Twilight of the clans III: the hunters

by Thomas S. Gressman

  It had taken a few days less than the estimated time for the task force to assembly on Defiance. The command staff immediately tossed their troops into a series of training and integration exercises. The first few of these exercises had ended in "Clan" victories, when first the Lyran Guards and then the Second St. Ives Lancers faced off against the Invader Galaxy. Then it was the Eridani Light Horse's turn.

  Morgan Hasek-Davion had cooked up the overall exercise plan, and Colonel Amis knew that meant the mission wouldn't be a cakewalk, but he was beginning to wonder if the Marshal hadn't sent the Invader Galaxy to the wrong part of the battlefield. For several hours, the combatants had maneuvered, each seeking to gain a tactical advantage. The Light Horse, with its doctrine of maneuver warfare, drew on their experiences on Coventry to devise their counter-Clan tactics. In a stand-up fight, the Horsemen stood little chance against the technologically superior Clans. So the mercenaries opted for a mobile battle, launching fast hit-and-run raids, backed up by air strikes and artillery fire. Rather than meeting the Invaders in head-on single combats, as the Clans seemed to prefer, the Light Horse would use its speed, maneuverability, and massed firepower to overcome their enemy.

  The Invader Galaxy had been assigned the part of Clan Smoke Jaguar. Their 'Mechs, many of them genuine Clan OmniMechs captured on Tukayyid, had been painted the mottled off-gray common to that Clan's combat machines. The ComStar unit was the natural stone against which to whet the task force's fighting edge. Dubbed OPFOR, for Opposing Forces, several companies of Com Guard infantry had been equipped with the latest battle armor, which had been painted to resemble that of Jaguar Elementals. Such techniques had been used for centuries when training soldiers, beginning with the light fiberglass visual modifications to tanks and armored personnel carriers made by the old American army during the late twentieth century. These bolt-on "vis-mod" panels, when attached to friendly machines, provided at least the rough outlines of enemy equipment.

  Still, all the cosmetic alterations to the ComStar 'Mechs didn't matter at the moment. There had been no sign of the Com Guards for the past ninety minutes.

  Amis cursed vilely, scanning his readouts. Three of his four scout teams had reported "no joy," an ancient phrase indicating that there was no sign of the enemy. The last team, commanded by a young Lieutenant with the unlikely name of Tubal Caine, hadn't reported in.

  Defiance's yellow sun, stained an ugly burnt orange by the sulfur contaminating the atmosphere, was already low in the sky. Amis knew that if his troops didn't locate the Com Guards soon, the Light Horse might find itself embroiled in a night action. Worse yet, if they failed to locate the OPFOR BattleMechs, his beloved Twenty-first Regiment would end up on the receiving end of some not so good-natured kidding from those units who'd already faced the Com Guards in mock battle.

  All right, Amis told himself, we gotta do something.

  "Beggar One, this is Stonewall. Move your company out to the west. Sneak Four hasn't reported in, and I'm afraid the bogeyman got 'em."

  "Stonewall, Beggar One. Will comply." Captain Martin Izzat paused a moment. "Contact! Contact! Beggar One has many targets, fifty plus heading our position. Sensors indicate contacts to be hostiles. I read at least five assault 'Mechs. Beggar One requests orders."

  "Beggar One, Stonewall. Beggar is to engage as targets come into range. Slow 'em up, Marty. Give us time to get the Strikers in line." Tapping in a command, Amis cued up a prerecorded message, added a few lines of data, and hit the Transmit key. The Irian communications system fired off the zip-squeal in a burst lasting only a fraction of a second. Returning to his regiment's tactical frequency, Amis passed orders to his battalion commanders.

  In moments, the entire regiment—over one hundred BattleMechs, with their attendant tank, infantry, and armored infantry support units—was eating up the ground as they swung into action. One hundred meters passed, then three hundred. The regiment was up to nearly full speed when Captain Izzat informed Amis that Seventh Company was engaging the enemy.

  "Stonewall, Beggar One. Beggar is engaged with the enemy. Beggar One counts thirty BattleMechs, at least eight of assault class. Enemy force has many Elementals.

  "Boss, you'd better get here pretty quick."

  "Hang on, Marty," Amis replied, as he struggled to keep his lurching, 75-ton machine on an even keel. "Help is on the way."

