Decision at Thunder Rift

by William H. Keith

  In theory, Grayson knew there was no way one 'Mech could sneak up on another across open terrain. BattleMech hulls mount sensors that cover the entire spectrum, infra-red to ultra-violet, as well as sound, laser ranging, and radar. The 'Mech's computer creates a composite 360-degree scan of the entire battlefield that is instantly available to the pilot. In practice, things were not so simple. MechWarriors are human, and, caught up in the excitement of battle or the thrill of a chase, a pilot might override or ignore a computer's signals.

  Grayson was counting on the humanness of the two 'Mech pilots he was stalking now. Lori had said Enzelman was less experienced than she at 'Mech operations. Though Sergeant Mendoza was experienced, his first instinct would be to focus on the decoy convoy of speeding vehicles two kilometers in front of the targets.

  Grayson could see the HVWCs off to the side, turning now under a pillar of dust that mushroomed into the sky. There was a flash of light ahead. The enemy Wasp had fired its laser at long range with no visible effect. He touched a control. The screen shifted to battle mode, the landscape subdued, the enemy ‘Mechs outlined in light and bracketed by readouts giving range and sensor-detected information. Drifting red crosshairs showed the aiming point for the laser.

  The decline of technology during the Succession Wars had keenly affected the science of weapons manufacture and design. No longer could the complex control systems for fire-and-forget missiles, for long-range particle beams or lasers be packed into units small enough and cheap enough to be casually expended in combat. BattleMech engagements tended to be brutal, short-range affairs, with individual ‘Mechs closing to a few tens of meters to deliver killing shots.

  Theoretically, the laser under the Locust's chin could hit anything in line-of-sight clear to the horizon. That range was sharply reduced, however, by the quality of the weapons controls systems that pointed the heavy barrel. Grayson could not count on hitting anything with that laser at ranges greater than about 300 meters. He'd begun his charge when the enemy was one kilometer away. At top speed, he would close to firing range in less than 30 seconds.

  The Wasp was between Grayson and the Stinger, blocking the Stinger's electronic scanners. That was a small piece of luck, for Lori had told him that the Stinger pilot seemed to have had some combat experience. More, certainly, than her comrade in the Wasp. Range 800 meters.

  For that reason, he was locking the crosshairs of his laser sight on the rear bit of the left hip joint on the Stinger. The experienced MechWarrior would be the more dangerous of the two.

  Range 600 meters.

  Well, listen to the old hand talking, Grayson thought wryly. This is YOUR first time in 'Mech combat, he told himself. Even that Wasp pilot has seen more action in a 'Mech hotseat than you. Training is great, but remember what Griff was always telling you about there being no substitute for experience. Just then, a flashing blue light on his console told him he was being probed by radar.

  Range 400 meters.

  The Stinger was slowing, dropping behind the charging Wasp. It pivoted on stiff legs, the long, black muzzle of its laser coming to the point.

  Grayson's throat was suddenly tight, his mouth sand-dry, his nose running, his stomach twisting. Oh God, don't let me screw up, he prayed to he knew not who.

  Range 300 meters.

  The Stinger fired as Grayson twisted his running 'Mech to the side. There was a momentary dazzle, but the battlemode imaging system controlled the light level, protecting Grayson's eyes. His thumb came down on the red button, and white light pulsed across the Stinger's hip joint.

  Hit! Flakes of metal glittered in the midmorning sun as they scattered on the sand, and there was a trace of oily smoke near the Stinger's waist. The Stinger sidestepped, moving rapidly to make itself a more difficult target. Grayson spun, swinging his laser up to bear on the back of the enemy Wasp.

  The Stinger must have called a warning. The Wasp turned before Grayson could fire again, and the laser hit the Wasp's left side instead of the broad, almost unarmored back. The Wasp staggered as armor unable to dump the heat of Grayson's beam exploded in bright, molten globs. The beam was attentuated somewhat as the stricken machine continued to turn beneath it, creating a ragged black scar across its flank.

  Lights went red on Grayson's control panel, and there was a shock that made the Locust shudder and twist. The Stinger had fired, catching him on the right torso. The armor seemed to have stopped the worst of the beam, but there was minor damage, and another hit there would certainly penetrate.

