BattleTech, page 19
Kirkland helped her into the back seat of the cruiser, then took the front passenger seat and signaled the officer to drive. Within a few moments, the cruiser left Torrian in the garage and pulled out onto the busy streets of Atreus City.
No one spoke, not even the driver.
From the back seat of the cruiser, she again watched Kirkland for any sign of his intentions, but only a professional impassivity lived in those features. Her primary ally in this fight had turned on her.
* * *
TARTARUS FEDERAL PENITENTIARY
ATREUS CITY, ATREUS
FREE WORLDS LEAGUE
22 MARCH 3148
The cell Kirkland and the prison guards escorted Nikol to did not feel like a true prison cell. She expected steel bars, a threadbare pallet, a bare-metal toilet bolted to the wall. Instead, it boasted a solid, magnetically locked door, a thick mattress on a metal bedframe, and a private bathroom area at the back. The “VIP suite,” one of the guards had called it.
Torrian Dolcat was waiting for them outside the cell. “Thank you, officer,” he said to the guard who opened the cell door. “We need a moment alone with the prisoner. You are dismissed until we call for you.”
The guard took his leave, and not until the heavy metal door closed with a resounding clank did the reality of this situation, of where she was, strike home. Her fury arose anew, and Nikol clamped it down yet again.
But Kirkland’s stoicism finally broke, revealing the weariness in his eyes as he released Nikol’s handcuffs. “I’m sorry about all of this, Your Grace. But this is a delicate situation. I have evidence that implicates you in a conspiracy against your mother. On one hand, it is pretty damning. On the other hand, it seems too good to be true.”
Torrian nodded. “Our working theory is we believe that you are being framed in an attempt to obfuscate the true culprit’s tracks.”
Suddenly, Nikol’s limbs and head seemed less leaden than before. “The true culprit. Do you still suspect Carsten Valentini’s involvement?”
Kirkland nodded. “It’s clear he was either working for someone, or his involvement was coerced. What we do not know is who his partner was, or who he worked for. The evidence we found points to Valentini working at your behest.”
Nikol held her head in her hands for a moment. Whoever had wanted her mother dead had clearly covered all of their bases. “Where did you find this alleged evidence?”
“According to Agent Jiangshi, it was located among items collected from your office at Halas Manor. And—” Kirkland swallowed audibly. “It checks out. Every test run on it verified its legitimacy.”
“But you found it in my old office. A full admission of conspiracy to murder my own mother.”
“Like I said, it’s perfect. Too perfect. I believe whoever planted it wanted it to be found.”
Nikol nodded. “So, you believe I am innocent. Then was all of this…theater truly necessary?”
“That was my suggestion,” Torrian said. “The assassination attempt targeted you as well, which means your life may still be in danger. Holding you here in this facility makes any future assassination attempts all that much harder to accomplish. And if whoever organized the assassination sees you arrested—especially if they fabricated your implication—they will revel in their victory. They will grow complacent, and possibly drop their cover or make it easier for us to track them down.”
Nikol nodded. “Hence the handcuffs, the police cruiser, this cell. You had to ensure taking me into custody was believable.”
Torrian averted his eyes for a single heartbeat. “I hate to even suggest this, but there is a not-insignificant possibility that you were involved in your mother’s death. Her removal gave you the highest office in this nation, and history is rife with Captains-General who eliminated their political rivals via one means or another.”
The SAFE director forced a melancholy smile, one that filled Nikol’s stomach with a sense of dread. “Your arrest feels real because, for now, it is real. We must follow the evidence, even if it leads us to a place we do not wish to go.”
29
EN ROUTE TO EARTHWERKS-FWL INDUSTRIPLEX
TIBER
REGULAN FIEFS
22 MARCH 3148
“Max, we’ve got incoming!”
Those were the last words Captain Luciano Maximov of the First Orloff Grenadiers ever heard Sergeant Fellows utter.