  The mock battle was taking place a kilometer away. Amis' lead elements had finally made contact with the Invader Galaxy, but things were not shaping up according to plan. Amis had hoped that the Invaders would come straight at the Seventh, pursuing the mercenaries as they staged a fighting withdrawal. Then, when the OPFOR 'Mechs were strung out and vulnerable, the main body of his regiment would swing in on the Invader's flanks. Unfortunately, the Com Guards weren't cooperating. Instead of letting their lighter, faster 'Mechs run ahead of the slower, more powerful heavy and assault elements, the Guards stayed together. The combined weight of the attacking forces was too much for the single detached company. Izzat's Company was falling back in disarray, and getting chewed to pieces in the process.

  Finally, his Orion's balky tracking system painted small red triangles on his primary sensor array. The onboard computer scanned each sensor trace and matched the combined data to a Warbook program. The nearest bad guy was a 40-ton Hermes II. At maximum magnification, Amis watched as the man-like giant slowed from its run. A puff of smoke gouted from the machine's chest. The first hadn't even begun to disperse when a second plume of blue-gray fumes filled the air.

  Then Amis heard the voice of one of his own men. "I'm hit, primary systems out, switching to ba ..." The words betrayed no fear on the part of the young trooper who spoke them. It reminded Amis of a calm he had seen dozens of times in real battle during his career as a professional soldier. Sometimes, in the face of your own destruction, comes a tranquillity. Psychologists said it sprang from a feeling of "I'm going to die, and I can't do anything about it, so why get upset?"

  Amis called the headshrinker who forwarded that particular theory foolish. No one, he believed, least of all a professional MechWarrior, simply sits back, waiting for death. He does whatever he can to prevent his demise, or at least to take a couple of the enemy with him.

  The tiny blue spot representing Private Henry Stano's Valkyrie on the Colonel's tactical monitor flashed once and went out.

  Seconds later, the Orion's external sound pickups conveyed the thin whistling shriek of incoming artillery shells to the Colonel's ears. The round burst short, over one hundred meters to the right of the target.

  "Paladin, this is Stonewall. Splash!" Amis informed the battery that their spotting round had dropped within his line of sight. "Up thirty, right seventy-five, and fire-for-effect."

  Again, the howl of incoming shells filled the cockpit. This time the 'Mech's tactical display flared red as the computer traced the flight path of the incoming rounds with delicate scarlet threads.

  Four rounds landed almost directly on top of the Com Guard position. Instead of the booming detonation of forty kilos of high explosive per shell, Amis heard a sharp, flat crack. Tendrils of thick, dirty gray smoke rose and enshrouded the bogus Clan 'Mechs. Two of the aggressors flashed and died from Amis' HUD. Somewhere nearby was a neutral referee, drawn from the Kathil Uhlans, armed with a "god-gun." The hand-held laser was used to designate which enemy 'Mechs had been knocked out by the incoming "artillery."

  Amis watched the smoke rise. Interesting, he thought. That new stuff the Uhlans brought with them rises higher than standard smoke. A glance at his sensors told the mercenary that the charges also carried fine metal powder, which, borne aloft by the burning phosphorus, clouded sensors. The I-Smokes, as the shells were called, would hopefully give Inner Sphere combat units an edge against the Clan's superior sensors and active probe equipment.

  Amis found comfort in the old adage, "If you can't see 'em, you can't shoot 'em." Even though he knew that in this age of radar, infrared, and a host of other electronic sen
sors, the proverb no longer had much meaning.

  "Crowbar, this is Stonewall." Amis called to his entire regiment as his rangefinder counted down to five hundred meters. "Weapons free! Lock 'em and rock 'em."

  Pulling his lumbering 'Mech to a stop, Amis grasped the targeting joystick, deftly bringing the cross hairs linked to his Orion's shoulder-mounted missile system up to rest on a misshapen blob of color his computer tagged as a Com Guard/Jaguar Loki. With a touch of the trigger, a coded laser message flashed from his targeting and tracking systems to the OPFOR 'Mech's computer. On his displays, the enemy battle machine staggered as the electronic damage took its toll. His systems guessed that the Com Guard had taken severe damage to its right arm and torso.