  He swung and fired at the Stinger, aiming low. There was a flare and a whirl of sand as the Stinger went airborne on flaring jets. Grayson reacted without thinking with a twist and a lurch that evaded three quick-spaced shots that cratered the sand where he'd been standing. He rolled up and fired as the Stinger descended.

  Miss!

  The Locust swung about, targeting the Stinger as it dashed across his field of fire. He triggered the laser and saw liquid metal splatter. He'd hit the upper left arm. There might be some damage there.

  He pressed the control stick, and the Locust lurched forward. A flash... and another! Two shots, almost together, had missed. With the range down to less than 80 meters, he fired at the Wasp and caught it square in the chest.

  So far, most of the damage had been confined to the 'Mechs' armor. Very soon now, the shots would be falling on still-hot scars, burning their way into the delicate electronic innards of the machines, and then the issue would be settled. Grayson wiped his hand ineffectually across his brow under the impulse helmet's rubber padding. He was drenched with sweat, and the net shirt clung to him unpleasantly. The heat in the sealed cockpit stifled him, pressed in around him, making him light-headed.

  The Wasp spun before him. He lined up for a quick shot at the blackened upper chest, fired, and missed. With his left hand still on the control stick, his right hand found the jointed wrist and finger control that guided the Locust's twin machine guns. Machine guns were generally used for firing at enemy troops, but as he had proven in his uneven duel with the Wasp in Sarghad's streets, a heavy-caliber machine gun could penetrate 'Mech armor, given time and a bit of luck. Even in the padded and pressurized interior of the Locust's cockpit, vibrations hammered into his body by his seat. Tracers arced, crossed, and floated into the wildly twisting Stinger. He saw metal chips fly from the already damaged hip, saw the Stinger's left leg suddenly go stiff. Hit!

  Grayson charged.

  The Stinger was slow turning to meet him, its leg dragging as it spun. The two 'Mechs collided in an earsplitting crash, and the Stinger sprawled backward onto the sand.

  Grayson followed it with laser fire, but the 'Mech rolled across its shoulder as the laser pulse traced a line of molten glass in the sand. The Stinger fired, and Grayson's viewscreen went white then black as laser Are screamed across visual sensors recessed into the armor of the Locusts combined head and torso.

  He jabbed viciously at the keyboard that controlled the sensor array computer, meanwhile keeping the Locust twisting and dodging blindly with his left hand. The screen cleared as reserve forward sensors came on line. The damage to his 'Mech's head was severe; another head shot would smash through the remaining armor and kill him.

  He quickly checked the scale that registered the Locust's internal heat, chewing at his lip as he scanned flickering numbers.

  None of it was good. The temp was climbing dangerously. The computer would be asking for a shutdown soon. He'd lost heat sinks on his outer hull, and the build-up was becoming critical. But he would worry about that when the time came.

  Now... where was the Wasp? Damn! In his momentary blindness, he'd lost track of the...

  A violent impact from behind smashed him forward. He pivoted, caught his balance and turned. The Wasp collided with him from behind and nearly knocked him down. He found himself staring into the muzzle of the Wasp's laser, knew he had no time to bring his own laser to bear. But then, an explosion mushroomed at the Wasp's back, slamming it forward,
off balance. There was a second explosion, this one crashing into the Wasp's back armor and sending it sprawling flat on its belly.

  The eight hovercraft of Striker Four were racing toward the three 'Mech combatants, spreading across the desert floor. One of the missile launchers trailed puffs of smoke in the HVWC's windstream, and twin flashes caught the Stinger in its right shoulder. There was a blinding pulse of light, and the Stinger's arm whirled into the sand, its gauntlet still clutching the grip of its laser.

  The Wasp whirled and broke into a run away from the hurtling hovercraft, and toward Grayson. The Locust's laser swung to track it, locked on, and fired cleanly into the 'Mech's already savaged upper torso.

  The Wasp staggered, blue sparks playing along the visibly shattered circuits and torn wiring behind the crater in its chest It took one step, then froze there, locked in a rigid stance from which it could not escape. Grayson turned to track the Stinger, which was limping toward the spaceport. At 100 meters' range, he fired again, targeting the machine's already damaged hip.

