At that moment, Frost moved his Panther up on Armstrong's left, loosing particle beams into the milling BattleMechs just inside the trees. Meanwhile, the other Panther, piloted by Toragama, came up beside Jacobs. Together they searched for a target. Between their angle and the smoke from Jacobs' first attack, they were screened from the rest of the Davion lance. When the two 'Mechs began to fire on the Thunderbolt's last known location, the object of their attentions suddenly appeared. Bursting from the smoke, the Thunderbolt crashed forward, its enormous right-arm laser blazing red light at the Whitworth.
“Watch out!” Toragama called, alerting Jacobs to the danger.
Jacobs managed to dodge that first shot, but the enemy pilot was more than his match. The second laser shot came much closer, and Jacobs' evasive shift took him straight into the flight path of missiles from the T-Bolts Delta Dart launcher. Craters appeared in the Whitworth's upper torso and shoulder armor. Even after the cloud raised by the warhead explosions dissipated, smoke rose from the jagged gaps that the missiles had torn through the 'Mech's armor. Jacobs may have scored the first hit, but the T-Bolt pilot scored the first significant damage. The Whitworth's left arm hung limp.
Armstrong had little time to consider her mate's plight. The Davion pilots had rallied with their leader's charge, and a Valkyrie was barreling through the thinning redwoods now, launching missiles as it came. The enemy ‘MechWarrior snap-fired a laser blast at Armstrong's Catapult, momentarily blanking her screens as the flash compensator reacted to the coherent light playing over the 'Mech. She had no worries about damage, though. At over three hundred meters, it was too hard to lock on long enough to burn through even the lightest BattleMech armor. The Davion pilot had to be a novice. Armstrong was withholding her own laser fire for more effective ranges.
She targeted on the Valkyrie, a light 'Mech. If she could take it down early, the odds would be much better. She sent a double flight of missiles at the Valkyrie. The rocket exhausts flared past her viewpoint, powering their destructive loads toward the Davion machine.
Frost must have matched her reasoning, for he was concentrating his own fire on the same 'Mech. Blue-white lightning from his PPC crackled the air. The bolt seared away paint from the Valk, revealing metal, which slagged under the intense heat.
The center of so much unwanted attention, the Valkyrie pilot panicked and fired his jump jets before he had completely cleared the treeline. The 'Mech plowed into the foliage of a solitary giant. Branches cracked and tore clear as the 'Mech rose, but they stripped off most of the Valk's antenna assembly. The thirty-ton machine arced away from the fight toward a hilly patch to the northeast. From its erratic flight path, either the 'Mech or its pilot had taken damage from the Draconian attacks.
Armstrong did not have time to see if the enemy warrior had landed safely before turning her attention to the other two Davion 'Mechs emerging from the woods.
The Valkyrie remained a potential threat, but was out of the fight for now. The new 'Mechs were a bigger and more current danger. First in line was a fifty-five-ton Shadow Hawk, followed closely by a sixty-ton Ostsol. Together they outmassed all three of Armstrong's lance-mates. In BattleMech combat, greater mass generally meant greater fighting capability.
“Lance, we've got trouble with a capital T,” Armstrong radioed. What was supposed to have been a one-sided ambush was about to become a skirmish—with her force at a definite disadvantage.
“Withdraw,” she shouted over the command channel. “Fire by extraction!”
Armstrong backed her Catapult down the reverse slope. Just before her 'Mech's bullet-shaped body dropped below the crest, she fired another double flight of rockets.
Scanners showed Frost withdrawing according to orders. His Panther was firing as it moved from cover to cover, working its way to Armstrong's position. The hill blocked Armstrong's view of Toragama and Jacobs, but the taccomm suddenly crackled to life.
“Jacobs is down! He hasn't ejected. I think he's hurt!”
“Keep it calm, Toragama.” That was bad. With one 'Mech down, she didn't need to lose another pilot to panic. “What happened?”
“The T-Bolt raked him with missiles and he went down. His 'Mech's not moving. I think he's hurt.”
“Confirmed, Chu-i,” Frost broke in. “Got a LOS on them. The Whitworth is down, with Toragama covering against the T-Bolts advance. The other Feds are headed that way. ETA of first hostile is two minutes.”
