A maroon Spider BattleMech of the Shasta Home Guard leapt through the smoke and fired wildly. The ’Mech on Vedet’s left took a hit. Pieces of armor flew off, peppering his own ’Mech. Duke Vedet was amazed by the pilot’s audacity at attempting such a move. The Spider turned as it ran, clearly hoping to reach the river, but four ’Mechs fired at him simultaneously. Duke Vedet joined in, unleashing a salvo from his short-range missile rack that pushed up his heat. The coolant system kicked up a notch to battle the warmth.
His missiles scattered, most missing by a meter. The few that found their mark joined the withering barrage of missiles, laser and particle projection cannon fire that caught the Spider on its right flank. Its arm was blasted off at the elbow joint. The entire ’Mech was blackened by the assault. It wobbled when it tried to move, its right leg oddly stiff—probably an actuator failure. How the MechWarrior stayed operational was a mystery. Vedet stared at him in wonderment as another wave of short-range missiles, this time from Tiger Company, slammed into what was left of the Spider. Like a toppled tree it dropped, lifeless, furrowing the ground as it fell.
The Shasta Home Guard seemed to break everywhere at once. They were heading to the river, thinking they could reach safety. Calls on the command channel told Vedet that Dagger Company had closed the back door. There was no escape. Command Company pushed forward along the riverbanks as Tiger Company did the same.
The duke felt as if he were drunk, moving slowly and awkwardly. He fired wildly at the fleeing defenders. He watched as a Po tank took a hit at the turret ring, flinging the turret itself into the air. Flames roared like a blast furnace from the resulting hole, churning black smoke skyward. The crew never stood a chance.
A pair of short-range missiles hit him, shaking him back to reality. They were a parting shot as the Shasta forces tried to ford the river. Both hit him squarely in the center torso and pockmarked the armor plating, but did not penetrate. He felt a rush of anger that these militiamen would dare fire on a commander of the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces. He continued forward behind his Command Company as they rushed toward the riverbed . . . and victory.
Two hours later he stood next to Hauptmann Klein surveying the remains of the Shasta Home Guard. Some had reached the river but had not made it across. Most of the heavy equipment had been destroyed in the pincer attack near the banks. Smoke rose from a dozen ruined machines. Prisoners were being rounded up. The duke looked at them with disdain. Surrender seemed dirty to him, worse than death. How could you look at yourself in the mirror after you surrender? These men and women seemed less than warriors to him. For the first time ever, he felt he could understand the Clan warrior mentality.
“Message coming in, sir,” Klein said. “The governor-protector of Shasta would like to discuss terms of surrender.”
Vedet Brewster took a moment to bask in the words. He had won. It had been easy. Very easy. All these years military men had been telling him how difficult war was. Now he had led an invasion of an ages-old enemy of the Commonwealth. They had landed a few hours ago and now the world was theirs. It took us longer to burn into this system than to take
it. He was stunned by the carnage but felt intoxicated with power.
“Tell the governor-protector that I will meet with him. There are no terms. Surrender is unconditional. Send him some footage of his Home Guards—let him see what happens when you cross Duke Vedet. He’ll agree. He has no choice.”
7
The Maas
Gallatin
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
30 July 3137
General Nordhoff stepped away from the Aurora-class DropShip Zerkleinerungsmaschine and saw a glare on his secondary display. It seemed like the enemy forces were everywhere. Damn it! This landing zone was supposed to have been secured. The first wave to land had detected nothing and were already a dozen kilometers away.
He heard a thunking sound as his Xanthos rocked back under an assault. No explosion—must have been a gauss round. His damage readout showed that his left rear leg had been savaged by the attack. How in the hell did the first wave miss these guys?
The Maas was a flat plateau dotted by low-lying clumps of dry brush, with a single road cutting across it. There was no place for the enemy to hide. It was big, flat and only thirty kilometers outside the capital city of Valken. It was a perfect landing zone—that is, until they had come under attack.
“This is Hammer Actual. The LZ is hot. What do we have?” He jerked his Xanthos to the right, moving farther away from the DropShip and trying to get a target lock. For a moment, his battlecomputer picked up a towed gauss rifle battery, but lost the lock tone a moment later. What the hell did that mean?
