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“Sandoval,” Blaire growled as if the name was a curse. “Thinks he can do whatever-the-hell he pleases. Clear them out of my no-fly zone,” he ordered the junior officer. “Where will the Clan DropShips land?”
“Trajectory still puts them coming in at Eridanus, west-central, but I can’t narrow it any more than that at this time.”
Blaire nodded perfunctorily. “They could be dropping right on top of us.” He eyed Raul and Tassa, backed them away with a gesture. “Maybe we can resolve this and negate any need for your Ryoken. All right, is there visual feed?” The corporal at communications nodded. “Give it to me on the main screen, and return full audio and visual.”
A six-foot screen snowed to life on the forward wall, quickly filled by Star Colonel Torrent’s visage. A large man, Raul thought, made more impressive as he loomed over the entire command center, with serious brown eyes and a no-nonsense expression masking any true emotion. Standing in front of his own video pickup at a modified parade-rest, he looked like a man totally in control.
“Colonel Isaac Blaire. I am Star Colonel Torrent, of the Kerensky Bloodname. Prefect Kal Radick has decided to move Achernar under his direct protection. I have won the right to carry out his will.”
Blaire was no fool. “Direct protection? Is that his latest euphemism for armed rebellion, Star Colonel, or is it yours?”
Raul’s memory tripped over Torrent’s comment of having won the right to battle. Old Clan protocol, he remembered from his RTC days. Officers bid down to the smallest force needed to take an objective. The lowest bid won the privilege of combat. Kal Radick had kept alive more Clan traditions than anyone had apparently thought.
“Achernar has been reclassified as vital military infrastructure. The uncertain nature of your militia, and the presence of Lord Governor Sandoval’s personal army, warrants Prefect Raddick’s concern. My orders are to take control of the local situation.”
“If you are under the orders of Prefect Radick, then you follow illegal orders and you damn well know it. Lay-gate Stempres has jurisdiction. If he doesn’t like that, Prefect Radick can call for a vote of no-confidence.” Blaire dialed for his command voice. “Stand down, Star Colonel. Return to your JumpShip.”
“My JumpShip has departed,” Torrent said evenly. “I will not require it. We will set down in your Highlake Basin and claim that as our staging area. I accept any offer of uncontested landing.”
Next to him, Raul heard Tassa Kay whisper, “Safcon. He is asking for safe conduct.”
All Raul could think of was the devastated territory of Highlake Basin, a good half-day’s travel or better northwest of River’s End and the military base. He’d never forgotten his last simulated battle, and could see why Torrent might choose that as his base of operations. Good open ground for landing fields, and there would be no covert marches against him.
“You want me to guarantee you uncontested access to Achernar?” Blaire asked, incredulous. “What possible reason would Ah have to grant that?”
Torrent gri
“Resist? Ah’ll give you hell with a hand grenade, and welcome to it!”
“That is too bad. I hoped for a sensible attitude. I pla
Tassa Kay visibly winced and Raul trembled with a cold thrill of adrenaline. This is not happening, he wanted to shout. This only thinks that it’s happening. For all his protestations about serving the Republic and doing an important job, Raul never thought he would see real war. And certainly not between factions of the Republic! Civil war? Staged here on Achernar?
“What forces?” Blaire growled out, completely nonplussed. He calmed himself with visible effort. “I will defend Achernar with everything I can order, scrape together, and call in from outside.”
“All you have set against all I have?” Torrent paused, shrugged. “Bargained well and done.” His video fee cut out with a flash of static, and then light snow once again filled the forward screen.
The finality in Star Colonel Torrent’s words left a new chill washing up Raul’s spine. There had been a dark promise in them. And laughter. Torrent had been far from surprised, as if his plans had already factored in Colonel Blaire’s response.
They had, and Raul learned how not a moment later.
Tension welled up in a surging wave that lifted several voices at once. “Target deviation… IFF transponders are lighting up… we have multiple incoming… Stone’s Blood!”
The wave crested over and struck the command center a heavy blow, shaking the floor and dancing coffee mugs on desks. The large, forward view screen cracked as the entire wall buckled and threatened to cave inward. Lights flickered and several workstations tripped off under surge protection—one blew apart in a cascade of sparks and dancing electricity, peppering the hands and face of a young sergeant with shards of green glass.
Raul caromed off the corner of the comms station, then snatched up an auxiliary headset to keep plugged in as Blaire’s aide-de-camp. Damage control reports flooded the system, but these Raul held off for any hard intelligence that came his way.
The communications tech was ahead of Raul and faster even than Blaire’s tactical officer. “Aerospace fighters!” he warned, fast-switching in between two different frequencies and somehow making sense of both. “Second wave hitting in three… two…”
The floor jumped again, but not so severe this time. Raul dialed in on the corps engineers, found them debating the damage amongst themselves in an almost luncheon-calm discussion. “That was our monorail,” Raul a
Blaire glared his question at Tactical, who seemed to feel the heat spearing into his back. “We have three confirmed two-craft elements of aerospace fighters making high-speed passes. That’s a full squadron. Third wave in thirty seconds. We have a DropShip… Okinawa-CC… making planetfall right behind the fighter’s flight path.”
An Okinawa-CC? That was a civilian-converted vessel, or supposedly so. Dread chill walked icy fingers up Raul’s spine and he ran to Tactical. It was also the same designation as the DropShip that had been “stuck” in orbit for nearly a week. He reached past one of the technicians, selected the civilian band aerospace traffic control and fed it to his screen. The Okinawa–merchant was gone.
“Sir, Colonel. We’ve been had.” Raul yanked off his headset, turned to Blaire and laid out his findings. “They put forces in orbit five days ago.”
“Okinawa’s can’t carry ’Mechs,” Tactical said. “Fighters only.”
Raul shook his head. “They don’t carry them normally. Any DropShip can ferry BattleMechs, though, if you are willing to stack them in like freight. Or infantry or armor. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“Agreed.” Blaire rounded on Tassa Kay. “You can have your Ryoken hot and walking in five minutes if you’re willing to risk a VTOL. Ah’ll release a Yellow Jacket to get you over to the spaceport. If Lay-gate Stempres agrees to full value in the next five minutes, you will turn the ’Mech over to one of my pilots.” The floor shook again as the next wave strafed some other part of the base. “Otherwise, you are free to engage at your own discretion.”
“Done,” Tassa agreed. “Get me a jeep at the north entrance.” She bolted for the door.
“Ortega, make it happen.”
Raul pulled his headset back on, calling for a ready vehicle from the motor pool and keeping tabs on the Yellow Jacket Gunship that Blaire had asked for. He paced a short path in between the commander and his desk. The room smelled of spilled coffee and fear now, but slowly the trained routine of military preparedness was taking hold in the room.