13

In and Around Nazareth, Alkalurops

Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere

22 August 3134; local summer

Benjork Lone Cat led the ’Mechs and gun trucks of his task force south as quickly as he dared push trainees. Aware that the farmers were fleeing north, hounded by Black and Reds, the militia responded like pros. Only twenty hours later Benjork strode up the dusty, wide road into Nazareth. As Sean oversaw refueling the ’Mechs and rigs, Benjork dismounted and turned to the half-dozen men lounging in front of the town’s one store.

Feet up on the porch rail, chairs pushed back, they tried to ignore the gray MilitiaMechs that loomed over their one-story town, but they nodded to Benjork as he introduced himself and asked if they had seen the hunted farmers.

“They ain’t been here. May not make it if them Black and Reds have any say—not that I know nothing about this, you understand,” said a man with boots of tooled leather.

“They will likely travel this road, quiaff?”

The men looked at one another, then shook their heads. “Nope,” “Not likely,” “Wouldn’t do it if I was them,” came back at him. He waited for silence to fall, then asked a new question.

“What road would you travel to Falkirk?”

“You come from there?” one asked.

“I fight with Grace O’Malley,” Ben answered.

“We don’t much want to fight with anybody,” the one with the fancy boots said, letting his chair come down hard. “You see, them Special Police are hanging anybody they think might know anything about them farmers. They’re stringing ’em up to signs, power poles, windmills, by God. Stringing them up like they had all the rope in the world.”

“They string up a man, then go looking for his woman and kids,” another man added.

“We don’t need to know nothing about this fight. It’s not ours, so you’d like to get your gas and get out of here,” Fancy Boots said, standing and leading his cronies inside.

Benjork thanked them for their time and returned to his ’Mech. It was fueled, as were all the rigs. He offered Wilson’s smart card to the young man who had watched them pump the gas.

“Your money’s no good here,” a voice came from behind Benjork. He turned. One of the men from the store was sauntering their way. “Ken, don’t touch that card,” he told the boy, who frowned but returned the card.

“Best we say that you took the gas at gunpoint. Hell, you got enough guns, don’t you?”

“That is not our intention.”

“But it’s a story that will keep Ken there from dancing from his sign. The Black and Reds really want those farmers.”

“I can well imagine. But if they are not this far—”

“They will be. Not by any road that sends ’em through towns where people can see ’em. Someone’s bound to report ’em. No, they’re traveling the back roads. I can think of a few I’d use.”

“You would show me, quiaff?” Benjork reached for a map.

“White Hair, I don’t know maps. Don’t know the names of most of the roads I been driving since I was knee-high, but I’ll take you there,” he said, climbing into a dilapidated truck that might once have been red. “My Elly died last winter, and my kids are all moved away. If a guy like me can’t do this, nobody can. So you follow me if you can keep up.” And he gunned out of town in a cloud of dust and oil.

It took no orders to get the militia troops moving; they’d heard the man. Their eagerness as they piled into the gun trucks told him they believed every word. Benjork mounted up and led his team at a trot into the red truck’s dust.

The old man raced with wild abandon over gravel roads and dirt tracks that were hardly more than wheel ruts. They passed ranches and homesteads, some looking more abandoned than lived in. The truck bounced over bumps and rocks Benjork feared might be too much for the hovertrucks.

After a while, the Lone Cat wondered if the truck was leading them on a wild chase after nightmares. Then the truck braked to a halt, sliding sideways as it did. The old man was out, gazing at a low butte not much taller than Benjork’s ’Mech.

Benjork raised his ’Mech’s arm to signal his battle team to a halt, then paced off the distance to where the butte ended in a ridge of eroding yellow dirt. With all the rolling terrain around Falkirk, Ben had had a periscope installed in his MiningMech MOD. Now he raised it.

In the next valley a battle raged.

The farmers had abandoned half a dozen trucks in front of a large outcropping of red rocks three kilometers away. They shot from its cover. Behind the rocks, one green and two yellow AgroMechs stood, stained with dust and rocket fragments. Their scythes spun slowly at the ready.

