Dropship Juno, Assault Orbit, Poulsbo
Tamarind March, Federated Commonwealth
20 March 3050
Costigan was in his cockpit long before the Juno reached low orbit over Poulsbo. Star Colonel Hannibal Banacek had ordered all personnel to
be ready for the drop as soon as Alpha Galaxy's little fleet had arrived at the pirate point. With a single moon, there were five such points around
Poulsbo and since full astronomical data from the Star League's archives had been taken with the Star League Defense Force when they left the Inner Sphere
it had been no great challenge for the Star Adders to jump inside the orbit of the Moon, only a few hours from Poulsbo rather than the eleven days that it
would take to reach the world from the usual jump points well above the star's gravity well.
Like every other Mechwarrior in the force, Costigan was wearing a padded jumpsuit with medical sensors lines of coolant running through it.
Once plugged into his command chair, the suit began circulating the coolant, giving him an unpleasent crawling sensation as the suit drew away his body heat.
He had heard other warriors refer to the feeling as having worms crawl over them and didn't find the image particularly amusing. Once the Assassin warmed
up he would be glad of the coolant. Although the medium battlemech had enough heatsinks to handle the full burden of firing all five lasers, even while using
the jumpjets at full power, it still took time to disperse the heat and the temperature inside his cockpit would rise accordingly.
Reaching back behind the command couch, Costigan lifted down the neurohelmet stored there and took a moment to make sure his hair was secured
at the nape of his neck where it wouldn't interfere with the fit of the helmet. As the only thing cushioning his precious head against the more or less
inevitable knocks and bumps, the last thing that he wanted was a poor fit that would leave his head bouncing around the inside of the helmet. Satisfied, he
donned the helmet and adjusted it to ensure that it had good contact with his temples. The neurohelmet's sensors would detect brainwaves, particularly
those related to the ears and help the sophisticated computers strung through the battlemech to keep the ten metre tall warmachine balanced even while running
or jumping.
Finally sure that he was ready for action, Costigan closed the five point harness that held him into the couch and hit the primary ignition
for the fusion reactor. As the multi-ton reactor rumbled through its activation, sending waves of heat through the cockpit, Costigan went through a series of
security locks that prevented any bandits or disaffected lower castes from making off from a battlemech that could potentially level a small city simply by
walking through one without a skilled pilot. By long tradition the final security step was a short verbal phrase that would be matched against both a recording
of his voice but of the brainwaves being detected by the neurohelmet. Some warriors chose high flown phrases or quotes from the Rembrance, the oral history of
the Clans. When he set the code for this battlemech, mindful of Clan Star Adder's purpose, Costigan had chosen something he found fitting.
"Now we return from whence we came," he told the computer and it lit up, lights from a half hundred displays detailing the status
of his Assassin. For the moment, Costigan refrained from taking the safeties off his weapons - wrapped inside a drop cocoon, he would not be able to use them
and an accidental discharge could only endanger him if it damaged the thermal shield that would guard him during re-entry. He brought every other system to
full readiness however.
"Star Commander, I am ready for action," he reported.
Star Commander Rebecca was only a year old or so than Costigan but she'd passed her Trial of Position with two kills and the previous
Colonel of the 10th Hussars had recruited her out of Kappa Galaxy before the exercises. All things considered, Costigan would have preferred to be assigned to
Oscar but the 10th didn't have official Novas, so Oscar commanded Trinary Delta's Star of ProtoMechs while Costigan would have to suffer under Rebecca
in the the second Battlemech Star of Trinary Gamma.
"Secure for the drop then," Rebecca ordered. "The Star Colonel will be giving the final briefing in a few
minutes."
Sure enough, a moment later, Hannibal Banacek's voice came across the Cluster command channel. "Warriors," the Star Colonel
announced. "We have arrived in orbit of Poulsbo, Alpha Galaxy's first target of the invasion. Already we have been challenged by the defenders of this
world: the 42nd Avalon Hussars and we expect their aerospace fighters to attempt an interception as we are dropped. On the ground, we will face a regiment of
their battlemechs, three regiments of armoured vehicles and several regiments of infantry."
"For this purpose the Galaxy Commander has assigned four Clusters, all of which will be dropping onto Tammerfors continent as planned.
The role of the 10th Hussars remains as a reserve against unexpected attacks. However, the planet's hyperpulse generator has been detected in the city of
Bangor Heights. Trinary Gamma will be dropping onto the station in order to silence it. Take control if you can, but destroy it if need be. The updated drop
data is being sent to your machines now and as the rest of the Cluster will be deploying with the rest of the Galaxy, Binary Epsilon will provide dedicated
cover to Gamma's drop." Epsilon, the 10th Hussar's aerospace complement, was made up of twenty Issus light aerospace fighters which should be
ample fighter cover for the trinary.
Without any more ceremony, Hannibal Banacek ended the briefing and Costigan felt the Juno shudder as it detached from the Star Lord-class
jumpship that had carried the 10th Hussars, the 191st Adder Guards (who would not be part of the invasion) and two Garrison Clusters from Sinclair along the
edge of the Inner Sphere and then between the Lyran worlds and the territory of the piratical Circinus Federation to reach this world. It would be only a few
hours before the Juno reached a close enough orbit for her passengers to disembark and complete their journey to Poulsbo's soil.
-/-
"Who the hell are these guys?" Randolph Chaufee grumbled as his Sparrowhawk rocketed skywards behind the wing leader. He'd been
looking forward to a week of rest and recreation (or intoxication and intercourse as the unofficial version had it) on the beaches and in the bars of
Tammerfors, only for all personnel to be recalled before he'd even reached Fort Bangor's gates. The Fortieth Federation Attack Wing's Stukas had
already been rumbling off the ground before he'd been briefed.
"There have been rumours of trouble in the Periphery," the Old Lady said absently as she led her wing in pursuit of their heavier
brethern. They would rendevous in low orbit and then 160th Crucis Interceptor's Sparrowhawks would be guarding the heavily armed Stukas as they made attack
runs on the incoming dropships. "I guess it's finally spilled over into the Inner Sphere."
The last vestiges of the atmosphere fell away behind them and Randolph stiffened as he saw a short-lived star that didn't belong in any
of Poulsbo's constellations. "Major, you'd better talk to the Forties, because I think they're already mixing it up with the bad
guys."
"How truly good," the Russian woman retorted grimly. "Good eyes, Randolph. Ivanova to all pilots - it looks as if our guests
have arrived early. Let's find out if the Forties have got their dance cards filled or if there is room for us." She opened her thrusters and the
little fighter leapt ahead, nineteen others just like it in hot pursuit.
"Foxtrot Actual, this is Charlie Actual, what is your situation."
"Charlie Actual, this is Foxtrot Eleven. Foxtrot Actual bought the farm. These guys are cutting us apart. They've got the speed to
stay out of our lasers range but it isn't hurting their reach at all."
"Roger that, Foxtrot Eleven. The cavalry's here."
Accelerating at more than seven gravities towards the dogfight, Randolph saw three more explosions signalling more deaths. Two of them looked
like Stukas, but the last looked like a smaller fighter, one without ammuniton bins to be destroyed.
Ivanova cut across the path of one of the invaders as it twisted away from a revenge-minded Stuka and for a moment the craft flashed across
Randolph's viewscreen. He fired reflexively and the medium lasers in the nose of his fighter drew furrows through the unmarked fighter's armour. It was
relatively broad, he noted, with wide wings and a snub-nose. Two weapons were mounted in the wing-roots. Then the fighter was past him and he rocketed through
the same space, following his wing leader as she closed in on another of the fighters.
The enemy didn't have the same agility as the nimble Sparrowhawks, but the margin was not as great as Randolph would have liked, the
aerospace fighter twisting and turning to evade their guns, while also trying to bring its own to bear. The deadly contest swept across a similar match where
two Sparrowhawks fought to drive a pair of the enemy away from a clearly damaged Stuka. The added vectors threw both contests into disarray as the fighter that
Randolph had been chasing fired both the wing-root weapons into one of the other Sparrowhawks as they closed, despite the extreme range.
"Blake's blood!" he exclaimed as he saw that both shots had hit the wing squarely and all but torn it off. "Those lasers
have a lot of punch!"
"Hit them back!" the Old Lady snapped and rolled to bring her own lasers into play against one of the enemy fighters. "Damn
them," she added after a moment. "How much armour do they have?"
Randolph couldn't shake his head, there was too much pressure on his neck for that during the high-G turns that they were pulling.
"It can't be that much!" he protested. "Not moving that fast and with lasers that heavy." It was the immutable triad of any military
hardware: armour, speed and weapons. To increase one required that it be done at the expense of one or both of the others.