  The leg gave way and the second 'Mech crashed into the sand.

  The battle ended so abruptly that Grayson found himself wondering if it could really be over. The hovercraft swung up, weapons trained on the two crippled 'Mechs. With relief, Grayson saw the pilots being hauled from their cockpits, battered, but apparently able to stand and walk.

  He felt relief because of Lori, who knew one of them as a friend, as well as for himself. Those two might be willing recruits to the Lancers, if properly approached. Grayson smiled ruefully at the thought, and wondered how he would convince Nolem and Adel of that.

  "Striker One!" Striker One! This is Three!"

  "I hear you Three. Go."

  "Code Red, Chief. We've got the big boys spotted, the Shadow Hawk and the Marauder both. They're on the road coming down from the castle, and it looks like they're headed this way!"

  "The Shadow Hawkl You're sure?" He realized as he spoke that that was a silly question. How could they mistake the ID of a 55-ton armored battle machine?,

  "It just came out of the Repair Bay! It looks good as new... moving full speed!"

  Grayson chewed at his lower lip, and tasted blood. The fight wasn't over yet.

  19

  "Got it." Grayson's throat felt tight, his mouth dry. "Okay, Striker Four! Company's coming. Deploy for Code Red."

  External microphones on the Locust's head picked up the thuttering of autorifle fire. He turned the 'Mech to bring telescopic sensors to bear, zooming in on where he could see flashes and running figures through the churning air above the ferrocrete apron.

  A fuel tank had been blown. Black smoke smudged the northern sky, and the pavement underneath was cast into the rippling gloom of a smoke shadow.

  "Striker One! Do you read?"

  "We... hear... you!" Ramage sounded like he was gasping for breath.

  "We've picked off our targets, but two big brothers are on their way down the mountain. You have ten minutes!"

  "I copy! We're almost... Manning, watch that warehouse... fifteen high! Get him!" The transmission was broken off for a moment. Then, "Yessir... we're almost wrapped up here!"

  "Do you have the transport?"

  "We have it. It's on the way."

  One of the most important vehicles in any 'Mech Lance technical platoon was a transporter, a huge, broad, powered sled used to recover and carry 'Mechs damaged on the battlefield. Until now, the Lancers did not have such a vehicle. Their only alternative hads been to take one from the bandits.

  The Lancers' new transporter had been brought to Trellwan as part of a trade agreement with the Commonwealth long before Carlyle's Commandos had arrived. More sophisticated models bore their loads on air cushions. This one was an older, wheeled vehicle. Each of its eighteen tires was twice the height of a man, and a single drum winch secured 2 cm cross-braided diamond monofilament cables for recovery operations. Striker Two had been assigned to cause whatever damage they could to the spaceport facilities, but capturing the giant 'Mech transporter was their primary mission. And now, transporting the Wasp would be their first operation.

  Grayson was already preparing the Wasp to be hoisted when the transporter arrived on the scene. The Locust did not have manipulative members like most humanoid 'Mechs, but there were cleats and rings to which cables could be attached. Troops from the tacforce hovercraft swarmed across the downed Wasp, securing it with heavy cables and passing these up through the eyes of the Locust's tow rings.

  The transporter arrived at the apex of a gradually dispersing cloud of dust and was positioned alongside the Wasp. With the Locust supplying the muscle power, they eased the Wasp half up off its back until it rested on its heels, then swung around 45 degrees and lowered it back down to a ramp that extended back behind the transporter deck to the desert floor. Working swiftly, men used the vehicle's winch and three-meter pry bars to work the damaged 'Mech into place, and then the transporter's winch hauled the ramp and its 20-ton burden aboard.

  Black smoke boiled into the cold green sky above the spaceport. Seconds later a pair of dull thumps sounded across the desert, followed by the rattle of small arms fire in the direction of Mount Gayal. From where his 'Mech surveyed the edge of the port, Grayson could see the brooding, truncated pyramid of the Castle halfway up the slope.

