"BattleTech 06 - Gray Death Legion 01 - Decision at Thunder Rift - William H Keith" - читать интересную книгу автора (Battletech)

With the Trellwan Concord, Hendrik would become the Lyran Commonwealth's partner and ally. It would now be Hendrik's JumpShips and 'Mech battalions guarding the Commonwealth's peripheral worlds in this sector, freeing up the Steiner garrisons there for duty in the Inner Sphere against the latest maneuverings of the Draconis Combine. This would discourage further bandit raids because the military arm of Oberon's minor empire was already stretched to the limit.
It return, Hendrik would gain more worlds to rule, more resources to tap. Trellwan was one of those worlds, a minor pawn in a political game played out across light years. Trellwan's own native population was governed by a kinglet named Jeverid, a man with fealty sworn to House Steiner and the Commonwealth, but what of that? When worlds are traded, the wishes of individuals do not count for much. Besides, Trellwan would still technically belong to House Steiner. That was the agreement. The only difference was that the outpost's 'Mechs and troopers would now be Hendrik's instead of the Commonwealth's.
The negotiations for both sides had overcome severe obstacles to such an agreement. In fact, the worst problem had come when word of the secret negotiations had somehow leaked out to the Trells, who were the unsuspecting objects of the planned transfer of power and real estate. Captain Carlyle's staff had intended to keep the Trells ignorant of the deal until after it was achieved. After all, nothing would change for them. One garrison Lance at the Castle was pretty much the same as any other. But Hendrik had raided Trellwan in the past, and the Concord might be interpreted badly by Jeverid and the more shortsighted of his people if they got wind of it too soon.
Carlyle's advisors had been correct. When news of the impending agreement reached the people of Sarghad, at the base of the mountain where the Castle stood guard, city-wide riots had broken out, and the fires had turned that hot Firstnight to day. The Lance's two light 'Mechs had been tied down with patrol duty in the city almost constantly since.
House Security still hadn't been able to track down the source of that leak. It boded ill for the future, and added to Sergeant Griffith's worries.
"Odd," Riviera said, as he snapped a toggle switch back and forth. "We've lost some security cameras."
"Eh? Where?"
"Repair Bay. I'm checking." He touched his right hand fingers to his ear, listening to the tiny implanted speaker there. "Officer of the Watch reports Maintenance shut those cameras down a few minutes ago. Something about a fault in the circuitry."
Griffith looked worried. "I don't like it."
"You want the Captain?" Riviera reached for the communicator panel again.
The Sergeant glanced at the monitor, where the trails of fusion flame left by the descending DropShip were illuminating the sky. "No, don't jostle him. Put out a warning to all watchstations. Internal security, yellow alert."
Grayson wondered how that would help. All stations were already on alert, watching the descent of the Bhilai DropShip.
On their monitors, they could see the DropShip's stubby hydraulic legs unfold as panels blossomed open across its broad base. In a final gush of light and noise, it settled to the scorch-blackened ferrocrete 500 meters from Carlyle's position. The vessel was roughly egg-shaped and very old.
Repeated patchings and dabs of brown sealant marred its once sleek surface, and the blue X-and-circle crest of Bhilai House was the only bright note on a hull faded and blistered from countless lifts and groundings.
Carlyle's voice came over the commlink. "I've got its landing ID beacon. She checks out as the Bhilai freighter."
The shakiest part of the balance of trust between the two new allies was in allowing DropShips to land on home ground. Because the vessels of the major houses could mount formidable armament, could carry battalions of BattleMechs and small armies of troops and heavy combat vehicles, that trust had not been easily forged. There were weapons trained on the grounded vessel now, of course, the laser turrets and heavy missile batteries that ringed the spaceport and served as the station's inner line of defense. Nevertheless, the base defenders let out a collective sigh of relief at the sight of Mai-lai's newly-painted crest on the ship's curved hull plates, and at the computer-coded twitter of the ship's ID beacon. There were beam turrets nestled in the vessel's pitted armor, but not the heavy armament of a major House warship. It was only a freighter, aged, battered, and bearing the representatives of House Steiner's newest ally.
