by Andrew Keith
"All units, all units," he called over the commline. "General chase. Run 'em down and start collecting trophies, boys!"
Moving forward in his Zeus, Leonidas Brannock was ready to deal with the Highlander once and for all.
* * *
Clay's last jump brought the Griffin down close alongside the stricken Highlander. Hastily looking the 'Mech over, he noted the scorched and scoured armor along the side of the cockpit. There was no obvious breach, no reason to suppose McCall had been hit.
Except, of course, that the older warrior neither moved nor answered the commlink nor even attempted to punch out, as he would have if the Highlander had been crippled.
Davis Carlyle Clay debated what to do, knowing he couldn't just abandon McCall out here.
Missiles slammed into the rising ground just behind him, and Clay looked up to see the running form of the enemy Zeus bearing down on the two Legion 'Mechs. The Zeus was nearly twice his mass and almost impossible for one small Griffin to even scratch without more luck than Clay figured he had left. But he still wasn't about to abandon McCall until he was sure of his fate.
Slowly, deliberately, he moved the Griffin forward, like a small animal defending a larger but wounded mate. It was David facing Goliath, a slingshot against a giant.
* * *
Frowning, Alexander Carlyle studied his Archer's tactical display. Just a few minutes ago the Gray Death had been conducting a careful, orderly consolidation around Coltbridge. Now it was fast turning into a rout.
And there was no response from McCall on the private tactical channel. Alex had intended to make his approach as stealthy as possible, then get a quick sitrep from the weapons master before suddenly going on an open frequency and confusing an already chaotic situation by seeming to appear from out of nowhere. Now Alex didn't know what to do. Judging from what he could see, he'd be hard pressed to establish any kind of control, and just trying could complicate the situation further.
It was an ironic end to a well-executed transfer operation. The maglev had carried his strike force from Benmor Pass to a point a few kilometers from Coltbridge, where they had reactivated and unloaded the 'Mechs in record time as each emelt car reached the assembly point. From there it had been a short march overland to just northeast of Coltbridge. Now Carlyle and his men were poised squarely behind the invaders, ready to deliver an unexpected blow.
But everything was falling apart on the battlefield, and Alex's intervention now could end up doing more harm than good.
"Alex, those two beacons closest to us . . . that's Dave and the Major!" Caitlin DeVries jerked him out of the his reverie. "And look at what they're up against ..."
He checked the readouts on the tactical map and felt his blood run cold. The decision wasn't hard to make any more.
"Let's move!" he shouted. Quickly programming his LRMs, he fired two quick volleys in the general direction of the Zeus that was slowly advancing on his two lance mates. They probably wouldn't hit, but at least they'd send the Free Skye invaders a signal that they suddenly had a whole new battle on their hands.
* * *
The missiles streaking toward Brannock's Zeus seemed to be coming from out of nowhere, and for a moment he thought that one of the missile-carrying hovertanks had worked its way around behind the Free Skye lines. But then he saw the readings on his MAD sensors and he knew the truth. More Gray Death BattleMechs. At least ten, by his first quick count. His first guess had been right after all. A trap—and he had fallen neatly into it.
"Break off and re-form," he ordered, terse, angry. "All units, break off pursuit and re-form on me! We have multiple targets bearing zero-three-nine degrees, closing! Break off pursuit and re-form on me!"
The impudent little Griffin that had been helping to bait the trap was still standing in plain sight, almost challenging Brannock to do his worst. But Leonidas Brannock had other things to worry about now. Maybe there'd be a chance to deal with that audacious pilot some other time. For the moment that warrior wasn't going to tempt Brannock any more today ...
* * *
McCall became aware of the ache in his head first. Groaning, he tried to shift in his seat, but he found that his arm—his bionic arm—wouldn't move. He couldn't feel anything from the shoulder down, either. It brought back memories of the days after they'd amputated his original mangled limb, following the Clan attack on Sudeten. For weeks after the surgery, he'd had that curious sensation, the dull, remote feeling of a limb that wasn't really there.
