“Two damaged JES carriers and a limping MinerMech Mod.” Reminded of the short but brutal engagement forced on his people the day before, Erik felt a second flush of anger work up and outward from the nape of his neck. His voice remained civil, barely, as he outlined what had happened.
“The Steel Wolves weren’t making a serious push at River’s End. They struck in a pincer movement but with hardly enough forces to penetrate the industrial sector. It was a probe. We made it cost them a Demon, which we captured with no help from the militia I may remind you.”
“Ah can try to provide you with anything you might need in the way of parts and supplies.” Another hard glance at his captain. “We’ve had our own troubles since the spaceport battle.”
“I’ve seen the casualty report,” Erik admitted. “What concerns me more is the number of outright defections.” Erik searched his memory, drawing up numbers provided to him by Michael Eus. “Eight infantrymen, six of them with battlesuits. Also a trio of hoverbikes, two APCs, and a pair of conventional VTOLs, all with crews. And a Destroyer, Colonel? How do you let an SM1 slip through your fingers?”
Blaire sat up straighter, as if his pride had been wounded. “How did you hear about those?”
“More to the point,” Erik leaned forward, “where have they gone?”
Raul whipped at him with an exasperated laugh. “If they did not go over to you, and you have just basically told us they haven’t, then they fled into hiding or went over to Star Colonel Torrent.”
Erik’s assumption as well, and one that had him sleeping less well every night. “If the Steel Wolves have grown so much in strength, then I expect them to attack soon. One final, all-out push for River’s End.” He wrapped himself tight in his noble demeanor, remembering that he now had the full weight of Brion Stempres and the planetary governor behind him. “I must now insist, Colonel, that you stand ready to answer my summons, instantly, once Star Colonel Torrent masses for that advance. I believe Legate Stempres has communicated this to you on more than one occasion in the last few days.”
“Ah’ve talked to Lay–gate Stempres,” Blaire admitted. He tried to sound unconcerned. Failed. “When we’re needed, the militia will be there.”
“Not good enough, Colonel. Instant response. I’ll have your word on that now, if you don’t mind.”
The colonel struggled with it. Erik gave the man that much; he was still enough of a Republic man to not go easily into the Swordsworn embrace. But because of that, as well, he would honor his word. “If you call for us, we’ll come,” he finally granted Erik.
“And I want Raul Ortega dismissed from duty. Now.”
That made the upstart MechWarrior sit up and pay attention, mouth gaping open like a landed fish. Dismissed. In effect, dispossessed. MechWarriors dreaded losing their BattleMechs. It was like telling a hawk that it could no longer fly and hunt. Erik knew first-hand, having lost a ’Mech before, how much it hurt. After the half-dozen slights, insults and setbacks he had faced at Raul Ortega’s hands since first meeting him as a Customs Officer, Erik reveled in imposing the sentence, slapping the man back into place.
Blaire hedged. “Now that may be a bit hasty, Lord Sandoval. To remove one of our only MechWarriors from the order of battle—seems to me that we’re handicapping ourselves.” He searched for an argument. “Neither of us wants the Hyperpulse Generator to fall into Steel Wolf hands, after all.”
“That no longer concerns me, Colonel Blaire. The Steel Wolves will never be allowed possession of the HPG. After consulting with Governor Haider, my forces have been hard at work rigging spoilsport charges on the antennae superstructure as well as throughout the compound. We’ve decided to blow the equipment before surrendering it to Torrent’s marauders.”
Or back to the militia, Erik did not have to say.
For once, Raul Ortega looked speechless. The MechWarrior glanced rapidly between Blaire and Erik, trying to guess which way the colonel would eventually lean. As if the man had any choice.
Blaire slumped in defeat. “Raul, you’re sidelined.” He saw the expected outburst coming, and headed it off with a stronger argument. “Ah should have done it days ago, and you know it. Tassa Kay can take over the Legionnaire until and unless her Ryoken is repaired to adequate function. After that, well, Ah’m certain that Lord Sandoval has ideas for a replacement.”
“Captain Norgales,” Erik said at once. “Legate Stempres’ aide.” He had wanted to claim the Legionnaire outright and invest Norgales in it, but had not figured on Tassa Kay’s Ryoken being so badly damaged.
And since the woman did not have the good graces to die during the assault on the Brightwater facility, Erik would be happy to see her pushed in front of the blades once more.
“Colonel,” Raul began, then hesitated. “Sir, I request assignment to an IndustrialMech conversion. I can still pilot.”
“We have men who are better trained for those machines, Raul, and you know it. You’ll have to wait for another BattleMech. I think you know what those chances are.”
Another BattleMech arriving on Achernar, with or without a pilot? Erik counted the odds somewhere past the chances of the sun not rising tomorrow. He stood. “I’m so glad to see that we are at an accord, Colonel. With the militia’s help, we’ll keep Achernar free of Kal Radick’s clutches yet.” He nodded a dismissal to the militia commander. “Colonel Blaire.”
To Raul he smiled thinly. “Agent Ortega,” he said in leaving, reducing Raul in rank to his original position as a Customs Officer. Raul’s surprised start told him the arrow had gone deep, as Erik had intended.
Everything, he decided, was going to go as he intended. Now, with the militia. Soon, with Star Colonel Torrent. And, eventually, with the position and honors his uncle would bestow on him. Erik was not about to let anything stand in his way.
Especially Raul Ortega.
23
Final Decisions
Steel Wolf DropShip Lupus
Achernar
17 March 3133
The tactical planning room of the DropShip Lupus was an outboard space, strangely shaped as it nestled up against the Overlord’s curved hull. Rather like a trapezoid, with a concave, sloping base. Utilities covered one of the inside bulkheads, caught between decks in a frozen cascade of pipes, electrical conduit and wave guides. The other held a large, darkened monitor and a computer terminal. The trapezoid’s top had been punched through with one vent for warm, sterilized air, one for recirc, and the only door in or out.
Star Colonel Torrent was always the last to arrive. He stepped through the door at precisely eight a.m. local time, shut and locked the door behind him. Any officer who did not deign to be present found themselves not only shut out of the room, but would be fighting—literally—for their job before the afternoon was over.
A crescent-shaped metal table stood bolted into the center of the room with a curved bench around the outside and a single, swiveling seat positioned on the crescent’s inside. A small holographic emitter rose up in the table’s center, currently displaying a three-dimensional model of the local HPG station. Torrent took a roll call by eye, then stood over the empty seat with large hands resting on its high back.
“Today,” he asked the trio of senior officers, “or tomorrow?”