Free Worlds League soldiers who had earned induction into the Order of the Saber generally didn’t flinch at incoming flights of missiles, but witnessing the Hunchback of his company’s striker lance disappear under a withering cloud of long-range-missile explosions sent a chill rippling down Maximov’s spine. The second wave of incoming Regulan fire left so many contrails above that the exhaust resembled cirrus clouds, a plowed field in the sky just waiting to be sown. With that many missiles in flight, Maximov knew none of his MechWarriors were going to walk out of this unscathed.
On one hand, this level of resistance confirmed regiment command’s concern that this would not be an easy fight. In previous engagements, the Regulan Hussars had given as much as they had received but had also slowly pulled back, contracting their front until the only ground the Regulans controlled centered around the massive EarthWerks-FWL industriplex, the most important military target in the system. The enemy had then gone into castle-defense mode in hopes of repelling the Orloff Grenadiers’ invasion force and waiting on reinforcements; an understandable tactic, given the planet’s importance to the Regulan Fiefs. And that importance was why Colonel Jackson, had tasked Maximov’s battalion with breaching the castle wall.
On the other hand, making a big enough hole for the Grenadiers to exploit meant Maximov’s company was the forlorn hope of this engagement: right at the forefront of that command decision, and paying the price in blood for each meter gained.
Such a push toward a heavily defended objective demanded casualties, but nothing could have prepared Maximov for just how many losses his Grenadiers would suffer. The Regulans were fighting as though losing this battle alone would cost them the entire war. And maybe it would, for that matter, seeing as how a similar FWLM assault was taking place on the nearby Regulan system of Avior.
Breaking a castle defense was difficult enough, but the Regulans had already launched so much ordnance Maximov was beginning to believe they were taking ammunition right off the assembly line and loading it directly into their magazines, assuring a nigh-unlimited supply. The EarthWerks-FWL plant wasn’t even designed to mass-produce munitions, but the fantasy explained the amount of sheer destructive firepower that had reduced Sergeant Fellows’ Hunchback into an unrecognizable collection of spare parts and scrap metal.
With every heavy footfall of his 75-ton Orion at full throttle, Maximov reminded himself that failing to secure the industriplex in the first charge would not doom the war effort. This was a battle the FWLM could afford to lose. If the Grenadiers were forced to fall back and regroup, even if they had to retreat off-world, they could still accomplish their mission, but he could not fall back until the retreat order was given.
Maximov braced for the incoming salvo this time, closed his eyes to shut out the brilliant blaze of blooming, fiery eruptions despite the polarization in his forward view. Warheads detonated on his front armor and impacted the hard-packed dirt only a few dozen meters ahead of his path of advance. Armor plating groaned and cracked. Clouds of dirt rocketed up from the ground. His whole ’Mech shook as he fought the controls and used his own sense of balance to keep the ’Mech upright. His jaw clenched as he growled his way back to enough equilibrium to press on.
He had to keep going, keep pushing his company onward into the enemy’s flank. He had to keep himself and his troops alive for as long as possible, long enough for the rest of the battalion to breach the defenses.
But there was still a ways to go, and the continued missile barrages had forced his troops to spread out to create fewer targets.
“Gridiron Three,” he sent on his lance channel, “this is Three-One. Sitrep.”
“Two here,” Sergeant Cole replied first. “Engaging a trio of Cavalry helos, probably spotters for the long-range missiles.”
“Three, sir,” Sergeant Jimenez said. “Engaging same three helos…” Smoke obscured a distant orange blast in the sky. “Ah, never mind. Scratch one helo!”
“Four, here,” Lieutenant Matthews reported. “Am still oscar mike, but actuator damage is worse than I thought. Won’t win any footraces anytime soon. Don’t wait up.” Radar showed his Hercules was limping along about a klick back from the others, having taken serious damage in the first missile salvo.
Off to his right, through the misty haze of exploded-missile smoke, Maximov spotted a handful of light-blue-and-steel ’Mechs charging up the hillside on a nearly parallel course to his own maneuver. A Star of Sea Foxes from Alpha Aimag, all of whom bore the pitted, fire-blackened signs of missile barrages across their armor.
He’d seen the quintet on his radar, had known they were out there fighting alongside his company, but he’d done his best to forget they even existed on this battlefield. Not only were the Clanners on a different part of the command chain than the rest of the FWLM, but Maximov just did not like them. During joint planning sessions, they’d either lorded over the others or stood back in silence, and he could not tell what motivated their Clan’s involvement.