Black and Red infantry were strung out along a dry wash, half a klick to the left, riflemen and rocket launchers keeping up a desultory fire, giving Ben the feeling that this was the middle of a long and not all that successful battle.

In the broken ground between wash and red rocks, a burned-out Black and Red ’Mech MOD lay, still smoking. Its chest was blown in. Benjork guessed the farmers had explosives and knew how to use them. He thought for a moment on how a satchel charge might be delivered and shook his head. Desperate men did desperate things.

Two klicks behind the rifle line towered a dozen ’Mech MODs, some Black and Red, others still Agro green or Industrial gray. Most sported a single machine gun. One had a twenty-millimeter autocannon. Several showed recent damage. Well back from them and out of SRM range, a Black and Red Black Hawk squatted like a toad. It fired a pair of long-range lasers randomly, rarely hitting the rock pile.

Someone had a nice ’Mech they did not know how to use. Used properly, that Black Hawk could take out Benjork’s entire troop. “To you, I will send my best,” he whispered.

Then he studied the terrain. The wash twisted and turned as it made its way around the harder rock outcroppings of the eroded butte. A red-and-yellow streaked pinnacle shot up to his left. That should hide ’Mechs on an approach march. He activated his magscan and breathed a small sigh of relief. All that red in the rocks was iron. The magscan was hosed. Surprise was possible.

Benjork returned to his battle group, dismounted, and faced the old rancher. “I am grateful for your help. You have led me to my battle. You may go now. May you have blessed dreams for your service.”

“I got a rifle in my pickup. Them farmers are just like me. Don’t see how I can come this far and drive away,” the man said. Returning to his rig, he pulled a scoped weapon from its scabbard with easy grace.

“You are welcome within our ranks,” Benjork told him. Among his team, dust covers came off rocket launchers. Machine guns were lovingly checked. Maintenance crews climbed over the gray ’Mech MODs under the watchful eyes of their militia pilots, making last-minute checks on rocket launchers and Gatling guns. He had to remind himself that these were green recruits. Their purposeful strides and hard eyes would do any warrior proud who knew what he faced and ran to meet it.

With rifle fire and the occasional explosion to remind them of what lay ahead, Benjork called his ’Mechs and Lieutenant Hicks’ drivers into a circle. In the red dust Benjork drew a map. “Over that hill are Black and Red infantry and ’Mech MODs. They are led by a Black Hawk that could destroy us all.” He gave them a smile. “So we will ignore it and concentrate our fire on the ’Mech MODs. Hicks, that includes your gun trucks and infantry dismounts. Once I am sure you have the ’Mech MODs under control, Sean and Maud and I will redirect our fire to the Black Hawk. No battle is ever won by being strong everywhere. Today we will win by being strong against their ’Mech MODs first.

“But remember, the Black Hawk’s SRMs are Streaks. If he gets a lock on you, every missile will hit. Never stand still. Never take more than four or five steps without changing direction. You must zigzag if you are to live through today.”

That got solemn nods from everyone.

“Remember that the four rockets you carry have no reloads. Use two of them on my command. The other two are yours to use sparingly. Take care with your thirty-millimeter Gatling gun. Mick and Johnny did their best with the guns and ammo, but do not forget that your caseless ammo will dirty up your guns. If you fire bursts that are too long, the gun will overheat and jam. Wait too long between bursts, and your gun may gum up and jam. Once you start shooting, keep shooting.”

There were resigned smiles at that reminder.

Benjork turned to Sean. Maud stood at his elbow, she of the flashing brown hair and dancing freckles. Maud claimed she’d been driving ’Mechs since she was a child, whenever her pappy would let her. After watching her run the obstacle course Benjork had designed, he would not gainsay her. The MechWarrior remembered now how often Sean and Maud were elbow to elbow and tasted both joy and sorrow as he gave his orders.