"I hit it right on the nose where it had already been damaged and I didn't even penetrate," he was told. "All fighters,
this is Charlie Actual. Head for the atmosphere - we can't do anything up here, we'll try to hit them again once they enter the
atmosphere."
-/-
Quite unaware of the brief battle that had raged in space, Costigan was dozing in his command couch when the five minute warning sounded. The
harsh squeal jerked him awake and his hands were on the controls before his eyes were entirely open.
"Five minutes," the Juno's commander reported. "Five minutes to Drop Point One."
Drop Point One was where Trinary Gamma would be dropped. The rest of the Cluster would be waiting for Drop Point Two, which was calculated to
place them behind the rest of the Galaxy.
"Star Captain Konrad to all Trinary Gamma Warriors," the unit commander ordered. "Final equipment check. If anything is broken
after this point then don't expect sympathy when you hit the planet at terminal velocity."
Costigan checked his status boards but everything aboard the Assassin was showing as green. Those systems he could check for himself while
inside a drop cocoon were also functioning perfectly, which he reported to Rebecca, who somehow seemed disappointed to hear that.
The Juno was creaking slightly as the hull was touched by the uppermost traces of the atmosphere. Costigan adjusted his straps carefully. It
wasn't his first drop - warrior training included simulations and one live drop - but it was the first into combat.
"Entering Drop Point," the voice of the technican running the drop advised them all. "First drop... now." The Juno rocked
around Costigan and for a moment he thought that he'd been dropped first, rather than second as he had expected. Then he realised it was merely ship
adjusting for a hundred or so tons of its cargo being suddenly removed. A moment later his stomach fell out towards Poulsbo and his Mech followed, the whisper
of the atmosphere against the Junos hull replaced by the howl as it bit into the ablative shielding wrapped around the Assassin.
The fall seemed endless. Sensors could not have operated through the shields without fatally compomising them so Costigan was falling blind.
Even the estimated altitude displayed on one of his monitors was just that: an estimate, based on the altitude of the Juno when it dropped him and the expected
rate at which he would fall under Poulsbo's gravity.
Thus, he was relieved to hear the sharp cracks of explosive bolts as the computer determined that either the heat of re-entry had reached a
survivable level or that the shields had been so worn down that they weren't safe to retain and he'd be better off taking his chances, such as they
would be if the shields failed during re-entry.
The computer quickly reset the altimeter now that it was able to see for himself. They were a little higher than expected - probably someone
had miscalculated Poulsbo's gravity slightly - but the temperature was well within the safe zone and what did another thousand metres matter when at best
you had another eighteen kilometres to fall? Costigan felt the Assassin begin to tumble and then there was a jerk as the parachutes attached to the Mech's
shoulders deployed. A simple parachute couldn't bring forty-tons of BattleMech safely, but it could halt the tumble before it really began and bleed off a
little of the speed that had built up through the fall. The Assassin stabilised with feet pointing straight down. All Costigan could see below were clouds.
Hopefully no one had screwed up on the drop zone - there was a lot of water on Poulsbo and if he wound up in the middle of the ocean then he had better hope he
could reach the shore before he ran out of air.
Putting the possibility from his mind, he took the safeties off his weapons and began to search the air around him for any sign of the
defender's aerospace fighters.
-/-
"The enemy are dropping troops over Bangor," Randolph told the other pilots in the amalgamated wing that was all that was left of
the 42nd Avalon Hussars Aerobrigade. The Old Lady hadn't made it out of the furball and nor had four of the six squadron leaders. Technically command
should have gone to Captain Harris, but everyone knew that he had a bad case of tunnel vision once he had a fighter in his sights and Captain Sanderson had
only been on post for three weeks so no one really trusted her yet.
Personally, Randolph thought that the short, broad woman from Galax was doing pretty damn well, but there wasn't time for bitching over
assignments so Harris was signing off on anything that Sergeant Major Randolph Chaufee said and otherwise acting like a good officer who know he was in over
his head. Not that Randolph had a much better idea what to do - getting attacked by super fighters wasn't covered anywhere in the training and retraining
that had featured periodically in his twenty years in the AFFS and AFFC.
Dealing with an orbital drop had been however. "There's heavy cloud cover, so their fighters will have trouble tracing us. But their
Mechs will be on predictable paths, so as long as we can get one good lock on them we can trace them."
"Did you all get that?" Captain Harris asked. "Okay, we don't have much time. We'll hit them as they reach the top of
the clouds and follow them down."
Harris's Sparrowhawk bolted forwards at a speed that was just barely attainable for the Stukas in the formation - seven of them, just
barely a squadron's worth. The same speed was not much more than a leisurely stroll for a Sparrowhawk, which suggested that Harris was learning some
self-control at last. Maybe he might make it as a Wing leader after all - assuming that there was a wing left by the end of the day.
The fighters formed up into three ragged V formations as they flew over Fort Bangor and then angled sharply upwards into the clouds,
following radar traces from outlying stations that had detected the orbiting Dropships. The rainclouds were thick and grey, obscuring anything more than a few
dozen metres in any direction, Randolph noted. Usually flying in these conditions was just asking for an accident - it would only take one fighter's
instruments to go fuzzy and someone would be wing-tip to wing-tip or engine to engine. In theory the latest upgrade of the navigation systems should prevent
that - some upgrade that NAIS had developed to be refitted after '39. It sounded good to Randolph but he wasn't going to trust any machine more than he
did his own eyes and he kept them peeled for other fighters drifting into visual - and therefore dangerous - range of his own. A Stuka might survive a glancing
hit, but none of the Sparrowhawks would.
The radar chirped as it picked up other radar sources up ahead and above of the wing, eight sources - all strong enough that they could only
be dropships. Using their own radars would be a bit too revealing, but the movements of the dropships made it perfectly clear that they were carrying out
orbital drops of the Mechs aboard.
"Danver, Porkins," Randolph ordered the two Sparrowhawk pilots who had taken the most damage. "Don't worry about trying to
get any shots in, just get a count of the drop. If we can let the groundpounders know what they're dealing with then General Waters will get us some
payback for the Old Lady."
The two Sparrowhawks obediently fell back a little as the rest of the wing tore through the upper layer of clouds. Randolph could see the
shooting stars of drop cocoons burning as they made their entry into the atmoshphere. "Blake's Blood," he muttered to himself. "There are
hundreds of them."
"Porkins to Chaufee," one of the trailing Sparrowhawks said. "Permission to light them up with Radar and get a
count?"
Randolph checked the spotter's distance and confirmed that they were now diverging at maximum speed so any radar emissions would only
draw attention away from the attacking squadrons. "Confirmed, Porkins, light them up."
For a moment his radar display flickered as the powerful radars of the two Sparrowhawks swept across the falling Mechs and then cut out as
Porkins and Danvers dived down into the clouds. "Sending you tracking data," Porkins said after a moment. "We have at least a regiment of mechs
and a lot of other signatures. Half of them can't be more than a dozen tons, the others are even smaller. Warbook doesn't know what to make of them.
Best guess is decoys, maybe with some infantry mixed in with them."
"Understood, Porkins," Randolph said. "Not as bad as I thought. Okay, get that news back to Fort Bangor."
"Roger that, Chaufee," Porkins replied. "Light a pyre for the boys and girls."
"Count on it, Porkins," the Sergeant Major agreed and as he reached the spot where the Mechs were beginning to reach the clouds,
the wing popped up over the clouds for a moment and then dived into them after their dangerous prey.
The cloud limited the range of the shots that could be fired and the aerospace fighters opened fire at almost point blank range. Randolph
fired his lasers squarely into an Assassin and then corkscrewed as he dove to fire on it again. He never saw the Guillotine firing steadily from above and
behind the Assassin that crippled his engine with a shrewdly placed salvo. Only the automatic ejection saved his life.
-/-
Costigan's view of Poulsbo cleared up as he plunged past the clouds, now only two kilometres up. He was relieved to see that he
wasn't coming down over water - well, he was, but only because rain was hammering down around him onto the city below. It wasn't dark enough for lights
to be on, but he had little difficulty picking out the sprawling military base to the north of the city and from there he was able to orientate himself to
locate the HPG site on the south side. A major road artery cut through the sprawl of houses and shops a little south of the centre of the city and the Assassin
picked out a point on it as the designated landing zone, seperated from the HPG - run, he understood, by some organisation called ComStar - by a
ridge.
Checking his flanks it only took a moment to pick out the other nine BattleMechs and twenty-five Fangs plummeting alongside him. All present.
Good, now to avoid hitting the ground hard enough to drive the gyro buried deep inside the torso up and through his cockpit. Keeping a close eye on the
altimeter, he fired off his jumpjets, letting them draw in the air being forced into them by his descent and then redirecting and igniting in a carefully
balanced downward thrust. The Assassin shook, but remained upright as his descent slowed, heat rising as the jets fought against the impressive velocity that
had built up over the long fall.
