"You can't," Varney had said. "You're the whole reason for this Lance! Without your specialized knowledge of 'Mechs and 'Mech tactics.
"Lori Kalmar has precisely the same knowledge," he'd said. That was not entirely true, for she'd not had Kai Griffith to train her in small unit tactics, but this wasn't the moment to quibble. "She can carry on if I don't come back."
"No woman is going to lead this unit, Grayson. Especially not an offworlder!"
Varney had continued to protest, but in the end, Grayson simply insisted on going, and that was that They would have gotten no work from him locked into a District HQ cell, and nothing short of that would keep him from leading his team. He reasoned that his training suited him for the mission, while troops would respond with an extra measure of effort if their CQ was in the fight with them.
Thanks to Griffith, Grayson was an expert in commando tactics, but the men in his command were still green. As recently as four standard-day weeks ago, most of the soldiers on the team could not properly use camouflage, could not sneak-stalk an enemy sentry, could not even load and fire an automatic weapon in anything less than five seconds. Grayson had been training in small unit tactics and techniques when he was fifteen, and training under the sharp eye and sharper tongue of Sergeant Griffith. He'd balanced the risk of letting them proceed with the mission on their own with the risk that he would be killed, then decided the gamble was worth it The chance of success would be increased by his presence, his direction, and the steadying influence of knowing the CQ was watching.
Grayson's training had included a wide variety of weapons, martial arts training that blended several very old and effective fighting traditions, as well as training in moving swiftly, silently, and with precise navigation. He was sure of his skills, even glad of the opportunity to exercise them again. Why, then, was he terrified?
He licked his lips, and the pain of the cold on wetted lips steadied him. He had been scared in the firefight in the Castle, but numbed almost into insensibility by his father's death. He had been frightened during the street battle when he'd dueled with the Wasp,when he'd stalked and confronted the Locust,but he'd been sustained by the hunger for revenge. The desire had dulled, become lost in the piles of administrative details that needed Grayson's attention. He had been afraid during the one-against-one 'Mech battle, but real 'Mech combat was so like simulator combat that, except for the heat, it had been easy to lose himself and his fear in the dance of the giant machines.
But now Grayson Death Carlyle lay on frozen ground outside the gaping maw of the Castle, and trembled inwardly. The other operations had all been more or less forced on him by the needs of the moment. This mission had been ordered by the high command, and he was not yet convinced that it was a necessary one. Worse was the fact that he was leading 50 men against a fortress designed to repulse a battle force of laser turret-armed DropShips and a regiment of heavy Mechs.
That a force similar in size to his Lancers had taken the Castle before was no comfort. That attack had come as a complete surprise and had been aided by a traitor within the Castle walls. Grayson had no traitor to assist him, nor could he be sure that the enemy did not expect him.
There was something else, too, something nagging at the back of his mind. He had been worried about how they would enter the Castle. Formerly, the doors had responded to his palm print, but the Castle's new occupants must have changed the computer security ID system by now. At best, doors would admit him, while triggering an alarm on the screens in Central Security. They had brought explosives to breach a door, if necessary.
Strangely enough, the Repair Bay doors stood wide open, shimmering as the castle's inner heat spilled into the cold air outside. It was almost too easy; a volley of fire to cut down the pair of sentries just inside the door track, a sudden rush, and they would have their target. Grayson could make but the form of the Shadow Hawklying flat on the work pedestal below the tangled webwork of the repair Bay gantry.
Maybe that was what the worry was. It looked too easy. Griffith had always warned him to expect the unexpected, to be convinced that danger usually existed where one least expected it. What hidden danger might be gnawing at his awareness here? There was always the danger of betrayal, of course. The attack on the Castle had burned that lesson into his very being. Still, the only ones who knew of the present attack were those at the highest levels of the Defense Ministry, and they were united in the need for a Lancers victory. He thought momentarily of Stefan, of other bandit agents among his own men, but then dismissed the idea. That Stefan had been the one to attempt Grayson's death suggested that there were very few such agents in the city. No, most of the spies among his ranks belonged to the Guard or to the Militia.
He pulled out a fist-sized transceiver, lengthened the antennae, and scratched the transmitter three times, click pause clickclick. He waited, straining to hear above the wind. The answer came, click pause, click, pause clickclick. Had he heard a rapid flurry of clicks, it would have meant that the Marauderwas no longer under Sergeant Larressen's observation as it patrolled the perimeter of the spaceport, but was on its way up the road to the Castle. The signal received indicated that the Marauderwas still where he'd watched it ten hours before. There was no way it could reach the Castle in less than ten minutes. That gave Grayson plenty of time.
A short-ranged tactical receiver in his left ear scratched out another code, clickclick clickclick, clickclick. That was Ramage, in position up ahead, reporting that the way was clear, with no sign of traps, hidden troops, or unexpected weapon emplacements. Listening to the signal, Grayson idly watched the silhouette of a heavy-coated sentry shrug and slap himself, as though trying to get warm.
The enemy might decide to close the Repair Bay doors any moment, and so the Lancers had to move now.Grayson pulled his weapon around on its strap into position in front of his chest. It was a Rugan submachine gun that fired large, slow rounds at 1000 rounds per minute from a blackened magazine protruding far below the handgrip. The weapon was of local manufacture, and not as trustworthy as the Commonwealth weapons Carlyle's Commandos had carried. Long hours on a firing range behind the armory had convinced him that it would be a serviceable general weapon for a sneak raid. Grayson remembered to set the selector for three-round bursts. The Rugan packed 80 caseless rounds into that long magazine, but those would be gone in five seconds on full auto.
According to the plan, it was Grayson's shots that would signal the attack. That left it in his hands whether to go ahead with the operation or not. An abort would be signalled over the tacradios each man wore. An attack would be launched by the death of the two sentries.
He took a moment to slow his breathing, to swallow the dryness in his throat, to blink the sting of the wind and the fear from, his eyes. He didn't care about the victory the Sarghadian government needed. This would be another strike against the people who had killed his father, slaughtered his friends, betrayed a trust. He brought the bulky, suppressor-muffled snout of the Rugan to the point, sighted, and tightened his finger on the trigger.