A Navajo trotted out from the elevator’s office, grinning. “We’ve got everything in place,” he said, climbing in the back of the jeep. “Those mercs are going to love dancing with Coyote.”
Wilson pointed for his son to park at the foot of Syn’s MiningMech MOD, and reached for the large wrench he kept under his seat for just such occasions. Shouldn’t be long now.
The stalled motor caught, and the tank got under way slowly. “I think we bent a blade,” the driver reported. Infantry were halfway across the trickle that the locals called a river. Yonni waded in behind them. Here and there, rocks created eddies in the water. He avoided the potential deep spots behind them as consciously as he negotiated the questionable footing of the rocks.
Suddenly, on his left, two gray ’Mech MODs stepped out from behind a tall metal building. They fired missiles, as well as a long stream of slugs. He snapped off a quick burst of fifty-millimeter rounds and sidestepped right, positioning himself at an angle that would complicate their firing solution. He adjusted his pace to avoid a rock as he tried to sight in on the lead ’Mech for an aimed burst.
Then he felt his left footpad sink into the muddy water. He bent his right knee quickly, taking the pressure off his ’Mech’s hips and hardly felt the explosion that sent water geysering up around his left leg. He pulled that leg up as a spray of enemy fire splashed a line of mud and water to his right. His footpad dangled uselessly.
“Damn.”
Yonni tried to fire off a burst even as he set his left leg down gingerly. Standing on one leg and shooting was not something ’Mechs did. Gyros screamed, and he jammed down his damaged leg to keep his ’Mech from toppling over.
To his right, infantry fire reached out for the gray ’Mechs from the perimeter on the north side of the bridge. That squad had cut all visible demolition wires. A Demon medium tank from First Platoon slowly nosed onto the bridge, its turret rotating to take the hostile ’Mechs under fire.
Then all hell broke loose.
An explosion shattered the middle bridge span, sending chunks of deck and girders skyward. Then charges sheared off the two spans on either side of the middle one. Two final explosions dropped the last spans, intact, so they now led down to the dry riverbed at totally unusable thirty-degree angles.
“What did I tell you?” the Navajo crowed, tossing the remote detonator on the seat of the jeep. “They got the ’Mech. I got the bridge. Perfect!”
To Wilson’s right, Syn’s and Jobe’s ’Mechs each took a step forward. They were supposed to be backing out. He was out of his jeep in a second, wrench in hand. Behind him, his son shouted, “Get back! Get back!” into the jeep’s mike. “Remember the plan.”
Wilson caught up with Syn’s back leg and rapped it, then rapped it again. “Back up,” he shouted in case she had her outside mike on. “We retreat now. Remember.”
“You are no fun,” came from the ’Mech’s outside speaker.
Wilson hammered the leg again.
The tank that hadn’t made it onto the bridge sent a large-caliber shell their way, reminding Wilson just how exposed he was.
“Maybe we should back up,” came Jobe’s voice from the jeep’s speakers. “If they clobber this grain elevator, things could get real bad.”
One ’Mech backed up. The second one joined it. Wilson ran to his jeep, and his son gunned out to the left, away from the ’Mechs who retreated into Bliven, snapping off short bursts at anyone who sent fire their way.
For a long moment Yonni watched the expanding clouds of explosives. Around him, everyone did the same. Here and there a man, ’Mech or tank maneuvered to dodge a falling chunk of debris.
Then the Demon tank that hadn’t been blown up with the bridge expressed its opinion by snapping off a laser shot at the gray ’Mechs. They started backing up, firing back at anyone who fired at them. When they passed out of sight behind the multistoried buildings that must represent Bliven’s main street, the riverbank grew silent.
“Uh, sir, you probably can’t see it,” the XO reported from the vantage point of the van on the south bluff, “but there are about a dozen pickup trucks beating it for the hills fast.”
“Can you put fire on them?”
“Wait one,” the XO said, and was back well before the full minute was up. “No, sir, First Platoon’s tanks are out of position, and the ’Mechs were either heading down the riverbank or for the bridge. The land over there is full of folds, and we can’t get any good shots as they duck in and out of ’em.”
“So what else is new?” Yonni said, biting back worse comments he didn’t want on the radio. “I’m all right. ’Mech’s only slightly damaged. Call Battalion for the repair truck and try not to say what it’s for.” The cheap client had budgeted the companies for only one maintenance van each. That wouldn’t help his Legionnaire. “Also advise Battalion that we will need a bridging unit here, five spans’ worth.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thirty minutes later, First Platoon was across the river. Third was following them, and the HQ van waded to a stop beside Yonni. Climbing down his ’Mech to join the XO on the roof of the van he asked, “What’s the situation?”
“B Company should be here in two hours. I’ve assigned Fourth Platoon to guard the ford until they get here. We are ready to exploit forward.”
“Did the major have any luck in front of Amarillo?”
“Doesn’t appear so, sir. Snipers made the advance tough sledding. We have the only troops across, sir.”
“So let’s get busy exploiting,” Yonni ordered.
Outside Amarillo, Alkalurops
25 August 3134
“They are exploiting forward, sir,” the XO said.
“Now they are,” L. J. pointed out.
“That’s what they said, sir.” Art worked his jaw. If he wasn’t careful, he’d need caps before he made Major. The Colonel did not like paying high dental bills and did not trust worriers. L. J. made sure his jaw was loose.
“Art, why don’t you take your Arbalest and get yourself over to A Company—make sure its reports are accurate when they’re made, not an hour later. And find out what their casualties are. They’ve made two requests for the repair rig, but I still don’t have any damage report.”
“Yes, sir,” Art said, a big grin taking over his face. Getting free of the HQ in his BattleMech was great. Commanding the battalion’s spearhead wouldn’t look half bad on his next contract’s résumé.
L. J. turned back to his map table. So Grace’s right had turned out to be a bit tougher to crack than had first appeared. Still it was cracked, and as best as L. J. could tell, even the ’Mechs were just shooting and bugging out. If the opposition had any maneuverability, Grace should have counterattacked at that river crossing. Hell, if there was anything really in front of him, it should have attacked him when they saw one company head east, and before the other company got in from the west.
So, Grace, all I have to do is peel you. Wonder what that creamy white skin will look like when I have you down to the buff? L. J. glanced at the west side of his map. The Black and Reds still hadn’t made contact with his lone platoon covering his left flank. L. J. frowned. They were overdue. As much as he really didn’t want them, by later this afternoon he would have to go hunting for them.
Along the Colorado River, Alkalurops
25 August 3134
Jonathan Fetterman, Field Marshal of Special Police, wondered what the holdup was this time. Santorini, er, the Leader had told him it would be easy to get three hundred Special Police up to Amarillo and start cleaning out that nest of dumb-ass farmers who didn’t have the smarts to see which way the wind was blowing. “Send me a lot of pics of full lamp poles,” Santorini had told Fetterman before sending him off.