"Striker One, this is Three."
"Three, this is One. Go."
"No activity at the Castle. I have the Marauderin clear sight It's still parked on the parade field outside the Repair Bay doors."
"Right, Three. Keep on them."
The Locust'scockpit was so small that he could touch opposite bulkheads with outstretched arms. The viewscreen formed a 180-degree strip across the front of the tiny room, showing the sharply stratified layers of water-deposited sediments in the walls of the channel outside. Most of the deck was taken up by the pilot's seat and the jungle of cables, consoles, exposed circuits, and instrumentation that kept this small walking mountain moving and fighting.
Perhaps the dominant feature of the cockpit was the smell, a sharp, sour tang that seemed to emanate from deck, bulkheads, and seat despite scrubbings and liberal dousings with chemical absorbents. The Locust'son-board logs and equipment installation dates showed that this particular 'Mech was over a century old. The distinctive odors of sweat, fear, and battle fury of 40-some pilots had become as much a part of the cockpit as the armor encasing it. The smell was unpleasant, but already fading from Grayson's awareness.
It was getting warm inside the cockpit. A tiny blower behind Grayson's head struggled with the impossible task of cooling the pressurized space, but before long, it would be unequal to the 'Mech's heat build-up. Grayson had already stripped to briefs and a light tunic of net fabric. Though he was not uncomfortable yet, very soon it would become much worse.
Grayson looked down through electronic eyes at the troops... his troops, he thought. Their TK assault rifles had come from the armory that was now the Lance's HQ (though the proper forms had never been approved by the Militia supply staff). Grayson had only obtained the weapons because he knew that a thousand of those sleek auto-fire weapons had been given to the Militia by Carlyle's Commandos. The men were bundled against the cold in camo-mottled winter combat jackets and gloves unofficially liberated by Sergeant Ramage from the Guard supply depot across from the Palace.
He worked his jaw muscles twice, opening a line.
"Striker Two, this is One. Give me a feed."
"Right, One. Patch in."
An image window unrolled across the viewscreen. On the rim of the wadi above him, a scout poked the sensor end of an optical-fiber remote scanner above the edge of the gully. On the image window, Grayson saw the squat shapes of water and fuel tanks, the crosshatching of a mesh-link fence. In the far distance, the humanoid shape of a Waspmoved through shimmering haze. Hot air was rising from the ferrocrete apron, causing the image to boil.
"That's our target," Grayson said. He opened the channel to Striker Three. "Is the Marauderstill staying put?"
"No alarm, sir. All quiet"
"It won't be for long. Striker Two!" He could see the tac-force strike leader, Sergeant Ramage, touching the microphone at his throat "Yessir!" Move out! Now!"
The small body of troops surged up the slope of the wadi, using ropes that had been set from the rim by the scouts. On schedule and according to plan, Platoon A moved toward the spaceport's outer fence.
Grayson took a deep breath and tasted the sour air of the cramped Locustcockpit. He opened another combat channel. "Striker Four, are you ready?"
"All set here, Lieutenant." Sergeant Larressen was shouting, the electronically-rendered tones of his voice oddly spaced. He must be yelling above the keening of his HVWCs.
"We're ready here. Let 'em know you're there.”
“On our way, sir!"
It had taken a direct appeal to King Jeverid to free up much of the equipment the Lancers needed, including eight battered but serviceable hovercraft weapons carriers, five-man machines like those he had seen and ridden in the battle in Sarghad. Three of them mounted auto cannons, and one a combat laser. Two more carried short-range Skorpiad anti-armor missiles, while the rest carried anti-personnel heavy machine guns. This small armada was no match for the entire enemy 'Mech force. With luck, though, they might knock out one or more of the light 'Mechs in open battle. Grayson had decided that the chance was so slim that the entire convoy would better serve as a decoy force. They were racing across the desert east of the spaceport now, their fans churning up plumes of dust visible for tens of kilometers.
"Lieutenant! This is Striker Two!"
"Go ahead, Two." Grayson paced the Locustalong the gully as he spoke. There was a place farther along where the slope was less steep than the spot where the ground assault force had scrambled up. On his viewscreen, the layered red and ocher strata of the arroyo's wall lurched and tilted as the Locuststrode along its gravel floor.
"There're two... repeat TWO 'Mechs at the port. They're together..."
"Feed me."
The image window opened, and Grayson saw that the Wasphad been joined by a second light 'Mech. It was difficult to see through the churning telephoto view, but the second appeared to be a Stinger.The pair of 20-ton scout 'Mechs were striding rapidly across the apron to the east.
"Striker Four, this is One."
"Go... ahead... One." Larressen must be screaming against the roar of the plenum fans in the weapons carriers' bellies. The transmission carried none of the background noise, but the sergeant's words were paced by the effort of shouting them.
"You've been seen. Two 'Mechs... I say again... two light ‘Mechs headed your way."
"We... copy... One!"
"Striker Two... feed me range figures."
Red numbers sprang into sharp relief across the image window, ticking off range and azimuth readings as the target 'Mechs moved. The two 'Mechs were three kilometers off, moving across Grayson's line-of-sight at an angle that would bring them closer to the Locust'sposition.
Grayson waited, sweltering in the rising heat. If it were this bad now...
He checked the Locust'scontrols one last time. His left hand gripped the con stick that emerged from the left arm of his chair and swung on jointed sliders across his lap. His right fingers closed on a black plastic D-grip on the chair's right arm. Slight movements on the grip moved the Locust'slaser cannon up, down, back and forth, and the red button resting under his thumb triggered it. His indicators showed all systems running hot, combat-ready.
Doubt had begun to plague him as he sat in his too warm cockpit. Attacking one of the two enemy strongholds in broad daylight, with one 'Mech and half-trained men, that had to be a recipe for suicide. Grayson pushed the doubt aside, struggled to ignore it. So much depended on surprise. If they succeeded in winning surprise, the raid should succeed. It WOULD succeed. If not... He pushed doubt aside again, harder this time. The plan will work! It HAS to!
He fished in a webbing pouch at the side of the cockpit chair, and brought out a filmy, blue length of soft cloth. Mara had given it to him the period before they'd left. "I've read how the Knights of Old Earth carried their lady's favors into battle," she'd said.
Mara had handed him a piece of the gown she had worn at the reception. "You could carry this."
Grayson looked at the scrap of material for several seconds, then made his decision. Practicality over romance, he thought. Mara would understand. He used the cloth to wipe away the layer of perspiration that had beaded over his forehead and upper lip.
Watching the readouts on the target 'Mechs, he saw that the range had decreased. A quick consultation with the Locust'son-board computer showed that if the enemy 'Mechs held their course and speed, they would be at their closest point and moving away from Grayson's position just... about... NOW!