Groggy, he used his good arm to lever himself upright, the motion making his head spin. McCall probed the side of his scalp gingerly, felt the warm stickiness of blood matting his hair. The neurohelmet was supposed to be padded against this kind of injury, but no protection was perfect. One of the built-in headphones had ruptured and given him a deep, bleeding gash, but he didn't think it was a serious injury. Certainly it wasn't as bad as losing the use of his arm. He could pilot the 'Mech one-handed, but in the heat of battle the injury would slow him down.
If, of course, the explosion hadn't crippled his controls entirely. Carefully, he settled the neurohelmet back in place and checked his status board. There were reds and ambers showing, mostly minor systems. One heat sink was off-line, and his cockpit air coolers were out. Things were likely to get pretty damned hot if he got back in the battle.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, McCall raised the 'Mech's right arm. It responded. He sighed, relieved. There might still be some fight in the old warhorse after all . . .
"Major? Do you read me, Major?" Dave Clay's voice on the commlink was panicky. "I saw you move your arm. Are you all right? Do you read me?"
"Easy, there, laddie," McCall replied. "Dinna fash yourself sae much."
"When you didn't answer . . . God, Major, everything's happening so fast ..."
McCall called up his tactical display and whistled in surprise. Clay was right. His troops were dispersed and in disorder, while the Free Skye forces were forming up in a circle less than a kilometer to the south and west of the Highlander. But, of all miracles he'd given up hope of seeing, the 'Mechs of Alex's force were streaming in across the same undulating terrain the enemy had crossed less than an hour before.
If not for that, the battle would surely have been over. Even now, there was no way to tell whether or not they could get the 'Mechs down by Coltbridge reorganized in time to do any good.
"Second battle . . . same bluidy odds," he muttered. He groped for his frequency switch. "Ghost Two tae Leader. Are you there, young Alex?"
"I'm here, Mac," Alex Carlyle replied. "But for a few minutes there I was afraid you weren't."
"I'm the last of a lang line of Highlanders, laddie. We fight wi' each ither when we've nae ithers tae fight, we wear kilts in freezing weather and eat sheep's stomachs as a delicacy, and we toss tree trunks around in the name of sport." He paused. "A wee bump on the heid willna slow one ae us doon for lang, young Alex. 'Tis the least vulnerable part of the body tae us."
"Well, Mac, how's about lowering that hard head of yours and seeing how much damage you can do to the bad guys. You up for it?"
* * *
Leutnant-General Leonidas Brannock watched the newcomers as they closed in from the northeast. This force was only slightly smaller than the other, and it included several heavy 'Mechs. The fight wasn't going to be a picnic, after all.
If only the fighters hadn't gotten involved in a duel with the Legion's air cover. Brannock shook his head. If he was going to wish for the impossible, why not wish that pompous ass von Bulow had concentrated on a single landing using overwhelming force? They would have taken heavy causalities in a stand-up fight with the full force of the Gray Death Legion, but Brannock knew what the causality lists looked like for this campaign already. At least one decisive battle wouldn't have wasted good men in sideshow operations.
There was little point in considering the maybes or the might-have-beens. What was left was the need to act.
"All units, form line abre
ast, standard open terrain intervals," he said on the general commlink channel. "The Black Watch will advance!"
And twelve BattleMechs moved out in unison, spreading out and beginning a slow march straight for the enemy. This would be the decisive moment . . . victory or defeat, and no middle ground.
42
Near Coltbridge
Glengarry, Federated Commonwealth
11 April 3056
"Obote, Dumont, to the front!" Alex snapped. "Let's show them they're not the only ones with firepower around here."
Dumont's Marauder somehow managing to convey its pilot's neat, precise, economical way of walking as it moved, took a few paces forward. Further down Alex's uneven skirmish line, Lieutenant Bhekampi Obote also advanced. His Goliath was an unusual 'Mech design, walking on four legs instead of two, and resembling nothing so much as one of Mother Terra's long-extinct pachyderms. They were the two biggest 'Mechs, aside from McCall's Highlander facing the enemy force, and they had the firepower to trade blows with the heavy 'Mechs that faced them.