“Sean, you and Maud stay close to me. As soon as the ’Mech MODs are suppressed, we hit the Black Hawk. If the Black Hawk attacks aggressively, I may order us to attack it immediately. Are there any questions?” There were none.

“Maintain radio silence until I break it. Hicks, give me ten minutes to get in place. Know that this is how the battle will start. How it ends, only the true dreamer can tell,” he said.

The militia pilots and gun crews went to their posts. Benjork, Sean and Maud grouped at the head of the ’Mech MODs line. Lieutenant Hicks stood in the lead gun truck, eyeing his watch, waiting patiently for the moment to lead the gun trucks forward. The old rancher stood behind him, fondling his rifle, lips moving in prayer.

Gravel crunched under Benjork’s ’Mech as it crossed the dry wash, headed south. He kept an eye on the ridge that separated them from the sound of battle. Sometimes it rose higher, other times it dipped. It never dropped low enough to reveal the ’Mechs he led. He found a rough gully just past where he needed one and led the three lances of ’Mech MODs through its rock-strewn bed.

Most rocks crumbled under the footpads, but one ’Mech came to grief when a rock rolled out from under it; even double gyros could not keep it upright. The following ’Mechs stood in place as that pilot struggled back up, leaning on a bent mining drill. As the ’Mech continued on down the path, it limped visibly.

Benjork nodded with understanding. As a cub he had been warned it was not always the enemy who made battle plans unravel. He signaled Sean ahead but paused, cockpit open, until the damaged ’Mech limped up. The youngster opened his cockpit and raised his visor, face set for a dressing-down. Benjork gave him the small smile he allowed for special occasions. “You will fight last in line,” he said, and the MechWarrior winced. “Not because you stumbled. Any of us—even I—could have been given that fate. No, your mining drill is broken. You should not fight in a melee. Stand back and use your rockets and Gatling. You are one of the best with them. Use them well.”

“I will, sir,” came quickly as Benjork closed his cockpit and made his way to the front of his command.

They were now beyond the ridge, but a shallow fold in this land of scrub brush and yellow dust hid them from the Special Police. Benjork used his periscope to check out the battle. His team was where he wanted it—behind the ’Mech line, almost even with the Black Hawk and to its right.

The Lone Cat halted his troop and checked the time. He had three minutes to wait, to let his hot engines cool. He whispered a prayer that Sven and Mick and Johnny had done good work and might enjoy dreams that would tell them much.

The weapons’ fire increased. Periscope up, Benjork saw change. The riflemen had spread out, up and down the dry creek and were now moving forward on their bellies from bush to bush, rock to rock, closing with the sharpshooters. The Black and Red ’Mech MODs now stepped off the distance to the dry wash.

Not the Black Hawk, though. It stayed well back. Shooting its lasers more frequently, it slashed streaks in the rocks or started fires in the brush. That must encourage the poor creeping infantry. Now they crawled through hot, blackened ash where concealment once had been. Time to end this.

Benjork broke radio silence with a firm, “Hicks, attack. Repeat, attack. Militia ’Mechs, charge! Charge and zigzag!”

Beside him, the militia pilots slammed their throttles forward, and green and gray ’Mechs charged into battle. Benjork charged with them, covering the hard-packed ground to the top of the rise with long distance-eating strides. As he topped the rise, the battle came into full view.

On his far right, Lieutenant Hicks led the charge of the gun trucks down the wash, dust blowing, Gatlings roaring. The second gun truck loosed a rocket volley at the surprised ’Mech MODs. One rocket struck a glancing blow on the chest armor of an AgroMech. The shaped charge left a long slash. Paint smoking, the ’Mech backpedaled and the other Black and Red ’Mechs suddenly took notice of the new fighters on their battlefield.

A Special Police rifleman stood up to run. A farmer in the rocks drilled him before he took a step. Other riflemen returned the fire. Here and there a Police crawler began to crawl backward.

