Le5224 wolf pack, p.2
LE5224 - Wolf Pack, page 2
But the days of games were long over. The Dragoons had fought hard, grinding campaigns, not the least of which was the siege of Luthien. Though the ruling lords of the Great Houses expressed their belief that we were wholly a part of the Inner Sphere, we knew where we stood. We had turned our backs on the warped traditions of the Clans, but we had still not become assimilated into the ways of the Inner Sphere. We were our own breed, standing alone in a hostile sea of stars. Only the planet Outreach was ours, and we would hold it by any means in our power. Sibkos such as my own were proof of our resolve. As we say in our ceremonies, the Dragoons will stand until we all fall.
The guard who met me at the head of the ramp checked my orders before summoning an ensign of the ship's complement. She led me through the maze of corridors to a small cabin, where I dropped off my duffle. There were three other bunks; I was too junior to rate a private cabin. A short ride on a personnel lift brought us to the main deck. Standing amid their transport cocoons were the ship's complement of BattleMechs, their giant shapes casting fantastic shadows. Flickering among the shadows were the lights of the techs working to refit or repair the huge battle machines.
I had hoped to be ushered onto the upper decks, the Wolf's den. Sibko rumor reported the off-limits portions of the Chieftain as a place where instruments of various decadent pleasures existed side by side with the most advanced combat-command technology. My disappointment at being unable to confirm those legends was drowned in a rush of excitement. I would soon come face to face with the Wolf himself.
Grouped around a table in the central open space, Dragoon officers huddled over a tactical briefing table.
In the reflected light of the holotank, the washed-out tone of their flesh lent them an eerie resemblance to ghosts. Jaime Wolf was seated at one end of the table, listening to his commanders talk over some problem.
The ensign nudged me and I was suddenly aware that she was holding out to me the packet containing my orders. I took it from her and she left without a word. With no reason to delay, I approached the table and handed the packet to the Wolf.
He looked up at me, taking the bundle and tossing it onto the table without a glance. His face was familiar, but that made it no less terrifying. This was the man who had held the Dragoons together through nearly fifty years of travail. His strategic sense and tactical genius were legend. Who could stand in his presence and not feel awe?
"Welcome aboard, Brian," Jaime Wolf said. His gray eyes were penetrating, clear and deep as glacial ice. I imagined that he could see into my soul and read it as easily as a datascreen. Not daring to speak, lest I embarrass myself by stammering, I only nodded and shook the offered hand. As I did, something moved in the depths of those clear gray eyes and the Wolf's expression shifted slightly for the briefest moment. Disappointment? Had I failed already? "You'll need to know everyone here if you're on my staff."
He introduced the other officers. They were all heroes, each a veteran of at least twenty years with the Dragoons. At the time, I barely noted them. But to tell the tale fairly, you must know who was there.
Colonel Neil Parella was the only combat commander present. My first impression of him was colored by his somewhat slovenly manner of posture, speech, and dress, but I had heard that life in the field is somewhat more relaxed than in the training cadres. Who was I to criticize? The battle ribbons and the patches of units defeated by his regiment that decorated his combat jacket told the tale of a successful warrior. I had heard rumors he'd had a drinking problem as a junior officer, a flaw that would have been unforgivable in a senior officer. But he had obviously overcome that; he was commander of Gamma Regiment, after all.
Colonel Stanford Blake, a dapper man of advanced middle age, was the head of the so-called Wolfnet, the Dragoons' intelligence operation. He had served in Wolf's Command Lance as intelligence officer until moving up to his current post. Of all of them, Blake alone actually seemed pleased to see me.
The oldest of the four in attendance on the Wolf was Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Chan. I knew from the archives that he had earned even more decorations than Parella, but Chan did not wear them on his uniform. Like Blake, he wore a Mech Warrior's simple undress blues bearing only his rank insignia and the wolf's-head shoulder patch of the Dragoons. He no longer held an active field command, serving instead as Colonel Carmody's second-in-command and head of the BattleMech Operations Command.
