Not every unit went to the same lengths to train their prospective Mech Warriors. Many used some variant of a military academy, a series of courses lasting between three and six standard years. Yet it was true that the basic skills necessary for maneuvering a BattleMech in combat could be mastered in a few weeks of intensive training. Entire ‘Mech armies had been fielded by young pilots who barely knew how to trigger their weapons. Needless to say, the battle records of such green armies were not impressive, save in the length of their casualty lists. Yet Verthandi's Revolutionary Council wanted the Gray Death to prepare just such an army, a small one, for slaughter.

Grayson was bound by the word of his contract. Here in the Caves, he was supposed to teach this gang of mostly boys and girls the art of BattleMech warfare. For the first time, he seriously regretted ever having signed that contract.

* * * *

At sea, the storm continued, lashing at the jury-rigged Phobos.Winds and rain threatened to nudge her yawing, pitching, twenty-degree list into the final lurch to the bottom. Use Martinez sat at the controls, watching seasickness overtake one of her engineering Techs on the canted deck. She averted her eyes at the last moment to study the pressure gauges for the hot water boilers that the Caledonian had helped design and wire, all the while cursing unintelligibly. With the drunken stagger of the ship and the mingled stinks of fear and vomit assaulting her senses, her own stomach was none too steady at the moment.

Steam pressure was still holding as throbbing pumps gulped in sea water and funneled it past the Phobos'sdrive reactor. Steam and hot water continued to thrust the DropShip unsteadily through the foaming sea. At times, they seemed to be barely making way, but they weremoving. As long as the storm lasted, they were also safe from hostile, prying eyes.

She muttered something vicious.

"Ma'am?" The sick Tech looked up, his face pale and drawn, his arm wedged against a support beam to steady himself against the ship's motion.

"Nothing, Groton. Nothing. Remind me to order an all-hands evolution when we make port. This ship stinks, and we're going to have a scrub-down, fore and aft!"

Groton looked, if possible, more miserable than before. "Aye, Captain."

She checked the repeater screen, which showed a computer-generated map of the Azure Sea and the point of light plotted on it by the ship's internal tracking system.

"God help me," she added, more to herself than to the Tech. "If we make it, I won't know whether to curse that bastard Carlyle for being a genius, or curse myself for following him into this mess!"

* * * *

"I don't care what you've been told or taught, a BattleMech is not invincible!"

Sergeant Ramage paced a narrow track in front of the twenty-odd Ranger trainees gathered to hear his lecture. They were seated on the sandy floor of the cave entrance. At their backs, the sky was overcast, but showed signs of revealing the afternoon sun. The Order of the Day was that ‘Mechs and large concentrations of people were to remain under cover. Looming behind Ramage was the bulk of a Stinger,and his lanky frame reached barely halfway up the Stinger'sarmored leg to its knee.

Grayson leaned back against the slick wetness of a boulder at the cave entrance, folded his arms, and listened closely to Ramage's performance. Grayson himself had trained Ramage. The career infantry NCO had formerly been a sergeant in the planetary defense militia on Trellwan until Grayson had taught combat tactics to him and the other Trellwanese. Ramage was doing a good job, Grayson decided. He was a lively instructor, and his voice and gestures communicated that enthusiasm. He'd already established a rapport with his students.

Grayson could find no fault with the Verthandians' willingness, determination, or courage, either, which had been put to many a grueling test in the last three weeks. The students had been organized into lances, with one Gray Death veteran trooper from the combat platoon acting as lance corporal to three Verthandians. Company, platoon, and battalion command elements were formed of mixtures of mercenaries and natives, for the Verthandians would have to fight under their own officers when the time came, not under the offworlders. Recruit officers learned side by side with their enlisted counterparts.

The Gray Death's technical platoon was involved as well. Sergeant Karelian was in charge of organizing the Verthandian Techs into military technical squads. Fortunately, the Verthandians were well-trained in a wide range of mechanical and technical skills. The Legion would definitely not lack repair and maintenance personnel.

Grayson's big worry was the combat recruits. There were two separate groups of them. One consisted of those who knew how to pilot ‘Mechs and now needed to learn how to do so in combat. That group was small and select; Grayson had met all of its members and given several lectures, as had all the Legion's MechWarriors. They were an eager group. Several among them, including tall, rangy Collin Dace and Rolf Montido, were experienced combat warriors. Others, like Vikki Traxen, Nadine Cheka, Olin Sonovarro, and Carlin Adams, had only recently learned how to pilot a ‘Mech and had never been in combat at all.

Ramage had taken the second group in hand as his personal charges. They were to be the nucleus of the Verthandian ground forces, trained in anti- ‘Mech commando tactics and transformed into an elite force. Though far larger than the first group, many had already dropped out, choosing to remain instead in the regular rebel army. Enough remained that Ramage had subdivided them so that some were at practice while he gave demonstrations to others.

The class that Grayson was observing happened to be composed entirely of young people, with none older than nineteen standard years, and some as young as thirteen. That morning had seen them wading, crawling, swinging, and mostly running through the obstacle course Ramage had set up outside the cave, followed by several hours of the digging that Ramage had promised. After a hastily gobbled midday meal, now was the time for lessons of a more academic nature.

Ramage stopped in mid-pace and fixed a teenage girl with his fire-bright eyes. When he suddenly pointed at her, she gasped. "You!" he said intently. "You, by yourself, could bring down the biggest big game of all, ninety tons of fighting steel! If you keep your heads, youcan be the masters of a battlefield, not..." He paused to jerk his thumb over his shoulder at the Stingerbehind him. "Not these big lummoxes!"

He feigned surprise. "You don't believe me? O.K., watch this."

Ramage walked across the cave floor to a pile of supplies and crates close to where Grayson was standing. He picked up a canvas bag the size of a large travel case, winked gravely at Grayson, then returned to his lecture position in front of the Stinger.The bag itself was festooned with slender hooks of black wire, and had a length of cable capped by a plastic cylinder with a pull ring dangling from it.

"This," he said, "is a satchel charge. It contains four two-kilo blocks of C-90 plastique, four detonators, and a fuse igniter with a six-second delay. Now, pay attention, because I'm only going to do mis once." He touched his throat mike. "Jaleg? Move out!"

The audience heard no reply because Ramage was wearing an ear speaker, but the Stingerlooming behind him abruptly stirred, shifted, then spun to the right. The massive right foot came up off the ground, swinging forward.

Ramage shouted to be heard against the creak-rumble of joint flanges and internal driver rods. "Imagine that I’ve been hiding in the bushes here!"