One enemy ’Mech MOD stumbled as all of them turned to face the gun trucks. The Black Hawk fired off two fast laser blasts. One sent Hicks’ gun truck sliding sideways into the wall of the dry wash. It bounced over a large rock, went halfway up on its side, then slid down to right itself. The old rancher steadied his rifle and put a bullet into the cockpit of the Black Hawk. The round ricocheted off, but it was still a hit at that range.

The Black and Red ’Mech MODs struggled to change the front from the rock pile to the increasing number of gun trucks firing machine guns, rockets and antiarmor grenades at them.

“Hold your fire,” Benjork told his ’Mech team as they trotted forward, apparently unnoticed. When the Black Hawk to his right continued stabbing out with his lasers at gun trucks, the MechWarrior chose to take a major risk.

“Militia ’Mechs: Halt in place, target two missiles on a Black and Red ’Mech MOD, and fire immediately. Then charge them for all you’re worth.” It had been Grace’s suggestion that the first round be fired at the halt. The idea had sounded good then.

Now Benjork throttled to a halt with the rest. “Sean, Maud—with me. Target the Black Hawk.”

In a ragged line, eight charging ’Mech MODs came to a halt. Without further orders, rockets rippled out from them, taking the Black and Reds on their flank. Some rockets corkscrewed across the sun-drenched sky. Others slammed into enemy ’Mechs, shredding armor. One smashed into the magazine of an AgroMech’s autocannon. The armor held out against the explosion, but bolts must have sheared. The magazine was knocked up against the ’Mech’s cockpit, and its stream of fifty-millimeter bullets quit chasing a gun truck.

Benjork turned to face the Black Hawk as its driver became aware of the new threat on its flank. “Sean, Maud—fire two rockets,” he ordered as he emptied his right rocket pack. Far out on the left, the limping ’Mech with the damaged drill also joined in the shooting, sending four rockets straight and true into the Black Hawk’s backside, and following them up with a series of short bursts from his thirty-millimeter Gatling gun.

The Black Hawk stumbled back as missiles hit him from the other three, shredding armor, but doing no major damage.

“Everyone get moving!” the Lone Cat shouted, slamming his ’Mech into five quick steps forward at a right angle. Sean and Maud jinked their own way as the Black Hawk salvoed off one of his four quad-packs at each of them. The missiles hit where the three of them had been, but the limping ’Mech hadn’t moved fast enough. The militia pilot took a full salvo on his ’Mech’s chest, knocking it flat on its back.

Benjork had no time to count his losses. He led his three remaining ’Mech MODs against the Black Hawk, forcing it back even as its laser flashed over them, heating them up. Missiles slashed rock, sent up plumes of dirt, and burned sagebrush around them. Still, they advanced and the Black Hawk backpedaled.

Off to their right, the eight other ’Mech MODs charged at the remaining eleven Black and Reds, trading thirty-millimeter tungsten slugs as they moved. One enemy ’Mech caught a group of dismounts before they could disperse, cutting them down in one bloody clump. A second Black and Red sent a burst of machine-gun fire slashing into a gun truck, gutting it and throwing its crew to the ground like rag dolls.

But the Militia ’Mechs were hammering the Special Police, too, sending them stumbling back. With the Black Hawk otherwise occupied, the ’Mech MODs clumped up, leaderless. A pair of rockets took a damaged ’Mech at short range, slashing off its arm with a machine gun and setting fire to its ammo. The ’Mech burned, sending black smoke up in gusts. Another Black and Red fell, its knee smashed by thirty-millimeter shells.

Now the gun trucks rained grenades and cannon fire on the backpedaling mob. A gray Militia ’Mech closed with a Black and Red, bringing its mining drill to bear on its enemy’s chest. The Special Police pilot had no stomach for that, and popped his canopy immediately, hands up.

Allowing himself a tight grin, Benjork concentrated on the Black Hawk.

It didn’t seem to care much for what it saw. Firing off another full volley, it turned in place and shot into the air. Even as Benjork yanked his ’Mech into a left turn to throw off the missiles, he followed the Black Hawk’s jump, trying to lead it with short bursts.