So did the Archer. "The rest of you, fall back, disperse, and then harass the enemy as the opportunity presents itself. Keep away from these big boys unless you're built to take it." Under the forced calm of his tone, Alex's heart was racing. He knew their luck wasn't likely to hold once the battle was joined. The smaller 'Mechs would end up like Royale's Commando back at Benmor, shattered and crushed under the weight of a single, well-placed volley.
McCall had claimed the Gray Death could win even against the odds. But the price they could end up paying today would give them just another Pyrrhic victory. More lives lost in the face of the seemingly endless supply of von Bulow's troops. In a war of attrition, victory went to the side most willing to sacrifice its troops. And Alex Carlyle was finding it increasingly hard to spend that precious coinage.
"Fire at will," he said, and hit the firing studs on his console.
For the second time today destruction reigned supreme in the field northeast of Coltbridge.
* * *
A plasma bolt from one of the Free Skye Marauders ionized the air less than five meters from her Centurion's cockpit, but Caitlin DeVries concentrated on her own target, hardly aware of the near-miss.
She had deliberately stayed close to Alex's Archer despite his orders for the lighter 'Mechs to avoid contact with the heavies. Caitlin had left his back uncovered in the fight by the bridge at Benmor Pass, and she was determined not to repeat the mistake.
Mistakes ... At every turn, Caitlin had somehow made the wrong choice, or so it seemed now. In the battle at the port, she had managed to fight a first-line Marauder right into the ground, then let a smaller 'Mech virtually wreck her. One wrong move after another ...
Starting with her father. She had sacrificed everything to become a MechWarrior even her father's love. And yet now she was turning out to be a failure in her chosen path. Maybe the first wrong move had been siding with the Legion after she'd discovered her father's coup.
Or maybe it had been her decision to join the Gray Death in the first place.
But the past . . . was gone. Dead. Her only family was the Legion now, and Caitlin DeVries was determined never to let that family down again.
She held her fire, watching as the slow-moving Battle-Master with the missing leg armor stalked relentlessly forward. Chance had placed it opposite the position Alex had chosen, and the 'Mechs were trading shots faster than their heat sinks could dissipate the high temperatures generated each time one of them fired or moved.
Caitlin tracked the larger 'Mech, keeping the cross hairs centered on the cockpit, holding her fire until she was sure the shot would count.
And then something slammed into her side, knocking her off balance. The Centurion staggered, fell to the ground. Caitlin could see the damage board lighting up. Another PPC shot, this one a hit. It hadn't penetrated, but the next one that struck that side surely would.
The BattleMaster kept on coming, and Alex had an uneasy feeling of deja vu as he watched it striding slowly forward. He had suffered burn-throughs in three places, losing a laser and a pair of heat sinks to plasma bolt hits since the fighting had started. But the Free Skye force was taking its share of punishment, too, especially from Obote's Goliath and McCall's Highlander. The latter was using his jump jets to skirmish with the enemy, always staying on the move, darting in close to make an attack, then jumping clear of danger. Two of the enemy 'Mechs were gone, but he wasn't sure what kind of casualities the Legion had suffered.
He targeted the BattleMaster's plasma gun and fired everything he had. Missiles and beams streaked toward the metal behemoth, and for a moment the ripple of multiple explosions obscured his view.
As the smoke cleared, he saw that the pilot had jettisoned his PPC. He was flexing the 'Mech's massive hand slowly, as if getting used to the controls.
And still it kept on coming.
"I'm hit! I'm hit!" That was Cadet Farquhar's voice coming over the commline. His Phoenix Hawk had been added to the battalion command lance as part of the reorganization after the death of Major de Villar. Now his screams were hardly recognizable. "Oh, God . . . I'm—"
Then he was gone.
