Well, moving a bunch of commandeered trucks and sixteen ’Mechs in various states of conversion was no picnic—no, sir, it wasn’t. Fetterman scowled at the Atlas under him. Buying it on time had really impressed Santorini back on Nusakan. He’d made him a Field Marshal in a snap, or rather in a snap after Jon had helped another dozen guys buy up every available ’Mech. Like him, they bought on time, mortgaging stuff they really didn’t own and wouldn’t need if things turned out as well as they looked here. Jon grinned, remembering that he’d already tossed his payment book in the trash can. Let old man Benton try to repossess a Field Marshal’s ’Mech on Alkalurops when he’s sitting at the right hand of the Leader. Fetterman enjoyed a laugh, which got his whole body moving. He’d forgotten his hands were on the joysticks. His laugh got the laser-equipped arm of his ’Mech moving. In the truck ahead of him, people pointed and acted as if they were really scared.
He’d never gotten that reaction selling siding on Nusakan. He could have used a bit of that fear-mongering when he was foreclosing on scumbags who didn’t pay, claiming it was his fault for selling bad siding. It had cost him a fortune to keep judges around who believed in enforcing contracts.
“Field Marshal Fetterman, are you having problems with your ’Mech, sir?” Colonel Brisko called over the radio.
“No, I am not, Colonel. What I am is hot in here with the sun beating down. Do we have to travel in the heat of the day? Isn’t it time for a break yet?”
“No, sir, we’re due in Amarillo before sunset. Between potholes and breakdowns, we have to keep moving when we can. This is why I suggested you not wear your uniform, sir. Having it between you and your cooling vest is heating you up, sir.”
“Hasn’t anyone told you that clothes make the man? I am not going to show up in Amarillo half-naked. What’s holding us up?”
“Sir, the lead truck has a flat. It’s off to the side now, being fixed. Had to assign a new lead truck.”
“Well, tell them to hurry up.”
“I will, sir. Remember what I told you about moving those arms.” Brisko started into what Fetterman knew would be another lecture on how to shoot the damn thing.
“I remember how to work it, Brisko. You just keep the trucks moving,” Fetterman snapped. After all, he was the Field Marshal. Three months ago Brisko had been a cashiered merc who couldn’t handle his whiskey. I pulled you out of a homeless shelter. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be singing hymns for your supper.
Fetterman glanced down at his cockpit. Damn, the yellow tabs he’d stuck on things so he could remember what was what and how to work it had come off. He reached down to collect them off the floor and found he’d accidentally bent his ’Mech at the waist almost to the ground and dumped the tabs in a heap on the controls. He’d get them straight later. There was a manual he kept meaning to read. Maybe tonight. Well, not tonight if the hotel had three hotties like last night’s.
Fetterman concentrated on walking. Brisko was right. If you worked the pedals just right, you could miss most of the potholes.
Benjork Lone Cat wondered what he had done to deserve such a fate. The trap was laid, and then the lead truck went lame and limped to the side of the road. Now the convoy was moving again, apparently none the wiser, but six men were standing around that truck while three struggled to change the tire. Already they had all pissed. They had drunk water. Some were now passing around a bottle. How long before even blind men spotted that they were in the very epicenter of a trap?
Through the crack of the door, the MechWarrior eyed the terrain, which had decreed where to spring the trap. Here water cut a narrow passage through a tight canyon, less than a hundred meters wide, with walls of aged and worn rock almost ten meters high. All morning, troops had labored with pickaxes and shovels to dig rifle pits close to the road. Behind two parked dump trucks in a road-maintenance yard, a metal garage gave cover to a dozen gray ’Mech MODs not sixty meters from the road.
A blind cub should have spotted the danger here and sent a foot patrol to scout ahead. But the Black and Reds were truly blinded by their confidence that it was their destiny to kill, not to be killed. They drove into the trap with only a slight delay, as they argued who would take point and who would absorb any mines on the road ahead. Now the trucks full of infantry filed by. Coming soon would be the ’Mechs. A huge Atlas led them, or at least stumbled in the first position. That one would be almost comical if he didn’t have at his fingertips the power to smash every machine that stood behind the Lone Cat.
But it was the Spider following the Atlas that caused fear. The pilot of that one knew what he was doing. While those ahead and behind him moved with a tipsy jerkiness, that one walked smoothly, even through the inevitable potholes. Ben turned to Sean and Maud, who were beside him. “That Spider is the one we must kill.”
“Looks a whole lot easier than the Black Hawk we took down,” Maud said.
“Th-three ’Mech MODs against one real B-BattleMech driven by a trained MechWarrior will be j-just about even odds,” Sean told her. Usually, the boy agreed with whatever the girl said. Now Sean looked past her to the enemy. “It can j-jump. It has two lasers and a cooling system that lets it jump, f-fire, and run when others might be overheated and locked up. With an average warrior, it would take the th-three of us to bring it to ground. If th-that man is good, it will be b-bad for us, Maud.”
“Aw, it’ll be fun dancing with someone who knows how,” the girl shot back. “Those guys out Harlingen way were pussycats.”
“Close up,” Benjork ordered. He tightened his harness and made sure all his cooling lines were free. The lightweight neurohelmet had shifted, so he repositioned it. He set his Gatling gun spinning slowly and punched his mike.
“Lieutenant Hicks, flares on my count. Three, two, one, fire. ’Mechs advance,” he ordered.
Rather than charge out the garage door, the strike team had rigged the thin metal walls with charges. They blew out, dropping metal sheets on the ground. The ’Mechs stepped over the pole frame and in two seconds, twelve ’Mech MODs stood ready for battle, facing other ’Mechs that were still concentrating on following their leader.
Then the daisy chain explosions went off.
Dynamite charges set under the road blew up in a running explosion that quickly flew from the front of the line to the rear. The leading Atlas was just past the first explosion. Benjork doubted the charges were strong enough to knock that huge thing down, anyway. It swayed, but remained on its legs.
The Spider driver showed his worth. Knocked sideways, he hit his jump jets and shot into the air. Working his wings, he stabilized himself in midflight and even got off a slashing shot. Benjork gave the Spider a burst of thirty-millimeter tungsten slugs as it set down in the stream. Even with surprise, water, rocks and incoming fire, the Spider made a good landing.
Farther down the line, the explosive charges did their best to convert Black and Red ’Mechs into pretzels. Those that survived the initial experience came under fire from the gray ’Mechs from Falkirk. The Black and Reds that could, fired as they backpedaled into the river. Nearly half could do nothing more than pop their canopies and throw up their hands.
Trucks with their loads of potential hangmen came under fire from rocket grenades and machine guns. A good chunk of the men stood up in the trucks, hands in the air. Others grabbed at the mounted machine guns or tumbled over the truck sides, pulling back the arming levers on their automatic rifles. They died quickly. In the ditches on either side, men and women fired from the concealment of their fighting pits, taking down those who wanted to fight, usually missing those who did not.