"Excellent, Strike One! Is there resistance?"

The leader looked down at a sprawled form on the ground and nudged it with his boot. It was a young woman, scantily clad and very dead.

"Negative, Colonel. No resistance.”

“And their ‘Mechs?"

"I have a report that our scouts have found the caves. The ‘Mechs are unmanned and in our hands. We'll have the area secured soon. All other targets have been secured and neutralized."

"Understood. We are on the road, on schedule. We'll be there in three hours."

"Confirmed, three hours. Strike One out."

Three hours. That meant the BattleMech company led by Colonel Kevlavic himself was on its way down the main road from Basin Rim and already past the area ravaged in the battle only two days before.

Someone screamed as the silent twin swords of blazer fire struck him down. Farther off, the dull thump of a fuel depot igniting startled the night-calling wildlife into silence.

Three hours? He looked down again at the rebel's body by his feet. By that time, things at the rebel base would be well in hand.

23

The rebel column had stopped for the night. Even along the broadest and firmest plantation trails and roads that crisscrossed beneath the trees, travel in the jungle was difficult, at best. The dark added little to their chances of concealing something as big, hot, and loud as a small army of BattleMechs when the enemy arsenal included infrared scanners and sonic trackers. Grayson and the other MechWarriors had stayed in their ‘Mechs, taking turns standing watch, sleeping, or relaxing. Outside, the rebel troops stretched canvas and tarps from the sides of grounded vehicles and slept in makeshift tents, while others strolled the dark camp perimeter, watching shadows.

Restless, unable to sleep, Grayson heated water for coffee in a small brass pot over one of the power plant coolant ducts in the narrow engineering access space high in the Shadow Hawk'sthorax. He spent much of the night watching the Hawk'sscanners, but there was no sign of enemy movement. Once his radio band scanners picked up a burst of static that might have been anything—a meteor ionizing the upper atmosphere, a ship re-entry, or random radio noise generated by the Norn system's sun in Verthandi's magnetic field. A short time later, he thought he detected the warbling garble of scrambled radio transmissions, but very far away. His own base was under radio silence, of course, a necessary precaution to keep the enemy from triangulating their transmissions and getting a fix on the rebel HQ. That transmission hadto be something of the enemy's.

What was Nagumo doing? What was he planning? Grayson knew with a cold lump of certainty in his gullet that his success against Verthandi's conquerors during the past two days owed much to luck and to the fact that he'd been able to gain a momentary initiative over Nagumo's forces. That initiative was a fragile, illusory state, however. Nagumo had only to make one move, strike one village, make one attack that forced Grayson to respond, and the initiative was lost, possibly forever. The enemy had so many forces, so many troops spread across a planet that was, after all, far larger than any one man could grasp. Grayson's forces were so few. Even if he could find a way to win this unequal struggle, how could he do it before Governor-General Nagumo scorched the surface of Verthandi to a cinder in a vicious war of retaliation and counter-retaliation?

Once during his vigil, Grayson thought he detected a brief faint glow, a dim, false dawn in the cloud bellies above the treetops to the east. When the light quickly faded, he decided that it had been a figment of his own exhaustion.

Before it was fully light, the rebel band had breakfasted on canned rations and survival concentrates, saddled up their vehicles, and were on their way once more. He hoped to reach Fox Island well before 0900 local time, give his men time to resupply, and push on to the next target, another watchstation at the edge of the Vrieshaven district, 180 kilometers further east. After that, perhaps they could rest awhile.

Only a short while, though. Success depended on the rebel ‘Mech force moving quickly and far afield, striking the Kurita garrisons wherever they were weak and lax in their watchfulness. To stop meant that the enemy could close in on them with fingers of steel, trapping them, crushing them.

He urged tired men and worn machines to a faster pace through an unforgiving jungle. Lori was in the lead in the light and swift-footed Locust.They were still five kilometers from camp when her voice came across the command circuit "Boss! I've got a reading ahead! Man-sized, heading this way!"

Grayson's brow furrowed in puzzlement There should be no sentries so far to the west of Fox Island. He acknowledged and steered the Hawkup the trail until it stood alongside the Locust.His own scanners detected the motion—a man, following an erratic and uneven course through the brush. Less than ten meters ahead of the two ‘Mechs, that man burst out onto the trail, where he stood weaving unsteadily. Through a mask of blood, he took in the apparition of two BattleMechs towering in front of him, then fell face down into the soft ground. Lori and Grayson reached him first. One of the Legion medtechs joined them moments later, kit in hand. It wasn't until the medic had wiped some of the blood and dirt from the man's face that Grayson recognized him as Jaleg Yorulis.

Yorulius' eyes fluttered open. "Don't...go back," he said, his voice a hoarse croak. "They'rethere..."

"Who? Who's there?"

"Dracos..."

Grayson went cold inside. "Jaleg! What happened? Tell us!"

"Drac...commandos. Parachutes. They landed right on top of us. Never knew...never knew they were there. The... ‘Mechs, they came through later."

'"Mechs? Kurita BattleMechs?"

He nodded, the effort costing him blood and strength. "They're still there... waiting... for you

The medic ran his hands across Yorulis' body. "Where'd they hit you, Mech Warrior?"

Yorulis laughed, a ragged, gagging sound, and tried to mop at the blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. "Where didn't they get me?"

Grayson pursed his lips. He was no medic, but he knew that Yorulis didn't have a chance outside a well-stocked hospital, which they weren't likely to find out here. As blood welled from holes high in the man's chest, the medtech began slapping them with small plastic patches. Those holes sucked and bubbled with each breath Yorulis took.

"How many ‘Mechs?" Grayson asked gently. The medic looked up at Grayson as though about to protest, but Grayson silenced him with a shake of his head and repeated the question. "How many ‘Mechs, Jaleg?"

"Don't... know. Comp'ny maybe. Maybe more." He tossed his head back and forth. "Don't go back there. They're... laying for you. Must've waited to get word that you were out raiding their outposts... then moved... fast. They got all the ‘Mechs you left there. And the Techs. Herded them off South... somewhere..."

The full scope of the disaster was only now becoming clear to Grayson. Without their base, without Techs...

"Couldn't get to a ‘Mech," the wounded ‘MechWarrior contintied. "Never had a chance. They got the Council too. Captain. Rounded 'em up and marched 'em off. Don't know what happened to them."

"Ericksson?"

"Don't know. Don't...know. Didn't see him. I...snuck out. but a Phoenix Hawkspotted me, opened up with its machine guns. I guess they figured they killed me, because they stopped shooting after the third time I fell down." He started coughing then, and the blood flowed faster, soaking the medtech's patches. "I...guess maybe they were right."