“You’re not directing your troops personally, are you, Legate?” asked Sergio. “You have a complete layout of both sides.”

“In an actual fight, this would be what we’d strive for, Baron,” Tortorelli said. “This time, the field units are independent. We only monitor the overall progress here, not direct it. Otherwise, the Envoy might miss some of the action.”

“Why, yes, wouldn’t want to do that,” Parsons said. His attention drifted away from the computer display, but Elora couldn’t tell what the man sought—or what he was thinking. “It’s always good to get the big picture.”

“The exercise will begin in a few minutes,” Tortorelli said. “Here are the basics. My Home Guard unit is comprised of four Behemoth II Tanks, four Condors, four JES Tactical Missile Carriers, and infantry in APCs. The company of Hauberk battle armor is arrayed at the edges, while the real firepower is massed in the center of my line. The tank initial barrage will flush out opposition, allowing all the battle-armored soldiers to get a fix on opposition locations and numbers. After the intel is gathered, the battle armor advances under covering missile fire and wipes out the FCL.”

“What of the infantry? Do they simply sit and send postcards home to their loved ones?” asked Parsons. Elora looked at the man. The comment carried more than a hint of criticism with it. She had tried to find out something of the Envoy’s background and had failed. He might or might not be of noble birth, but what was his training? He knew something of tactics—or did he just guess that Tortorelli didn’t?

“Support. If the battle armor finds the going too hard, the tanks move in and support an all-out infantry assault. We attack rather than defend the field HQ.” Tortorelli looked pleased with himself.

“And the First Cossack Lancers?” asked Parsons. The Envoy leaned forward, craned his neck, and studied how Captain Leclerc positioned his forces.

“They lack tanks, but have a higher percentage of soldiers in battle armor.”

“This is a Mobile Tactical HQ?” asked Parsons, pointing to a glowing white star on the top of a small vehicle.

“Manfred Leclerc demanded that he purchase it,” Sergio said. “It’s a white elephant, if you ask me. Whenever I travel, it has to be loaded onto a transport. Leclerc insists that it arrive before me, so a protective screen can be in place.”

“It’s a powerful coordinating center in the field,” admitted Tortorelli, “but it cannot compare with my dispersed command. Every unit commander is free to act on his or her own to acquire targets and achieve goals set by my field commandant.”

“So you require less coordination once the fight starts?” asked Parsons. “An interesting, no, might I say, novel approach. This is not unlike having a dozen vigilante groups thrown onto the field.”

“I—” Tortorelli wasn’t sure how to answer because of the way Parsons phrased his comment. He swallowed, then said loudly to cover his confusion, “Give the signal for Operation Kaiser to begin!”

Elora stepped forward, a smile on her lips. Her own offensive had begun much earlier.

“This is ridiculous, Dale,” Manfred Leclerc said angrily. “You don’t belong here. Take off. I’ll send the truce signal and—”

“What would you want me to do, Captain? I’m not going to miss the unit’s last official mobilization. After today, the FCL is a footnote in history books.”

“I know how you feel about the unit,” Manfred said, “but you haven’t given yourself time enough to come to grips with Hanna’s death.” He lowered his voice a little as he looked at Austin. “Austin tells me you’re not convinced it was an accident.”

“They haven’t caught the driver yet, and it was a stolen car. Hanna died because—” Dale bit off his words. “I can do my job, Captain Leclerc,” Dale said stiffly. “I don’t care what you or my brother say.”

“Please, Dale,” begged Austin, but he saw his brother wasn’t going to budge. He certainly didn’t blame him. Their father had given the order for the FCL transfer immediately after this exercise.

“It’s not that you’re incapable, Lieutenant Ortega,” Manfred said. He heaved a sigh of resignation. “Get into the TacCom mobile. We’ll need to know where they are, since they outnumber us more than two to one in battle armor.”

“I’ll keep after their tanks, too,” Dale said, a slight smile coming to his lips. “I know my job. In fact, no one’s better at it.”

“Get out of here,” Manfred said gruffly. “As to you,” he said to Austin, “get into your battle armor!”

“Right away, Captain!” Austin said, snapping a quick salute. He had scant time to get into his Purifier armor. Already dressed in the tight-fitting bodysuit that was slick on the outside and lined with cooling tubes inside, he felt like he was ready to settle into a BattleMech cockpit. But it was only battle armor.

Only.

Austin knew how effective the armor could be when used by expert fighters. He felt confident in his armor but still wished he had a ’Mech around him.

“You ready, Lieutenant?” asked Jurgen, his technician. The man had brought up the mobile loading unit holding the opened battle armor.

“Ready,” Austin said, scrambling up, slipping around, and thrusting his legs down into the armor. It fit like a comfortable pair of pants until Jurgen cranked down the fitting mechanism and it collapsed around him from the waist down. Then he worked his way into the torso unit, letting Jurgen guide the breastplate into place.

“Getting feedback on your bodysuit sensors, sir,” reported Jurgen, checking his readouts. “All circuits go.”

Austin kept adding segments and Jurgen called out approval each time. They didn’t rush, but they maintained a steady pace that soon brought Austin to the point of checking his weapons.

Calibration went well, but he chafed at not having real weapons. The rules of engagement today were to shoot blanks, missiles with paint spatter warheads. No energy weapons. Autocannon with paint bullets. All playacting.

“Want to rip off a salvo to make sure your SRMs work, Lieutenant? It’s jury-rigged, since I had to disconnect your lasers for this exercise.”

Austin stretched, used his HUD to be sure the targeting matched where the missiles would go, then gave Jurgen the thumbs-up.

“Jumppacks good to go, too, sir,” Jurgen said.

Myomer muscles straining, Austin moved about, turning, twisting the one-ton battle armor about, and found movement only slightly more restricted than without. “A perfect fit,” he told Jurgen.

“Thanks, sir. Go paint those bastards good, for the glory of the First Cossack Lancers!”

Austin smiled, then walked briskly to take his position. The FCL had limited personnel, but he was pleased to see that Master Sergeant Borodin already had the company assembled and psyched for the mock fight.

“Good to see I drew you, Lieutenant,” Borodin said. “I hate these so-called exercises. No real missiles, just marker-equipped projectiles. No lasers or PPC, no Gauss rifles. We just throw dye markers at each other and pretend it matters.”

“Those are the rules, Master Sergeant,” Austin said. Everyone shared this contempt for the rules Legate Tortorelli had posted. And everyone in the FCL knew this was the last time they were likely to work as a unit. No one thought Tortorelli would keep them together after their transfer to his command.

“Captain Leclerc,” Austin reported on a command circuit. “Alpha Company ready!”

“Follow the battle plan and we will win!” came Manfred’s encouragement. Then the captain keyed into Austin’s private channel. “Don’t worry about Dale,” Manfred said. “He can keep things humming along in the TacCom. I’m taking a Shandra out and will relay back what I can see. From what I’ve seen so far, Tortorelli’s so-called tactics make me think he fielded the wrong units.”

“What have you spotted, Captain?” Austin heard the private circuit click to the officer command channel again. What Manfred said now went to all four of the company commanders.