  "That'll be our friends," Grayson told Sergeant Larressen. "What do you think? Can we manage the Stinger too?"

  Larressen stood close by the Locust's left foot, gloved hands on his hips, puffs of white vapor issuing from his mouth in the frigid air. He was breathing hard after the struggle to raise the Wasp.

  "We can try." He panted a bit over the radio circuit. "The question is whether we can move it once we get it up."

  "Try it"

  The Locust helped maneuver the transporter sled across the sand to the side of the fallen Stinger, and they repeated the loading process. The ramp was long and broad enough for only one 'Mech, and so the Stinger had to be piled on top of the Wasp. As the Locust backed the Stinger onto the heap, Larressen detailed eight men to retrieve the 'Mech's arm from the sand 50 meters away.

  "Striker One, this is Three."

  "Yeah, Three. Go."

  "Can't hold 'em much longer. We ambushed 'em with rocket launchers, but it didn't slow them down. The Shadow Hawk is closing on us, while the Marauder is still headed toward you... and we can't do a damn thing about it."

  "Right Scatter your mines and, withdraw. We're rollng."

  "On our way."

  Grayson gave the go-ahead to the transporter's driver, who was perched in the vehicle's cab high above the desert, almost at shoulder level with Grayson's 'Mech. The vehicle was rated for 60 tons, but the pair of 20-tonners on its salvage deck were so precariously fitted that Grayson did not want to trust even diamond monofilament lashings when the accelerating vehicle hit rough ground.

  Grayson opened a combat channel to all units. "All Strikers, this is One. Mission accomplished! pack it in, we're going home!"

  "Striker One, this is Two!"

  "Go ahead, two."

  "Ramage, Lieutenant. We've got a bit of a problem here."

  Grayson closed his eyes. Problems just now were what they did not need. "What is it?"

  "Civilians, sir! A couple hundred of them! We got into a firefight with sone sentries. Turned out they were guarding a quonset hut full of prisoners."

  "What's the problem?"

  "God, Lieutenant, how're we supposed to get them out of here? Half of 'em are sick, and none of 'em fit to run ten klicks back to town!"

  Suddenly, Grayson had a mind's eye image of the prisoners — shocked, weak, tired, and nowhere to go. He remembered Renfred Tor saying the bandits' prisoners would end up as slaves, remembered Claydon's pain at the memory of his mother. He couldn't leave those people to the mercy of the bandits. Twisting the Locust's control stick, he urged the machine into a lurching, thudding run. Once across the shredded remnants of the spaceport fence, he pressed toward the sou
nd of gunfire.

  Machine gun fire howled and whined from the damaged armor of the Locust's head. Grayson swung his 'Mech, tracing IR shadows of hidden men. The Locust's machine guns stretched out with lazy, probing streams of tracers, then ignited a hastily constructed barricade of fuel drums and wooden crates. As the barricade exploded into mere dust and splinters, Grayson's external mike picked up a ragged cheer from men trotting out from cover. Their tired faces were blackened with grime, and many were missing helmets and other gear. Several were being helped along by unwounded comrades, but his men still had the strength to cheer.

  The former prisoners, however, were dazed and uncomprehending. The assault team had liberated a half-dozen scout hovercraft from somewhere in the port, and these were crowded to overflowing with the weakest and sickest of the ex-prisoners, and with some of the women. From the shattered windows of the port control tower, tracers flashed and spat, seeking the refugees. A soldier screamed, thrashing on the ferrocrete. The Locust's machine guns fired again, and broken glass and fragments of stone showered from the tower to the ground.

  "Sergeant Ramage!"

  "Sir!"

  "Check those buildings over there." From his higher vantage point, Grayson could see what looked like storage sheds to the north. The Locust gestured with a gun arm. "See if you can round up more vehicles."

  "Sir!"

  "Striker Four!”

  “We're here!"

  "You're going to have to run interference for us. Go for the Marauder! Slow him down!"

  There was no response, but Grayson didn't have time to pursue it. The hovercraft carrier's commander must be in shock with orders like that

  "Transporter!"

  "Yessir!"

  "Change of plan! Swing north toward the port. You'll have some passengers.”