"Walking ladder," the sergeant said. "Add ten. Fire. Drop five. Fire. Add ten. Fire. . . ."
The mortar rounds made a crawling curtain of smoke and fire as they crawled down the street away from the Highlanders' position. The concussions of the mortar rounds, even at this range, felt like punches.
"And here he comes." The Schmitt came through the mask of dirt and flying rubble. It crawled up the street. The tank's main guns swung slowly from side to side. Then the vehicle stopped, rocked over onto its left side, then righted itself. A column of flame shot from the top hatch. A Highlander antitank gun inside the building to the right had fired through an open doorway directly into the Schmitt's side armor at point-blank range.
The wall where the artillery piece hid collapsed as it was struck by a short-range pulse of energy. Shortly after, a second Schmitt crawled around the burning wreck of its mate.
"More armor inbound," the sergeant said over the radio. "They're taking hits but not turning back. This could be a push."
"Roger," the talker back at Company replied. "Stand fast. We'll try to get some support out your way."
"Wait, wait," Brodie said. "We're going to have to fall back. They're backed by a 'Mech."
"Report!" "One 'Mech. Industrial mod, MiningMech with machine guns and short-range missiles. Jump- jet infantry accompanies. Steel Wolves combat loadout. Can't tell which unit. Scout car with machine gun for infantry support. Coming this way."
"Roger, Observation Post Five," Company said. "Fall back to the workers' dining hall. Await instructions."
"Roger, out." The sergeant crawled back from the corner, then stood and joined his troops.
"Okay," he said, and pointed toward the cafeteria building-perhaps fifty yards away, and still possessing unbroken glass in its many windows. "We're goingthere. Now pop smokes, and let's move."
37
The Fort
Tara
Northwind
February 3134; local winter
The Combat Information Center at the Fort was a windowless, subterranean room packed with map displays, data and communications consoles, and specialists in uniform. Under everyday circumstances it would have been a quiet, even boring place to stand a watch, but with the Steel Wolves at the DropPort and a major battle clearly in the offing, the CIC was full of intense but orderly activity.
Captain Tara Bishop had been working in the CIC all night, ever since the Countess of Northwind had sent out Paladin Ezekiel Crow to alert the mercenaries and bring them around into position. That had been a long time ago, as time flowed in wartime, and they still had no word. For some time now, Captain Bishop had been mentally reviewing the varieties of disaster that could have overtaken a single warrior-even a warrior in a 'Mech-while passing through territory supposedly still under friendly control. "Supposedly" being the key word; and Bishop knew that if its implications made her feel concerned about the Paladin's safety, then the Countess of Northwind, under her highly polished diplomatic exterior, must be close to frantic.
The Countess checked her watch. She'd been doing that at roughly five-minute intervals for the past half hour. This time, whatever feelings she was keeping in check behind the Countess-and-Prefect fagade finally impelled her to speak. "What's taking Crow so long? Even if it took him longer than it should have to roust Farrell's mercenaries out of bed and get them moving, we ought to have heard something from them by now."
"I don't know what the hangup is, ma'am," Bishop replied. Now was not the time to air her own visions of disaster, when the Countess undoubtedly had her own fears to deal with. "But I'm sure he's got the mercs moving by now."
"I'd be happier if I'd actually heard from Crow that they were moving," the Countess said. "I'd be even happier if anyone had actuallyseen them moving. I'd be happier if . . . a lot of things."
"We'd all be happier if the Steel Wolves took their anger-management problems elsewhere," Captain Bishop agreed. "But they're here, and we're stuck in hurry-up-and-wait mode."
She picked up the stack of messages from the comm board. Half-a-hundred requested the Countess's action or reply. By now Captain Bishop knew which messages were the ones that the Countess really needed to see, and which were the ones that Bishop could initial and send back all on her own.
None of the messages were from General Griffin, and those were the ones she and the Countess were waiting for, with almost as much eagerness as they waited for Ezekiel Crow to walk back through the door with word that Farrell's mercenaries were moving to flank the Wolves. Catch the Steel Wolves between the hammer and the anvil, with the Highlanders as the anvil, and the sparks they struck would send fire all the way back to Tigress.
