A Silence in the Heavens (18 page)

Garbage and more garbage, he thought in frustration. His own eyes were blinded by the night and the clouded sky, and the sensors that should have augmented or replaced them gave back nothing but bad data—all of it rendered contradictory, fragmentary, or garbled by the high concentration of iron ores in the mountains that hemmed them in on all sides.

At least the road leading through Red Ledge Pass was open and clearly marked. All that the tank column had to do was stay on it, and overwhelm all opposition along it, and in time they would reach the far side of the mountains. And after the mountains, the capital.

The tank’s communications rig broke the silence with its wheebling signal. The comms operator listened over the headset, then turned to Darwin.

“It is a general communication, sir.”

“Put it on.”

The operator toggled the switch. A voice crackled. Bad interference, thought Darwin, those damned rocks again.

“Command,” said the crackling voice, “this is Scout Team Delta.”

“Go ahead, Delta.”

“I wish to report that we have made contact with the enemy.”

“Excellent,” Darwin said. “What is their position?”

“Transmitting encoded grid coordinates now, Star Colonel.” There was a pause, filled with a burst of crackles and high-pitched whistling. “There is one unanticipated problem, sir.”

“What is it, Delta?”

“That
Jupiter
’Mech we thought we had finished off, sir? It appears to still be functional. The Highlanders have it holding the pass with infantry support just ahead of us.”

Damn, thought Darwin. Our long-range missiles failed to take it out . . . which means that it waits for us in an entrenched position.

He was careful not to let his expression reflect his chagrin. “You are sure of this?”

“Aff, sir. It discharged its main weapon once while Delta was scouting within several meters of its position. I saw the flash myself.”

“You are coolheaded, Warrior. You did well.”

“Thank you, sir. What do we do now?”

“Hold your position. Do not attack unless ordered. Darwin out.”

He frowned, still thinking. Damn. He most emphatically did not want to take on an entrenched
Jupiter
BattleMech and its infantry support, not in a narrow pass in the dark. Not when all the advantage lay with the defenders.

To the communications officer, he said, “Pass the word to the entire column: Stand down. We will tackle the enemy ’Mech at first light.” He waited while the signal went out, then said, “Open a channel to Galaxy Commander Kerensky.”

Once again the communications rig crackled and wheebled, and he heard the familiar clear ringing tones, only slightly distorted by the transmission. “Galaxy Commander Anastasia Kerensky here.”

“Star Colonel Nicholas Darwin here. We have a report from the advance scouts. The enemy are holding the narrowest part of the pass with a
Jupiter
BattleMech, and—unless otherwise directed—I do not intend to squander personnel and equipment trying to take it out in the dark. If we had moonlight, it might be possible.

But we have clouds tonight, and no moon.”

This time there was a long pause. Darwin could imagine Anastasia Kerensky’s frustrated expression, her restless pacing, while she swallowed the bad news. If she asked him to press the attack, he would do so—she was the Galaxy Commander, and a Kerensky, and what she ordered, the Wolves would do.

Finally, once again, he heard Anastasia’s voice. “Understood, Star Colonel. Stand down for the night.”

39

The Fort

City of Tara, Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

T
he Highlanders’ Combat Information Center lay deep within the hardened bombproof recesses of the Fort.

Ordinary residents of Northwind’s capital city might be frightened out of their sleep by the intermittent flashes and rumblings that came from the direction of the DropPort, where local aerospace defense fighters contended with the Steel Wolves for control of the skies. Down in CIC, however, neither light nor sound could penetrate. Only the flicker of display monitors and the hiss and slide of message printouts falling into receiving trays gave any hint that somewhere outside a battle was raging.

Tara Campbell had been in CIC since before the Steel Wolf DropShips had landed, living on stale sandwiches and mugs of strong sweet tea and listening to the battle reports as they came in. She knew that the figures and the dry summaries didn’t tell it all. Men and women were dying, burning like meteors across the sky above the DropPort; and miles away in Red Ledge Pass, Steel Wolves and Highlanders confronted each other in the dark.

