“Stay busy. The Aid Station is still en route. I’ll have them join you as soon as possible,” L. J. said. Then he called the company support column under the Adjutant.
“Eddie, A Company is bleeding from an explosion.”
“We saw the cloud. For a second I wondered if there was a Blakist around here throwing atomics.”
“No, just more dual use of civilian stuff,” L. J. growled. “They need your medics and supplies, and I need the artillery. Someone’s shooting at us with long-range stuff sighted on preselected targets.”
“They haven’t done that before.”
“First time for everything.”
“We’ll put on all the speed this road will allow.”
“See you soon,” L. J. said, and switched frequencies. D Company was flashing. “Hanson.”
“Chang here, sir. They’ve got quite a demonstration going on the west side. I make it a dozen ’Mechs on the next ridge. They’ve got infantry. Some I can see. A whole lot I can’t. Gun trucks with machine guns and grenade launchers. I’d say they’re at battalion strength at least. I’m digging in to defend, sir, but if they start spreading out, they can overreach both my flanks.”
L. J. stared off to the west trying to see what at least one ridge hid from him. Could these guys maneuver? If Chang hit them, would they fire and fall back? Maybe trip over themselves? Hell, Chang was only outnumbered three to one; he should be able to take a bunch of green civilians.
L. J. started to click the radio, then remembered this might be the group that had at least one attack, maybe two under their belts. Sure, they’d only chewed up Black and Reds, but they’d taken fire and still chewed them up.
“Chang, probe ’em. See if you can make them do something. Charge. Retreat. Something.”
“I’ll get back to you, sir. What was that big bang?”
“A Company is up to its ears in popcorn,” L. J. said.
“Okay, sir. Excuse me for asking. I was just curious,” said the man, who didn’t believe the answer he got and wasn’t going to push his CO. L. J. didn’t have time to set the record straight. C Company was flashing. He changed frequencies.
“Sir, there are an awful lot of bad guys on my front. Right now they’re not doing much more than looking at us look at them, but ’Mechs keep walking over a ridge and walking back. There could be four of them, there could be forty.”
“How are they armed?”
“Damned if I know, sir. We haven’t exchanged fire yet, but those look like large-caliber multibarrel machine guns and something that gives off an IR signature.”
“They had one of them in Falkirk when I fought them. Field burner or something.”
“It’s the ‘something’ that I worry about. What was that racket back in town, sir?”
“Grain elevator exploded. Buried A Company in hot corn.”
“Grain elevators do tend to explode if you don’t treat them with respect.”
“A missile hit didn’t meet with this one’s idea of respect. D is on your left facing a battalion-sized force. I’ve got Chang probing it. You up to probing the force on your front?”
“No reason why not. We’ve got them where we want them and outnumbered one to three. I’ll do a bit of tapping, see if they run like they’ve been doing.”
L. J. wouldn’t bet on that, but a commander did not share negative comments with his subordinates. “Go for it.”
George Stillwell grinned to himself. The Roughriders were coming out. He would have made the same mistake. No company of mercs could back down from a battalion-strength bunch of rabble. Problem was, the Falkirk militia weren’t rabble—not after what George and the other MechWarriors had put them through.
Standing in the front seat of a gun truck, he signaled to the rest of his platoon. “Follow me.” He could have had the Condor tank they’d captured, but he’d always argued that it wasn’t the fancy toys, but the guts of the guys behind the guns that mattered—not that all of the folks behind the guns following him were guys. It made for an interesting team.
His gun truck bounced over brush and rocks as it shot forward, three more swinging out in rough echelon as they zigged and zagged behind him. Gunners hung on to their 20mm Gatling guns attached to the roll bars on the enemy side of the trucks. Missileers steadied their single launchers on the same bar to the right. Stillwell pointed his driver at the far right of the troops advancing from Kilkenny. “Swing wide of that Centurion. It has several ways of ruining our day.”
The driver did. The Centurion tracked them as they crossed right to left across its front, then burned sagebrush behind Stillwell’s truck with its extended-range medium laser. It and a Demon medium tank adjusted their course to confront Stillwell’s team. Infantry squads in Gnome and Cavalier battle armor spread out around them.
“Good deployment,” Stillwell breathed. If he wasn’t careful, they’d cut him off and up. “But I’m just here to do some raiding and scaring,” he said, and reached for the mike. “Task Force George, see if we got their range.”
Behind him, 20mm rounds reached out for the Roughrider team. Some hit, but only at extreme range. No damage.
“Hold your fire. Let’s see if we can draw them off.” He pointed for his driver, and the turn got wider. In the distance, the Roughriders began a careful pursuit. “Ah, so you fellows have heard about the way our moles dig.” Stillwell grinned—he was driving a gun truck for the same reason.
Only after Stillwell’s task force drew even with the Roughrider line did the enemy task force step up the pace of its pursuit. “You don’t want me getting behind you now, do you?”
Now that the Roughrider task force was in slow but earnest pursuit, Stillwell pointed his driver to do a hard right, and he led the platoon in what must have looked like serious flight. The Roughriders, true to their name, put the hammer down and came hot after him.
Which didn’t bother Stillwell at all as he topped a small rise and dropped out of sight. Hardly visible in the draw that ran through the shallow valley, eight jeeps sat ready, Gatling guns and rockets balanced on their roll bars. At the sight of him, infantry vanished into their fighting pits. Task Force George was now complete: three platoons of gun trucks, two of infantry.
The Centurion used its height to snap off some Gauss rounds and LRM volleys to send George’s gun trucks seriously into random S-turns. George timed his next move to the arrival of the Roughrider task team at the crest of the hill.
“About-face!” he shouted, and his four gun trucks did hard U-turns and gunned from cover. From trucks and hidden infantry, rockets reached out to slash into the Roughriders.
“Charge!” George yelled. Zigzagging, racing for all they were worth, guns blazing and rockets flying, the trucks advanced. Militia infantry fired off rocket after rocket, marking their fighting holes, but the Roughriders were hardly interested in them.
The Roughrider infantry took hits but held their line long enough to fire off a volley. Then they backed across the hill. Firing off lasers and short– and long-range missiles, the Roughrider’s BattleMech and tank covered for the infantry withdrawal, but flying shards of armor showed they were paying a high price. Finally the Centurion backed up, firing even as its legs disappeared in defilade. Lastly, the tank roared out of the valley in reverse, firing all the time.
There was no question in Stillwell’s mind that he would not lead his task force across that ridge into whatever trap the Roughriders were setting for him. Cheers from the troops were softened by the LoaderMech behind Stillwell holding up a single rocket.
“This is my last, sir.”
The gunner beside her laughed nervously as he dug two 20mm shells out of the box magazine attached to his Gatling gun. “I was about empty, too.”