He was just over a kilometer up when safeties cut in to let the jets cool - there was no way that they could maintain that furious drain long
enough to halt him completely - and he watched the altimeter and the temperature inside the jets both dropping swiftly with one eye as the other checked where
he was going to land. A little south of the road, but not far. There was an open grassed area inside a more or less rectangular building that he could reach -
probably better than anything else he'd get to unless he wanted to plough directly into an area effectively covered in closely packed - and almost
certainly highly inflammable - ground cars.
The jets were almost out of the yellow zone and there was barely five hundred metres between himself and the grass when he fired his jets
again, balancing the Assassin on seven columns of fire from its back as he hurtled downwards, seeing the couple of dozen men on the field scattering towards
the edges as he fought against Poulsbo's gravity well.
Several thousand people who had gathered to watch what was likely to be the last match of the Poulsbo Soccer League until the 42nd Hussars
saw off the incoming invasion were startled to see a battlemech in blue and grey urban camouflage crash into centre field, fire blazing from the rear. Dirt and
grass went flying and for a moment smoke obscured the new arrival.
Costigan shook his head, having cracked it against the back of his command couch during the landing with enough force that if it wasn't
for his neurohelmet he'd probably have knocked himself out. Checking the status, he noticed light damage to his leg armour but nothing more serious than he
would have taken falling over. Fairly predictable. Looking around he realised that he was inside some sort of arena, with stands about half full of people
looking at him in disbelief.
"Costigan!" called Rebecca over the Star's channel. "Check in."
"I am fine," Costigan reported. "Came down a little north of the drop point. Should I move back and join you."
"Neg. Take point," Rebecca ordered. "We are moving up to the railway line that leads across this road and past the target. Go
up the hill and check for opposition, then meet us on the railway."
Costigan nodded sharply although she could not see it. "Understood, Star Commander."
Straightening his Mech, he noted that the jumpjets had cooled back to full readiness while he was checking in and fire them again to depart
the stadium by leaping over one of the stands and onto the access road. Unknown to the Mechwarrior, a spectator with a camera would take a shot of his
Mech's take off - a picture that would feature on the sports page of one of Bangor Heights newspapers the next day with the caption: 'Game Called For
Falling BattleMech'.
-/-
Star Commander Rebecca's Grendel loped along the railway line at over seventy kilometers an hour. The line was sloped to ascend the hill
at a gradient comfortable for the trains and Mechs alike, although she truly pitied anyone foolish enough to try to take a train along the route after her Star
had passed. Although they had not intentionally caused damage, it only took one foot landing on the rails to wreck them, something that would unquestionably
derail any train that tried to use them without significant repairs.
Behind her, the Star Captain's Star were following, their Mechs slowed slighly by the burden of the five Fangs each was carrying. Even a
single point would be enough to slaughter a company of infantry - add in the Battlemechs and even an entire Mech company would not be enough to stop them from
taking the generator.
"Warrior Costigan," Rebecca demanded. "Do you have a visual of the target?"
There was a long silence and for a moment she suspected that he would not answer. Then: "Costigan to Star Commander Rebecca. I have line
of sight. Target is visible, fortified and defended. Two armoured vehicles and two Battlemechs in sight. All are painted white, presumably for parade purposes
rather than camouflage. However, the facility is of sufficent size to house a much larger force."
Rebecca sighed. "Costigan, it's a communications centre, not a fortified bunker. What is your postion?"
Another pause. "There is a railway bridge across a residential street that leads to the target building. I am sheltering behind the
bridge. I assume that I have been sighted by now but the guards have not left their patrol zones. The warbook identifies them as a Crab and a Sentinel of Star
League vintage and two Zephyr hover tanks." He paused. "I have an infantry platoon in sight. There are ramps leading to subterranean parking that
closely resemble armoured vehicle bays from the older Castle Brians on Dagda. I do not have line of sight into them."
"Our ETA is thirty seconds," Rebecca told him, figuring that this would calm his nerves. "You are clear to
engage."
Ahead of her she saw Costigan's Assassin rise out of cover on a column of fire - clearly he was using his jumpjets to clear the houses
that lined the hillside facing the Comstar compound. Tracer fire from an autocannon flew below him, clearly he was correct that he had been sighted but the
warriors guarding the HPG station had not responded until he made a hostile move. Costigan fired his own lasers and the cover of the trees either side of the
railway finally thinned to the point that she could see the target, a Crab stagger under several hits from the lasers.
"Drop the dish!" Rebecca ordered and hit her own jumpjets, narrowly missing a house as she bounded down the slope. Opening fire at
extreme range her large lasers lanced into the dish of the HPG. Running closer and dodging fire from the two Mechs, Costigan did likewise with his medium
lasers and sections of the large dish fell away.
The two hover tanks darted out of the shelter of the complex but weren't quite fast enough to avoid Athene's Fire Moth. The small
OmniMech was actually slightly faster than either and her missile launchers were laiden with infernos warheads that spread napalm across the upper surfaces of
both tanks. A moment later the rearmost exploded as the fire heated the tank's own ammo bins and the second skidded to a halt, the crew baling out and
rolling on the ground to try to extinguish the flames on their flak gear.
"Star Commander," Costigan snapped. "We have company."
Rebecca's eyes went wide as tanks, heavier tracked vehicles started to emerge from the ramps - at least a dozen of them. And three Mechs
had emerged from what she had thought was a warehouse and now looked more like a Mech hanger. A hanger that probably had room for more than just half a dozen
Mechs. "Star Captain Konrad, our intelligence was out on the defences. The installation is heavily defended. We have damaged the transmitter but not
conclusively."
Konrad growled irritably. "I am one minute away. What numbers do you face?"
"Twelve tanks, five battlemechs and an unknown number of infantry, Star Captain." Rebecca fired at a Black Knight -
the heaviest unit to emerge from the hanger - and missed with one of her large lasers. The other laser carved into the right leg of the heavy Battlemech, which
returned fire. The lasers overshot, blasting in the side of a house behind her but the particle cannon whiplashed across her right arm, savaging the armour.
"Additional units continue to emerge however."
The white painted Mechs and vehicles seemed to hesitate as she spoke and then moved back, taking cover inside the complex. They
seemed reluctant to target her Mechs for some reason, Rebecca mused, ignoring the handful of civilians fleeing up the hill on foot.
"Understood, Star Commander," Konrad said. "I am requesting air support. Be prepared to direct them towards
targets."
"Very few are on the streets," Rebecca reported. "I presume that they have taken shelter
elsewhere."
-/-
There was no sound in the universe like a regiment of Battlemechs moving across the battlefield. Add the rest of a Regimental Combat Team
moving around them - regiments of tanks and infantry backing up each battalion of Mechs, helicopters and scout cars probing ahead for the invaders positions -
the cacophany made Hauptmann-General Roger Waters truly glad for the insulation of his Griffin's cockpit.
"Alright, Bill, what are we dealing with?" he asked on the command channel.
"The reports from what's left of the Aerobrigade counted eight dropships making the drop," Kommandant Wilma 'Bill'
Waters, his niece and also the 42nd Avalon Hussars chief intelligence officer reported. "Each dropped about at least a company of battlemechs - possibly
two companies, it's hard to say because they were dropping decoys as well - and a platoon or more of infantry. So roughly four battalions of Battlemechs
and a battalion or two of jump infantry. Not exactly a raiding party and they've pretty much got control of the skies - our fighters have taken a real
beating."
"Wonderful. Just wonderful," Waters grumbled. Those were uncomfortably even odds - the 42nd only had three Mech battalions but
considerably more infantry and tanks which should balance things out. Hopefully their knowledge of the ground would counterbalance the attacker's greater
Mechs. "Okay. Where do you make their landing site?"
"Just south of Rouasville," she told him.
Waters called up a map to remind himself. He knew Rouasville of course, it was a good-sized town north of Bangor Heights and a favoured place
for the officers at Fort Bangor to relax in the sure knowledge that virtually every enlisted soldier would head to the more accessible pleasures of the city.
The ground between was mostly pastoral farmland spread over rolling hills and shallow rivers that even his infantry could probably ford with little difficulty.
Not much cover against fighters, but otherwise good ground to fight over.
"Then we'll probably be on top of them within the hour," he concluded. "Did the aerojocks see any
markings?"
"No markings," Bill said reluctantly. "But I think that we're dealing with the same raiders that have been working their
way around the periphery since last year. The description of some of their mechs matches a report we had relayed from the Periphery March - a Catapult with
Marauder arms."
