Twilight of the clans III: the hunters

by Thomas S. Gressman

  Today, Morgan had decided to hitch a ride with her to observe the day's exercises.

  "They're coming," she said over the internal communication system.

  Morgan bobbed his neurohelmetted head once in reply. He had been watching the remote feeds as the Knights, in an uncharacteristic display of brute fury, smashed the Third Recon Company aside as though they were nothing more than unarmed AgroMechs. The battle had developed according to plan, with the Eleventh Recon Batt locating the Knights and drawing them out, away from the mine. The plan began to unravel as the Knights, responding to Colonel Masters' forceful interpretation of Clan tactics, ripped the Eleventh to shreds.

  Three times since the first shots of the running battle were fired, Winston had to first urge, then order, her troops to stand fast. Morgan knew how difficult it was for warriors to remain in a prepared position while their comrades were dying only a few kilometers away. He'd experienced that feeling of helpless rage in 3039, and later, during the desperate early days of the Clan War. Even now, part of him wanted to override Winston's control of the 90-ton command 'Mech and charge off to rescue those men and women who were being shot to pieces over the next ridge. He knew it was just a simulation, but he couldn't escape the urge to take action. From the creaking of Winston's safety harness, which filtered back from the front cockpit seat, Morgan knew she was experiencing the same compulsion.

  "Stand fast, Light Horse." Winston's voice on the radio seemed to be directed as much at herself as the rest of the regiment. "Let the enemy come to us."

  * * *

  "Gold Three, Gold One. Whitworth on your right. He's locking you up."

  Sir August Mangini swung his Enforcer to face the threat and took a full volley of guided missiles. The combined impact of the missiles on his right arm and torso made the red and silver 'Mech stagger. With a skill born of long practice, Mangini brought the 50-ton machine back under his control. Smoothly, almost arrogantly, the Knight dropped his targeting cross hairs over the green and tan Light Horse 'Mech's center of mass and fired.

  * * *

  For Corporal Greene, struggling to maintain control of her damaged, overheating Whitworth, the results of the combined laser and autocannon hits were disastrous. A simulated explosion touched off by a laser hit to her portside magazine gutted her 'Mech. Instantly, the computer shut the machine down, and an irritatingly polite, computer-generated voice informed her that she had been killed.

  "Thanks for the tip," Greene snarled as she pulled the release handle, opening her egress hatch. Even the tainted air of the Crossmolina Highlands seemed cool and refreshing after the stifling heat of her cockpit. Through the open hatch, she watched a Knights' Wolverine finish off the last of the Third Recon's 'Mechs.

  "Well, General," Corporal Greene said to the Light Horse's distant commander. "It's all up to you now."

  * * *

  "Here they come!" The alarmed shout echoed the words and emotions of soldiers since the dawn of time.

  Ariana Winston wasn't sure who gave the warning. She never had time to figure it out. No sooner had the alert sounded across the regimental communications channel than every sensor in the cockpit lit up with warnings.

  Half a kilometer away, the shattered remnants of the Eleventh Recon Battalion poured through the roadway gap in the ridge. Winston could see that less than half of the battalion's thirty-six 'Mechs had survived the running battle with the Knights. She keyed the radio.

  "All units, this is Dancer." The use of the codename assured that there would be no confusion over who was issuing the order. "Let Hawkeye get clear of the kill zone before we open fire. When I give the word, let 'er rip."

  Seconds crawled by. The limping 'Mechs of the Eleventh Recon slowly crossed the open area between the easternmost ridge of the Tel Burnas and the concealed positions of the Eighty-second Heavy Cavalry.

  Suddenly, a computer-generated explosion consumed a hobbling Light Horse Rifleman. Winston flinched at the abruptness of the 'Mech's demise. Instantly, her IFF painted a dozen or more red squares on her head's up display. Each tiny icon bore the label THREAT and an alphanumeric string intended to identify the type of 'Mech or vehicle being displayed. Most warriors Winston knew disregarded the tag or even reprogrammed their display to leave off the identifier. Being a field commander, she thought it prudent to know the exact nature of her opponents. Now, she wished she had disabled the system. So many OPFOR 'Mechs were pouring through the cut that her HUD was becoming too cluttered to be of any use. She tapped in a command, ordering her computer to display only the information on the closest threat unit. The HUD immediately cleared, revealing only a single scarlet marker. The label DRGFLY identified the lead OPFOR element as a 40-ton Dragonfly.

  The range indicator placed him at seven hundred fifty meters. Slowly, the enemy closed. Morgan, seeming to enjoy his role as Winston's sensor technician, reeled off the distance to the target from his back seat. "Seven hundred meters. Six-fifty."

  For her part, Winston was happy to let him deal with the flood of data coming in through the Cyclops' sophisticated communication and sensor systems. Having him along as a sensor tech made her job a lot easier. Morgan, with his wealth of tactical experience, was able to determine which information she needed and what could be ignored. They'd never fought side by side on the field before, but she suddenly felt the kinship only known between soldiers under fire.

  "Six hundred, in range of LRMs." Morgan, to Winston's amusement, had adopted the flat tone so typical of sensor operators. "Five-fifty. Five hundred meters. At the rate he's closing, his probes will pick us up in about thirty seconds."

  "Thank you, Marshal. You know, I have done this before," Winston growled, though with an overtone of good humor. Keying her communicator, she sent a wide-band message to her troops. "Eagle, this is Dancer, open fire."

  At that order, every Mech Warrior in the Eighty-second Heavy Cavalry Battalion, codenamed Eagle, triggered his weapons at whatever targets were in range.

  On Winston's HUD, the DRGFLY icon winked out as five Light Horse 'Mechs poured fire into the visually modified Cicada.

