Redburn nodded and accepted command. “Sergeant de Mesnil, corporals, form up your lances and conduct them outside.” He turned toward three trainees—two men and a woman—and nodded to the largest man. “James, head out after Sergeant de Mesnil and wait for me to join you.” He scanned the crowd and caught one corporal’s eye. “Hugh, Private Craon has been assigned shepherd duty, so your lance will run last. Dismissed.”
The MechWarriors broke ranks and ran to their ’Mechs while the two officers walked over to where their own ’Mechs waited. Redburn swung up the ladder that hung from a Spider. Unlike the Stinger, this thirty-ton humanoid ’Mech carried no weapons in its hands, but the twin medium-laser snouts jutting from the center of its chest left no doubt about its battleworthiness. Renowned for its speed and the “jumping” abilities that allowed it to range behind enemy lines to wreak havoc, the Spider was the perfect ’Mech to ride herd on a company of trainees.
Justin quickly climbed up and into the cockpit of his Valkyrie. He strapped himself into the pilot seat and punched a button that reeled in his ladder and slowly closed the polarized canopy. As it shut, the cockpit became pressurized and Justin had to open his mouth wide to equalize the pressure in his ears.
He laced up his cooling vest and plugged the power cord into the socket to the right side of his command chair. After carefully pressing the adhesive monitoring discs to his upper arms and thighs, he fed the leads from them up toward his throat. Then he settled the olive-green neurohelmet pad over his shoulders, and threaded the monitor disc leads into their proper connections. Finally, Justin reached up and pulled the neurohelmet down over his head.
He shivered unconsciously as the helmet cut out all external noise and made his breathing rumble thunderously in his ears. He adjusted it until the roughly triangular viewplate was centered in front of his face and he could feel the pressure of neuroreceptors in the proper places around his skull. He plugged wires from his ’Mech into the appropriate sockets at the helmet’s throat and then spoke.
“Pattern check. Major Justin X. Allard.”
Justin listened to the static crackling through his skull, then smiled as the ’Mech’s computer replied, “Voiceprint pattern match obtained. Proceed with initiation sequence.”
Justin’s eyes narrowed. “Code check: Zhe jian fang tai xiao. Authorization code: alpha x-ray tango bravo.” Now the computer was checking his codes against the vast list of authorizations and personal passwords stored within its memory. Unlike most ’Mechs, which responded only to the secret code locked into it by its pilot, training ’Mechs had to be able to accept numerous codes. Each pilot in the training cadre had his own code, which meant that anyone performing an irregular action—such as stealing a ’Mech—could be pegged by checking to see which code had last been used to activate the ’Mech.
Justin knew it was unorthodox for him to have a personal check code in Capellan, but it ensured that none of these clowns would steal his machine. He laughed to himself. Even if they could figure out that his code meant “This room is too small,” none of them would understand the humor, nor would they be able to pronounce the words correctly. A sudden new thought sent a chill up Justin’s spine as he realized that if his code ever did become known, it would only confirm the bigoted opinions about him. Stupid, Justin, he thought. Better change it after this exercise.
The computer’s metallic voice knifed through his thoughts. “Authorization confirmed. Glad to have you aboard, Major.”
In response to the correct codes, the control console came alive with lights and flashing buttons. The heat scales on the internal systems monitor all sat low in the cool-blue range. The data readouts on the rack of long-range missiles housed in the left side of his ’Mech’s torso and the medium laser that replaced the ’Mech’s right hand both reported the weapon systems operational but unarmed. Justin caressed two buttons on the targeting joystick with the fingers of his left hand, and the systems armed themselves.
Other data displays told him that both jump jets on his Valkyrie’s back were ready to boost him up to 150 meters at a blast. The mechanism for reloading his missiles also reported itself ready to supply twelve full flights of ten missiles apiece, though Justin knew this included the brace of missiles already loaded into the launchers.
Justin drew in one last breath of cool air, then closed his eyes and flexed his fingers. He exhaled slowly, then cleared a radio link to Leftenant Redburn’s Spider. “Ready, Andy?”
“Yes, sir,” rang out Redburn’s reply.