Thank the Dragon for Frost's cool head. Armstrong knew they had to get out of here, but if Jacobs was still alive, she couldn't abandon him. With him still in his 'Mech, they would have to drag them both. Her own Cat had no arms, and a single Panther was too light for the job. It would take both Panthers to drag the forty-ton Whitworth clear of the field. With the Davion 'Mechs on top of them, that would be impossible. Something had to be done.
“Frost, listen up. You and Toragama are going to have to drag Jacobs' butt out of there. I'll give you cover and try to pull the Feds away. Meet you at the rally point.”
“Hai, Chu-i!”
“Get moving!” Frost's 'Mech was in motion even before the order reached him, his machine racing along out of sight of the enemy.
Armstrong's machine rose on a column of superheated steam. It cleared the ridge, coming down in the open, eighty meters from the leading Davion 'Mech. As the Cat landed, Armstrong jolted violently, having misjudged the slope of her landing site. The shock skewed her aim, and the spread of laser fire she sent at the T-Bolt did little more than catch the pilot's attention. The ponderous 'Mech turned in her direction, and its partners changed vector to angle in on her as well. To distract the Feds while her lance members worked to make good their escape, Armstrong began the deadly dance of dodge and fire.
“Strike Command, this is Pouncer One,” she broadcast desperately when the hostiles gave her a second's breather. “We've got trouble. Come in, Strike Command.”
It took two more tries before she got an answer. By then, she had taken multiple missile and autocannon hits that had pocked and shattered armor plates, but failed to penetrate and rupture the more delicate structures beneath. Far worse was the shot the Cat had taken from one of the Ostsol’s 8cm lasers. The heavy beam had breached the 'Mech's leg armor and damaged an actuator. She was finding it hard to dodge with a limp.
“Strike Command to Pouncer One, what's your situation?” The comm officer's voice was calm and detached. He could afford to be, sitting safe in the MHQ.
“Mech down. Two on recovery assistance. Three heavy hostiles in pursuit.”
“Understood, Pouncer.” There was a pause. Armstrong prayed that it was to order a couple of 'Mech lances to their relief. Relief that she prayed, even more fervently, would arrive in time. A new speaker replaced the comm officer.
Armstrong recognized Tai-sa Tetsuhara's voice. “Negative on available ground forces, Pouncer.”
Armstrong's throat dried. This was it then. If the Iron Man was on the line, it was to tell her that it was stand-and-die time, time for dignity and honor. Damn! She wanted to cry, but that wasn't dignified.
Sacrifice for one's comrades was noble in theory. In the hot cockpit of a BattleMech, facing death in the shape of three enemy BattleMechs, theory wasn't so attractive. Survival—now that was attractive! Far more than some abstract like the unit's honor.
“Pouncer,” the Tai-sa called.
Frackencrack! she thought. Here comes the death order.
“We have diverted an aerospace lance to your coordinates. ETA is six minutes. Can you hold?”
What? For a few seconds, the unexpected words made no sense to Armstrong. While she was thus distracted, the Shadow Hawk rounded a copse of trees and caught the Catapult with a pair of missiles. Armstrong reacted on the reflex and drove her 'Mech in a skittering run for the cover of a granite boulder.
“Pouncer, can you hold for six minutes?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Time is unconquerable, Chu-i. Do your best. I ex
pect no less from my samurai.”
“Hai, Tai-sa!” He had called her a samurai. In ten years of service with the Combine, no officer had ever accorded her the honor. The Iron Man was doing his best for her. She could do no less in return.
Those six minutes were the longest days Armstrong ever lived as the battle became a lethal game of hide and seek. As the Cat's heat burden built up, more failure lights flared red in every encounter with the Davion enemy. Her missile stock shrank, and she had no idea how many more brushes she could survive. The next might be the last.
“Pouncer One, Pouncer One, you still out here?”
Armstrong shed tears of relief with no thought of her dignity when that voice came over the taccomm. “Barely. Thank the Dragon you made it.”
“Say rather, Blue Flight of Wolf's Dragoons, ma'am.” A burst of static blurred the link briefly. “We've got four
'Mechs on our screens. Can you give us a beacon for our run? Wouldn't want to lose you by accident.”