“General, we have no idea what’s happening. We picked up nothing on sensors when we landed. My advance company is already off the Maas and on our way to the city unopposed. The moment you landed I started getting sniped at. We have taken a defensive posture and are awaiting your orders.” The report came from Colonel Dane of the Third Lyran Regulars Regiment, to which Nordhoff had attached himself for the first wave of the assault. Dane was a good soldier, with more battle experience than most Lyran officers of his rank and age. For him to be caught off guard was definitely bad news.
At the edge of his field of vision, Nordhoff saw something stir from the ground, lifting like a flap of soil. A towed LRM launcher emerged, fired in his direction, then dropped out of sight under the billows of white smoke from the missile contrails. The long-range missiles twisted in flight and slammed into a Maxim Mk. II transport. Most of the missiles hit the target, but two went wide. One flew off out of his field of vision, another plowed into the side of the DropShip he had just climbed out of. It did little more than blacken the paint on a closed deployment door, and Nordhoff felt angry all out of proportion to the result of the attack. The missiles that hit violently shook the Maxim.
“Target is hidden underground at”—he stabbed furiously at the controls on his battlecomputer, inputting the coordinates of the firing missile platform based on a ghostlike reading from his sensors—”two-Five-Seven-Alpha. Artillery, drop your spotting round and fire for effect!”
“Sir, we have no FO linked to us,” replied the artillery chief nervously. Bright blue smoke rose from the LRM launcher. Without a forward observer, there was a chance of their rounds missing or, worse, hitting friendly targets.
“I know that. Consider me the FO. Let’s flush out this bastard.”
“Outbound!” the chief replied. There was a roar from the Thumper on the other side of the DropShip as it disgorged its massive barrage. The shells instantly obliterated the spotting round’s smoke. The long-range missile battery rose again, knowing it was in trouble, and opened up with two salvos. General Nordhoff’s sensors also picked up a towed gauss rifle off to his left firing at one of his ’Mechs—an older model Panther. It too appeared for a moment on sensors, then flickered off.
Every BattleMech and vehicle in range spotted the LRM battery and fired at it. The crew attempted to get away, but Nordhoff calculated only one man made it clear. The battery exploded, sending a twist of orange flame into the air.
“We’ve got a fix on the problem, sir. The soil here is heavily laced with radioactive waste. It generates a null sensor reading on everything at short range. Long-range seems to pick it up.” This voice was that of Hauptmann Lanz of the Regulars.
“Is it natural?”
“No, sir.” Firing broke out on the flank—this time aimed at the towed gauss rifle. This crew put up a gallant fight, firing three rounds as artillery and every available vehicle locked in on them. Nordhoff watched as the weapon was tossed into the air by a high-explosive missile and landed with its now-twisted barrel pointing up.
Not natural. That meant that they planned this. They identified the Maas as an ideal place for a landing and fight, so they contaminated the ground soil and put a few units up there to shake them up. It had worked, at least for a few minutes. Letting the first wave disembark wit
hout firing—that showed a high degree of skill, patience and training. “Who are we up against? This can’t be the militia.” Anyone patient enough to let the enemy pass right by them and then open fire at point-blank range was better than your typical Free Worlds militia unit.
There was a long pause. “The LRM battery’s gun shield says . . . sir, it’s the Silver Hawk Irregulars.”
Bernard felt cold sweat form on his brow inside his neurohelmet. The Silver Hawk Irregulars always had been the best troops of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth, easily equal to the best troops of any other House. Their re-formation was one of the chief reasons the Lyran people had gone to war. “Are we facing an entire regiment?”
“Unknown, sir.” Lanz was cut off by another voice. “Bogies on the outer marker! Here they come!” barked Colonel Dane.
“Numbers?”
Through the hiss of static, Nordhoff heard the strain in Dane’s voice. “My God, they’re everywhere. We walked into a trap, General. I have hidden units popping up everywhere. Silver Hawk BattleMechs and vehicles numbering—” His voice was cut off as an explosion dominated the channel. “Son of a bitch, where did that little bastard come from? Sorry, sir, I have about a battalion down here. I am falling back toward the Maas. Suggest you advance and link up with us.”
