by Andrew Keith
Alex wrenched his attention back to his own control board. He couldn't afford any distractions now. The battle was at hand.
* * *
Half a dozen red lights were showing on Caitlin's board, and a warning klaxon was sounding in her ears. Half-blinded by the sweat dripping into her eyes, she squinted and tried to line up another PPC shot on the Warhammer.
Her fist clenched around the trigger on the left-hand side of the throttle, but there was no reaction. Then she saw the red light over the left PPC status monitor, and she cursed. The Warhammer had slammed her Marauder with two more devastating attacks in quick succession, while she'd gotten off only a single reply. The computer was reporting that her armor was nearly burned through in two places, and the onboard cooling system was failing fast. Now this.
Her one hope of escape was the heat the enemy Warhammer had been building up in its savage attacks. No coolant system could handle the full output of so many energy weapons firing in unison, and if the pilot didn't cease fire and let his heat sinks go to work soon he'd be running the risk of a computer-controlled shutdown. If she could just move back behind the shelter of the nearest hangar . .
Too late! A hulking Free Skye Crusader was moving up to support the Warhammer. Another sixty-five-ton 'Mech would make short work of her, damaged as the Marauder already was.
Still backpedaling awkwardly, trying to compensate for the weakness in the leg actuators damaged by a missile strike on the cratered armor above the right knee joint, Caitlin switched from PPCs to the powerful autocannon mounted above her cockpit. She canceled the computer targeting and traversed the weapon by eye, squeezing off a full cassette of AP rounds in rapid succession.
The enemy Crusader stopped as the projectiles raked across its path. One shell slammed into the big 'Mech's arm, and another caught it in the chest.
In that moment, as the enemy pilot was raising a massive arm to bring a battery of LRMs to bear on her, another 'Mech seemed to appear out of nowhere. Fire flamed from twin jump jets as Dave Clay's Griffin sailed over the admin building and settled onto the tarmac thirty meters behind the Crusader. Caitlin winced as the 'Mech staggered on landing; she knew the ankle joint was supposed to be weak. Clay had taken a hell of a risk using his jump jets now.
But the sudden leap had caught the Crusader's pilot by surprise. Clay kept control of the Griffin and brought his PPC to bear. Before the Crusader could fire, Clay had lined up his target and opened up.
It was a perfect shot, catching the Crusader right in the weakest armor around the rear of the cockpit assembly. Debris spouted high into the air from the force of the blast, and the 'Mech's head seemed to snap forward. For a long moment nothing happened, but then the huge fighting machine swayed and toppled, falling with a crash Caitlin could feel vibrating through the ground under her own Marauder's feet.
* * *
Wilhelm Streiger stared at his monitor in disbelief as Leutnant Wellman's Crusader fell. That had been an incredible shot . . .
The Griffin that had delivered that savage stroke was no match for a Warhammer in a stand-up fight. But Streiger's boards still showed his 'Mech's heat above the red line. He couldn't fire again until more of that heat dissipated. Meanwhile he was nothing but a huge target standing here in the open.
Right now his only alternative was to break off. Reluctantly, Streiger turned left and ducked behind the cover of the admin building, shifting to a run to put some distance between his 'Mech and his two opponents. It rankled to turn his back on a fight, but he didn't intend to be gone for long.
"This is Vanguard One," he said over the lance channel. "Croydon, Coleman, form on me. Coordinates Green Five."
When his heat was back to a tolerable level, he'd make sure that neither of those Gray Death 'Mechs survived the rematch.
29
Dunkeld, Glengarry
Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
7 April 3056
The entire ship seemed to shudder as the Anastasia took another barrage of missiles from the spaceport. Wincing as he clutched the arms of his command chair, Weltallhaupt-mann Lippard glared across at the exec's position. "Damage report!" he snapped.
"Still no major hits, sir," the DropShip's executive officer responded. "All decks reporting minor damage, mostly from shifting of unsecured objects. 'Mech Bay Three is showing a red light on the external ramp, and we have minor hull penetrations in three locations. Nothing serious ..."
