He laughed. “Don’t flatter me with your optimism, Justin.”
“Things don’t look good, Commander.”
They moved past one of the air-defense emplacements that surrounded the base. They were still largely intact, and at least protected the base from easy air attack. There were nine of them, and, in theory, any three could protect the base against anything but the most massive air assault.
They did nothing to protect from an attack by land or sea, however. With so many troops historically garrisoned here, the base depended on conventional forces for ground defense. But the SwordSworn were far short of that strength—the current troops rattling around in the base like peas in a beer keg.
With morale poor, and fuel for their tanks and IndustrialMechs in short supply, they were ill equipped to resist the inevitable invasion, much less mount an offensive against House Liao’s increasingly entrenched forces on Georama.
Erik looked again at the oil wells. They represented an almost unlimited supply of potential fuel, but there were no refineries on Ravensglade. The crude oil was shipped, by pipeline or tanker via nearby Port Archangel, to Georama for processing.
They were passing the corner of the base used by oil companies and miners. It seemed nothing was ever discarded here. Decades worth of old machinery and equipment were scattered around, some of it parked in neat rows, as though ready to be used tomorrow, more discarded in huge scrap heaps, and still more cannibalized for parts until little more than metal skeletons remained.
Erik’s eye was drawn to a row of IndustrialMechs towering above the rest. They were covered with a dark red crust, a mixture of local red dust, crude oil, and ice. But so was the machinery in current use. Appearances could be deceptive.
He trotted toward them. “What are those?”
“Specialized MiningMechs used by the oil companies. The ones with the big claws and the welding torches are PipelineMechs. The others, with the drills and the arms for handling drill pipe, those are DrillingMechs. There aren’t any new pipelines being built right now, and the fields are all well established, so most of them are mothballed.”
“Have you considered appropriating them for combat use?”
“Sure, but they’re IndustrialMechs. Internal combustion engines. If we had a surplus of fuel, they’d be a great addition to our force. But right now, I think we’re better off putting the fuel into the IndustrialMech Mods already in our inventory, and into our tanks and other combat vehicles.”
“I was hoping that the oil company had some fuel store for these things that we could exploit, but they probably haven’t been used in years—maybe decades. No reason the fuel would still be around.”
Erik could almost hear Sortek shaking his head. “We’ve scrounged all the fuel we can off this side of the continent. Some of the outlying mines and distant oil fields may have stockpiles, but they’re too far out to be worth looking at.”
Erik kept his eyes on the old ’Mechs. They were funny-looking, even beyond the specialized arms and tools. He trotted closer, stopped, and magnified his forward view. In several places, the crusty coating had been scraped off at least partially, usually over access covers or hatches. He spotted one on a bulge below and to the side of the cockpit. He spotted the wordFUEL and a fitting of some sort. He zoomed closer. A placard read:NATURAL GAS .
He laughed out loud. “Those oil companies know how to squeeze a C-Bill, Lord bless them!”
“Sir?”
“These ’Mechs are set up to run on the waste gas from the wells! We’re swimming in ’Mech fuel! Get your mechanics out here and see how many of these they can get running. And get some engineers out to the wells to see what we need to do to tap ourselves a gas supply. We may even be able to scavenge enough parts from the dead ones to convert some of our current IndustrialMechs as well.”
“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…