"They had some sort of long range laser," Waters said, recalling the report himself. "Sounds a lot like what our fighters ran
into. Everyone remind your troops to get in close. We can't risk a long range fight if they have that sort of -"
An explosion ahead of Waters drew his attention back to his surroundings in time to see a desperately dodging Ferret scout helicopter swatted
out of the sky by a flight of long range missiles. The rotor torn away, the Ferret displayed all the aerodynamics of a brick, ploughing into the ground barely
a kilometer ahead of Water's command lance. A column of smoke was already rising from beyond the next line of hills - presumably the other helicopter in
the reconnaissence lance.
"The scouts are taking fire," the Captain of the Reconnaissence Company reported somewhat unnecessarily. "I'm pulling them
back." Again, something that Waters and everyone else could see for themselves as a dozen hovercraft and helicopters were making for them at flank speed
and didn't look inclined to stop until they had reached the shelter of Fort Bangor. Given that there were almost twenty vehicles in the Recon Company, that
suggested that the two helicopters weren't the only ones that had been taking fire. "The enemy force is approximately one twenty - repeat one two zero
- battlemechs and the same of some sort of miniature BattleMechs. No idea what they are but they're fast. There's some infantry riding on the real
Mechs."
"I guess they weren't decoys after all," Waters said. "Alright. All regiment and battalion commanders. Tanks and infantry
are to take defensive postions on the hills behind us. Mechs are with me. We'll hit them hard and fast to take their measure and fall back on the
conventional regiments once we know what we're dealing with. Formation is delta-three."
It wasn't a complicated plan and the 42nd had been working together for decades so that was all it took to have the tanks and personel
carriers backing up and turning to make for the top of the hills that they had just crossed. Hull down behind it they could provide support for the planned
withdrawal. The Mechs spread out more, taking a combat formation, each battalion sending two companies forward and holding a third in reserve. Waters and his
command lance shifted right to march between the first and third battalions, their faster medium Mechs allowing them to move easily through the heavier mechs
of the first battalion. Waters preferred the relative inconspiciousness of his Griffin on the battlefield, as well as the mobility that allowed him to support
any of his soldiers rather than being all but trapped in place in a lumbering assault job.
The hill was not treed and the minute that his Mech's head was above the edge, Waters could see the enemy forces spread out and moving
fast towards him. A moment later and something snapped past his head, missing the Griffin by inches. The size had looked more like an artillery shell than he
liked although there didn't seem to be an artillery pieces up ahead that he could see. With annoyance he realised that the shot hadn't quite missed,
having taken off one of the aerials that rose from the Griffin's domed helmet.
Taking a second look as he crested the hill he picked out one of the larger Mechs in the central group and fired his PPC and LRMs into the
hulking humanoid Battlemech, sweat running down his face as a wave of heat flooded his cockpit. The charged particles whiplashed across one shoulder of the
Mech but the missiles overshot as the towering Mech moved accelerated forwards, the scattering pint-sized Mechs in front of it moving even faster to keep ahead
of their larger brother. Waters could see that the other two battalion-sized groups were moving further out and speeding up, as if to envelop the flanks of the
Avalon Hussars.
"Hit them hard, Hussars," the General snapped. "Second and Third battalions wheel out and hit your opposite numbers, first
battalion take the centre." He fired his LRMs this time, letting his Mech cool. This time they hit the towering Mech, smashing into armored plates along
its left flank and leg. In return his target fired the two lasers attached to its left forearm, following it up with a shot from the cannon whose muzzle jutted
out of the right wrist in place of a hand and another laser in the chest firing - probably on a seperate firing circuit from those in the left arm. The first
three shots hit squarely to the chest and the only reason that the second didn't was that Waters' Griffin was tumbling backwards, more than two tons of
armour removed from the torso's protection knocking him badly off balance. "By Jesu," he exclaimed as his status monitors lit up. None of his
armour was breeched, but another volley like that would punch right through - he'd taken lighter hits off of a Marik Awesome the last time the League sent
a heavy raid across the border.
An unfamiliar Mech looked down through his cockpit and it took him a moment to reconcile the unusual persepective to realise that it was one
of the dwarf Mechs, its helmet little more than a dimple between the broad shoulders. Struggling to rise he swatted at it with his PPC, forcing it back. A
laser mounted inside its chest lashed out and Waters felt heat rising. Checking his armour he realised in horror that the laser had dug through the last
quarter ton of armour over his engine and damaged the reactor. More lasers bit into the Griffin as he stood and found three of the little goblin-like mechs
picking away at him viciously. Fortunately none of them hit the weak spot, but it was only a matter of time.
To his left, an explosion marked the death of one of first battalion's Archers as its ammuntion bins detonated. Glancing at the side
monitor that showed the IFF beacons of the regiment, Waters was shocked to see that almost a third of them were out of action. "All Mechs withdraw!"
he shouted and fired his jump jets to get clear of his attackers, blasting himself backwards over the crest of the hill. He landed behind the hulk of a
Wolverine, recognising it as Command Sergeant Major's machine only when he saw the lanky mechwarrior struggling out of the cockpit. He stooped to pick up
his comrade - and that was all that saved him as half a dozen of the dwarf Mechs jumped over the crest of the hill, lasers blazing. Instead of hitting him
squarely in the chest, the shots peppered his head and shoulders.
Caught with his hand extended for Pike, Waters could do nothing to fight back - his particle cannon and missiles would not be effective at
these close quarters. However, the same was not true of everyone and a cannonade from a JagerMech with the markings of the Third Battalion smashed into one of
the small Mechs, hurling it to the floor, the armour pockmarked by the explosive shells.
A moment later, three lasers punched into the JagerMech's chest. Another of those monstrous cannon shells caught the heavy Mech in the
face and it fell backwards, cockpit caved in. Looking up, Waters saw a lean, blocky Mech with birdlike legs march over the hill, the weapon barrels that made
up its arms tracking from the fallen JagerMech towards his own Griffin. Desperately he hit his jump jets, evading all but one laser shot, that tore through
more than half the armour on his left leg. The hit sent him into a spin that Waters skillfully turned into a turn and landed facing away from the enemy, legs
already moving to send him running at almost eighty kilometers an hour away from the invasion and towards the cover of his tanks. On the side monitor he could
see barely half of his Mechwarriors were able to do the same.
"Waters to all commands," he snapped. "Be warned that the 'decoys' are minature Mechs armed with something equivalent
to a large laser and moving at least as fast as a Jenner. We are in full retreat. I am ordering all battleroms to be transmitted directly to Fort Bangor.
Kommandant Waters - I need you to have ComStar transmit the data back to Bolan highest priority. Pay whatever they ask, this information has to get back to
Tharkad no matter what."
Bill's voice was strained as she replied. "Negative, General Waters. The ComStar compound is under attack. The ComGuards report they
are repelling the attack but the HPG is damaged and they estimate six hours to repair it."
"What?" Waters exclaimed. "Someone's attacking ComStar? Inside the city!?"
"Yes sir," confirmed Bill. "Precentor Caputo wants to speak to you as soon as possible."
"Put her through," Waters ordered as a volley of fire from the tanks hurtled over the head of his Griffin and into the
pursuing enemy Mechs.
Waters had met Precentor-IV Nina Caputo several times since the former mercenary had arrived on Poulsbo with the 143rd ComGuards
Division. He'd never heard her sound quite so angry. "Who the hell are these bastards!" she snarled the minute that Fort Bangor relayed her call
(probably coming across the secure landline between his headquarters building and the ComStar station. "The motherless saves are firing on our compound
from the houses opposite. If we fire back there's going to be a bloodbath."
"We don't know who they are," Waters responded as he slowed to drop Pike off next to an armoured personnel carrier
just behind the cover of the hill, before turning to add his long range missiles to the vollys being fired by tanks all along the line of hills. "They
haven't replied to any of our challenges - all we know is that they are hostile."
A Partisan tank raised its autocannon to a high elevation and started sweeping the sky with depleted uranium shells. Waters
checked his threat board and grimaced. Aerospace fighters. Wonderful. "Frankly, Precentor, we're getting hammered up here and as soon as my Mechs
regroup I'm ordering a fighting retreat back to Fort Bangor. Any support that you can offer would be gratefully accepted."
Caputo hesitated for a moment. "I have four Level III formations on planet," she said, confirming Waters own
intelligence reports on the ComGuards deployments. "I will detach two of them to circle the city and meet you at Fort Bangor. The other two will be needed
to secure my base here." A Level III formation was essentially a combined arms battalion - a quite welcome reinforcement.
"Sir," Bill broke into the conversation. "The 201st Light Armour reports that a fourth battalion of the enemy is
moving around their extreme flank."
Waters grimaced. The 201st were his extreme right flank. If they someone was getting around them then his entire force was in
danger of being encircled. "Understood, Major. Precentor, I would appreciate any reinforcements you can send me."
Then he cut her off and started trying to extricate his force from what was looking increasingly like an utter
disaster.