"Not yet," Lippard shot back.
"More missiles incoming!" the sensor tech reported.
"Weapons officer!" the exec barked. "Can't you return fire yet?"
"Most of the possible targets are still operating too close to our own 'Mechs, sir," the woman at the weapons board responded. "The only ones we could try to hit without risking our own people are some of those hovertanks, and they're moving around too fast for us to get a clear shot."
"We've got to tell Streiger to either get in there and take care of the bastards himself, or to pull back and let us deal with them, sir," the exec told Lippard.
Lippard shook his head. "I'm not sticking around down here any longer," he said. "We're not going to risk the ship just to nail a few 'Mechs. Helm, climb to twenty thousand and hold. Pass the word to the Raven to do the same. And launch all fighters. They can get down and dirty with the 'Mechs without risking our boys."
"Sir, Streiger's counting on us to intercept the enemy DropShip."
"The fighters can handle that, too," Lippard countered angrily. "If that bastard gets high enough that it looks like it might escape, we can go after him then. But I'm not staying down low and taking this pounding. The Anastasia wasn't designed for that little game."
There was a long moment of silence. "Well, don't just sit there," Lippard rasped at last. "Execute the orders!"
* * *
"I've got a fault showing in the injectors, Skipper!" reported Ensign Outhwaite to the rest of the DropShip Europa's bridge crew. "Aborting start-up procedure."
Lieutenant Evan Fowler cursed under his breath but tried to keep from showing his impatience to the rest of the crew. A cold start on a fusion reactor was one of the most difficult tasks a shipmaster had to face, and it was no fault of Outhwaite's if the systems balked. There were some things even the best engine tech couldn't control.
But that didn't make the delay any easier to accept. The timing of the whole Gray Death operation around the Dunkeld starport depended on getting the Legion's sole space-worthy DropShip aloft while the invaders were still reacting to the changing situation around them. He would have been happier if they could have moved the Europa away from the port long before the arrival of the enemy armada, but he'd been overruled in the war council. Crippling the Legion's aerospace assets was almost certain to be von Bulow's top priority, and the ambush plan depended on having the DropShip in plain sight from orbit, bait to encourage von Bulow to commit his forces to a landing.
But at the same time, the Europa was far too valuable to simply abandon. The DropShip still had an important part to play—if they could get her off the ground before the enemy started to turn their attention her way.
Fowler checked his tactical monitor. Both enemy DropShips were starting to climb away fast. The Gray Death battle plan had originally intended to force the withdrawal of the enemy vessels to create an opportunity for the Europa to make her big move. Now, obviously, they were falling behind schedule fast. The DropShip couldn't lift until the fusion plant was on-line . . .
Fowler knew the old military axiom only too well: No battle plan survives contact with the enemy. He hoped Alex Carlyle and his staff would be flexible enough to respond to the breakdown of this plan before everything came unglued.
The alternative was disaster, pure and simple.
"Signal Command that we're still stuck on the ground," Fowler ordered quietly. "And re-initiate start-up sequence."
"Have to clear the injectors first," the engineer responded, sounding distracted. "Two minutes ..."
/> "Make it one," Fowler told him. Outhwaite gave him a grim nod.
* * *
"The Europa reports she's still on the ground," Alex Carlyle told McCall over the private commlink channel. "The cold start's taking longer than it was supposed to. If we don't get her up soon ..."
"Aye," McCall said. " 'Twill nae be a pretty sight. And we hae more problems, too, laddie. The escort fighters are on my screens and closing fast, and I think the enemy DropShips are opening their fighter bay doors for a launch asweil."
"We can't let them get in here with those fighters," Alex said grimly. "We've got to go straight to Phase Five."
"Aye," the Caledonian repeated. "Even if it means sacrificing Fowler ..."
Alex swallowed hard. This was still the worst part of the commander's role as far as he was concerned. Any decision he made could result in his people dying.