  The system the combatants were using was an old one. Each machine in the engagement was fitted with special low-power lasers that fired, not megajoule lances of coherent light, but coded pulses. If one of these "bullets" of light hit a battlefield unit equipped with special receptor gear, the 'Mech or tank's computer would take note of the hit and record the amount of damage. Once the damage on a particular system passed the tolerance of that component, the computer would shut it down. To add to the realism of the engagement, autocannons and missile launchers could be fitted with blank-firing simulator pods that belched smoke and flame each time that weapon was fired. The entire system, called MILES, or Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System, had been in use since the latter half of the twentieth century.

  Goading his ponderous mount into a run, Amis closed the distance while the enemy was still disoriented. A brief survey of his tactical display showed that the "Jaguars" had fallen back under the Light Horse's initial rush, but were now beginning to recover their composure. Three enemy 'Mechs were out of action, but an equal number of his own force had been reduced to dull gray-blue spots on his monitor. Two more Light Horse 'Mechs flashed and died. Half a dozen "Elementals" were killed when a JagerMech from Stockdale's Company swept their position with computer-generated autocannon fire.

  An aggressor loomed large in his HUD. Without trying to identify the machine's model or class, Amis tightened his finger on the trigger, pickled in a different weapon, and fired again. Twenty missiles leapt from their tubes to splinter the enemy's armor. Smoke spat from the Orion's side as a burst of autocannon fire ate greedily away at the OPFOR 'Mech.

  The enemy shuddered a bit, but turned slowly to face Amis' charge. Now, given the chance to observe his opponent, Amis realized that his target had been an old Com Guard King Crab altered to resemble a Daishi. Either way, his Orion was outgunned, outarmored, and outclassed by the 100-ton death machine.

  The Clanner raised his arms. Xenon strobes flashed from the box-like vambraces of the vis-mod Daishi. Amis' computer told him that the armor on his torso and legs had been scorched, but not breached. Four bursts of virtual autocannon fire made his 'Mech stagger. Now, the damage was becoming more critical.

  A shower of simulated missiles leapt from the Orion's left wrist, followed by a double blast of laser light and a hail of computer-generated, high-explosive armor-piercing shells.

  The "Daishi" was hurt, but not bad enough to prevent it from savaging Amis' 'Mech again.

  From the corner of his eye, the mercenary saw a large black shape move in. Azure lightning generated by his computer flooded his cockpit as Major Eveline Eicher, his second-in-command, blasted the aggressor with her Hercules ' particle projection cannon.

  The huge assault 'Mech staggered, the simulated loss of nearly a ton of armor affecting its balance. Another blast from Eicher's weapon, augmented by a burst of cannon fire, sent the enemy 'Mech crashing to the ground.

  Once he got his reeling Orion back under control, Amis' first thought was for his unit. One look at the tactical display told the story. Most of his light 'Mechs were either gone or badly damaged. His unit was being scattered and picked to pieces.

  For the length of one second, he stared at the monitor. A curse escaped his lips. With regret, Amis keyed his transmitter.

  "Stonewall to Crowbar, Stonewall to Crowbar." He spoke each word distinctly, pitching his voice a bit higher than usual so it would be heard and easily understood amid the noise and confusion of battle. "Signal: X-Ray, Tango, Hotel. I say again, X-Ray Tango Hotel. Break off engagement and withdraw."

  Reluctantly, the Light Horse 'Mechs began to disentangle themselves from the bitter struggle. A few, Captain Izzat among them, lagged behind, victims of simulated damage to their legs. Only two crippled machines, neither one of them Izzat's, made it back to the Regimental Rally Point. The captain's shot-up machine had been engaged and killed by a Com Guard "Ryoken."

  Before the last of the stragglers limped into the RRP, General Winston's voice crackled from the commline.

  "Crowbar, this is Nail. Signal Six. Romeo Tango Bravo. That is Signal Six, return to base."

  * * *

  Three quarters of an hour later, Winston and Colonel Paul Masters were waiting in the Light Horse commander's office for the exercise leaders to arrive. Seated in the corner of the dreary, sparsely furnished room was the overall commander of the task force, Marshal Morgan Hasek-Davion of the Federated Commonwealth. Morgan had arrived quietly, with no fanfare, before many task force units had even left their garrison worlds. In his capacity as task force commander, it was his place to oversee the training, plan the combat exercises, and conduct the commanders' debrief following the first integration exercise.