Tamarind March, Federated Commonwealth
20 March 3050
Costigan was in his cockpit long before the Juno reached low orbit over Poulsbo. Star Colonel Hannibal Banacek had ordered all personnel to
be ready for the drop as soon as Alpha Galaxy's little fleet had arrived at the pirate point. With a single moon, there were five such points around
Poulsbo and since full astronomical data from the Star League's archives had been taken with the Star League Defense Force when they left the Inner Sphere
it had been no great challenge for the Star Adders to jump inside the orbit of the Moon, only a few hours from Poulsbo rather than the eleven days that it
would take to reach the world from the usual jump points well above the star's gravity well.
Like every other Mechwarrior in the force, Costigan was wearing a padded jumpsuit with medical sensors lines of coolant running through it.
Once plugged into his command chair, the suit began circulating the coolant, giving him an unpleasent crawling sensation as the suit drew away his body heat.
He had heard other warriors refer to the feeling as having worms crawl over them and didn't find the image particularly amusing. Once the Assassin warmed
up he would be glad of the coolant. Although the medium battlemech had enough heatsinks to handle the full burden of firing all five lasers, even while using
the jumpjets at full power, it still took time to disperse the heat and the temperature inside his cockpit would rise accordingly.
Reaching back behind the command couch, Costigan lifted down the neurohelmet stored there and took a moment to make sure his hair was secured
at the nape of his neck where it wouldn't interfere with the fit of the helmet. As the only thing cushioning his precious head against the more or less
inevitable knocks and bumps, the last thing that he wanted was a poor fit that would leave his head bouncing around the inside of the helmet. Satisfied, he
donned the helmet and adjusted it to ensure that it had good contact with his temples. The neurohelmet's sensors would detect brainwaves, particularly
those related to the ears and help the sophisticated computers strung through the battlemech to keep the ten metre tall warmachine balanced even while running
or jumping.
Finally sure that he was ready for action, Costigan closed the five point harness that held him into the couch and hit the primary ignition
for the fusion reactor. As the multi-ton reactor rumbled through its activation, sending waves of heat through the cockpit, Costigan went through a series of
security locks that prevented any bandits or disaffected lower castes from making off from a battlemech that could potentially level a small city simply by
walking through one without a skilled pilot. By long tradition the final security step was a short verbal phrase that would be matched against both a recording
of his voice but of the brainwaves being detected by the neurohelmet. Some warriors chose high flown phrases or quotes from the Rembrance, the oral history of
the Clans. When he set the code for this battlemech, mindful of Clan Star Adder's purpose, Costigan had chosen something he found fitting.
"Now we return from whence we came," he told the computer and it lit up, lights from a half hundred displays detailing the status
of his Assassin. For the moment, Costigan refrained from taking the safeties off his weapons - wrapped inside a drop cocoon, he would not be able to use them
and an accidental discharge could only endanger him if it damaged the thermal shield that would guard him during re-entry. He brought every other system to
full readiness however.
"Star Commander, I am ready for action," he reported.
Star Commander Rebecca was only a year old or so than Costigan but she'd passed her Trial of Position with two kills and the previous
Colonel of the 10th Hussars had recruited her out of Kappa Galaxy before the exercises. All things considered, Costigan would have preferred to be assigned to
Oscar but the 10th didn't have official Novas, so Oscar commanded Trinary Delta's Star of ProtoMechs while Costigan would have to suffer under Rebecca
in the the second Battlemech Star of Trinary Gamma.
"Secure for the drop then," Rebecca ordered. "The Star Colonel will be giving the final briefing in a few
minutes."
Sure enough, a moment later, Hannibal Banacek's voice came across the Cluster command channel. "Warriors," the Star Colonel
announced. "We have arrived in orbit of Poulsbo, Alpha Galaxy's first target of the invasion. Already we have been challenged by the defenders of this
world: the 42nd Avalon Hussars and we expect their aerospace fighters to attempt an interception as we are dropped. On the ground, we will face a regiment of
their battlemechs, three regiments of armoured vehicles and several regiments of infantry."
"For this purpose the Galaxy Commander has assigned four Clusters, all of which will be dropping onto Tammerfors continent as planned.
The role of the 10th Hussars remains as a reserve against unexpected attacks. However, the planet's hyperpulse generator has been detected in the city of
Bangor Heights. Trinary Gamma will be dropping onto the station in order to silence it. Take control if you can, but destroy it if need be. The updated drop
data is being sent to your machines now and as the rest of the Cluster will be deploying with the rest of the Galaxy, Binary Epsilon will provide dedicated
cover to Gamma's drop." Epsilon, the 10th Hussar's aerospace complement, was made up of twenty Issus light aerospace fighters which should be
ample fighter cover for the trinary.
Without any more ceremony, Hannibal Banacek ended the briefing and Costigan felt the Juno shudder as it detached from the Star Lord-class
jumpship that had carried the 10th Hussars, the 191st Adder Guards (who would not be part of the invasion) and two Garrison Clusters from Sinclair along the
edge of the Inner Sphere and then between the Lyran worlds and the territory of the piratical Circinus Federation to reach this world. It would be only a few
hours before the Juno reached a close enough orbit for her passengers to disembark and complete their journey to Poulsbo's soil.
-/-
"Who the hell are these guys?" Randolph Chaufee grumbled as his Sparrowhawk rocketed skywards behind the wing leader. He'd been
looking forward to a week of rest and recreation (or intoxication and intercourse as the unofficial version had it) on the beaches and in the bars of
Tammerfors, only for all personnel to be recalled before he'd even reached Fort Bangor's gates. The Fortieth Federation Attack Wing's Stukas had
already been rumbling off the ground before he'd been briefed.
"There have been rumours of trouble in the Periphery," the Old Lady said absently as she led her wing in pursuit of their heavier
brethern. They would rendevous in low orbit and then 160th Crucis Interceptor's Sparrowhawks would be guarding the heavily armed Stukas as they made attack
runs on the incoming dropships. "I guess it's finally spilled over into the Inner Sphere."
The last vestiges of the atmosphere fell away behind them and Randolph stiffened as he saw a short-lived star that didn't belong in any
of Poulsbo's constellations. "Major, you'd better talk to the Forties, because I think they're already mixing it up with the bad
guys."
"How truly good," the Russian woman retorted grimly. "Good eyes, Randolph. Ivanova to all pilots - it looks as if our guests
have arrived early. Let's find out if the Forties have got their dance cards filled or if there is room for us." She opened her thrusters and the
little fighter leapt ahead, nineteen others just like it in hot pursuit.
"Foxtrot Actual, this is Charlie Actual, what is your situation."
"Charlie Actual, this is Foxtrot Eleven. Foxtrot Actual bought the farm. These guys are cutting us apart. They've got the speed to
stay out of our lasers range but it isn't hurting their reach at all."
"Roger that, Foxtrot Eleven. The cavalry's here."
Accelerating at more than seven gravities towards the dogfight, Randolph saw three more explosions signalling more deaths. Two of them looked
like Stukas, but the last looked like a smaller fighter, one without ammuniton bins to be destroyed.
Ivanova cut across the path of one of the invaders as it twisted away from a revenge-minded Stuka and for a moment the craft flashed across
Randolph's viewscreen. He fired reflexively and the medium lasers in the nose of his fighter drew furrows through the unmarked fighter's armour. It was
relatively broad, he noted, with wide wings and a snub-nose. Two weapons were mounted in the wing-roots. Then the fighter was past him and he rocketed through
the same space, following his wing leader as she closed in on another of the fighters.
The enemy didn't have the same agility as the nimble Sparrowhawks, but the margin was not as great as Randolph would have liked, the
aerospace fighter twisting and turning to evade their guns, while also trying to bring its own to bear. The deadly contest swept across a similar match where
two Sparrowhawks fought to drive a pair of the enemy away from a clearly damaged Stuka. The added vectors threw both contests into disarray as the fighter that
Randolph had been chasing fired both the wing-root weapons into one of the other Sparrowhawks as they closed, despite the extreme range.
"Blake's blood!" he exclaimed as he saw that both shots had hit the wing squarely and all but torn it off. "Those lasers
have a lot of punch!"
"Hit them back!" the Old Lady snapped and rolled to bring her own lasers into play against one of the enemy fighters. "Damn
them," she added after a moment. "How much armour do they have?"
Randolph couldn't shake his head, there was too much pressure on his neck for that during the high-G turns that they were pulling.
"It can't be that much!" he protested. "Not moving that fast and with lasers that heavy." It was the immutable triad of any military
hardware: armour, speed and weapons. To increase one required that it be done at the expense of one or both of the others.