But it had to be done. Fowler's Europa might still win through, even if they accelerated the rest of the battle plan before the DropShip was off the ground and ready for action. On the other hand, if those enemy fighters got in among the defenders at the port, 'Mechs and men would certainly be lost.
"Right," he said at last, trying not to betray the tightness in his throat. "You're still on overwatch, Major. Do what you can against those fighters." He switched channels without waiting for a response. "All units, all units, this is Ghost Leader. New orders. Go to Phase Five and execute as planned. Repeat, execute Phase Five . . . now. Europa, lift when ready, but go to Phase Five now. Do you understand?"
Lieutenant Fowler's voice came back. "Understood, Leader," he said gruffly. "Hope you know what the hell you're doing ..."
So do I, Alex thought grimly. So do I.
* * *
Captain Julio Vargas ran his eyes over his cockpit readouts one last time before keying in his commlink. "This is Dragon Leader," he said. "Ready to launch."
"Roger that, Dragon Leader," the voice of the Europa's flight controller came back. The man sounded tense. He had every reason to be. "Transferring battery power to Launch Control."
"Dragon Leader," Vargas responded, reaching out to flip the line of switches that would power up the engines of his aerospace fighter. "Initiating launch sequence. Now."
He cut the commlink and muttered a short prayer. Vargas wasn't ordinarily a religious man, but this launch was no ordinary mission. Not anymore, not since young Carlyle's orders to skip ahead to Phase Five.
The original battle plan had called for keeping the Legion's fighter assets under cover until Phase Four, when the Europa lifted off. The fighters were supposed to support the DropShip, keeping enemy fighters and DropShips busy while Fowler carried out his part of the operation. In Phase Five, with the DropShip's role accomplished, the fighters were supposed to mix it up more generally, providing air cover or ground support as needed. Now they were going straight into general combat action immediately, before the DropShip was up.
The difference between running interference for Fowler or plunging into the thick of the battle wasn't the part that worried Vargas. It was the launch procedure itself. He and his wingman had loaded their Slayer aerospace fighters aboard the Europa before the Free Skye armada had shown up in orbit. According to the orderly progression of the original battle plan they would have launched after takeoff to give the DropShip the kind of close support it was likely to need, while the other four fighters in the Legion's tiny arsenal took off from a concealed hangar at Castle Hill to link up a few minutes later.
Instead they were now taking off while the DropShip was still on the ground, and that was dangerous. The eighty-ton Slayer was designed for staying power, not maneuverability, and it would take skillful handling for the two Legion pilots to clear the buildings beyond the port compound after their high-speed catapult launch.
It was exactly the kind of situation Vargas dreaded most. Yes, he projected the image of the classic daredevil fighter pilot to his comrades in arms, and in any normal combat situation he could put aside all doubts or fears and bury himself in the moment-to-moment needs of combat flying. But as seconds ticked away on the automated countdown sequence, all he could do was sit in the cockpit and think of everything that might go wrong.
Vargas didn't fear death. Any fighter pilot quickly came to accept the idea that each battle might be his last. But Julio Vargas had a morbid dread of injury, a serious, disfiguring injury that might leave him something less than what he was. Of course, modern bionics and plastic surgery techniques were supposed to be able to erase almost any wound, but the thought of living out his life with artificial limbs or pseudo-organic skin was repugnant. Men like Davis McCall, with bionic limbs or organs, made him nervous. To be that way himself ...
And a crash on takeoff was just the sort of accident that might leave Vargas alive but crippled.
Light flooded into the fighter bay as the two airlock doors of the launch tube rolled back. The seconds continued their inexorable march down to zero . . .
Then acceleration slammed Vargas back into his seat. Flung outward by the launch catapult, the Slayer hurtled into open air, and the computer automatically cut in the fighter's thrusters. Vargas hauled back on his control stick and pressed the throttles full forward. The gee-force tore at him despite his protective gear, but the fighter's nose came up, up, up, the Slayer rocketing over the closest building, gaining altitude fast.