Behind him came more stuttering fire followed by, “Damn!” in a high-pitched voice. “My bloody gun’s jammed up on me.”

“Try sh-short jerks on the trigger, Maud,” Sean said.

“I’m trying, I’m trying.”

“Get all the power you can get out of your engines,” Benjork ordered. “We’ve got to catch that Black Hawk. He can still snipe at us—pick us off one by one if we leave him alive.”

“I’m f-following you,” Sean said.

“Me, too,” Maud said. “I just can’t shoot anymore.”

Ahead of them, the Black Hawk landed hard on its right leg. Maybe there was a rock. Maybe their fire did something. It fell but caught itself by its big left claw, then took off running again. Something must have happened in the landing, though. Benjork’s infrared now showed more heat radiating from the reactor area than armor and cooling should have allowed. “Did you split a seam?” he asked his pursued enemy as he snapped out bursts of thirty-millimeter slugs at the Black Hawk.

The Black and Red twisted as he ran, sending a spray of SRMs that did not come close to any of his pursuers.

Benjork kept the feet of his ’Mech in long strides that ate up the distance. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he said, then suppressed a cringe as a stream of thirty-millimeter shells stitched the ground close ahead of him.

“I’ve got my cannon working,” Maud rejoiced.

“So I noticed,” the MechWarrior answered.

“I’m sorry,” came in a much smaller voice.

“Watch where you point that thing,” Sean said.

“I’m watching, I’m watching,” she said as a stream of shells arced ahead of them, missing to the left of the Black Hawk.

Ben put his engine in the red and focused his attention on the path ahead. He did not concentrate on any one place, but let his eyes guide his pedals without thought. Here he lengthened his stride to miss a rock, then shifted a bit to the right to avoid a patch of sagebrush. The friction of branches on his legs might slow him. A root might trip him. While one part of his mind targeted the Black Hawk for short bursts that chipped away at the rear armor, raising the unexplained heat plume a bit more, another part guided his feet.

The Black Hawk was faster than any ’Mech powered by an internal-combustion engine. No matter how much Mick might fine-tune fuel injectors and timing, fusion engines had the power of the sun at their beck and call. Still, whoever was driving that Black Hawk was little better than a civvy. Benjork trod the pedals that set the pace for his ’Mech as if they were a part of himself. The Black Hawk pulled ahead, but nowhere near as much as it should have.

Again, the Black Hawk took to the air. This time its driver leaned it forward, trying to get as much distance out of the jump as he could. An experienced Mech Warrior never would have made that error. Even without the patter of thirty-millimeter tungsten slugs on his BattleMech, leaning into a jump was a bad idea. The Black Hawk landed, took two running steps to try to catch its balance, then—with its gyros screaming almost loud enough for Benjork to hear—fell flat on its face to spend the rest of its forward momentum in the dirt before it came up hard against one of the rocks that time and erosion had left dotting the plain.

For a moment the Black Hawk just lay there, venting heat from more places than it should have been. Then its driver pried it from the dirt with its huge claws, got its feet underneath it, and began again to run for the distant horizon.

Not averse to kicking a surat while it was down, Benjork squeezed off his last rockets as the Black Hawk struggled to its feet. The fleeing BattleMech ran right into them—and the two Sean had fired, then two more from Maud.

Reeling, it almost missed a step. Catching its balance resulted in a dance complicated by the rock it had hit going down and the shells all three gray ’Mechs sent its way.

As if maddened beyond reason, the Black Hawk fired off a full salvo that hit nothing but sky and dirt. Straightening itself in a hail of tungsten slugs, the BattleMech fired lasers and volley after volley of its missiles at its tormentors.

Benjork zigzagged, trying to throw off the Black Hawk’s targeting computer. He succeeded, but Maud took a full volley before the Black and Red turned to flight again.