"The kid bought it," MechWarrior O'Dell, one of his lancemates, reported grimly. "That Zeus just walked up and caved in the whole front of his cockpit, punching him."
"Ashburn bought it, too," someone else said.
They were like the voices of his conscience, reminding Alex of each of the fallen. Accusing him . . .
A kind of rage took over, and he ignored his missiles and lasers. Suddenly he wanted to do to one of the enemy what they'd just done to Farquhar. He started forward, going to meet the BattleMaster halfway.
* * *
Caitlin fought to lever the Centurion up off the ground. It was a tricky maneuver at the best of times. Now, with her 'Mech damaged and a battle raging all around, it was well-nigh impossible, but she finally managed to roll the massive machine over and get up on all fours.
Then she saw the BattleMaster, just coming to grips with Alex's smaller Archer. Those huge fists could make short work of her friend's 'Mech.
The enemy 'Mech was half-turned away from her now, exposing the damaged leg. She could see the latticework of internal structure through the gaps in the armor. And she knew she had one chance to intervene.
Caitlin raised her arm-mounted autocannon and opened fire. Round after round slammed into the chamber; round after round poured into the damaged leg.
The BattleMaster staggered back, off balance. She fired again, and suddenly the whole lower half of the limb dropped away. And the BattleMaster fell.
She let out a sigh of relief as the autocannon magazine ran dry. Though it might have turned out differently, this time she hadn't let her family down.
* * *
The fall of the huge BattleMaster brought Alex back to, his senses. What had he been thinking of? In those few moments, everything McCall had ever taught him about command had gone out the window . . .
He took a moment to glance at his tactical board. The Gray Death skirmish line was crumbling in several places as the lighter 'Mechs were overwhelmed and destroyed or forced back. At least three were out of action, and he doubted if any of the 'Mechs were still fully operational after the punishment of the firelight.
And all the while the Legion was going down, he'd wanted; nothing more than to grapple with a single enemy.
There were more traces appearing on the southwest side of his tactical screen now . . . Mechs from McCall's force, coming back into battle as they realized the fight was still going on after all. Denniken had rallied them, somehow. Captain Simms, according to the readouts, had punched out when his Shadow Hawk took multiple hits from the Archer earlier, before Alex's troops had come on the scene.
Alex swallowed. His troops were wavering, but there were reinforcements in the offing again, not fresh, perhaps, but-not so tired as the men around him.
And not as tired as the enemy m
ust be by now . . .
One last effort. That's what they needed. One final effort to turn the tide of this bitter fight once and for all. If only he could make them all see what had to be done.
Alex mustered his strength. "One more attack, Legionnaires!" he shouted on the general commlink channel. "One more attack! For the Gray Death Legion!"
And he turned the Archer slowly, deliberately, opening fire as he started forward, pushing through the Free Skye skirmish line with all weapons blazing at once. One more attack . . .
Other voices took up the call. "For the Gray Death Legion!" someone yelled. "Give the bastards hell!"
"Carlyle! Carlyle! Carlyle!" others chanted. "Carlyle and the Gray Death Legion!"
In that one moment, Alex Carlyle finally learned what it was to be a leader of men.
* * *
Hours later, the battle of Coltbridge was over.
The worst of the firelight had ended in minutes, but the fighting had gone on long afterward. The enemy general had been tenacious, regrouping and attacking again each time it seemed he couldn't possibly sustain another battle. Armor and infantry had come up, too, but the Gray Death 'Mechs still able to fight had made short work of them.
Late in the evening, the invaders had finally pulled back behind a screen of medium BattleMechs and armor, and Alex had let them retreat. None of the Gray Death 'Mechs was in any condition to press the pursuit very closely, although Freida Bergstrom and Dingo Jack Murphy, their depleted lances temporarily united into one makeshift unit, had followed at a discreet distance to keep tabs on the foe and discourage any notions of renewed fighting. At last report, though, they'd fallen back to a field fifteen klicks north of Coltbridge and had started loading up aboard a pair of DropShips.