Grayson and the members of the Lance staff watched as their Captain's Phoenix Hawk began striding across the ferrocrete toward the ship that loomed above it.
In the Repair Bay, the traitor glanced over the top of the partly disassembled console where he worked and saw the Watch Officer with his feet still propped up, his back toward the astech. The monitor showed the spaceport lights, the ponderous, side-to-side motion of a heavy 'Mech lurching across the pavement, the settling bulk of the grounding DropShip on pillars of white light. The Trell checked his wristcomp, and watched the last few seconds flicker away to zero.
The moment for action had come.
The traitor pulled a small, back-portable generator from his shoulder bag. Of itself, the device was innocent enough. Astechs often carried generators with them for tasks requiring light and power in tight spaces. He didn't put it on because the harness had been removed, but fastened it instead to his tool belt so that it hung free at his right hip. One end of a power feed snapped into a bayonet socket. The feed's other end clicked home at the base of a slender cylinder. A twist of the cylinder snapped the blade open and locked it down.
The Trell stood slowly, his eyes on the back of the watch officer's neck. Blade in his right hand, he groped across his body for the power switch with his free hand.
Sensing something wrong, some motion at his back, the watch officer half-turned, then whirled to his feet at the sight of the astech and his blade coming at him. As the officer's chair toppled noisily, the traitor's hand found the power switch for his lead-gray blade, and a dry hum filled the narrow room.
Vibroblades are horribly efficient for close-in fighting. Power from the backpack is transformed to ultrasonics that vibrate the paracarballoy blade faster than the eye can see. In seconds, friction turns the vibrating blade white-hot, able to slice tempered steel as though it were butter.
The officer fumbled at his holster for the pistol, but collided with the console at his back before he could free the gun and bring it up. The Trell's humming blade slashed out and down, shearing through gunmetal, flesh, and bone. The officer shrieked, clenched bloodied fingers to his chest, then stumbled backward into the console again. The traitor advanced, the vibroblade slashing out and down once more to brutally silence a final shriek.
The traitor switched off the vibroblade, looped its power feed, and tucked the weapon into an insulated belt scabbard, careful not to touch the hot blade. With rapid and precise movements, he examined the instrument console, finding at last a single white button, which he stabbed down and held. From far off and above came the hollow grinding of machinery. Across the Repair Bay, on the other side of the beached-whale shape of the disabled 'Mech, the metal wall began to rumble open, splitting along a rivet-pocked seam. On the console, a red warning light flashed on and off, and a woman's voice began from somewhere, "Warning. Warning. Security breach in Repair Bay. Exterior wall now open. Warning ..."
Sand whirled through the wall opening, blown in by a chill, sub-zero wind. The traitor narrowed his eyes, detecting a flicker of movement outside, then gliding shapes among the shadows. He released the switch, stepped across the gore-splattered body of the watch officer, and clattered his way down the steps to the main deck.
The Tech who had been at work on the 'Mech below was running for the main passageway when something caught him in the small of the back, lifted him, and hurled him sprawling against the wall. Then, one of the astechs on the 'Mech's chest screamed and toppled five meters to the deck, while the other tried to scramble to safety behind an open access plate. Next came the sharp hiss of silenced gunfire, the jarring concussion of a hurled grenade. A scream rose up from somewhere, but was mercifully cut short by a second blast and the chattered hiss of sound-suppressed auto fire.
By now, men in neat gray and blue uniforms had burst through a door at the far end of the Repair Bay, guns yammering. One black-garbed attacker lurched backward as another hurled something that bobbed across the deck. There followed a flash and a stunning blow that whipped the traitor's coveralls against his legs. The next moment, those neat gray uniforms ceased to exist, save as bloodied shreds and tatters.
