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The Swords of St George raced through the power plant, and into the city. The rain that had hidden them throughout the retreat diminished to a drizzle.
‘McHaigh, we'll take parallel streets back to the spaceport. You take Swords Three and Swords Two, and head back on the main drag. I'll take what's left of One and our two new recruits...’—the Captain surveyed the map on his tactical readout—’and follow you by 30 seconds on this side street off to the left. It seems to make it almost all the way to the port.’
‘Aye, sir. You'll be our reserve. If anyone cuts us off, that is.’
‘That's affirmative, Mac. If you encounter any resistance, move around it, if you can. Anything too tough to move around, we'll just have to punch through.’ Before St. George could say anything further, they were interrupted. All the 'Mechs froze for an instant. The sound was like a roll of thunder that went on and on. The company's Mechs scattered, each trying to find some kind of building to squeeze up against for cover. The sound reached a crescendo, the roar of a fighter wing coming in low. The evil-looking Seydlitzfighters flashed past overhead.
‘Lord, that was a full wing of Lyran fighters.’ Breaking in on St. George's battalion frequency, the unfamiliar voice came from one of the Riflemen.
‘He's right Cap'n,’ added Lipescue. ‘They were heading straight for the port!’
‘McHaigh, move out. Now!’ St George ordered. ‘Keep to the sides of the road, but go. on the double.’
With a hasty ‘aye,’ the Sergeant's Wolverinemoved off at the head of a column of six 'Mechs. the remains of two of St. George's lances.
On Battalion, St. George contacted the Riflemen.‘Are you ready to move out?’
One of the Riflemenraised its right weapons arm. and a voice over the radio came back. ‘I'm Corporal Jones. The lady in the other 'Mech is Private Cho. We're with you all the way.’
‘O.K.. Jones, you're my backup. We're moving out on this side road. If anything goes wrong, you'll get hold of Sergeant-Major McHaigh immediately. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then follow me on the double.’ With that, the Captain took off after his retreating lances.
The sky in the direction of the spaceport was being ripped and torn by the contrails of gyrating fighters. Even as Captain St. George watched anxiously, a DropShip clawed through the swarm trying to reach deep space.
The Swords moved through the vacant city unobstructed. The pace they set caused the heat to rise to unbearable levels in his own Shadow Hawk.St. George knew It was the same for all his men, but he dared not stop.
The fighting over the port continued. Communications from Regimental had stopped minutes ago. The only sounds coming over his radio were reports from his own company.
McHaigh reached the gates. ‘We're at the port, Captain. Should we wait and form up before we move in?’
‘Don't stop,’ St. George ordered. ‘Bust straight on through. Watch for fighters, but don't stop!’
‘We're bashing through the perimeter fencing now, Captain. The fighters seem to have pulled out’ The Sergeant's voice sounded odd.
‘Good. They've pulled back to refuel. Get to the DropShip, Sarge. We're right behind you.’
‘We're almost there, just past these warehouses. Captain, there's a lot of smoke coming from the flight line...’ McHaigh's voice faded out.
‘Oh, God, no.’ The voice that cut in was Lipescue's. The despair gave it an ugly sound.
‘Sergeant McHaigh, report!’ There was silence. Captain St. George felt the icy hand of fear clutch his heart. His lance charged through the fence. If anything, his speed increased as he bolted the last few meters past the walls of the warehouses that led to the flight line. The Shadow Hawkemerged onto the tarmac.
The 'Mechs of his company spread out in a half circle like mourners at a funeral pyre. Against a backdrop of grim gray sky and straggling undergrowth stood the burning DropShip.
Captain St. George moved forward like a man in a nightmare. This was the one contingency he had not foreseen. He knew they would wait for him, and so they had, to the bitter end.
Silence. Then the other ‘guests’ started to arrive from among the port's outbuildings. An Atlasloomed up and came to a halt as a Cicadaraced by.
Over St. George's radio, on broad beam, came a voice. ‘It almost worked. The merc's surrender slowed down the regulars, but we came right on through. Formally, sir, Hansen's Roughriders would like to offer the men of The Swords of St George 'alternate transportation.'‘
FINAL EXAM
-Bear Peters
Tension filled the large, dimly lit room where a trio of men hunched like witches over the cauldron-like Tactical Plot Simulator. The oldest of the three looked with concern at the scenario laid out on the plotting board. Sizigmund MaqAloo General (retired). Professor of 'Mech Deployment and Assault Strategy, hoped the actions of the elder of the two students would not confirm his fears.
The elder student. Cadet Willis Crawford, reached out to touch one of the miniature fighters that represented his DropShip's close-fighter support. A sigh went up from the surrounding auditorium, and then the rest of the class, hidden in the darkness, held its collective breath, most praying for disaster. To redeploy now, before the DropShip was down and the 'Mechs on board dispersed, was either a bold stroke or a foolish error.
At Cadet Crawford's right hand stood the flamboyant Anton Marik, younger brother of Janos Mank. Captain-General of the Free Worlds League. Anton, the nominal second-in-command on this assignment, could offer assistance or opinions, but 50 far, Crawford had taken the drop on his own. Anton could not have been more proud if he had evolved this new assault variant himself. Even at Princefleld, an Academy that fostered intense competition among all of its students, these two had formed a bond of friendship.
With a momentary flicker, the computer display of the potential enemy defense zones and DropShip attack lances changed. The enemy response opportunities grew. The class grumbled like an invisible animal closing in for the kill. Professor MaqAloo pinched his lip in a characteristic gesture of disapproval. Anton's faith never faltered, however, as his classmate redeployed the fighters further out, and sharply diverted the descending craft to an alternate landing site.
The computer, its defenses taken by surprise, diverted to cover the feint. Crawford's fighters hit the computer's Mech concentrations. The enemy fighter counterattack was drawn off by the fighter feints. During the precious seconds it took the simulation to redeploy, Crawford recalled his fighters and deployed his 'Mechs to mop up the ground resistance.
The lights in the auditorium came up, and the class began to babble its assessment of the new and i
‘Well done. Will!’ The young Marik slapped his friend on the back.
Professor MaqAloo cleared his throat and stepped over to face the young man.
‘Cadet Crawford, that was clever work, taking into account the computer's tendency toward a conservative defense.’
‘Thank you. sir.’ Crawford interrupted enthusiastically. ‘I knew I could draw off its fighter reserves.’
That's enough, Cadet.’ the old man said sharply. ‘You have fooled the machine, and so you are guaranteed a favorable grade. However, if you tried that stunt in the face ot Humanopposition, you'd lose that Drop-Ship! Keep that in mind.’
With that, the Professor turned and stalked off with crisp military precision.
‘Don't mind that sour old rust heap.’ Anton Marik told the man destined to become his closest friend. ‘C'mon. Together we can lick anything.’
As his younger friend turned to go, Willis Crawford felt a cold chill run down his spine.