“Good. Let’s get out of here and see what these kids have learned.”
Chapter 2
KITTERY
CAPELLAN MARCH
FEDERATED SUNS
27 NOVEMBER 3026
Justin stopped his Valkyrie just below the crest of a hill and turned back to watch the trainees straggle through the meadow below. The stark, snowy-white color of the ’Mechs made them a sharp contrast to the golden-brown of the dying summer grasses. A breeze swirled down into the valley’s bowl and rode through the grasses in waves until it hit the wide swath of destruction made by the marching ’Mechs.
These kids are good. I suspect that after they get a battle under their belts, no one will doubt Prince Davion’s wisdom in creating these training battalions—no one but the people running the military academies and the few bureaucrats who don’t want their planets protected by such “green” troops. Justin shook his head. They’re really pushing themselves so their Capellan major will see how good they really are. Excellent!
Justin glanced at his heat monitors. The levels still hovered in the blue range, but were nearer to the green of the next higher level. The day’s warmth was not much of a danger, and none of the ’Mechs, with the possible exception of Craon’s Stinger, should have cracked the green wall. “Andy?”
“Yes, Major?”
“See if you can have Corporal Montdidier pull his lance in a bit more. He’s ranging too far north, and I suspect it’s just to give Craon fits.”
The warmth of Redburn’s laughter almost survived transmission intact. “Roger.”
Justin watched as Montdidier’s lance moved back toward the main line of march, then frowned as one ’Mech halted. Justin quickly scanned and identified the warrior. “Private Sonnac, why aren’t you moving in? Is your ’Mech having trouble?”
“No, sir. I’m just getting odd magscan readings.”
Justin punched the button on his command console that shifted his scanners from infrared to magnetic anomaly detection. A holographic display of the terrain filled the screen before him and showed each ’Mech as a glowing red pyramid or sphere. As his computer identified each machine, it tagged a glowing number beneath the symbol that told Justin at a glance the ’Mech’s type, model, and designation. Other concentrations of metal—anything from an ore deposit close to the surface or a lost bicycle—showed up as a green cube until it could be identified.
As Justin turned his head, the 360-degree display continued to provide him with a tactical view that pinpointed large concentrations of metal in the area. The blue hexagon that appeared and then vanished again in his peripheral vision sent a cold chill down his spine. “Andy, check Sonnac’s readings. I’ve got something over the hill I want to see.”
“Roger.”
Justin marched his Valkyrie up over the crest of the hill and turned to face the direction where he’d spotted the blue hexagon. Through the holographic construct, he saw that it was located deep in a wooded vale. A stream ran through the wooded area and emptied into a good-sized pond. The nearby hills, covered with the red, green, and orange wildflowers, sloped down toward the pond. The whole scene, bereft of the blue scanner-ghost, looked peaceful and inviting.
And dangerous. Justin clenched his jaw. Those tranquil woods would be just the place for light ’Mechs like the Stingers to seek shelter if they had to elude enemy ’Mechs. That stream would also provide cooling for overheated ’Mechs. The valley formed a superior battle arena for light ’Mec
hs.
Redburn’s voice blasted over the radio. “Major Allard! Cicadas, sir! All over the place!”
At the urgency in Redburn’s communication, Justin’s mind went automatically into a kind of special battle mode that filtered out all emotion. “Withdraw south, Leftenant.” Just don’t come this way, he added silently, sensing something ominous behind the seeming tranquility of the vale.
“Negative, negative,” burst in Robert Craon. “I’ve got magscan readings off the scale south, east, and north. You’re clean, sir. We’ve got to head out west.”
Justin turned his head to study the escape route Craon had suggested. His mouth went instantly dry. The blue hexagon appeared again. This time, the computer graced it with an identifier. My God! It’s a Rifleman!
Justin snapped an order over the comm channel. “No way out here, either. Do what you can, Andy. The cadre is yours.” With that, Justin turned his Valkyrie and jumped toward the woods. “It’s a trap. All a trap. Don’t run west…”
Leftenant Redburn barely heard Justin Allard’s enigmatic reply to Craon, but it was too late to ask any questions. Not knowing what to do next, he nearly panicked. Slow down, Andrew, he told himself. Get a grip. The major put you in charge. He has confidence in you. Don’t let him down.