"I hit it right on the nose where it had already been damaged and I didn't even penetrate," he was told. "All fighters,
this is Charlie Actual. Head for the atmosphere - we can't do anything up here, we'll try to hit them again once they enter the
atmosphere."
-/-
Quite unaware of the brief battle that had raged in space, Costigan was dozing in his command couch when the five minute warning sounded. The
harsh squeal jerked him awake and his hands were on the controls before his eyes were entirely open.
"Five minutes," the Juno's commander reported. "Five minutes to Drop Point One."
Drop Point One was where Trinary Gamma would be dropped. The rest of the Cluster would be waiting for Drop Point Two, which was calculated to
place them behind the rest of the Galaxy.
"Star Captain Konrad to all Trinary Gamma Warriors," the unit commander ordered. "Final equipment check. If anything is broken
after this point then don't expect sympathy when you hit the planet at terminal velocity."
Costigan checked his status boards but everything aboard the Assassin was showing as green. Those systems he could check for himself while
inside a drop cocoon were also functioning perfectly, which he reported to Rebecca, who somehow seemed disappointed to hear that.
The Juno was creaking slightly as the hull was touched by the uppermost traces of the atmosphere. Costigan adjusted his straps carefully. It
wasn't his first drop - warrior training included simulations and one live drop - but it was the first into combat.
"Entering Drop Point," the voice of the technican running the drop advised them all. "First drop... now." The Juno rocked
around Costigan and for a moment he thought that he'd been dropped first, rather than second as he had expected. Then he realised it was merely ship
adjusting for a hundred or so tons of its cargo being suddenly removed. A moment later his stomach fell out towards Poulsbo and his Mech followed, the whisper
of the atmosphere against the Junos hull replaced by the howl as it bit into the ablative shielding wrapped around the Assassin.
The fall seemed endless. Sensors could not have operated through the shields without fatally compomising them so Costigan was falling blind.
Even the estimated altitude displayed on one of his monitors was just that: an estimate, based on the altitude of the Juno when it dropped him and the expected
rate at which he would fall under Poulsbo's gravity.
Thus, he was relieved to hear the sharp cracks of explosive bolts as the computer determined that either the heat of re-entry had reached a
survivable level or that the shields had been so worn down that they weren't safe to retain and he'd be better off taking his chances, such as they
would be if the shields failed during re-entry.
The computer quickly reset the altimeter now that it was able to see for himself. They were a little higher than expected - probably someone
had miscalculated Poulsbo's gravity slightly - but the temperature was well within the safe zone and what did another thousand metres matter when at best
you had another eighteen kilometres to fall? Costigan felt the Assassin begin to tumble and then there was a jerk as the parachutes attached to the Mech's
shoulders deployed. A simple parachute couldn't bring forty-tons of BattleMech safely, but it could halt the tumble before it really began and bleed off a
little of the speed that had built up through the fall. The Assassin stabilised with feet pointing straight down. All Costigan could see below were clouds.
Hopefully no one had screwed up on the drop zone - there was a lot of water on Poulsbo and if he wound up in the middle of the ocean then he had better hope he
could reach the shore before he ran out of air.
Putting the possibility from his mind, he took the safeties off his weapons and began to search the air around him for any sign of the
defender's aerospace fighters.
-/-
"The enemy are dropping troops over Bangor," Randolph told the other pilots in the amalgamated wing that was all that was left of
the 42nd Avalon Hussars Aerobrigade. The Old Lady hadn't made it out of the furball and nor had four of the six squadron leaders. Technically command
should have gone to Captain Harris, but everyone knew that he had a bad case of tunnel vision once he had a fighter in his sights and Captain Sanderson had
only been on post for three weeks so no one really trusted her yet.
Personally, Randolph thought that the short, broad woman from Galax was doing pretty damn well, but there wasn't time for bitching over
assignments so Harris was signing off on anything that Sergeant Major Randolph Chaufee said and otherwise acting like a good officer who know he was in over
his head. Not that Randolph had a much better idea what to do - getting attacked by super fighters wasn't covered anywhere in the training and retraining
that had featured periodically in his twenty years in the AFFS and AFFC.
Dealing with an orbital drop had been however. "There's heavy cloud cover, so their fighters will have trouble tracing us. But their
Mechs will be on predictable paths, so as long as we can get one good lock on them we can trace them."
"Did you all get that?" Captain Harris asked. "Okay, we don't have much time. We'll hit them as they reach the top of
the clouds and follow them down."
Harris's Sparrowhawk bolted forwards at a speed that was just barely attainable for the Stukas in the formation - seven of them, just
barely a squadron's worth. The same speed was not much more than a leisurely stroll for a Sparrowhawk, which suggested that Harris was learning some
self-control at last. Maybe he might make it as a Wing leader after all - assuming that there was a wing left by the end of the day.
The fighters formed up into three ragged V formations as they flew over Fort Bangor and then angled sharply upwards into the clouds,
following radar traces from outlying stations that had detected the orbiting Dropships. The rainclouds were thick and grey, obscuring anything more than a few
dozen metres in any direction, Randolph noted. Usually flying in these conditions was just asking for an accident - it would only take one fighter's
instruments to go fuzzy and someone would be wing-tip to wing-tip or engine to engine. In theory the latest upgrade of the navigation systems should prevent
that - some upgrade that NAIS had developed to be refitted after '39. It sounded good to Randolph but he wasn't going to trust any machine more than he
did his own eyes and he kept them peeled for other fighters drifting into visual - and therefore dangerous - range of his own. A Stuka might survive a glancing
hit, but none of the Sparrowhawks would.
The radar chirped as it picked up other radar sources up ahead and above of the wing, eight sources - all strong enough that they could only
be dropships. Using their own radars would be a bit too revealing, but the movements of the dropships made it perfectly clear that they were carrying out
orbital drops of the Mechs aboard.
"Danver, Porkins," Randolph ordered the two Sparrowhawk pilots who had taken the most damage. "Don't worry about trying to
get any shots in, just get a count of the drop. If we can let the groundpounders know what they're dealing with then General Waters will get us some
payback for the Old Lady."
The two Sparrowhawks obediently fell back a little as the rest of the wing tore through the upper layer of clouds. Randolph could see the
shooting stars of drop cocoons burning as they made their entry into the atmoshphere. "Blake's Blood," he muttered to himself. "There are
hundreds of them."
"Porkins to Chaufee," one of the trailing Sparrowhawks said. "Permission to light them up with Radar and get a
count?"
Randolph checked the spotter's distance and confirmed that they were now diverging at maximum speed so any radar emissions would only
draw attention away from the attacking squadrons. "Confirmed, Porkins, light them up."
For a moment his radar display flickered as the powerful radars of the two Sparrowhawks swept across the falling Mechs and then cut out as
Porkins and Danvers dived down into the clouds. "Sending you tracking data," Porkins said after a moment. "We have at least a regiment of mechs
and a lot of other signatures. Half of them can't be more than a dozen tons, the others are even smaller. Warbook doesn't know what to make of them.
Best guess is decoys, maybe with some infantry mixed in with them."
"Understood, Porkins," Randolph said. "Not as bad as I thought. Okay, get that news back to Fort Bangor."
"Roger that, Chaufee," Porkins replied. "Light a pyre for the boys and girls."
"Count on it, Porkins," the Sergeant Major agreed and as he reached the spot where the Mechs were beginning to reach the clouds,
the wing popped up over the clouds for a moment and then dived into them after their dangerous prey.
The cloud limited the range of the shots that could be fired and the aerospace fighters opened fire at almost point blank range. Randolph
fired his lasers squarely into an Assassin and then corkscrewed as he dove to fire on it again. He never saw the Guillotine firing steadily from above and
behind the Assassin that crippled his engine with a shrewdly placed salvo. Only the automatic ejection saved his life.
-/-
Costigan's view of Poulsbo cleared up as he plunged past the clouds, now only two kilometres up. He was relieved to see that he
wasn't coming down over water - well, he was, but only because rain was hammering down around him onto the city below. It wasn't dark enough for lights
to be on, but he had little difficulty picking out the sprawling military base to the north of the city and from there he was able to orientate himself to
locate the HPG site on the south side. A major road artery cut through the sprawl of houses and shops a little south of the centre of the city and the Assassin
picked out a point on it as the designated landing zone, seperated from the HPG - run, he understood, by some organisation called ComStar - by a
ridge.
Checking his flanks it only took a moment to pick out the other nine BattleMechs and twenty-five Fangs plummeting alongside him. All present.
Good, now to avoid hitting the ground hard enough to drive the gyro buried deep inside the torso up and through his cockpit. Keeping a close eye on the
altimeter, he fired off his jumpjets, letting them draw in the air being forced into them by his descent and then redirecting and igniting in a carefully
balanced downward thrust. The Assassin shook, but remained upright as his descent slowed, heat rising as the jets fought against the impressive velocity that
had built up over the long fall.
