door featured a cartoon demon stirring a cauldron. Jutting from one side of the cauldron was what appeared to be a cocktail umbrella; the other side was garnished with a slice of lime.

He left both car and driver on the street and wandered in. The place was dark—most of the illumination coming from various neon signs, the lights suspended over an eight-pocket pool table, a few spotlights on the back-bar, and the glow of a holovid screen showing a soccer game. The bar had a dozen stools, and half a dozen tables were scattered around the room; all of them were empty. The bartender watched the soccer game, while a lone man in what was probably a merchant marine uniform played alone at the pool table.

The bartender looked up as Erik slid onto a bar stool. He walked over and dumped a basket of whole, salted peanuts on the bar top. “What’ll it be?”

Erik looked at the peanuts, then noticed that the floor around the bar and a few of the tables was liberally scattered with shells. It was that kind of place. “Beer—whatever passes for your best around here.”

The bartender grinned. “Ran out of that almost two weeks ago. Ran out of second best a couple days after that, and third best later that evening. Now I’m down to ‘what I’ve got left’ and peanuts, and not that much of either. Of course, business isn’t exactly booming.”

“I’ll take some of that, then.”

The bartender produced a long-necked, clear bottle filled with amber fluid, which he opened and set down in front of Erik. The only label was the letter “A” on the side of the bottle. He took a sip. It was awful—bitter and acidic. He looked around. “Town looks pretty deserted.”

“The invasion route comes right through here. Folks know that. Town’s been rebuilt four times now. Sometimes, I wonder why we even bother.”