Redburn watched the ground crack open. Capellan ’Mechs—Cicadas—sprouted up like nightmare plants in some hideous time-lapse holodocumentary. While Craon was shouting, they had appeared on the north, south, and east sides of the valley rim. Only the west—the direction Major Allard had forbidden— stood safely open. “Move, dammit! Move! This isn’t a drill. Withdraw west, up the hillside. Sonnac, jet out of there!”
One armless Cicada thrust its ugly snout in front of Sonnac’s position and fired its twin medium lasers. Both beams converged on the Stinger’s head. Armor melted and ran like wax, then the beams lanced into the cockpit. Something exploded, leaving nothing and no one behind. Sonnac’s Stinger staggered backward, then fell lifelessly to the ground.
Redburn’s magscan vision of the valley blazed with green pyramids and blue rectangles. The Cicadas, which weighed twice as much as any Stinger on the field, had no arms and sported two medium lasers and one small laser that fired in a forward arc. As data flowed across the screens on his command console, Redburn cursed. Three of the Cicadas sported flamethrowers, and already one cadet’s screams were ringing through Redburn’s ears as a Cicada ignited his ’Mech. Outweighed and outgunned, the cadre had no other choice but to retreat.
Philip Nablus, pilot of the burning ’Mech, hit his jump jets in panic, taking off with enough speed to snuff the flames coating the left side of his machine. He came down on his feet, but stumbled and rolled into an untidy heap. A Cicada turned to fire at him, but the other members of Nablus’s lance poured laser fire into the rear of the Cicada.
There’s only a dozen of them, but they’ve got to be veteran pilots, Redburn told himself. Still, we outnumber them. There has to be a way!
“Pull back. Get above them,” he ordered. “We’ll hold the heights.” Suddenly, the solution burst into his brain like a missile. “They want us to go west, so let’s oblige them. Now move it, and let’s see how cocky they get. We’ll make them pay.”
Justin’s Valkyrie hit top speed as it reached the bottom of the hill. The blue hexagon flickered to life, and the computer placed it behind a thick stand of pines. Justin closed one eye, adjusted the target selection with one hand, and smiled. He had no computer lock, but the shot felt right. “Die, bastard,” he growled as his thumb stabbed the launch button and a flight of missiles burst from the chest of his Valkyrie.
The launch dropped his speed from 86 kph to 72 kph, but that didn’t concern Justin at that moment. The tall pines became instant torches when the first two missiles hit them, then fell away into a circle of flaming debris as three more missiles shredded them with fire and shrapnel. The remaining five missiles soared through the firestorm and slammed into the true target, lurking in its now-shattered haven.
Those five missiles burst like an exploding bandolier across the Rifleman’s sixty-ton body. Five dents in the scarred armor showed where the missiles had hit, but Justin’s initial view suggested possible damage to only one of the ’Mech’s torso lasers. “Damn,” he muttered.
The semi-humanoid Rifleman’s arms swung up, pivoting at its shoulders, and tracked Justin’s Valkyrie. The torso swiveled at the waist, keeping the twin autocannons and heavy lasers locked onto their target. As the radar wing atop the enemy ’Mech began to swing faster, the Rifleman took one step out of the burning trees toward the tiny Valkyrie.
The Rifleman’s autocannons spat out a hail of slugs amid great gouts of flame. Smoldering shells rained from the shoulder ejection ports to the ground. The ’Mech tracked the speeding Valkyrie as best it could, sending after it a jagged trail of autocannon shells.
Too close now! Justin thought, waiting until the last possible second to kick in his jump jets, which sent him rocketing ahead of the autocannon slugs. Knowing he could not land on his feet at this speed, Justin hit the ground and rolled his ’Mech forward. Then he rose to one knee, launched another flight of LRMs, and let the launch-reaction carry him backward as twin laser lances melted the ground where he had crouched.
