Benjork gave chase, footpads moving in long strides, Gatling striking sparks or chips off armor. He watched with grim satisfaction as the strange heat vent on the back of the Black Hawk grew. The fleeing BattleMech twisted as it ran, turning back its left arm with two SRM quads on it. The Lone Cat angled off to the right, forcing a deflection shot. Missiles set sage to burning, but nothing else.
Benjork concentrated on the hot spot. He aimed his Gatling gun, but modified the targeting computer’s aim to match the correction he saw in his heart. Then he fired. A stream of thirty-millimeter tungsten slugs stitched a circle on the back of the Black Hawk. The infrared readout flared in Ben’s cockpit.
Now the Black Hawk’s other arm with its missiles came around. Benjork sideslipped to the left. Eight missiles volleyed into the sand and sage as Ben’s thirty-millimeter slugs again flaked armor off.
Twice more the Black Hawk tried to shoot while running. Twice more it only slowed him down. The process started again, with Benjork again edging outward to complicate the Black and Red’s firing solution. This time the runner did not fire.
Suddenly the Black Hawk came to a hopping stop, twisted in place, and fired off a barrage of SRMs and lasers.
Benjork did not slow down but twisted his course hard right. The shooter tried to compensate, but the missiles only left a stuttering line of explosions behind the MiningMech MOD. All but one, which slashed into Ben’s rock cutter, smashing it.
Again the Black Hawk turned in place to flee. Having centered his fire on the closest gray ’Mech, the fleeing pilot had left Sean free to close—and free to carefully aim his fire.
Now both Sean and Benjork concentrated their fire on the back of the Black Hawk. Again armor flew, only now in larger chunks, and the heat plume shot out white hot for a second.
But only for a second, because the next moment, the Black Hawk disappeared in a flash that made the blue sky seem shadowed.
“What happened?” Maud asked on-channel, hurrying forward.
“H-hellfire escaped and claimed its own,” Sean said. The flaming wreckage spat and smoked—its own little hell—as Benjork slowed to a pace that dropped his engine gauges out of the red. Turning, he began a cooling jog back to the other battle. Sean held back to assist Maud’s limping ’Mech. They were good warriors. Benjork wished them whatever joy they could find during this time of sudden death, glory and grief.
As the wash came into view, it looked like Hicks had the situation well in hand. Ten Black and Red ’Mechs were surrounded by nine gray ones. The militia pilot had even managed to get his limping ’Mech in. Things had turned out better than the veteran had had any right to hope for.
“Sir, am I glad to see you,” Hicks called on-channel. “We have a problem here that’s beyond my pay grade.”
“The situation, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, these civilians have seen a lot of their people killed. Most ran because the Special Police strung up people they loved.”
“And they want revenge, quiaff.”
“In spades, sir. They want the captured Black and Reds hung from the arms of their ’Mechs, sir.”
“They are our prisoners?”
“They surrendered to me, sir.”
Benjork popped his canopy to cheers and awed stares at the damage. A few quick words with the survivors verified that any offer of assistance to the fugitives, or even to have been in a position to possibly help meant quick death. Some joined the flight because they had had enough of Santorini. Most joined because they had no other choice. Of the three AgroMechs at the rock, two were from people recently joined in the flight. Somewhere to the south were two burned-out AgroMechs holding what was left of a father and his oldest son.
“They’re gonna hang. Hang ’em now,” spat the widow with cold anger as Benjork approached.
“You hang convicted murderers on Alkalurops, quiaff?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man at her elbow answered.
“These men are my prisoners,” Benjork said, “taken under the rules of war. I cannot allow you to be judge, jury and executioner, ma’am.”
“You think you’re better then me—better than us,” the woman said, her eyes cold slits.
“I am no better than you, ma’am. I just follow the laws laid down for me. If these men have violated those laws, they will be so charged, tried, and punished. It is not our place.”
“Ma, there’s been enough blood today. Let it go to a judge. Nothing’s gonna bring Pa or Brother back,” the young man said.
Finally the woman wept, leaned on her son, and turned away.
Benjork eyed the prisoners. “Who are they, Hicks?”
“A mixed bag, sir. Some punks from around here. Others who somehow managed to buy ’Mechs off-world and get Santorini to hire them. That Black Hawk you burned was the boss man of this crew. Field Marshal of Special Police by the name of Pillow.”
“Field Marshal, quineg?”
“I swear it. Santorini is easy on promotions.”
Benjork shook his head and changed the subject. “Where is our guide?”
“He lit out in his pickup. Said Nazareth needed to hear about this fast. I think I can follow our tracks back.”
So the gun trucks led the withdrawal. One of the Black and Red trucks had a complete suite for hijacking ’Mechs, so ten poorly done ’Mech MODs crewed by the next-best militia pilots grouped themselves as a cover for the exhausted fugitives. Benjork led his ’Mechs as rear guard. If they met more Black and Reds, it would be a hard fight. Their rocket launchers were empty and the magazines of their Gatling guns were not that far from it.
Nazareth was empty except for their old guide. “Most folks lit out north as soon as you went through here the first time. Them that stayed left plenty fast when I told them what happened out by the old Harlingen place. I figured I’d hang around to catch anyone who missed out on getting the word.”
They gassed the rigs, then headed north, the old rancher showing them a faster way. Benjork suspected they’d need it.
L. J. knew his client was mad; these days Santorini called only when he was screaming hot. It was also the only time the Net came up, so it was easy to respond when his ’puter blinked red and beeped. Santorini always seemed to pick the worst times to call.
L. J.’s last platoon was just motoring through the gate—dusty, bullet-holed and straggling. Scrawled in tall letters on each of its trucks was “Please ignore us. Save your ammo for the Black and Reds chasing us.” L. J. really wanted to get that story. Instead he activated his ’puter and said, “Yes, Mr. Santorini. What can I do for you, sir?”
“Can you do anything for me?” came like a slap of cold iron.
“I am concentrating my battalion, sir. Several more platoons came in today. They were pretty beat up on the drive in, lots of sniping going on out there.”
“A lot of lawlessness. If you’d apply the same procedures my Special Police do, you might have less trouble.”
Or more, L. J. didn’t say. “Sir, I am not a police force. I operate within the rules of war.”
“Well, that damn woman up the Gleann Mor Valley is waging war against me. She has sent her troops to aid insurrection and to shoot down my police.”
“Oh, is it that bad out there?” L. J. said, keeping a solid grip on his tone. The mayor’s wife had made another trip out and given him their side of what took place outside a small town called Nazareth. The town had been burned to the ground by the Special Police, she reported. Fortunately, everyone had fled into the valley. Damn, but that valley must be getting crowded.