He was just over a kilometer up when safeties cut in to let the jets cool - there was no way that they could maintain that furious drain long
enough to halt him completely - and he watched the altimeter and the temperature inside the jets both dropping swiftly with one eye as the other checked where
he was going to land. A little south of the road, but not far. There was an open grassed area inside a more or less rectangular building that he could reach -
probably better than anything else he'd get to unless he wanted to plough directly into an area effectively covered in closely packed - and almost
certainly highly inflammable - ground cars.
The jets were almost out of the yellow zone and there was barely five hundred metres between himself and the grass when he fired his jets
again, balancing the Assassin on seven columns of fire from its back as he hurtled downwards, seeing the couple of dozen men on the field scattering towards
the edges as he fought against Poulsbo's gravity well.
Several thousand people who had gathered to watch what was likely to be the last match of the Poulsbo Soccer League until the 42nd Hussars
saw off the incoming invasion were startled to see a battlemech in blue and grey urban camouflage crash into centre field, fire blazing from the rear. Dirt and
grass went flying and for a moment smoke obscured the new arrival.
Costigan shook his head, having cracked it against the back of his command couch during the landing with enough force that if it wasn't
for his neurohelmet he'd probably have knocked himself out. Checking the status, he noticed light damage to his leg armour but nothing more serious than he
would have taken falling over. Fairly predictable. Looking around he realised that he was inside some sort of arena, with stands about half full of people
looking at him in disbelief.
"Costigan!" called Rebecca over the Star's channel. "Check in."
"I am fine," Costigan reported. "Came down a little north of the drop point. Should I move back and join you."
"Neg. Take point," Rebecca ordered. "We are moving up to the railway line that leads across this road and past the target. Go
up the hill and check for opposition, then meet us on the railway."
Costigan nodded sharply although she could not see it. "Understood, Star Commander."
Straightening his Mech, he noted that the jumpjets had cooled back to full readiness while he was checking in and fire them again to depart
the stadium by leaping over one of the stands and onto the access road. Unknown to the Mechwarrior, a spectator with a camera would take a shot of his
Mech's take off - a picture that would feature on the sports page of one of Bangor Heights newspapers the next day with the caption: 'Game Called For
Falling BattleMech'.
-/-
Star Commander Rebecca's Grendel loped along the railway line at over seventy kilometers an hour. The line was sloped to ascend the hill
at a gradient comfortable for the trains and Mechs alike, although she truly pitied anyone foolish enough to try to take a train along the route after her Star
had passed. Although they had not intentionally caused damage, it only took one foot landing on the rails to wreck them, something that would unquestionably
derail any train that tried to use them without significant repairs.
Behind her, the Star Captain's Star were following, their Mechs slowed slighly by the burden of the five Fangs each was carrying. Even a
single point would be enough to slaughter a company of infantry - add in the Battlemechs and even an entire Mech company would not be enough to stop them from
taking the generator.
"Warrior Costigan," Rebecca demanded. "Do you have a visual of the target?"
There was a long silence and for a moment she suspected that he would not answer. Then: "Costigan to Star Commander Rebecca. I have line
of sight. Target is visible, fortified and defended. Two armoured vehicles and two Battlemechs in sight. All are painted white, presumably for parade purposes
rather than camouflage. However, the facility is of sufficent size to house a much larger force."
Rebecca sighed. "Costigan, it's a communications centre, not a fortified bunker. What is your postion?"
Another pause. "There is a railway bridge across a residential street that leads to the target building. I am sheltering behind the
bridge. I assume that I have been sighted by now but the guards have not left their patrol zones. The warbook identifies them as a Crab and a Sentinel of Star
League vintage and two Zephyr hover tanks." He paused. "I have an infantry platoon in sight. There are ramps leading to subterranean parking that
closely resemble armoured vehicle bays from the older Castle Brians on Dagda. I do not have line of sight into them."
"Our ETA is thirty seconds," Rebecca told him, figuring that this would calm his nerves. "You are clear to
engage."
Ahead of her she saw Costigan's Assassin rise out of cover on a column of fire - clearly he was using his jumpjets to clear the houses
that lined the hillside facing the Comstar compound. Tracer fire from an autocannon flew below him, clearly he was correct that he had been sighted but the
warriors guarding the HPG station had not responded until he made a hostile move. Costigan fired his own lasers and the cover of the trees either side of the
railway finally thinned to the point that she could see the target, a Crab stagger under several hits from the lasers.
"Drop the dish!" Rebecca ordered and hit her own jumpjets, narrowly missing a house as she bounded down the slope. Opening fire at
extreme range her large lasers lanced into the dish of the HPG. Running closer and dodging fire from the two Mechs, Costigan did likewise with his medium
lasers and sections of the large dish fell away.
The two hover tanks darted out of the shelter of the complex but weren't quite fast enough to avoid Athene's Fire Moth. The small
OmniMech was actually slightly faster than either and her missile launchers were laiden with infernos warheads that spread napalm across the upper surfaces of
both tanks. A moment later the rearmost exploded as the fire heated the tank's own ammo bins and the second skidded to a halt, the crew baling out and
rolling on the ground to try to extinguish the flames on their flak gear.
"Star Commander," Costigan snapped. "We have company."
Rebecca's eyes went wide as tanks, heavier tracked vehicles started to emerge from the ramps - at least a dozen of them. And three Mechs
had emerged from what she had thought was a warehouse and now looked more like a Mech hanger. A hanger that probably had room for more than just half a dozen
Mechs. "Star Captain Konrad, our intelligence was out on the defences. The installation is heavily defended. We have damaged the transmitter but not
conclusively."
Konrad growled irritably. "I am one minute away. What numbers do you face?"
"Twelve tanks, five battlemechs and an unknown number of infantry, Star Captain." Rebecca fired at a Black Knight -
the heaviest unit to emerge from the hanger - and missed with one of her large lasers. The other laser carved into the right leg of the heavy Battlemech, which
returned fire. The lasers overshot, blasting in the side of a house behind her but the particle cannon whiplashed across her right arm, savaging the armour.
"Additional units continue to emerge however."
The white painted Mechs and vehicles seemed to hesitate as she spoke and then moved back, taking cover inside the complex. They
seemed reluctant to target her Mechs for some reason, Rebecca mused, ignoring the handful of civilians fleeing up the hill on foot.
"Understood, Star Commander," Konrad said. "I am requesting air support. Be prepared to direct them towards
targets."
"Very few are on the streets," Rebecca reported. "I presume that they have taken shelter
elsewhere."
-/-
There was no sound in the universe like a regiment of Battlemechs moving across the battlefield. Add the rest of a Regimental Combat Team
moving around them - regiments of tanks and infantry backing up each battalion of Mechs, helicopters and scout cars probing ahead for the invaders positions -
the cacophany made Hauptmann-General Roger Waters truly glad for the insulation of his Griffin's cockpit.
"Alright, Bill, what are we dealing with?" he asked on the command channel.
"The reports from what's left of the Aerobrigade counted eight dropships making the drop," Kommandant Wilma 'Bill'
Waters, his niece and also the 42nd Avalon Hussars chief intelligence officer reported. "Each dropped about at least a company of battlemechs - possibly
two companies, it's hard to say because they were dropping decoys as well - and a platoon or more of infantry. So roughly four battalions of Battlemechs
and a battalion or two of jump infantry. Not exactly a raiding party and they've pretty much got control of the skies - our fighters have taken a real
beating."
"Wonderful. Just wonderful," Waters grumbled. Those were uncomfortably even odds - the 42nd only had three Mech battalions but
considerably more infantry and tanks which should balance things out. Hopefully their knowledge of the ground would counterbalance the attacker's greater
Mechs. "Okay. Where do you make their landing site?"
"Just south of Rouasville," she told him.
Waters called up a map to remind himself. He knew Rouasville of course, it was a good-sized town north of Bangor Heights and a favoured place
for the officers at Fort Bangor to relax in the sure knowledge that virtually every enlisted soldier would head to the more accessible pleasures of the city.
The ground between was mostly pastoral farmland spread over rolling hills and shallow rivers that even his infantry could probably ford with little difficulty.
Not much cover against fighters, but otherwise good ground to fight over.
"Then we'll probably be on top of them within the hour," he concluded. "Did the aerojocks see any
markings?"
"No markings," Bill said reluctantly. "But I think that we're dealing with the same raiders that have been working their
way around the periphery since last year. The description of some of their mechs matches a report we had relayed from the Periphery March - a Catapult with
Marauder arms."