"Have you considered sending out a scout/sniper unit to look for Kerensky?" Bishop asked, as she flipped through the messages.
"Considered it, decided against it," the Countess replied. "It comes a bit too close to deliberate assassination, for one thing-not the kind of precedent I'm willing to set-and for another thing it probably wouldn't work. If she isn't at her field headquarters with Elemental infantry three deep guarding the perimeter, then she's out on the line in thatRyoken II of hers, and it would take a bigger can opener than a squad of scouts and snipers to cut her out."
A knock sounded at the door of CIC.
"Enter!" Bishop called.
A courier appeared, holding a message. "Ma'am," he said to the Countess. "Compliments of Colonel Ballantrae, northern sector, and the Wolves are jamming our comms."
"That explains quite a lot," Bishop said. "The Countess's compliments to the Colonel and is that all?"
"No, ma'am." The courier offered her a message pouch. "There's some kind of attack going on along the right flank."
"About damned time," the Countess said, as Bishop took the pouch and opened it. "That'll be Farrell's people. Tell the Colonel to stand fast, and allow any Steel Wolves who wish to do so to surrender."
"That isn't it," Captain Bishop said. She'd opened the pouch and begun looking over the hard- copy messages that the courier had brought. "I'm seeing reports of a number of probing attacks in the northeast, but no reports of movement by Farrell's mercs, or anyone else. It's all-" "Ma'am," the messenger said. "The Colonel requests reinforcements. Or he can't hold.
Ma'am."
"Damn," the Countess said. She turned to Captain Bishop. "We can't send reinforcements to the flank without weakening the center of the line. How do you feel about the two of us suiting up and adding some 'Mechs to stiffen the Colonel's spine?"
Captain Bishop smiled, feeling the smile stretch into an eager grin despite her best efforts to remain cool and collected. "To think that when I pulled headquarters duty, I was afraid that I'd never get to see action again."
"You shouldn't have worried," the Countess said. "You're with me." She turned to the courier.
"Tell Colonel Ballantrae that help's on the way. If you hurry, you'll get there before we do."
38
Northwest Quadrant
Tara
Northwind
February 3134; local winter
The Highlanders' command post in the northwest quadrant had seen an increasing tempo of operations as night wore on into morning. First radio comms, then messengers brought word of attacks all along the line. The Steel Wolves weren't yet pressing hard, but they were pressing hard enough, and in enough places, that any slackness on the part of the defenders could bring about a break in the line. And a break in the line could become the hole through which the Wolves would pour, rolling up the Highlanders right and left, attacking simultaneously from before and behind and on the flank, leading to a collapse of command and control over all of Tara's northwestern suburbs.
And after the suburbs, the whole city, and after the city, the planet.
" 'Mech approaching," Corporal Shannon MacKenzie reported to her sergeant. "Industrial Mod of some kind."
"One of ours or one of theirs?"
"Theirs, I think," MacKenzie said. "Everything else coming from the
east has been theirs. Why not this?"
"Because I'd hate to fry one of our own people. We don't have enough 'Mechs as it is."
Colonel Ballantrae had been listening to the Corporal's report as well, with an expression of increasing grimness. Now he said, "Get me Captain Fairbairn."
Corporal MacKenzie worked the field phone-a primitive model, working off of strung wire, but one not vulnerable to the Wolves' jamming-then passed the handset over to the Colonel.
"Got him, sir."
"Fairbairn," the Colonel said. "There's a 'Mech, up on Lombard Street. One of theirs. Take what you need, do what you have to, but stop it."
"Yes, sir."
Captain Fairbairn put down the field phone. "Well, Sergeant, if you had to stop a 'Mech, how would you do it?"
"Dig a pit, let it fall in. Works in the tri-vids, anyhow."
"I like it," Fairbairn said. "If our city utility maps are right, there's a sewer up under the car park, west of the 'Mech construction hangars. Get demolition rigged under the street, enough to give me a five-meter-deep crater. Command detonated. Nothing showing on the surface. When will you have it?"