“On our way,” Nordhoff assured him. He didn’t like the fact that the Silver Hawk Irregulars had already turned the tables on him. They had stolen his initiative and were forcing him to dance to their tune. They’re as good as Lyran intel said they would be.
He turned his four-legged Xanthos in the direction of the fighting. “Third Regulars, form up on this road. We need to get down there and help Colonel Dane. Advance at flank speed.”
Dropping off the plateau, he could see the battle a few kilometers away and was surprised at the scale of the fight and the savagery. Little fires burned everywhere, marking damaged vehicles. He watched missiles envelop a BattleMech of the Third Lyran Regulars. A staccato of explosions rocked the Shockwave from two sides, peeling open its armor plating into a raw wound. Smoke from the interior damage slithered out in tendrils that followed the Shockwave as it moved. He watched a Silver Hawk infantry squad armed with short-range missiles pop out of a concealed hole and blast a wheeled Demon tank, then run to another hole and apparently disappear.
The Silver Hawks had sprung their trap with deadly precision. Now it was up to Nordhoff to turn the tide. “All units, full assault. Extend the flanks. Stealth Company, break off from the main road, juke to the right flank and make a run for their rear. Let’s see if we can capture these Hawks.”
Artillery suddenly rained down on his force from somewhere. The spotter for the artillery was pretty good to be able to put the rounds right there on the road, but the damage was minimal. “Get our choppers unloaded and in the air. I want that arty found and pounded!” As if to emphasize his point, a hovertransport next to him was clipped by an incoming round, mauling its side armor.
Nordhoff advanced along with the rest of the Lyran forces, and what happened next was the biggest surprise so far. The Silver Hawk Irregulars, seeing the relief force, broke off mauling Colonel Dane’s people and began to pull back, slowly, carefully. A hover-transport charged into the middle of the battle and began to load a towed gauss rifle, which fired even as it was being loaded onto the ramp for evac. He admired the crew for its discipline in the middle of battle, but was glad to see them pull out. That’s right, we’re here in force now. Run while you still can.
“We have them on the run. All units advance. Stealth Company, step it up a notch. You can still cut them off.”
A sudden ball of red and yellow fire from the flank told him something had changed. “Stealth Two here. Hauptmann Thompson is down. We’ve hit a minefield in a farm here, both vibramines and antipersonnel. They didn’t activate these mines until we got into the middle of the field. Now anything that moves might set one off. I’ve gotten the transports clear, but it won’t be enough. We are pinned and pinned good.” An artillery round went off in the vicinity of Stealth Company, which were suddenly sitting ducks.
Nordhoff broke into a run, hoping to reach Colonel Dane’s unit before the Silver Hawks made good their getaway. He passed a smoldering wreck, which he tentatively identified as a Tamerlane scout hovercraft churning black smoke into the air. He could barely make out what kind of vehicle it had been, but he recognized the camouflage pattern as one of his own.
Dane’s Uller stepped out from behind a copse, showing the signs of battle. The armor on his left arm was gone—exposed myomer muscles, blackened, some broken and hanging like torn muscle tissue, were all that remained. His cockpit glass had been hit several times by fire and was both burned and badly cracked. The left leg of his Uller hesitated slightly as he moved into view.
“Sit rep,” Nordhoff demanded.
Dane’s voice was strong but strained. “Recommend we not pursue, sir. We’ve hit them hard and one of my advance units reports they are heading toward DropShips off to the northwest.”
DropShips? This was planned. Why? Why hit us, hurt us and run? “Stealth Company is tied down in a minefield. The rest of our battalion is coming up the road. We can still catch them.”
“Sir, they baited us into this trap. I believe if we pursue we will be popped all along the way. My advance units indicate that the Gallatin Guards, the planetary militia, is beginning to advance on the east.”
“I don’t want to just let the Silver Hawks get away,” Nordhoff said hotly.