It is not rare for Dragoons to wear patches signifying former affiliations, but I was surprised to see an infantryman's patch on the uniform of Major Hanson Brubaker. He was even shorter than the Wolf, a slim ferret of a man, hardly the sort one would expect to be a groundpounder. Then I noticed the Special Recon Group patch and understood. In his current post, Brubaker had moved on to reconnaissance operations of another sort; he was head of the Contract Command, the branch of Wolf's Dragoons that handled negotiations, recruitment, and public relations.
Introductions over, the officers fell back into conversation. The topic was not a tactical operation, as I had thought, but seemed to concern the details of a contract. I had never been very attentive in civil affairs classes, a failing not uncommon among Mech-Warriors. Only now did I feel the lack. Colonel Blake must have noticed my confusion. He leaned over and smiled. A trifle indulgently, I thought, but amicably.
"Kantov's Battalion of Gamma Regiment is up before the Mercenary Review and Bonding Commission for violation of contract."
"Ain't true," Parella objected from the depths of his sullen slump.
"House Marik alleges otherwise," Blake continued. "They have a substantial amount of evidence. The commission's judgement will likely be in favor of House Marik."
"It can't be! They're Dragoons," I blurted out, drawing the attention of the other officers to myself.
"Can and is, tinspawn," Chan said harshly. "Kantov's goons are guilty, and a blind ComStar acolyte could see it. You're out of the sibko now, boy. You'll be seeing a lot of things that can't be, but are. I've always said the metal womb freezes brain cells. You tinspawn are all alike. Why, I remember ..."
"Ease off, Pat." Blake's voice held a note of tiredness, as if Chan's complaints were an old and worn-out story. "The boy's ours. He hasn't had Clan ed-com."
Chan shook his head. "Real world's the only real education."
"Give the kid a break, Pat. You were young once, too." Blake's smile was easy. "He'll learn."
"He'd better learn fast."
I tried to make my voice firm. "I will."
Chan only stared at me, his face expressionless. Long ago his troops had dubbed him Old Stone Face. I wondered if it was age that had made his features so craggy and foreboding or if they had always had such an austere cast.
Brubaker punched my shoulder, rocking me from my rigid stance. "Don't let the old goat get to you, Cameron. He is a fine example of ed-com himself. A line example of its failure, quiaff?"
To my surprise, Chan ignored Brubaker's remarks and turned to Colonel Wolf. "I still say showing up for the trial will be bad for public relations. Let Kantov rot. We don't need to have Jaime pulled into this."
Brubaker snorted. "So you say. You haven't dealt with the public since you took over 'Mech ops. I leave those problems to you, so why not leave the relations problems to me? It is vitally important that Jaime stand before the commission. As leader of the Dragoons, the Colonel is the ultimate commander of the unit in question, a personage required by the commission to attend. This is the first time the Dragoons have been called before the commission for a violation and if the Colonel does not appear, he will give credence to all the rumors that the Dragoons backed the new commission for our own convenience. Our detractors will have ground for their claim that the Dragoons helped set up the commission to protect themselves. Or our commanders."
Chan waved his hand in dismissal. "I've already heard your arguments."
"But you obviously did not listen."
"That's enough, gentlemen. The Dragoons have enough enemies; we don't need to fight among ourselves." The Wolf's voice quieted his subordinates the way a sudden peal of thunder overrides the drumming of a storm's rain. "I would appreciate concrete suggestions on how to deal with this Marik problem. If you haven't anything useful to contribute, you're dismissed."
There were no more outbursts after that. The discussion of the problems inherent in the commission review proceeded in orderly fashion. But the more I heard, the more distressed I became. I had dreamed of following in Founder William's footsteps and serving the Wolf personally. Now it seemed that my first service would come as he and the Dragoons stood trial.
