The armored column arrived at Iron Trench Outpost at noon. It rumbled down the northern ridge road behind two huge, steam-driven road graders that cleared the mud with massive steel plows.
The centerpiece of the convoy was a bespoke eight-wheeled command carrier forged of riveted nickel-steel, chosen The Iron Sovereign. Its armor plates were polished to a mirror shine, free of soot and rust. He stood out like an ugly, hungry jewel against the grim dark rock wasteland of the Sunken Fissure. Fluttering from the air-powered radio masts were the crimson-and-gold pennants of House Rask, with the clenched cog-and-fist sigil of the Industrial Refining Board.
Escorting the carrier were twenty private mercenary shock troopers clad in high-pressure, lead-lined outside suits, their heavy automatic carbines fitted with drum magazines and underslung gas grenade launchers. Their mirrored visors reflected the gray drizzle and the hollow, soot-stained faces of the commoner infantrymen who lined the stone retaining walls in sullen silence.
The convoy halted at the edge of the central stronghold, diesel engines idling with a heavy, throbbing hum that drowned out the distant rumble of the front lines.
Inside Command Dugout Three, Instructor Valerie Koslov stood beside the iron map table, her thick jaw set into granite lines. Arthur Vance sat on an empty ammunition crate nearby, carefully cleaning the carbon deposits from his ARC-7 mag-carbine with an oiled rag and a brass bore brush. Grimm was sprawled across the floor at his feet, his black ears twitching in sync with the…