"When do you need it, sir?"
"Yesterday."
The sergeant frowned for a moment in thought. "Um . . . twenty minutes, then. Sir."
"Very well. Twenty-one minutes from now there will be a Steel Wolf 'Mech on top of your pile of demo. Blow it."
The sergeant saluted. "Sir."
"Very impressive," Lieutenant Griswold said as the sergeant left. "Now, how are you going to get that 'Mech into place?"
"I have a couple of ideas," Fairbairn told the lieutenant. "We can lure it, or we can drive it. Or some combo of the two."
"Combo."
"Right. Lombard runs north of the car park. We need a tempting target, on the south side of the car park."
"And we need to make sure the 'Mech can't use ranged weapons on it."
"We can do that. There's a disabled Behemoth II at the repair yard. Get it down on the south side of the square, facing south. Put a squad on it making smoke so it's obscured until . . . 0827. At 0827, they will stop making smoke. Got it?"
"I think I see where you're going," Griswold said.
"Then get moving, Lieutenant. You don't have a lot of time to round up a tow to put it in place."
Griswold saluted in turn, and headed out.
"Last thing . . ." Fairbairn picked up the field phone again. "I need a section of flamethrowers on the north side of the 'Mech Factory car park. I want the north side and the west side of the park, and the side streets, covered. If they see a 'Mech, and they will, I want them to flame. Make it happen."
Then he strolled from the storefront he'd been using as a headquarters to the street where a mortar battery was emplaced. Fairbairn walked over to the sergeant in charge.
"Good morning, sir," the sergeant said, saluting.
"Good morning," Fairbairn replied. He looked at his watch. "I have a problem you can help me with. There's a Wolf 'Mech north and east of here. I want to drive it south and west. How much white phosphorus do you have?"
"Thirty rounds," the sergeant replied.
"Get an observer out, and start dropping Willie Pete on that 'Mech. I want him warm."
The sergeant pointed to a man and made a come-hither gesture with his forefinger. The man, a private, approached.
"Hamish," the sergeant said. "Since you're my best observer, and since you don't owe me any money, I have a special assignment for you."
Quickly, he explained the situation to the trooper, who listened with a resigned expression and said, "I want a weekend pass when this is over."
"I'll think about it," the sergeant said. "Right now, you need a place where you can see me and the 'Mech at the same time. The top of the Tyson and Varney water tower ought to do it."
"Just the place if I want to get picked off by a sniper," Hamish said.
"Don't sweat it, Hamish," another trooper said. "The Steel Wolves are all lousy shots."
"I'm more worried about your lousy shooting than about theirs," Hamish said, but he was picking up his kit as he spoke. "Give me a minute, and I'll get you your fix on yon wee beastie."
He loped off, and was soon climbing the access ladder to the top of the Tyson and Varney water tower. The sergeant fixed him with binoculars. Hamish raised his left hand, held up three fingers, then lowered it. He raised it again, with two showing.
"One round, thirty relative, range two hundred," the sergeant said.
"Fire," said Captain Fairbairn.
A trooper holding a round above the mortar let go, and turned away. The bomb slid down the tube, and launched with a thump and a thin cloud of blue smoke. It traveled slowly-a quick-eyed man could follow it in flight.
A crump sounded from the far side of the building.
"Wonderful things, mortars," Captain Fairbairn commented. "Let you shoot over things, so you can't be seen and they can't shoot back."
"Unless they're tracking the trajectory on radar," said the sergeant.
"We'll worry about that later. Nothing we can do about it now."
Hamish, on top of the water tower, pointed up, then raised two fingers. Then he pushed his thumb to the left and raised one finger.
"Add twenty, left one," the sergeant said. Drop. Swish. Thud. Crump.
Hamish made a circle with his thumb and forefinger.
"Willie Pete. Two rounds."
Drop, swish, thud. Drop, swish, thud.
Hamish pumped his fist up and down, then indicated down one, left three. The mortar fire, the burning hot, sticky white phosphorus, went out of the tube, down toward the industrial mod in the far street. The 'Mech was picking up speed, based on Hamish's corrections.