  Morgan was one of the most experienced battle commanders in the Armed Forces of the Federated Commonwealth, if not the entire Inner Sphere. He had begun his career over thirty years earlier as a company commander with the Davion Heavy Guards, rising quickly through the ranks until, in 3049, he was appointed overall commander of the armies of the Federated Commonwealth.

  Even at fifty-three years of age, he was no desk pilot. An excellent and inspiring leader of men, his reputation for quick thinking and stubborn courage made him one of the best battlefield commanders ever to pilot a 'Mech. The combination made him the natural choice to lead the task force. Over the years, his flaming red hair had begun to fade into a silvery-gray, and deep lines of care and worry had etched themselves into his once-smooth brow. But the green eyes beneath that brow were still as bright and as sharp as a well-honed razor, and he still cut a tall, impressive figure.

  Morgan knew the image most people had of him: the tough, competent, compassionate warrior. He laughed quietly to himself as the thought drifted across his mind. If only they knew the guy I see in the mirror every morning.

  He harbored no illusions about his infallibility or his immortality, knowing that he was prone to the same failings as anyone else. He also knew that when he made a wrong decision, he didn't pay the price. His mistake could cost men their lives. That thought might have cost him his edge had he not been groomed to lead fighting men from the day he was born. But there had also been times when he'd have liked to go off with his beloved Kym and live out his days as a retired gentleman at his family's home on New Syrtis, with nothing to do but watch his children grow up.

  If he hadn't done so, it was because he would never have deserted Prince Hanse Davion, and later his son Victor, in a time of need. And the times had so often seemed needful these past thirty years.

  Colonel Edwin Amis and Demi-Precentor Regis Grandi, the Com Guard commander, arrived together. As Amis marched his 'Mech into the Fort Defiance 'Mech bay, Morgan could hear the change in the mercenary Colonel's voice from the command center where he'd been monitoring the radio traffic on both sides. Morgan recognized in Amis' post-battle transmissions the note of exhaustion and melancholy that so often accompanied an unexpected defeat. In the forty-five minutes it took for the combatants to walk their 'Mechs the twenty or so kilometers separating the site of the mock battle from the Fort's main 'Mech facility, Amis's depression had faded, leaving the Colonel his usual optimistic self. Amis and Grandi were discussing the engagement as they walked through the briefing room's sliding door.

&nb
sp; "Colonel Amis," Morgan began without preamble. "I was told that the Twenty-first Striker was one of the best regiments in the Inner Sphere. What happened out there?" He smiled to rob his words of any offense.

  "I'm not really sure sir." Amis shook his head as though to clear it of the image of his regiment dying around him. "I've fought the Clans before and Colonel Barclay's regiment battled them on Coventry, giving as good as she got. There is absolutely no reason why the Twenty-first shouldn't have kicked the stuffing out of the Guards. No offense." The last sentence was directed to Demi-Precentor Grandi.

  "None taken," Grandi assured him; "As much as I hate to admit it, I was expecting to sustain heavy losses. The degree of our success surprised me."

  "So what happened? Why has every unit we sent into the field fared so poorly against our OPFOR Clanners?" Morgan fixed each of the commanders in turn with his level, green-eyed stare.

  Before either of the field commanders could answer, Paul Master spoke up.

  "Sir, I think I have one possible answer.

  "We've been running exercises for a couple of weeks now. In each case, we've detailed one of our own regiments to play the part of a Clan unit. Then, we assign another outfit the task of attacking the 'Clanners.' The problem is not that we can't beat the Clanners. The problem is that we can't beat the Clanners when they use Inner Sphere tactics."

  For a moment, Amis looked quizzically at the Knight commander, then realization dawned.

  "Go on, Colonel Masters," Morgan said.

  "You see, in each of the exercises, we asked our OPFOR Clanners to defend a given position. That only makes sense, since the real Clanners will be defending when the operation gets under way.

  "The problem is that we've done visual modifications on the OPFOR 'Mechs, and programmed our simulation computers to reflect the superior range and firepower of their weapons, but what we haven't done is instructed the 'red team' to fight strictly according to Clan doctrine. I mean, they're great on the offensive. They put their heads down and charge right into you, just like the real thing. When they're forced onto the defensive, they seize up. I mean, we're not really sure what the Clans will do if they're forced to defend, are we? We have something of a model, based on what happened on Coventry. But that was such a mess that we can't really draw any conclusions.