Plus, they were Clanners. They had no right being involved in the League’s military affairs, let alone the nation’s political affairs, regardless of whether the Captain-General’s elder sister consorted with the Spirit Cats. Sure, every warrior from the Clan Protectorate was vicious in a fight—what Clanner wasn’t?—but the League needed to take care of its own, not adopt every single goddamned orphan that showed up on Parliament’s doorstep, shaking an empty tin cup.
A third flight of missiles struck down one of the Sea Fox Tiburons as though it were a plastic toy bludgeoned with a claw hammer. Maximov saw the broken, 35-ton war machine twitch on the ground, struggling to get back up despite the smoke and showers of sparks. From beyond the pall of smoke, a Regulan PPC bolt stabbed out to put an end to the poor bastard’s misery, and the Tiburon fell silent.
Against that wall of firepower from the factory defenses, Maximov was glad to have the Clanners on his side, but only because they meant extra guns, extra targets. A higher survivability factor for his own troops, even though they were all technically on the same side. A century’s worth of Clan aggression against the powers of the Inner Sphere made it easy to forget that the warriors of the Clan Protectorate—the Sea Foxes, Spirit Cats, and what little remained of Clan Nova Cat—all fought for the same nationalistic ideals he did.
But would they get in his way? Or would they stand back and let him die out of their misguided sense of honor? You drew the first hit from the enemy, so the honor of single combat is yours, he could envision one of them saying to him as they backed off instead of helping.
He could see another member of the Star now, hovering just at the edge of the battle, a second Tiburon fidgeting from side to side like a boxer looking for the perfect opportunity to deliver a right cross. The Star Commander, unless Maximov missed his guess. Were they going to interfere with his own company’s maneuver? He didn’t have to like the Clanners, but accidental friendly fire was a real concern.
He keyed up his comm and shot the Tiburon a direct line. “This is Gridiron Three-One, en route to rally point Theta. Check your lanes of fire—”
Another PPC lance shot out through the haze to tear up a patch of grass on the incline leading toward the factory. The PPC’s Regulan owner still lingered out of visual range, but Maximov’s targeting system marked it as a possible Neanderthal due to its mass and distinctive shape.
“This is Star Commander Shane,” came the terse reply.
Maximov grimaced. Bastard didn’t even bother with call signs.
“Stand back, Captain,” said Shane. “This is our fight.” The Tiburon gestured an arm toward its destroyed twin. “Vengeance for our fallen belongs to us.”
Better them than us, Maximov thought. “Understood, Star Commander. We are advancing west toward our objective. Advise maintaining your present course. Gridiron out.”
Maximov clicked off of the channel before waiting for a response and steered his Orion away from the four remaining Sea Foxes. As he advanced, he tried to ignore the skirmish happening on his flank, but curiosity got the better of him. Out in his peripheral vision, he caught one of Star Commander Shane’s Starmates, in a Prime-configuration Puma, lash into the Neanderthal with a blinding flurry of Clan-made PPCs. The assault staggered the hulking 80-ton ’Mech for only a few seconds before it lumbered into close range and brought down its massive hatchet on the Puma’s shoulder. The six-ton depleted-uranium blade didn’t merely sever the arm housing the 35-ton ’Mech’s PPC arm; it crumpled the whole shoulder and knocked the ’Mech to the ground as though it’d been cold-cocked.
Before the Puma’s pilot could even attempt to recover, Star Commander Shane’s Tiburon darted toward the Neanderthal and unloaded a quartet of lasers and short-range missiles. The focused laser barrage took a huge bite out of the Regulan ’Mech’s hide, but its armor held firm.
Sound military doctrine would never pit a 35-ton light ’Mech against an 80-ton assault chassis, but Clanners had never been big on actual military theory. They had more guts than brains, as far as Maximov was concerned. Anyone stupid enough to bite off more than they could chew deserved what they had coming.
But he couldn’t look away from the scene playing out as he slowed his ’Mech’s advance.
