He pulled out a fist-sized transceiver, lengthened the antennae, and scratched the transmitter three times, click pause clickclick. He waited, straining to hear above the wind. The answer came, click pause, click, pause clickclick. Had he heard a rapid flurry of clicks, it would have meant that the Marauder was no longer under Sergeant Larressen's observation as it patrolled the perimeter of the spaceport, but was on its way up the road to the Castle. The signal received indicated that the Marauder was still where he'd watched it ten hours before. There was no way it could reach the Castle in less than ten minutes. That gave Grayson plenty of time.
A short-ranged tactical receiver in his left ear scratched out another code, clickclick clickclick, clickclick. That was Ramage, in position up ahead, reporting that the way was clear, with no sign of traps, hidden troops, or unexpected weapon emplacements. Listening to the signal, Grayson idly watched the silhouette of a heavy-coated sentry shrug and slap himself, as though trying to get warm.
The enemy might decide to close the Repair Bay doors any moment, and so the Lancers had to move now. Grayson pulled his weapon around on its strap into position in front of his chest. It was a Rugan submachine gun that fired large, slow rounds at 1000 rounds per minute from a blackened magazine protruding far below the handgrip. The weapon was of local manufacture, and not as trustworthy as the Commonwealth weapons Carlyle's Commandos had carried. Long hours on a firing range behind the armory had convinced him that it would be a serviceable general weapon for a sneak raid. Grayson remembered to set the selector for three-round bursts. The Rugan packed 80 caseless rounds into that long magazine, but those would be gone in five seconds on full auto.
According to the plan, it was Grayson's shots that would signal the attack. That left it in his hands whether to go ahead with the operation or not. An abort would be signalled over the tacradios each man wore. An attack would be launched by the death of the two sentries.
He took a moment to slow his breathing, to swallow the dryness in his throat, to blink the sting of the wind and the fear from, his eyes. He didn't care about the victory the Sarghadian government needed. This would be another strike against the people who had killed his father, slaughtered his friends, betrayed a trust. He brought the bulky, suppressor-muffled snout of the Rugan to the point, sighted, and tightened his finger on the trigger.
The gun spat and the sentry 70 meters away jerked backward like a puppet on a suing. Grayson swung the weapon toward the other sentry, but it was already too late. Fire from a dozen submachine guns rattled and shrieked through the arctic air. The blast hit a second sentry and a running bandit Tech, whirled them about
and hurled them down. Then, black shapes rose from the shadows on either side of Grayson's position and surged toward the open Bay doors.
They were committed.
21
Fifty black shapes tan across the parade field lit by the pole-mounted floods, firing as they went. Their suppressed SMG bursts snapped and hissed, sending those in and around the Repair Bay scrambling for cover or knocking them to the ground where they had been standing.
Grayson stepped across the boundary between the parade ground and the Bay. The familiar cavern, red-lit and murky, yawned above and around him. directly before him was the ten-meter form of the damaged Shadow Hawk.
"Collier!" He yelled, waving. "Senkins and Burke! The door! Demo team... move!"
Three soldiers raced for the door leading to the Castle's central passageways. Five men shouldering heavy satchels pounded past him and up to the raised deck supporting the disabled 'Mech. A burst of fire spat from above, and something whipped through the air beside his head. Before Grayson could react, the shots were answered by the harsh chatter of a subgun close by. A figure pitched off the top landing of the spindly ladder zigzagging up to the Bay Control Booth and fell with a dull splat on the ferrocrete 20 meters below.
Grayson turned to the man who had just fiied. It was Larressen. "Thanks," he said. "Go with the Demo Team, Sergeant. I'll be with the security force."
Larressen nodded and swarmed up a ladder to where the demolition team was making its way toward the torso of the grounded 'Mech. Grayson trotted across the floor to where three privates crouched by the door to the passageway. Steel chocks had been driven into the door guides to keep it open, and a squad-portable, bipod-mounted machine gun sat with its barrel probing across the door sill into the corridor beyond. Burke lay flat, the MG stock at his shoulder. The others covered him with automatic rifles. "Anything?"
"No, sir." Corporal Collier was the security team leader. He gestured down the corridor to the next sealed, airtight door. "Just let them poke the tip of their noses through there and we'll nail 'em!" He paused, fumbled, and added a belated "sir." Collier looked younger than Grayson, but seemed to have the knack of handling men. Grayson patted him on the shoulder, then turned to go.