“Sir, they are counting on us chasing them. I’ve already lost most of my company and you said Stealth is bogged down. And, sir, if they reach those DropShips we will have to contend with that firepower too. You should turn us east, toward the capital city. We can catch the Gallatin Guards and take them out.” Colonel Dane spoke with the experience of a seasoned combat veteran, and Nordhoff knew he was right. But he had to admit, he hated what he was hearing.
Damn!
“Colonel, we’ll hold here. You and your men did a good job of pasting those Silver Hawks—you chased them right off the planet. You’re right, we need to turn our attention to the militia and taking care of our injured.” In his mind, Nordhoff was already spinning their actions for the press. It was clear that this was just a few units of the Irregulars. The rest were still out there somewhere.
He saw one of their ’Mechs destroyed on the ground, an Ocelot. Even lying there dead it seemed to reach for him with one arm, as if reaching for his heart. We did drive them out of here.
“Yessir.” Dane’s voice sounded almost relieved.
LCAF Staging Base Boelcke
Cavanaugh II
Bolan Military Province, Lyran Commonwealth
The barracks he had commandeered were poor quarters. This was reserve troop housing—dirty, poorly maintained, just kept from falling apart for appearances’ sake. Getting even these quarters hadn’t been easy, even with Trillian’s help. If I hear “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a war on” one more time, I swear I’ll deck someone. Everyone assumed that the troops he was pulling wouldn’t see combat, so they resisted every request. It’s the albatross of Algorab. Regardless of the truth, most officers prefer to see me as a failure—rather than consider that the same thingcould happen to them. Trillian trusted him. She’d even sent Colonel Wehner, her aide, down to observe Roderick introducing himself to his troops.
Hauptmann Roderick Frost paced across in front of the officers and troops he had managed to cobble together. The men and women assembled in front of the billet were a mixed bag. Many he had learned of through the prison grapevine while incarcerated for the incident on Algorab. They were legends in the prison community, skilled fighters who had crossed too many lines to remain in the LCAF. He had come to appreciate such people. Hell, I am such people.
Some, like Decker, were old friends. He and Decker had attended the War College of Buena together and kept in touch ever since. Trace Decker was a good officer, but had made mistakes that c
ost him a chance at command: namely, running an illegal gambling operation. They stood at attention as he paced in front of them, but he did catch Decker winking at him. Frost didn’t bother to acknowledge that he saw it.
“I’m glad to meet all of you. A few more personnel will be joining us in the next week or two as we work out our transportation.” He surveyed their eyes, looking for the few soldiers he would recognize by sight. Leutnant Jamie Kroff was one. He’d had to work hard to get her into the unit, but she appeared to be bored by his speech. I’m sure that will change once I get her back into a BattleMech....
“I chose most of you for this assignment for a few reasons. First, you have demonstrated remarkable aptitude for combat. Your simulation scores and combat records are some of the best in the Lyran Commonwealth. “ Frost paused for a moment to turn and pace back down the line.
“The second reason is that your careers are in the dump. You either pissed off some officer, stepped on the wrong toes or, in some cases, took matters into your own hands—literally.” He stared at Jamie Kroff, who cracked a faint smile. “Because of your political and legal screwups, you ended up in noncombat duties or assigned to units garrisoning some rock that was never going to be a target in our lifetime. The rest of you were rotting in jail.”
Roderick saw them sneaking looks at each other. A few nodded. These were bad boys and girls, Roderick told himself, but he hoped they wanted the same thing he did.
“If you don’t like what I offer, I’ll send you back where you came from. Quite frankly, I don’t want you here if you aren’t up to the job.”
“Sir,” Leutnant Kroff cut in. “What exactly are we here for?”
Roderick paused, then gave them a neutral smile. “Combat, Leutnant. Ferocious, dangerous, deadly combat. The stuff we all trained to do.”
Turning to the rest of the line, he spoke louder. “The archon herself asked her aide-de-camp, Trillian Steiner, to have me form this unit. We report directly to Lady Steiner. Our missions will be on the front and sometimes past it. When we go in, we’ll be in the thick of things. Your posting to this unit gives the Lyran taxpayers some hope of a return on the money spent training you.”
Fire at Will Page 7