3
The hulks of the shattered BattleMechs lay strewn across the terrain like giant corpses. Foamed titanium-alloy bones glinted from within dark, gaping wounds in their armored shells, and shreds of myomer pseudomuscle hung gray and limp like strands of decaying flesh. Bits of exposed metal stained the 'Mech surfaces with streaks of rust resembling old crusted blood. Wheeling overhead, a raven shape cruised the old carnage.
From his position in the belly of a gutted Thunderbolt, Elson Novacat watched the aerial visitor and grinned. He could have brought it down easily with a shot from his laser, but there was no point. The aircraft's sensors wouldn't be able to detect him among the hulks of the destroyed 'Mechs, and firing on the spotter craft would only give his position away.
The destroyed 'Mechs had belonged to a house Liao strike team that had hit Outreach in some kind of vengeance raid while the combat regiments of Wolf's Dragoons were off defending Luthien during the Clan siege. The Capellans must have thought they would have an easy time against the old men and children the Dragoons left behind, but they had been proven disastrously wrong. The victorious defense forces had stripped the Liao raider 'Mechs of useful equipment and left the shattered hulks to rust in the field. Had the battlefield been in a more public place, it would have served as a warning. But this was "the other side of the mountain," a place where only Dragoons and specially privileged people were allowed to come.
Elson had to admit that the Dragoons had not fallen prey to the profligate tendencies of the Inner Sphere. Even dead, these BattleMechs continued to serve. Training exercises were sometimes held here, with the fallen 'Mechs re-armed to serve as pillboxes. Knowing that, he had searched for any with active weapon systems, finding none. These machines were all impotent hulks. But even as hulks they provided excellent cover, and cover was life for an infantryman, even when he wore an Elemental battle armor suit.
An Elemental's battle suit might look like a 'Mech to a civilian, but only if the civ had no reference for scale. The suit had a bulky, humanoid shape, made bulkier still by the backpack missile launcher. The boxy launch ports thrust up above the dome of the helmet assembly gave the armor its hunched shoulders. The left arm, non-human in proportion, terminated in a three-fingered power claw, while the right hand, when not fitted into a weapon assembly chosen to suit the mission task, had a reinforced glove of more human arrangement. Though similar in appearance to a BattleMech, the three-meter-tall armor suits barely topped the knee of the smallest 'Mech. Elemental suits carried only a single reload for their short-range missile launchers and, once the SRMs were expended, they had only limited anti-'Mech armament. Though offering a trooper the best protection and movement capabilities short of a vehicle or 'Mech, a battle suit could not make him a one-on-one match for even the lightest of 'Mechs. But then, Elementals didn't operate one-on-one against 'Mechs.
When he was sure the spotter was out of range, Elson left his refuge and called his Point together. The other four troopers in the Point called the unit a "squad," but that was because they were spheroids and Dragoon kids. Their archaic nomenclature was only a minor annoyance.
"Think we were spotted?" Jelson asked. He was Point second, a position he held only because of the lack of challengers.
They'd have known.
"Neg," was all Elson said.
"I still think we should be laying for them in the pass with the rest of the platoon." That came from Killie. She was spheroid through and through, even though she had the build of an Elemental—a small one. Though she rarely complained about staying suited, she always questioned everything and was far too free in expressing her own ill-informed opinions.
"But that's where they'll expect us." This from Vomer, the over-eager Dragoon kid.
"So what?" Killie laughed. The sound was harsh over the suit comm. "It's the best defensive terrain around. No clear lines-of-sight beyond fifty meters. Perfect toad terrain."
Toad! If Elson had not been sealed into his suit, he would have spat. Some spheroid 'Mech jock had dubbed Clan Elemental infantry troops "toads" the first time he'd seen them come bounding toward him across a plain. The Clanners had been executing a rapid closing maneuver, using their jump packs for all they were worth. Those Elementals had been moving their suits with precision and grace, and all that free-birth jock could think of was hopping toads. The name had taken hold among the spheroids, even among their own battle-armored infantry. The unity-forsaken fools used the name for themselves. They had no pride.
His anger suddenly seemed pointless. He was among Wolf's Dragoons now. How could he expect better?