The Neanderthal replied with a dazzling flash as one of its short-barreled PPCs carved a huge, melted furrow in the foolhardy Sea Fox’s torso armor. The Tiburon dashed around to the side and fired back. Fat-bodied missiles pecked at the Regulan’s torso armor—still just a minnow trying to bite a whale. The Neanderthal’s follow-up PPC shot carved off Shane’s left arm at the shoulder. Not even this made the Sea Fox back down.
The Tiburon juked off to the left, drew the Regulan’s attention, and let fly with all of his remaining armaments. The lasers and missiles stitched their way up the same damaged plates of armor protecting the ’Mech’s abdomen, but then they continued—up the sternum, past the boxy jawline, and right up into the cockpit. The Neanderthal fell, striking the ground hard enough that Maximov felt it even at this distance. Smoke and fire erupted from within the Regulan’s shattered canopy.
Maximov’s eyebrows rose, and he let out an astonished laugh. Damn. Scrappy little Clanner punching well above his weight class. Gotta hand it to him for the effort.
Another round of long-range missiles from unseen batteries arced into the air, hundreds of individual missiles rising on tongues of fire, filling the sky with a canopy of contrails as though God himself had decreed it: Let there be ordnance.
The exploding rain fell down on Maximov’s position, forcing him to hot-step his Orion through the curtain of blasts and dirt clods to avoid the worst of them as he continued up the rise. Still, several warheads impacted his armor, and after the heat settled, he kept hearing a worrying crunching sound somewhere in the ’Mech’s right-hand side. Elbow? Shoulder joint?
“Two and Three,” Maximov growled on his lance channel, “how we doing on those spotters?”
“I’m down,” Sergeant Jimenez radioed, his voice labored. “Lost my leg in that last salvo. Still got plenty of targets I can shoot though.”
“Yeah, damn things won’t stay put,” Sergeant Cole said with a frustrated chuckle. “Winged only one of ’em so far.”
“Keep at it,” Maximov instructed. “I got held up, but I’m on my way.”
Off to his right, he again caught sight of the blue Sea Fox ’Mechs, now abreast of his Orion’s line of march, Star Commander Shane’s Tiburon at the vanguard of their formation and pulling out just ahead of the pack. Were these bastards following him?
“This is Gridiron Three-One,” he transmitted directly to Shane’s ’Mech. “Clear my fire lane!”
Before the Clanner could respond, another Regulan Hussars Neanderthal advanced into view from the other side of a hill, its weapons trained in Maximov’s direction. A second ’Mech, an Ostwar, came in from the left, and a third, a Guillotine, pushed through the miasma of ambient smoke on the right, catching the Sea Foxes in the flank.
Two of the remaining Sea Fox ’Mechs turned their attention to the Guillotine, retaliating against its laser fusillade with varied strikes. But the Neanderthal and its Ostwar companion had their sights trained on Maximov’s Orion.
His trained reflexes, his natural aptitudes honed by the rigid training of the Orloff Military Academy, zeroed his reticle in on the Neanderthal and crushed the firing stud for his Gauss rifle. The weapon thwanged with an electromagnetic snap as it propelled a nickel-ferrous projectile faster than the eye could see. Armor plates on the Neanderthal’s torso scattered like roofing tiles torn off in a cyclone, and the ’Mech staggered back a step as though punched. But the Regulan kept advancing. And Maximov’s magazine of Gauss rifle slugs would not last forever.
The Neanderthal had only a five-ton advantage on his Orion, but if that giant hatchet got close enough…
Members of the Order of the Saber do not shudder, he reminded himself.
And to his credit, he did not flinch when the Regulan’s paired PPCs skewered his front armor with scintillating bluish-white lances. The armor held, but barely. And there was still that Ostwar to worry about.
“Two and Four,” Maximov radioed his still-ambulatory lancemates. “Might need some help here…”
“That’s a negative, Max,” Cole replied. “We can’t get to you. I think we kicked the hornet’s nest.”
“Isn’t that what we’re here for?” Maximov said, punctuated by a hollow, self-deprecating laugh.
“Matthews is in bad shape too. We’re getting pummeled out here…”
