“Stealthy Paw to Star Captain Mehta. Touchdown complete.” Their DropShip, setting down in the hills northeast of the base. “Ground forces are breaking through. We have sightings on enemy forces both south and several klicks north.”
So Colonel Blaire had finally rallied a response to the Steel Wolf assault. North… could that be the Swordsworn? If Erik Sandoval had force-marched his people over the Taibek Hills, it very well could be.
Mehta squeezed at his throat mic. “Ripper Flight, pull back and cover our brethren around the Stealthy Paw. Blood Flight, link up with Star Commander Orvits and guide them north. Form a shield at our backs, intercept the Swordsworn if they break two klicks.”
No need to respond, Mehta’s flight leaders signified their acceptance of his orders with double-clicks that briefly broke the channel’s background static. Mehta pushed his own craft over and dove for the northeast, his own flight, Fang, making a straight-arrow approach over the River’s Run Flatlands toward the twenty-story plume of smoke and steam that he knew hid the Okinawa–class DropShip. Then he saw the enemy ground forces, led by a dark-painted Legionnaire, and curved down on a soft spiral to come at it from an oblique angle.
“Incoming, incoming. Angel’s three. Republic Guard has scrambled four—four!—fighters and a squadron of attack VTOLs.”
Leveling off at three hundred meters, Mehta had just picked up a distance-lock on the Legionnaire when Star Commander Xera of Ripper Flight called in the spot on Blaire’s fightercraft. Mehta’s wingman moved up to safeguard his port side, buying the Star Captain time to take one stab with lasers at the lumbering Legionnaire below. One of the ruby lances scored an angry cut into the BattleMech’s leg and then Mehta yanked back on the stick, once again clawing for air.
Two elements of aerospace fighters dove down on the Clan warriors with the fury of angered hornets. A mixed flight of F90 and F92 Stingrays paired off, leaving an element of heavy Rapiers anchoring their line. The Clan OmniFighters rose to meet them, weapons reaching out ahead to peel back paint and armor from the local defenders. One Stingray took a gauss slug directly into the cockpit, gutting the control section and leaving the pilot as little more than a smear over the back fuselage. The fighter rolled over out of control, falling for the budding battle between ground forces.
Laren Mehta wished he could take credit for such a handsome shot, but gave credit where it was due. “High marks, Pilot Sascha.”
A rattle of autocannon fire skipped tracers off the forward spar of his port wing. Mehta rolled, but not before a half dozen holes popped through his armor like exploding blisters. He rolled out again, just for good measure. Then he was through the line of descending fighters, locking his sights on the lead Rapier that he knew would be the enemy wing officer’s stick.
Sometimes the locals made it all too easy.
Agave Dales
Achernar
At the controls of his Hatchetman, Erik Sandoval-Groell swiped the BattleMech’s large, titanium blade at a passing Shandra. Missed. His targeting computer more than compensated for the scout vehicle’s high speed, however, and in the next instant he had tracked a stream of autocannon fire in toward its ridged tires. The slugs chopped into steel-threaded rubber and armored supports, cutting free the middle tire and sending it bouncing over the smooth rolls of Agave Dales. The Shandra slid sideways, recovered, and then quickly dodged behind a small hill to escape the ’Mech which probed after it with extended-range medium lasers.
Heat washed through his cockpit as the laser’s energy draw spiked demand from the BattleMech’s fusion reactor. Circulation fans pulled it away quickly, though, as the power level settled back into the green band. It hardly broke a sweat over Erik’s forehead. Still, he was not about to let the daring crew off so easily.
“Sergeant Bosley, there is a Shandra coming up fast on your flank.” If he was correct in placing his Gnome battle armor, in fact, the Shandra would be driving right into their waiting arms. “Weak right side. Finish it.”
“Got him,” the battlesuit infantry leader responded. “Missing one wheel. Now two. It’s in our hands, Commander.”
Quite literally. Erik paused at the top of a smooth rise, saw the Shandra being disassembled by his squad of Gnomes. He could almost hear the tearing-metal shrieks of wheels being ripped free from axles and armor shredded under mechanical claws.
“Commander, Able-Victor Six.” Erik’s lance of Mark II Scimitars. “We are still pushing back the Steel Wolf Elementals. Some trouble from strafing runs—got a couple of aggressive Visigoths over here—but they seem to be happy enough to hold us north of their line. Do we press forward?”
Having force-marched a mixed company of troops over the Taibek Hills, Erik still hadn’t decided on how much aid he would give the local defenders. The Steel Wolves seemed content to poke and prod at his lines, but so long as he held back near the foothills that eventually became the Taibeks (and further north, the Tanagers), they were content to hold him off the main battle.
Able-Victor Six was the more expendable lance, as Erik preferred not to risk his valuable ’Mechs or any of his Swordsworn-converted battlesuits. Not beyond reason, anyway.
“Push them, Able-Victor. Don’t threaten that DropShip, but drive for the Flatlands.” Dropping from the Dales and into the River’s Run Flatlands would allow his Swordsworn to link up and coordinate efforts with the militia. “See if they will let you approach the Republic forces.” Erik bet they wouldn’t.
Of course, it wasn’t his life he wagered with.
In his pause, Erik’s own lance had caught up with him. Three converted MiningMechs stormed up behind him, their tank treads cutting at Achernar’s ground. Diamond-bit cutters slashed the air. One launched a brace of missiles from its shoulder-mounted launcher, the projectiles falling far short of the nearest Steel Wolf target, blasting small craters into a hillside.
“Short–range missiles,” Erik berated his driver. “Short! That Condor was half a klick distant. Watch your range-finder.”
“Yes, Lord. That is, I don’t have a range-finder, Lord.”
“Eyeball it, then,” Erik snarled. “Better yet, don’t fire expendables unless you see another ’Mech fire them off first.”
Erik switched off the frequency for his own lance, not wanting to hear any more sycophantic whining. The mining drivers were masters in their own right, but they weren’t soldiers and he shouldn’t expect them to be. That would come with experience.
He switched his frequency open again. “Forward at your best rate,” Erik ordered them. “Concentrate fire on targets. Garibaldi, you call them out.” He levered his own Hatchetman into an easy walk, coming in behind the MiningMechs, keeping an eye on his HUD and always watching through the forward ferroglass for any sign of a shift in battle.
Garibaldi put the trio of converted machines on a hoverbike squad, chasing after the fast-moving craft. One of the mine drivers actually managed to cripple one hoverbike with a (probably) lucky missile barrage. Seeing that speed meant a great deal on the battlefield, as opposed to the static course they had trained on, Garibaldi started to angle after slower targets. Working together, they managed to threaten a D1 Schmitt into breaking off its attack run.
“That stirred them up. Pull back, pull back!”