She wished for a moment that she was out there with the troops holding the pass, and that Colonel Griffin had been the one left behind in bombproof safety. She knew from experience that it was much easier to be a junior officer, or even a Colonel, out in the field. Your only worry then was the enemy directly in front of you.

A Prefect, on the other hand, had to worry about everything: the Wolves in the pass, the retrofitted ’Mechs still in the factories, the reserve air cover that had yet to be scraped together from God-knew-where.

The door to the Combat Information Center sighed open, breaking into her exhausted thoughts and admitting Ezekiel Crow. The Paladin was clean-uniformed and freshly shaven. If Tara hadn’t known for a fact that he’d been awake almost as long she had, those minor changes would have done a surprisingly good job of convincing her that he’d shown up alert and well-rested after a full night’s sleep.

Paladins, too, had to worry about everything.

“Countess,” he said, by way of greeting.

Her answering nod was formal and correct, a triumph of training over exhaustion. “Paladin.”

“What’s the status?”

“The Wolves aren’t packing up and going home. But we knew that already.” She mustered enough energy for a smile—the troops, after all, were watching. “The good news is, they seem to have halted for the night.”

Crow came over to join her at the map of Red Ledge Pass displayed on the planning table. The red lights that marked known and conjectured enemy units hadn’t moved in over an hour; she couldn’t remember whether they’d advanced at all while the Paladin had been away from CIC.

Now he studied the map gravely and said, “Rather than trying to force a narrow road in the dark? I’m not sure that I blame them. What they lose in time, they’ll make up for in daylight by being well-rested.”

“You really know how to cheer a woman up, my lord.”

He shook his head regretfully. “Heartening lies aren’t what’s called for at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“Damn. Because I’ve run out of good ones to tell myself.” She gestured at one of the work-stations, currently attended by a young woman in regimental fatigues—Corporal Baker, according to her name tag.

“Meteorology is starting to make unhappy noises about weather patterns to the southeast of here. We could end up fighting in the rain, or worse.”

Crow considered the meteorology screen and the map table, and nodded gravely. “True enough. On the other hand, all that low cloud cover seems likely to discourage attack from the air.”

“Good.” The Clan Wolf aerospace fighters had been yet another factor delaying the combat readiness of the converted Construction- and MiningMechs. Moving the new battle machines out of the factory and into the streets of the city would make them into easy and convenient targets if the Wolves’ air wing wasn’t neutralized first. “Once the skies are safe—”

She fell silent, twisting a strand of her hair around her forefinger as she tried to estimate the point when local air support would have inflicted enough damage on the Wolves that the converted ’Mechs could roll out without taking too many losses. The answer eluded her—the part of her brain that normally handled such calculations with ease was fogged by lack of sleep.

She felt the light touch of a hand on her forearm, and suppressed a start.

Turning her head, she saw that the hand belonged to Ezekiel Crow. The Paladin looked concerned, causing Tara to wonder exactly how much exhaustion she herself betrayed to an outside observer, if the visible signs of it could worry him.

“Prefect,” he said. “A word with you in private?”

Translation, she thought, let’s not disturb the rank and file with this discussion. She nodded and followed Crow out into the empty, dimly lit corridor.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he turned to face her, stopping just inside casual speaking distance—not close enough that a chance passerby might notice and remark on it, but still a change from his usual punctilious formality. This close, she could see the lines of fatigue marking his face, and not even the natural tan of his complexion could hide the dark circles under his eyes.

When he spoke, his voice was blunt but kind.

“Countess, you will be of no use to Northwind tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep tonight.”

“I shouldn’t leave CIC—”

“Let me take over that duty.” He gave her a wry smile. “A Paladin will function as well as a Prefect for reassurance and inspirational purposes, at least for an hour or so.”

The thought of getting some rest was tempting, but she felt obliged to give resistance one more feeble try.

“You need sleep as much as I do.”

“I caught a quick nap in my office earlier—not much, but sufficient. You need to go do the same.”