Ben slammed his throttle forward, and his ’Mech began to eat up the dry ground with long strides. His Gatling gun renewed its staccato, sending chips of armor flying from the Black and Red’s back. Sean followed, Gatling blazing. Even Maud stumbled forward, though at half-speed, her fire doing less damage as the Black Hawk lengthened the distance between them.

Benjork gave chase, footpads moving in long strides, Gatling striking sparks or chips off armor. He watched with grim satisfaction as the strange heat vent on the back of the Black Hawk grew. The fleeing BattleMech twisted as it ran, turning back its left arm with two SRM quads on it. The Lone Cat angled off to the right, forcing a deflection shot. Missiles set sage to burning, but nothing else.

Benjork concentrated on the hot spot. He aimed his Gatling gun, but modified the targeting computer’s aim to match the correction he saw in his heart. Then he fired. A stream of thirty-millimeter tungsten slugs stitched a circle on the back of the Black Hawk. The infrared readout flared in Ben’s cockpit.

Now the Black Hawk’s other arm with its missiles came around. Benjork sideslipped to the left. Eight missiles volleyed into the sand and sage as Ben’s thirty-millimeter slugs again flaked armor off.

Twice more the Black Hawk tried to shoot while running. Twice more it only slowed him down. The process started again, with Benjork again edging outward to complicate the Black and Red’s firing solution. This time the runner did not fire.

Suddenly the Black Hawk came to a hopping stop, twisted in place, and fired off a barrage of SRMs and lasers.

Benjork did not slow down but twisted his course hard right. The shooter tried to compensate, but the missiles only left a stuttering line of explosions behind the MiningMech MOD. All but one, which slashed into Ben’s rock cutter, smashing it.

Again the Black Hawk turned in place to flee. Having centered his fire on the closest gray ’Mech, the fleeing pilot had left Sean free to close—and free to carefully aim his fire.

Now both Sean and Benjork concentrated their fire on the back of the Black Hawk. Again armor flew, only now in larger chunks, and the heat plume shot out white hot for a second.

But only for a second, because the next moment, the Black Hawk disappeared in a flash that made the blue sky seem shadowed.

“What happened?” Maud asked on-channel, hurrying forward.

“H-hellfire escaped and claimed its own,” Sean said. The flaming wreckage spat and smoked—its own little hell—as Benjork slowed to a pace that dropped his engine gauges out of the red. Turning, he began a cooling jog back to the other battle. Sean held back to assist Maud’s limping ’Mech. They were good warriors. Benjork wished them whatever joy they could find during this time of sudden death, glory and grief.

As the wash came into view, it looked like Hicks had the situation well in hand. Ten Black and Red ’Mechs were surrounded by nine gray ones. The militia pilot had even managed to get his limping ’Mech in. Things had turned out better than the veteran had had any right to hope for.

“Sir, am I glad to see you,” Hicks called on-channel. “We have a problem here that’s beyond my pay grade.”

“The situation, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, these civilians have seen a lot of their people killed. Most ran because the Special Police strung up people they loved.”

“And they want revenge, quiaff.”

“In spades, sir. They want the captured Black and Reds hung from the arms of their ’Mechs, sir.”

“They are our prisoners?”

“They surrendered to me, sir.”

Benjork popped his canopy to cheers and awed stares at the damage. A few quick words with the survivors verified that any offer of assistance to the fugitives, or even to have been in a position to possibly help meant quick death. Some joined the flight because they had had enough of Santorini. Most joined because they had no other choice. Of the three AgroMechs at the rock, two were from people recently joined in the flight. Somewhere to the south were two burned-out AgroMechs holding what was left of a father and his oldest son.

“They’re gonna hang. Hang ’em now,” spat the widow with cold anger as Benjork approached.

“You hang convicted murderers on Alkalurops, quiaff?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man at her elbow answered.

“These men are my prisoners,” Benjork said, “taken under the rules of war. I cannot allow you to be judge, jury and executioner, ma’am.”

“You think you’re better then me—better than us,” the woman said, her eyes cold slits.

“I am no better than you, ma’am. I just follow the laws laid down for me. If these men have violated those laws, they will be so charged, tried, and punished. It is not our place.”