“Roger on the beacon,” she said, setting up a repeating pulse on her taccomm to identify her 'Mech to the friendly fighters.
Two Lucifers sporting black wolf's-heads came screaming down out of the sky to rain explosive destruction on the Davion 'Mechs. The Federated ‘MechJocks were not tyros, but could do little against the swift-moving fighters. None of their machines was configured for ground-to-air work, and so the enemy 'Mechs headed for cover.
Armstrong didn't wait around. As soon as she saw the first rockets thud home, she throttled up and ran from the field at full speed. She wanted to put as much distance as possible between her Catapult and the Davion 'Mechs that had mauled it.
The Dragoon fighters made another pass, but it had less effect since the Feds had gone to ground. The Dragoon Lance Commander radioed his concern to Armstrong, “Gotta go, ma'am. We've got other calls to make. Hope you got enough of a lead 'cause I don't think we took any of the Fed 'Mechs down for the count.”
“It will be enough,” Armstrong said determinedly. “Warrior, to whom do I owe my life?”
“The name's Atwyl, ma'am. But you don't owe me anything. It's all part of the service. Good luck!”
The fighters disappeared into the distant haze, heading for the Shaw River Valley.
It took an hour for Armstrong to reach the rally point, but she was sure that she had eluded any Davion pursuers. The rest of her lance was waiting for her. The Whitworth was lying on the ground with its cockpit hatch open. Frost and Toragama stood beside the supine machine. Even before she cracked her own hatch, she knew what the word would be.
“Jacobs bought it, Chu-i,” Frost said after she had dismounted.
Armstrong shrugged off her cooling jacket and sat down on a convenient boulder. The cool forest air was balm for her body, if not her mind. “Well, he asked for it, and he got it.”
“That's pretty callous, Chu-i,” Toragama blurted belligerently. “Hiraku Jacobs died in battle as a warrior. He should be honored for that.”
“He should be tried for disobeying orders! When he broke ambush, he nearly set us all up to be killed.”
“His was an honorable act. First blood for a warrior,” Toragama protested.
“Honor, my ass. His honor lay in following orders, in serving his lord. Jacobs was reckless and heedless of his duty. His death has cost House Kurita a warrior and almost three more. It cost two 'Mechs heavily damaged, and it could have cost a whole lance totally lost.
“If Jacobs had used his head, he would be alive now. Davion warriors would be licking their wounds and burying their dead.
“We are Ryuken. We are responsible to react to the situation, not to follow orders blindly or to perform pointless acts of personal bravery. We must always keep our mission in mind. You got that, Toragama? Wakarimasu-ka?”
The chastened soldier nodded. “Wakarimasu, Chu-i.”
20
Alpha Regiment MHQ, Ryuken Field Camp,Barlow's End
Draconis March, Federated Suns
30 September 3026
The orderly threaded his way through the crowded mobile headquarters vehicle. Impartially bumping into Dragoon and Kurita officers alike, he apologized as he went. Reaching Minobu, the man held out a packet. “From Colonel Wolf, sir.”
Minobu took the envelope, whose markings indicated that the message had not come over the military net. Minobu raised a questioning eyebrow to Major Kelly Yukinov, who shook his head to signify that he had no inkling of the message's contents. Minobu opened the envelope and unfolded the flimsy inside. A smile grew as he read the message.
“It is the Colonel's good wishes for the success of our first joint mission.”
“We've got some work ahead of us,” Yukinov said, “if we are to fulfill those wishes.”
“Surely you exaggerate, Major.”
Heads turned toward Jerry Akuma when-he spoke.
Minobu could tell that the PSL officer relished the effect he'd made by finally breaking silence. Though the tall Japanese's presence had shadowed the proceedings in the command vehicle, he had said little, seeming to choose his moments with a timing that Minobu envied.
'The great Wolf's Dragoons are not noted for defeatism,” Akuma said.
“Not defeatism, Chu-sa Akuma,” Yukinov said. “Realism. This operation is not on schedule.
“You were here yesterday during the incident with Armstrong's failed ambush. The reports from both Ryuken and Dragoon Recon Lances are just as ominous. There's a heavier Davion military presence here than Kurita intel predicted.”