His sensor board lit up with targeting traces, all hostile, closing fast, but Vargas let out a sigh of relief nonetheless. These were dangers he could handle with scarcely a second thought.
"Dragon Leader, good shot, good shot," he announced.
"Dragon Two, cleared for launch. Get up here and join the fun, Danny-boy!"
"Launch sequence initiated," Ensign Daniel McMasters, his wingman, responded. Though the younger pilot's voice quavered a little, McMasters sounded almost eager to join his companion.
Vargas turned to port as his computer identified a hostile fighter launching from the Free Skye Leopard. He thumbed the weapons selector switch to autocannon and waited for the computer to lock on the target. The cross hairs drifted across his HUD until they centered on the fast-moving image of the lightweight enemy Sparrowhawk. As they flashed red, Vargas tightened his finger on the firing stud and the autocannon barked.
Shots stitched across the Sparrowhawk's wing as the enemy pilot tried to roll left and up. Vargas followed the maneuver with the cannon still blazing. Suddenly the wing started to shred, and the Free Skye fighter spun away out of control. Vargas saw the pilot punch out, his chute opening seconds after the Sparrowhawk had plunged into a warehouse on the banks of the Earn where it meandered through the center of Dunkeld. The explosion sent fire and smoke billowing up from the heart of the Glengarry capital.
"One for the Dragonslayer!" Vargas whooped over the commlink. He'd bestowed the name on his fighter years ago, during the last Legion campaign against House Kurita. "Come on, Danny-boy, if you want a piece of the glory!"
"Launching now!" McMasters replied. There was a moment of silence.
Then the flight controller's voice cut in from the bridge of the Europa. "Pull up, Dragon Two! You're too low! Pull up-"
Then a scream drowned out the words, followed by utter silence.
Vargas shuddered. He knew what had happened even before the flight controller's shaken report. "Dragon Two . . . didn't clear the buildings."
He tried to blank out the horror that went with the thought that McMasters' fate might so easily might have been his own. More targets were on his screen. What he had to do right now was deal with them . . .
* * *
Alex Carlyle studied his 'Mech's tactical display with a frown. The carefully timed battle plan he and McCall had patched together over the past days had taken less than ten minutes to begin falling apart, and now it looked as if the Legion was in danger of losing everything.
The problem with the Europa's power plant was only a tiny part of it. From the looks of things, the Steiner commander hadn't been
caught off guard as much as they'd hoped, or else he'd managed an especially skillful recovery. Instead of falling back from the ambush toward a hole left by the Europa's lifting off, the opposition had evidently considered the DropShip's weapons to be the greater threat and had concentrated on holding the line against the Gray Death 'Mechs. And with nearly half the Legion force committed to the Skysweep portion of the plan, that had given the invaders a substantial numerical superiority on the ground.
Somehow Caitlin and Davis Clay had managed to destroy a Free Skye Crusader and forced the other 'Mechs of what had tentatively been identified as the enemy command lance to draw back, but that wasn't likely to continue much longer. Denniken's Cataphract and the Shadow Hawk belonging to his lance mate, MechWarrior Lowdowski, were holding their own—barely—in an uneven matchup against three Free Skye,'Mechs, another Crusader, a Rifleman, and a JagerMech. Accordingly to the battle map another enemy 'Mech in the same area, an Archer like Alex's, had retreated a hundred meters behind the others and was now standing in the shadow of a hangar, apparently preparing to engage with long-range weapons in support of the rest of the Free Skye company.
Off to the extreme left of the crescent-shaped battle front, near the main gate of the Dunkeld spaceport complex, four more enemy 'Mechs were advancing fast. Opposing them were Freida Bergstrom's recon 'Mechs, but the disparity in sizes put the Legion at a sharp disadvantage. One of Radcliffe's tanks, a Pegasus, was trying to lend its aid to Bergstrom's leap-frogging retreat, but there wasn't that much it could do. The recon lance could delay the enemy, but it wouldn't be able to stop them. And if the fighting went on much longer Bergstrom's 'Mechs would start taking unacceptable damage.
