As a commander, Grayson, too, had to be concerned with preserving his own company. The Gray Death's recon lance was now at the top of the valley's western ridge, engaged in a long-range duel with unseen Marik BattleMechs on the far side of the ridge. The retreat of the heavy Marik forces in the valley could overwhelm the recon lance, or at least cut it off long enough for serious damage to be inflicted on those lighter 'Mechs. Grayson wanted to get at least some of his heavier 'Mechs up the western ridge and among the company's light 'Mechs there, partly to support them in their duel with the Marik forces, partly to allow them to rejoin the company's main body.

Reuniting with the recon lance was more important at the moment than dealing with the Marik Wolverine.Grayson dropped his Marauderinto a low-bodied crouch and discharged a savage left-right-left-right volley of PPC and laser fire that staggered the enemy 'Mech and forced it to retreat again, but he did not follow up his advantage. Instead he sprinted up the ridge toward the isolated recon lance. He could make out three of the lance's 'Mechs at the crest of the ridge, heavily engaged with Marik forces on two sides. There was Roget's 35-ton Pantherin the thick of the action, with Vandergriff's Commandoand Trevor's Waspclose beside her. Their 'Mechs looked impossibly small, struggling in silhouette against the skyline of the ridge perhaps two kilometers away.

But where was Graff's Assassin ?

If one of the lance's 'Mechs was down already, the others must have absorbed plenty of damage as well, and could now be on the verge of being overwhelmed. He increased his Marauder'space, racing up the ridge.

Behind him, battle swirled through the valley close about the DropShips.

* * *

The Marik pilot's name was Gordon Wilcox, and he had been a Locustpilot in Captain Prosser's Hammer-strike Company of the 5th Marik Guards regiment. When word had come down for the Hammerstrikes to move on Durandel, he had been ordered to remain behind at Helmdown, guarding the DropShips.

Wilcox had accepted the assignment with relative equanimity. He was young still, as were most Mech-Warriors, and eager to come to grips with the enemy. He had seen enough action in his short career, however, to know that even a relatively simple operation like mopping up on rebel civilians and a handful of light armored vehicles could be a risk to life and limb. How much more true when life and limb were sheltered within the relatively frail armor of a 20-ton Locust.

He had walked his Locuston sentry-go around the spaceport perimeter and been on patrol when the news had come. Of the nine 'Mechs that had gone to Durandel, only one had returned. That the one survivor was Colonel Langsdorf's Warhammerwas significant. Every other one of those eight 'Mechs had been lights. Despite its martial name, the Hammerstrike Company had originally been conceived as a fast recon company, and so the heaviest 'Mech in the unit had been Captain Prosser's Rifleman.Then Langsdorf—the man wasn't a Hammer-striker, but the regimental big-wheel of the 12th White Sabers—had come in and shaken everything up. The Captain had been bucked down to lance leader of the fire lance, and Nakamura's Griffin had been shuffled to the recon lance. None of it made any sense, except perhaps for the decision to leave Gordon's Locustback at Helm-down.

Now Langsdorf was back, and the word was that the eight 'Mechs he had left behind at Durandel would never return. There were vague hints and dark rumors, the usual mix of fantasy and maybe-fact inherent in all military scuttlebutt. It was said that enemy DropShips had grounded near Durandel, and a regiment of renegade mercenaries had wiped out all eight of Gordon's comrades-at-arms.

Almost before Gordon could absorb the magnitude of this personal disaster, new orders had come again. He had been ordered to attach his Locust,along with Fred Kilpatrick's Waspand Hernando De Cruz's Stinger,to part of the 12th White Sabers and to move out against the rebels at Durandel.

He followed orders, but with a growing hatred. Because of the jamming, there was no way to talk things over with De Cruz or Kilpatrick, though he was sure the other two felt as he did. Not that he would have wanted to discuss all this over a comm frequency! The thoughts Wilcox bore in his heart bordered on outright mutiny.

As they approached the target area, Langsdorf had used arm gestures of his Warhammerto deploy the troops, and Gordon had found himself and his two friends in the center of the line, with the heavies of the 12th Sabers on either flank. What was the man trying to pull? It was obvious that the renegade meres had deployed in entrenchments along the slope of the ridge facing them, that the enemy was dug in and waiting for them. Could it be that the Colonel was actually trying to eliminate every last 'Mech of the Hammerstrike Company? They'd started off one short of a full company, and then eight had been junked at Durandel. That left the three of them, light 'Mechs all, and Langsdorf was sending them right up the enemy's center, where his firepower and armor were bound to be thickest. The man must be crazy!

Then Gordon was too busy to think. The hillside had been a warren of cleverly dug and concealed trenches and bunkers. Though no single strongpoint masked enough firepower to seriously threaten even his Locust,the danger was acute, the battle an endless, nerve-twisting fight against fear and an unseen opponent, against rugged ground and hidden pitfalls and the sweat streaming into his eyes. A missile launcher had lightly damaged one leg of his Locust.The troops who had fired on him bolted from cover, then raced up the hill. Gordon's anger had surged out in a need for release. His hands had closed on his machine gun controls. He'd tracked his heavy Sperry-Brownings up the hill after the fugitive mercenaries, and triggered a long, satisfying blast that cut them down kicking. An enemy machine gun had answered from the crest of the ridge, and he had engaged it, trading round after rapid-fire round.

He didn't see the enemy sapper on his combat view-screens until it was too late. He'd spotted the man racing away from under his Locustseconds before an explosion all but severed the 'Mech's foot. He had pulled off his neurohelmet and replaced it with a combat helmet. Dressed only in shorts and combat boots. Gordon's only body protection was the dark visor that would shield his eyes on a battlefield where stray laser beams were still flashing low across the ground. Anxious to find that sapper, eager to kill, he climbed out of his crippled machine while cradling the Rugan subgun.

It was strange, some detached portion of his mind told him, how his hatred of Langsdorf had been channeled into an all-consuming hatred of the enemy. Had that,after all, been Langsdorf's idea, to take men already so angered at the deaths of their comrades that they would pilot their 'Mechs into the very heart of the enemy's defense, and in the fury of their attack, buy time for Langsdorf to flank and surround them? The DropShips, by all accounts, lay just on the other side of this ridge, a place marked as Cleft Valley on the Company's orbital recon maps. Langsdorf's 'Mechs must be over there now, fighting among the renegade's DropShips in an all-out attempt to take them before the enemy's main force returned from Durandel.

He had seen the enemy sapper an instant before Kilpatrick's Wasphad fired two SRMs into the enemy's trench. He recognized the man's tactical vest, the camouflage pattern of his combat helmet. It was the same man he'd glimpsed on his screens just before his Locusthad been crippled.

Gordon hoped the enemy soldier was not dead. Killing him with the submachine gun—or better, with his bare hands—would be far more satisfying than the deaths of the two running soldiers on the hill. His anger was out of control now, a torrent raging against the injustice that had cut down eight of his friends and left him stranded on a fire-swept hillside light years from his home.