"They had some sort of long range laser," Waters said, recalling the report himself. "Sounds a lot like what our fighters ran
into. Everyone remind your troops to get in close. We can't risk a long range fight if they have that sort of -"
An explosion ahead of Waters drew his attention back to his surroundings in time to see a desperately dodging Ferret scout helicopter swatted
out of the sky by a flight of long range missiles. The rotor torn away, the Ferret displayed all the aerodynamics of a brick, ploughing into the ground barely
a kilometer ahead of Water's command lance. A column of smoke was already rising from beyond the next line of hills - presumably the other helicopter in
the reconnaissence lance.
"The scouts are taking fire," the Captain of the Reconnaissence Company reported somewhat unnecessarily. "I'm pulling them
back." Again, something that Waters and everyone else could see for themselves as a dozen hovercraft and helicopters were making for them at flank speed
and didn't look inclined to stop until they had reached the shelter of Fort Bangor. Given that there were almost twenty vehicles in the Recon Company, that
suggested that the two helicopters weren't the only ones that had been taking fire. "The enemy force is approximately one twenty - repeat one two zero
- battlemechs and the same of some sort of miniature BattleMechs. No idea what they are but they're fast. There's some infantry riding on the real
Mechs."
"I guess they weren't decoys after all," Waters said. "Alright. All regiment and battalion commanders. Tanks and infantry
are to take defensive postions on the hills behind us. Mechs are with me. We'll hit them hard and fast to take their measure and fall back on the
conventional regiments once we know what we're dealing with. Formation is delta-three."
It wasn't a complicated plan and the 42nd had been working together for decades so that was all it took to have the tanks and personel
carriers backing up and turning to make for the top of the hills that they had just crossed. Hull down behind it they could provide support for the planned
withdrawal. The Mechs spread out more, taking a combat formation, each battalion sending two companies forward and holding a third in reserve. Waters and his
command lance shifted right to march between the first and third battalions, their faster medium Mechs allowing them to move easily through the heavier mechs
of the first battalion. Waters preferred the relative inconspiciousness of his Griffin on the battlefield, as well as the mobility that allowed him to support
any of his soldiers rather than being all but trapped in place in a lumbering assault job.
The hill was not treed and the minute that his Mech's head was above the edge, Waters could see the enemy forces spread out and moving
fast towards him. A moment later and something snapped past his head, missing the Griffin by inches. The size had looked more like an artillery shell than he
liked although there didn't seem to be an artillery pieces up ahead that he could see. With annoyance he realised that the shot hadn't quite missed,
having taken off one of the aerials that rose from the Griffin's domed helmet.
Taking a second look as he crested the hill he picked out one of the larger Mechs in the central group and fired his PPC and LRMs into the
hulking humanoid Battlemech, sweat running down his face as a wave of heat flooded his cockpit. The charged particles whiplashed across one shoulder of the
Mech but the missiles overshot as the towering Mech moved accelerated forwards, the scattering pint-sized Mechs in front of it moving even faster to keep ahead
of their larger brother. Waters could see that the other two battalion-sized groups were moving further out and speeding up, as if to envelop the flanks of the
Avalon Hussars.
"Hit them hard, Hussars," the General snapped. "Second and Third battalions wheel out and hit your opposite numbers, first
battalion take the centre." He fired his LRMs this time, letting his Mech cool. This time they hit the towering Mech, smashing into armored plates along
its left flank and leg. In return his target fired the two lasers attached to its left forearm, following it up with a shot from the cannon whose muzzle jutted
out of the right wrist in place of a hand and another laser in the chest firing - probably on a seperate firing circuit from those in the left arm. The first
three shots hit squarely to the chest and the only reason that the second didn't was that Waters' Griffin was tumbling backwards, more than two tons of
armour removed from the torso's protection knocking him badly off balance. "By Jesu," he exclaimed as his status monitors lit up. None of his
armour was breeched, but another volley like that would punch right through - he'd taken lighter hits off of a Marik Awesome the last time the League sent
a heavy raid across the border.
An unfamiliar Mech looked down through his cockpit and it took him a moment to reconcile the unusual persepective to realise that it was one
of the dwarf Mechs, its helmet little more than a dimple between the broad shoulders. Struggling to rise he swatted at it with his PPC, forcing it back. A
laser mounted inside its chest lashed out and Waters felt heat rising. Checking his armour he realised in horror that the laser had dug through the last
quarter ton of armour over his engine and damaged the reactor. More lasers bit into the Griffin as he stood and found three of the little goblin-like mechs
picking away at him viciously. Fortunately none of them hit the weak spot, but it was only a matter of time.
To his left, an explosion marked the death of one of first battalion's Archers as its ammuntion bins detonated. Glancing at the side
monitor that showed the IFF beacons of the regiment, Waters was shocked to see that almost a third of them were out of action. "All Mechs withdraw!"
he shouted and fired his jump jets to get clear of his attackers, blasting himself backwards over the crest of the hill. He landed behind the hulk of a
Wolverine, recognising it as Command Sergeant Major's machine only when he saw the lanky mechwarrior struggling out of the cockpit. He stooped to pick up
his comrade - and that was all that saved him as half a dozen of the dwarf Mechs jumped over the crest of the hill, lasers blazing. Instead of hitting him
squarely in the chest, the shots peppered his head and shoulders.
Caught with his hand extended for Pike, Waters could do nothing to fight back - his particle cannon and missiles would not be effective at
these close quarters. However, the same was not true of everyone and a cannonade from a JagerMech with the markings of the Third Battalion smashed into one of
the small Mechs, hurling it to the floor, the armour pockmarked by the explosive shells.
A moment later, three lasers punched into the JagerMech's chest. Another of those monstrous cannon shells caught the heavy Mech in the
face and it fell backwards, cockpit caved in. Looking up, Waters saw a lean, blocky Mech with birdlike legs march over the hill, the weapon barrels that made
up its arms tracking from the fallen JagerMech towards his own Griffin. Desperately he hit his jump jets, evading all but one laser shot, that tore through
more than half the armour on his left leg. The hit sent him into a spin that Waters skillfully turned into a turn and landed facing away from the enemy, legs
already moving to send him running at almost eighty kilometers an hour away from the invasion and towards the cover of his tanks. On the side monitor he could
see barely half of his Mechwarriors were able to do the same.
"Waters to all commands," he snapped. "Be warned that the 'decoys' are minature Mechs armed with something equivalent
to a large laser and moving at least as fast as a Jenner. We are in full retreat. I am ordering all battleroms to be transmitted directly to Fort Bangor.
Kommandant Waters - I need you to have ComStar transmit the data back to Bolan highest priority. Pay whatever they ask, this information has to get back to
Tharkad no matter what."
Bill's voice was strained as she replied. "Negative, General Waters. The ComStar compound is under attack. The ComGuards report they
are repelling the attack but the HPG is damaged and they estimate six hours to repair it."
"What?" Waters exclaimed. "Someone's attacking ComStar? Inside the city!?"
"Yes sir," confirmed Bill. "Precentor Caputo wants to speak to you as soon as possible."
"Put her through," Waters ordered as a volley of fire from the tanks hurtled over the head of his Griffin and into the
pursuing enemy Mechs.
Waters had met Precentor-IV Nina Caputo several times since the former mercenary had arrived on Poulsbo with the 143rd ComGuards
Division. He'd never heard her sound quite so angry. "Who the hell are these bastards!" she snarled the minute that Fort Bangor relayed her call
(probably coming across the secure landline between his headquarters building and the ComStar station. "The motherless saves are firing on our compound
from the houses opposite. If we fire back there's going to be a bloodbath."
"We don't know who they are," Waters responded as he slowed to drop Pike off next to an armoured personnel carrier
just behind the cover of the hill, before turning to add his long range missiles to the vollys being fired by tanks all along the line of hills. "They
haven't replied to any of our challenges - all we know is that they are hostile."
A Partisan tank raised its autocannon to a high elevation and started sweeping the sky with depleted uranium shells. Waters
checked his threat board and grimaced. Aerospace fighters. Wonderful. "Frankly, Precentor, we're getting hammered up here and as soon as my Mechs
regroup I'm ordering a fighting retreat back to Fort Bangor. Any support that you can offer would be gratefully accepted."
Caputo hesitated for a moment. "I have four Level III formations on planet," she said, confirming Waters own
intelligence reports on the ComGuards deployments. "I will detach two of them to circle the city and meet you at Fort Bangor. The other two will be needed
to secure my base here." A Level III formation was essentially a combined arms battalion - a quite welcome reinforcement.
"Sir," Bill broke into the conversation. "The 201st Light Armour reports that a fourth battalion of the enemy is
moving around their extreme flank."
Waters grimaced. The 201st were his extreme right flank. If they someone was getting around them then his entire force was in
danger of being encircled. "Understood, Major. Precentor, I would appreciate any reinforcements you can send me."
Then he cut her off and started trying to extricate his force from what was looking increasingly like an utter
disaster.