She was still reluctant, but when she found herself struggling to smother a yawn even as she stood there, she gave in. “All right. But only for a couple of hours. And call me at once if anything changes.”

“Of course,” he said, and stepped back inside CIC.

She didn’t bother going to her quarters in the New Barracks. They were too far away. If she was going to take an hour or so off for sleep, she didn’t want to waste any of it.

Her office—the small temporary office down here in the depths, rather than the personal office in her quarters or the large formal office several levels above her head in the Fort proper—contained a couch, an elderly specimen that might have been intended for the comfort of visitors, but more than likely was meant to be used as she was planning to use it now. She half dropped, half fell onto the cracked green leather cushions, not bothering to loosen her clothing or take off her shoes, and was asleep within seconds.

40

Eastern slopes of the Bloodstone Range

Rockspire Mountains, Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

T
he first light of the rising sun touched the eastern foothills of the Bloodstones with a wash of pink. Colonel Michael Griffin awakened at the change in the light; he’d finally caught an hour or so of sleep along toward dawn, wrapped in a sleeping bag on a cot set up by the foot of his
Koshi
. If the Steel Wolves’ attack came under cover of night, he didn’t intend to waste his time running for the ’Mech in the dark. He hadn’t really expected to be awakened instead by the sky above him paling toward daylight, and the sound of reveille playing over the encampment’s speakers.

“Tea, sir?”

His aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Owain Jones, approached the cot with a steaming mug in either hand. Griffin sat up, accepted one of the mugs, and drank gratefully of the strong, heavily sweetened contents.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“You’re welcome, Colonel.” The early summer mornings at this elevation were chillier than those back at base. Jones—another warm-climate native, like Griffin himself—had his hands wrapped around the mug for warmth as he drank. “So the Wolves didn’t come in the night, after all.”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Now that it’s daylight, they’ll be on the move for sure.”

“For what we are about to receive,” said Jones, “may the Lord make us truly thankful. How do you rate our chances of stopping them?”

“We don’t have to stop them. Just hold them.”

“For how long?”

“Until I tell you it’s been long enough,” Griffin said, and handed back the empty mug.

Lieutenant Jones faded away toward the mess tent, leaving Griffin thoughtful. He had time, he estimated, for catching a quick breakfast and tending to those early-morning personal chores that couldn’t be handled gracefully in the cockpit of a ’Mech. Then he would have to make an address to the troops. He couldn’t say much more to them than he had to Lieutenant Jones, but everyone would expect him to say something, even if they mocked his words later in private. Morale would suffer if he didn’t behave as expected.

After that, there would be nothing to do but climb into the
Koshi
and wait.

Two hours later, he was still waiting. The ’Mech, with its height of eye, gave him a good view of the plain and of the disposition of his forces, a view augmented by the symbolic map display projected in the
Koshi
’s cockpit.

Nothing showed up yet on actual visual, but the map display was already providing useful information. The scouts’ reports on the Wolf armor put their last confirmed location far back down the main road leading through the pass: On the display, the armored column showed up as a series of solid red lines. Their assumed position—dotted red lines showing where the column might currently be, given the known top speed of the reported units—was considerably closer.

Nearer still on the projected maps were the blue lines of Griffin’s own units, a few of them actually visible from the cockpit of his ’Mech. The bulk of them showed up only on the map, either because they occupied positions outside his line of sight or because they were concealed or under cover.

He could have wished for a better mix of units; what he had, while the best that the Countess and the Paladin could spare from organizing the main defenses, was far too light for his taste—mostly infantry, trained but unseasoned in combat. For support, he had self-propelled artillery in the center, missile-launchers on the flanks, and himself, in the
Koshi
.

The range of their weapons was marked out in pale blue on the map display, and their maximum sensor range in blue of an even paler shade. At some point the advancing pale pink of the assumed Steel Wolf formation—a formidable force, even if the scouts’ reports had been exaggerated by a factor of ten—would intersect with the pale blue. The resulting purple areas would show the locations of possible attack.