Only three of his hastily loosed missiles made their target, but those hit with a vengeance. One exploded into an autocannon ejection ports, fusing the ejection mechanism. The other missiles both slammed into the radar wing whirling like a propeller above the ’Mech’s hunched shoulders. The first explosion froze the mechanism in place, and the second blast left the wing hanging by thick electrical cables.
Had enough? Justin demanded silently.
As if in reply, the Rifleman twisted its torso again. Its two medium torso lasers and the remaining autocannon fired on their tormentor.
Up and running again, Justin eluded the assault, but knew he couldn’t hope to avoid disaster forever. He just had to make it worth it.
Redburn nodded as the Stingers formed a line to face the oncoming enemy ’Mechs. “On my mark, as I’ve outlined it. Remember, they’ve got no jump jets, and they can’t easily fire into the backward arc. Now, go!”
At his command, de Payens, Montbard, and St. Agnan jumped their lances over and behind the line of Capellan Cicadas. While Redburn turned his lance to face the crush of ’Mechs closing from the north, St. Omer moved his lance to repel the southern wing of oncoming Capellans. Meanwhile, Montdidier’s damaged lance slid over to help. De Mesnil’s lance held the center and opened up on the Cicadas marching at them up the hill.
Redburn smiled as he saw the Capellan warriors hesitate. You may have thought you were fighting trainees, but these cadets are good. With one smooth operation, we’ve turned the ambush back on you.
Craon landed first, having jumped his Stinger in a flatter arc than had the others in de Payens’s lance. His ’Mech’s long legs absorbed the impact of landing with the grace and strength of a cat. Craon whirled his ’Mech about and brought his medium laser up in a fluid motion. When it fired, the ruby beam sliced virtually all the armor from a Cicada’s leg.
That Capellan ’Mech spun to face the threat to its rear. Craon moved wide to avoid the Cicada’s return fire, forcing the enemy ’Mech to pivot hard on its wounded leg. Evita Banes marched her Stinger forward and deliberately sighted the Cicada’s damaged limb. The remaining armor vaporized at the beam’s touch, then the ’Mech’s myomer fiber muscles parted with a snap. The Cicada’s leg collapsed, and the birdlike ’Mech smashed nose-first into the dirt.
The Cicadas on the southern wing ignored St. Agnan’s lance as they jetted overhead. All the Capellan ’Mechs pressed forward, raking the defenders with bolt after bolt of laser fire. In Montdidier’s lance, Reynold Vichiers’s Stinger took heavy damage in the head and chest. Unaware that a bolt had already killed Vichiers, Bill Chartres imposed his Stinger between his comrade and the Cicadas. Shafts of ruby light skewered his ’Mech even more savagely than they had
Vichiers’s machine. Utterly shot through, the Stinger collapsed in a heap.
St. Omer directed concentrated fire at the two outside Cicadas, while Montdidier and the other two cadets in his command hammered the two Cicadas closest to the center. The Capellans, in an effort to break through Montdidier’s weakened lance, rushed forward and smashed their ’Mechs into the defending Stingers.
St. Omer’s efforts paid off handsomely. The Cicadas his lance had flanked disintegrated as the heavy fire picked them apart. Once the lasers had blasted away chunks of armor, they struck deep into the ungainly ’Mechs to destroy their engines. The Cicadas stiffened as though seized by rigor mortis, then crashed the ground.
Montdidier’s lance took hideous damage from the charging ’Mechs, but managed to hold. Bures, whose Stinger had been knocked down by a Cicada, swept his ’Mech’s legs in between those of the Capellan ’Mech. The Cicada’s next step shattered the Stinger’s limbs and tore them from the ’Mech’s torso, but the effort tripped the Cicada and dropped it to its knees.
Thomas Berard met a Cicada’s charge head-on. The Capellan ’Mech hammered the smaller machine at first impact, sending shards of armor flying over the battlefield. Despite the bone-shattering impact, Berard managed to smash his Stinger’s left fist against the Cicada’s head and cracked the cockpit canopy. The Capellan pilot, disoriented by the assault, backed off just long enough for Berard to eject from his damaged ’Mech before the Cicada trampled his Stinger into spare parts.
Warrior: En Garde (The Warrior Trilogy, Book One): BattleTech Legends, #57 Page 3