“Perhaps,” Akuma drawled. “The recon reports are just the over-reaction of half-trained troops and mercenaries eager to pad the enemy's numbers to increase combat bonuses.” If Akuma was disappointed that neither Minobu or Yukinov rose to the bait, he hid it well. “If the reconnaissance reports are true, it only means that Davion's lackeys have good reason to protect what we seek. The prize must be more valuable than the ISF believes.”
“It also means we'll have to 'work' harder to get it,” Yukinov countered.
“The amount of 'work' is, of course, your concern. Your Colonel Wolf accepted this mission, and now you are obligated to produce results.”
“You'll get them.”
Akuma smiled. “I know I will.” Standing unobtrusively behind him were his two aides. One was a blond man as tall as Akuma, but considerably more massive. The other was a squat and compact Japanese. They accompanied the Chu-sa everywhere, presenting ever-grim and impassive faces to the world.
The PSL officer held out a hand, and the shorter aide handed him a sheet of paper. Holding up the paper, Akuma said, “Already I have results. This is a message from our informant at the Achernar Proving Grounds in Landova. The agent's report indicates that the Davion commander plans to move Professor McGuffin's prototype to a more secure location four days from now.”
The Ryuken and Dragoon staff officers exchanged worried looks at that information. It upset the raiding team's timetable. Akuma, satisfied with the turmoil he had created, stepped back, taking himself out of the circle around the holotank and the discussion that was starting there.
“Are they on to us?” asked Major Patrick Chan, his expression troubled. Chan's battalion made up most of the force from Alpha Regiment that was present for the raid.
“Well, Pat, we have to assume, at the very least, that they know what we're after,” Colonel Jamison said. His own expression showed that he didn't much like the idea of the enemy knowing his objective either.
“Maybe we can use that to our advantage,” Minobu offered.
Yukinov perked up. “How do you mean?”
Minobu wondered if Yukinov knew what he had in mind and was just giving him the opportunity to put the plan on the table. “If we put in the expected assault on the facility, they won't be expecting an attempt on the transfer convoy.”
“That sounds good.” This was from Captain Kristen Stane, commander of an augmented company of light BattleMechs notable for its air elements and fast-str
ike capability. Stane always favored plans involving sudden and unexpected attacks. She claimed that the speed and uncertainty agreed with her. With typical Dragoon thoroughness, she added, “If there's a good ambush site.”
“There may be one,” Minobu said, punching a code into his console. The holotank responded by zooming in on the Landova sector. A principal highway headed south from the city, then turned west and crossed the Shaw River Valley over a flood-control dam. After passing over the dam, the highway paralleled the west-northwest trend of the river until the dense woods of the Renbourn Forestry Reserve forced it to veer away. “Look here,” he said, keying a zoom to focus on the area on the south side of the Shaw River.
“I see it,” Chan and Stane said in unison. They looked at one another, both caught off guard by the other's remark. Each was known in the Dragoons as a master of the BattleMech ambush. Each also respected the other's expertise. Stane deferred to rank, and Chan said, “There, where the road passes through the edge of Renbourn Forestry Reserve. It looks like a perfect location.”
Now Stane spoke up. “Exactly. That's why the ambush should be sited here, in Millon's Woods. Before the road gets to the obvious site.”
“No good. We wouldn't have a line of retreat if it drops in the pot,” Yukinov objected. As officer in charge of Dragoon forces onworld, he must remain concerned with the preservation of those forces.
“There is a line of retreat,” Minobu said. “If the attacking force is carefully selected.”
“Huh?” The Dragoons looked puzzled. Minobu had leaped ahead of them. Minobu's own staff were even more confused, being already ill-at-ease with the interplay of a Dragoon-style planning session. They were unaccustomed to the speed at which options were accepted or discarded. Only Michi Noketsuna wasn't lost. He had seen where Minobu was looking while the Dragoons talked, and his face showed it with a half-smile.
“The Shaw River is a seasonal phenomenon,” Minobu continued. “At this time of year, the valley is completely dry and its floor well-compacted. It would make an almost perfect road for a light 'Mech force.”
Wolves on the Border Page 17