Captain Fairbairn left the mortar section to their work and hastened over toward the car park.
There was the Behemoth II, with a haze of smoke shielding it. He could hear the sound of the 'Mech now, the heavy pounding of its feet on the pavement. It was moving fast. It was blinded by the white phosphorus smoke. Between two buildings to the north, it burst out, some burning phosphorus still clinging to its housing. The mortar battery had scored at least one direct hit.
And the 'Mech went running to the west, missiles and machine guns both firing, more heat building up from the burst of speed. Then the flamethrowers concealed in the building beside it lit off, gouts of red flame laced with black rolling over the 'Mech's housing. The 'Mech's machine guns-too damaged, perhaps, to continue shooting-fell silent.
The 'Mech turned, its pilot seeking an open path away from the heat, and the last of the screening smoke drifted away from the decoy tank. The Mining 'Mech's pilot spotted the juicy target-a chance to take out a heavy. The 'Mech pivoted from the hips, the big rock-cutter in its right arm roaring to life, and strode across the open car park in the direction of the decoy tank.
Precisely halfway across the car park, the 'Mech vanished. First it was moving, then the pavement heaved around it, and then after the flying chunks of concrete came to earth there was a crater, but no 'Mech anywhere in sight.
Captain Fairbairn glanced at his watch. Twenty-one minutes precisely.
"Never become predictable," he said aloud, to no one in particular. Then he made his way back to his own headquarters to report.
39
Tara
Northwind
February 3134; local winter
Captain Tara Bishop and the Countess of Northwind stripped to shorts and T-shirts in the 'Mech hangar adjacent to the Armory. Even though the walls of the hangar gave shelter from the wind, the cold February air raised gooseflesh on Captain Bishop's bare skin. She bore it stoically, knowing that the cockpit of her BattleMech would have her sweating soon enough.
Most of her gear she stowed in one of the full-size lockers in the hangar, as did the Countess, but she opted to bring her winter uniform greatcoat with her into the 'Mech's cockpit, even though the bulky garment scarcely fit into the tiny onboard locker. If she had to dis
mount from her 'Mech at some point during the upcoming evolution, she would be grateful for an ankle-length coat of heavy wool to go between her overheated body and the winter chill.
Captain Bishop settled into her Pack Hunter -a jump-jet equipped hunter-killer, mounted with a particle projector cannon and extended range lasers. The Pack Hunter was fast-moving and hard- hitting, a good 'Mech for bringing down enemy units in the open field. The Countess of Northwind preferred her Hatchetman, a close-in heavy fighter, armed with an immense, brutal ax. No so fast as a Pack Hunter, but deadly once it closed with a foe. The two 'Mechs would complement each other well.
Captain Bishop put on her cooling vest and neurohelmet, and began taking the Pack Hunter through the security protocols and start-up sequence. Shortly after she had finished, and had brought the Pack Hunter's fusion engines all the way to life, she heard the Countess's voice over the 'Mech-to- 'Mech circuit.
"Up and out on three. One, two, three."
The two 'Mechs turned and walked out of the bay into the morning sunshine. Captain Bishop swung the 'Mech's arms as she strode along, feeling the power in the metal-and-myomer limbs that were so familiar, from long practice, that they seemed like extensions of her own body. She always felt at her brightest and most alive when she was in the cockpit of a 'Mech, and the prospect of action gave her a not-unpleasant adrenaline buzz.
She keyed on the 'Mech-to-'Mech circuit. "Bishop to Campbell, radio check, over."
"Read you loud and clear," the Countess's voice came in return. "How me, over?"
"I read you the same. Want to go out hunting, Countess?"
Captain Bishop wasn't certain, but she thought that she heard the Countess of Northwind laugh.
"That's the best suggestion I've heard all day."
Before they had gone more than a few miles, the location of the heaviest fighting became obvious. A pall of smoke hung over the northern end of the town. Bishop and the Countess increased their speed, moving from a steady forward tread to a heavier, fifty-kilometer-per-hour jog.
BattleTech MechWarrior Dark Age 05 Truth and Shadows 2003 Page 15