The spotter's presence meant the enemy would be arriving soon, too soon for Elson to allow his Point to engage in idle speculation and futile questioning of his commands. He cut off the discussion and dispersed his Point among the hulks, selecting their positions for maximum coverage of what he estimated to be the opposition's most likely route. He returned to the Thunderbolt and climbed atop its torso. Scanning the horizon, he caught a flash of light. He keyed the magnification circuit up to ten-power. Sure enough, a slight dust cloud. He had sent the Point to ground just in time. The enemy was coming.
He slapped an optic-link sensor onto the Thunderbolt's hull and dropped down out of sight, letting the 'Mech's bulk shield him from the scans of the approaching BattleMechs, as it had from the spotter. He kept watch through the optic link.
The enemy was a single lance, all light 'Mechs. The heaviest was a model he had seen recently for the first time, a humanoid 'Mech body with an almost canine silhouette to its head assembly. It took Elson a moment to remember the designation . . . Wolfhound. The others were classic Star League designs, two stilt-legged Locusts and one more humanoid 'Mech, a Wasp. They moved in a diamond formation, with the Wolfhound in the lead and a Locust on each wing. From the Wolfhound's position in the formation and its significantly superior mass, Elson guessed that it must be the lance commander's machine.
The 'Mechs slowed as they approached the old battlefield, cautious of the danger the broken terrain offered. That was wise. A misstep among shifting rubble could throw the machine off balance, perhaps overloading its gyros. A pilot in such a predicament would have to work hard to keep the mighty battle machine from crashing ignominiously to the ground. Such a fall rarely destroyed a 'Mech, but could severely injure a pilot, even if the damage was only to his pride.
Patient as a Nevtonian spiderlion, Elson waited. One by one the BattleMechs entered the old battlefield. They were moving slowly, cautiously. But their concern was only for the terrain—a mistake that would cost them. Elson let them reach what he judged to be the center of the 'Mech graveyard before rising from cover.
He painted the trailing Wasp with his laser, marking his Point's primary target. Triggering the short-range missiles in his suit's backpack, he gave the order to open fire.
The rockets roared from his launcher, rocking him for the microseconds it took the thrust of their engines to force them free of the launcher. Feeling the heat wash over his helmet as the missiles streaked toward their target, he was pleased to see twin smoke trails rising from four other locations almost simultaneously. His whole Point had launched on the target.
Booms followed flashes and smoke blossomed around the Wasp, but before it was obscured in the growing cloud, Elson saw one of his shots impact the head. Though he knew the shot would not penetrate, he relished the knowledge that the 'Mech jock would be hurt. But there was no time for exultation. He needed to be gone before the the Wasp's companions could react.
He concentrated on reaching his second position safely. Dodging to maximize cover from the alerted BattleMechs, he could not see the other members of his Point. The lack of return fire from the enemy 'Mechs encouraged him. The Point must have taken the 'Mech jocks by surprise.
Safe in cover, he risked a look around. His position only allowed him to see one of the other Elementals. Killie. She was flashing him the signal, pumping her arm up and down four times to indicate that all Point members were in position.
He checked on the 'Mechs. The Wasp was down. That was good. Very good. In fact, better than he had dared hope. It meant his Point had a chance at another. The other 'Mechs had halted. No doubt they were working their scanners overtime, trying to find whoever had struck down one of their number. Elson grinned savagely. They would find out soon enough.
The Wolfhound remained stationary, apparently on overwatch, as the two Locusts spread out to search. They gave wide berths to the dead 'Mechs, almost as if they expected one to spring up and throttle them like some revenant from a grave. -
Caution in these circumstances was smart, but the lance commander was not as smart as he thought. Elson was ready for the jock's reaction. Recalling his Point members' assigned positions, he made a quick estimate of how far off they might be. He recorded his new orders, compressing them for transmission before he screeched out a burst to his Point. He had to keep it short to prevent the enemy 'Mech pilots from locating his position.