“Ma, there’s been enough blood today. Let it go to a judge. Nothing’s gonna bring Pa or Brother back,” the young man said.

Finally the woman wept, leaned on her son, and turned away.

Benjork eyed the prisoners. “Who are they, Hicks?”

“A mixed bag, sir. Some punks from around here. Others who somehow managed to buy ’Mechs off-world and get Santorini to hire them. That Black Hawk you burned was the boss man of this crew. Field Marshal of Special Police by the name of Pillow.”

“Field Marshal, quineg?”

“I swear it. Santorini is easy on promotions.”

Benjork shook his head and changed the subject. “Where is our guide?”

“He lit out in his pickup. Said Nazareth needed to hear about this fast. I think I can follow our tracks back.”

So the gun trucks led the withdrawal. One of the Black and Red trucks had a complete suite for hijacking ’Mechs, so ten poorly done ’Mech MODs crewed by the next-best militia pilots grouped themselves as a cover for the exhausted fugitives. Benjork led his ’Mechs as rear guard. If they met more Black and Reds, it would be a hard fight. Their rocket launchers were empty and the magazines of their Gatling guns were not that far from it.

Nazareth was empty except for their old guide. “Most folks lit out north as soon as you went through here the first time. Them that stayed left plenty fast when I told them what happened out by the old Harlingen place. I figured I’d hang around to catch anyone who missed out on getting the word.”

They gassed the rigs, then headed north, the old rancher showing them a faster way. Benjork suspected they’d need it.

 

L. J. knew his client was mad; these days Santorini called only when he was screaming hot. It was also the only time the Net came up, so it was easy to respond when his ’puter blinked red and beeped. Santorini always seemed to pick the worst times to call.

L. J.’s last platoon was just motoring through the gate—dusty, bullet-holed and straggling. Scrawled in tall letters on each of its trucks was “Please ignore us. Save your ammo for the Black and Reds chasing us.” L. J. really wanted to get that story. Instead he activated his ’puter and said, “Yes, Mr. Santorini. What can I do for you, sir?”

“Can you do anything for me?” came like a slap of cold iron.

“I am concentrating my battalion, sir. Several more platoons came in today. They were pretty beat up on the drive in, lots of sniping going on out there.”

“A lot of lawlessness. If you’d apply the same procedures my Special Police do, you might have less trouble.”

Or more, L. J. didn’t say. “Sir, I am not a police force. I operate within the rules of war.”

“Well, that damn woman up the Gleann Mor Valley is waging war against me. She has sent her troops to aid insurrection and to shoot down my police.”

“Oh, is it that bad out there?” L. J. said, keeping a solid grip on his tone. The mayor’s wife had made another trip out and given him their side of what took place outside a small town called Nazareth. The town had been burned to the ground by the Special Police, she reported. Fortunately, everyone had fled into the valley. Damn, but that valley must be getting crowded.

“You will move out as soon as you consider your battalion capable of offensive action. You will seal off the Gleann Mor Valley and conduct search-and-destroy through it. All arms, all commercial facilities capable of dual use, are to be destroyed. All people taking up arms against their lawful government will be turned over to the Special Police I assign to interrogating such prisoners, their wives and families. Understood?”

L. J. could almost hear the recording being made. Nothing in his military training applied to this. How do you keep your fighting honor when given orders for mass murder? Guess the academy needs some new courses. “I have recorded your orders, sir. I acknowledge them and will be ready to move out in two days, sir. Where will I rendezvous with your Special Police?”

“Amarillo.”

“I assume they will be outside my chain of command.”

“Of course. They are my Special Police.”

L. J. wanted that clearly on the record. “Understood, sir.”

“Good-bye then, Major.”

“Good-bye, sir,” L. J. said. He closed the com unit with a firm click, watched until the Net died, then turned to Mallary. “Now let’s find out who came up with the idea of writing messages to the locals on the sides of that platoon’s trucks.”