The Trell stepped off the ladder and felt the blade at his throat before he sensed the man behind it. "Hunter!" he choked out. "Hunter!" The attacker's grip loosened.
"You're Stefan?" The voice was curiously level.
The Trell nodded, rubbing at his throat. Squads of attackers dressed in close-fitting black garb raced past. One of them stopped before Stefan, his face totally obscured by featureless black plastic, a silenced submachine gun in his gloved fist. The black canvas bag across his back bulged with menace.
"You're the traitor?"
The Trell nodded again, uncertainly. The attacker's accent was foreign and hard to follow, his manner unexpectedly harsh.
"Come."
In the passageway, there were only twisted, blood-soaked bodies and the silent forms of black-garbed attackers. The one Stefan knew must be the leader gave nearly silent commands and signals to crouching groups of commandos, sending them off down branching corridors with lethal efficiency.
"Put this on." The leader handed Stefan a light-weight breathing mask from a pouch. It was even harder to see the black shadows in the pale amber tint of the mask's amplifier goggles. Blood, he saw, became a slick and lustrous black through the goggles, and the passageway took on an eerie quality in the ghostly light. "The Command Center. Lead us."
Stefan nodded. "Two levels up. This way!"
The attack was heralded by the rasp of an alarm klaxon and the shuffle of boots across bare tile floors as squads of men raced to their positions. From above, the woman's voice continued the patient announcement, "Alert, alert. Security penetration in sectors five and six."
"I've lost the Repair Bay," Riviera said. "Commlink's dead."
Griffith's scowl deepened, twisting the scar on his face as his jaw clenched, then relaxed. "Tell the Captain. Ari, let me have your chair.''
Ari stood up, and Griffith slipped into his vacant chair beside Riviera.
Grayson pulled another chair from a nearby console and pushed in next to the Weapons Master. "Griff, who is it? Why are they attacking us?"
"I don't know, lad, though my first guess is the Trells. Riviera, put the garrison on full alert. Then patch me to the patrol monitors. I want to try and raise the patrol in town.''
Grayson felt a numbing confusion. Certainly, the Trells had not been happy when news of the coming treaty with Oberon had leaked out, but he found it hard to believe that it was they who were storming up from the Castle's Repair Bay. How had they broken in? Those vast, sliding doors were proof against the hammerings of an 80-ton 'Mech. Nothing short of a small tactical nuke-long forbidden by treaty and practicality-could breach them.
He fixed his eyes on the image still being transmitted from his father's Phoenix Hawk. The DropShip was so close now that it filled the entire screen with black metal, though the ranging data across the bottom of the screen indicated the ship was still 90 meters away. Then he saw a port opening near the base, spilling harsh light across the ferrocrete paving.
"Griff!" The cry was torn from Grayson's throat. A ramp had dropped from the brilliantly lit opening, and soldiers were pouring out of it. The screen flared white, and the open commlink spat static as a high-energy beam swept across the 'Mech's antennae.
"Base!" I'm under attack!" Captain Carlyle's words were static-blasted and harsh. "Particle beam from a turret on the ship!"
The computer readout on a nearby monitor shifted and flickered, showing a sudden surge of power within the Phoenix Hawk, rapid movement, a double blast from the machine's powerful, arm-mounted lasers. The 'Mech's internal heat rose four degrees in as many seconds.
The Captain shifted, blurring screen images. It was difficult to follow what was happening on the monitors. Grayson couldn't really SEE anything but gyrating snatches of the port structures and the pulsing flash of detonations. The computer readout alongside the image monitor told more of the story to those, like Grayson, trained to read it.
Carlyle's Phoenix Hawk was a middleweight as Battle-Mechs go, and shared the humanoid pattern of most 'Mechs. It mounted a massive laser rifle-like in its right hand. The 'Mech also mounted smaller lasers and antipersonnel machine guns in the extended duralloy embraces of each