  Keying in another command, she brought up her own targeting display. This computer-generated image identified only those targets that were within the 660-meter range of her Gauss rifle.

  For a few moments, she scanned the display, then settled her sights over the icon of an OPFOR Puma. She tapped the trigger, used a thumb switch to toggle up a different weapon, and fired again.

  With the sound of a thunderclap, a simulated Gauss slug smashed into the "Puma." A second later, eight out of ten long-range missiles arced in to complete the destruction the Gauss rifle had started.

  Winston's display told her that the OPFOR 'Mech was badly damaged. A second Gauss slug put it down for good.

  "General, on your 'nine'!" came Morgan's excited shout from the Cyclops' rear cockpit.

  "I see him!" Winston shouted back.

  Swinging her 'Mech through a ninety-degree left turn into her "nine o'clock" facing, she searched out the pseudo-OmniMech Morgan had detected. Her cross hairs settled over an icon tagged CLBRN. From the back seat, Morgan shouted. "Cauldron-Born. That's a new Jag heavy. The Com Guards are really putting us through it."

  Winston didn't reply.

  Indeed, the Com Guards, who had developed the computer programs that allowed the conducting of full-scale war-games, were putting the Light Horse, and all the rest of the task force units, through the full rigors of battle.

  The inclusion of a brand-new OmniMech, first seen during the failed Clan invasion of the Draconis Combine capital of Luthien, showed the seriousness with which the training was being carried out.

  The Knight/Clanner didn't appear to have noticed Winston's camouflaged 'Mech lurking behind its screen of trees. As carefully as she could, Winston settled the scarlet cross hairs over the bird-like 'Mech's backward-acting knee joint. With a feather touch, she caressed the trigger twice, reversing the order of her previous volley.

 
; Still, the computer-generated hypersonic Gauss slug arrived before the slower missiles. The computer figured out the amount of damage each shot should have done in the 65-ton OmniMech, named for the nearly unkillable monsters of Irish myth. Like its namesake, the Cauldron-Born shrugged off the damage and turned to face its assailant.

  "Hurry up and shoot, he's locking weapons." For all his years of combat experience, Morgan's warning shout sounded like some green recruit facing his first enemy, full of excitement, fear, and the joy of battle. She guessed that he must have sorely missed real action in the cockpit of a 'Mech.

  Even as Winston fed the OPFOR 'Mech a second helping of Gauss and missile fire, the Cauldron-Born returned the same fire, adding to it a burst from its autocannon for good measure.

  Winston felt confident that she could defeat her opponent. Her Cyclops outweighed the vis-mod Clan 'Mech by twenty-five tons, and she had better field position and the psychological advantage of having drawn first blood. Suddenly, the Knight was not alone. A second 'Mech, this one labeled MDCT-D, stepped up beside the Cauldron-Born.

  Splitting her fire, she punched another simulated crater in the Cauldron-Born's armor while peppering the Mad Cat with long range missiles.

  By way of reply, both Knights/Clan 'Mechs leveled their weapons, and fired.

  * * *

  "Dancer, Dancer, this is Saber. I say again, the enemy is withdrawing in disorder, what are your orders? Over." Major Ron Jenkins switched frequencies.

  "It's no use, Colonel Barclay. I can't raise Dancer."

  Sandra Barclay gnawed her bottom lip, anxiety welling up in her stomach like acid.

  "All right, Ron," she said at last. Dialing in the Light Horse's tactical frequency, she sent out a broad-beam signal. "All units, all units, this is Phantom. Dancer is off the air. I am assuming command. We will allow the enemy to retire. All units will pull back to alternate position Alpha. Get me your butcher's bills as quick as you can. They may decide to reform and hit us again.

  "Major Jenkins, send someone from one of your fast lances to find out what happened to Dancer."

  Blast it, General. Where are you? Barclay hunched forward in her command couch, scanning her tactical displays. There was no sign of Winston's Cyclops. There could be any number of reasons for that. Her communications system could be down, or her computer. Her 'Mech could have overheated and shut down.

  Forcing herself to relax, Barclay leaned back, releasing the control sticks and stripping off the nomex gloves to ease the cramps stabbing through her hands and up her wrists. She continued to stare at the tactical display, so she wouldn't have to look at her hands. She didn't need to. It had been the same after every battle of exercise since Lietnerton. Her once-steady hands were shaking like autumn leaves.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Barclay's communicator crackled to life.

  "All stations, all stations, this is Control." The voice of the Com Guard adept was clear and strong. "All stations, Code Seven. Exercise completed. Return to base."

  "Control, this is Phantom. Message received and acknowledged."

  Looking at her hands, she saw that the pronounced tremor had settled into a slight occasional twitch.

  "Phantom, this Saber."

  "Yeah, go ahead, Ron. What did you find out?"

  "You're going to love this," Jenkins laughed. "The General went toe-to-toe with a couple of Clan heavies and got her head handed to her. Literally."

  "Keep it up, Major," came Winston's voice over comm-line, her usual strong, clear tone slightly fuzzy and tinny over the speakers. "I have an opening in the support company on the kitchen staff. How would you like to command a lance of potato-peelers?"

  "Glad to have you back, General." Barclay hoped the metallic effect of the radio would hide the tremor in her voice. "What happened?"

  In the cockpit of her Cyclops, Winston exchanged a pointed glance with Morgan, who shrugged. He too had caught the unnatural quaver in Barclay's transmission.

  "Major Jenkins was right." Winston tried to cover her concern with a self-deprecating laugh. She succeeded where Barclay failed. "We tried to take on a couple of bad guys. The computer says I've got a broken back, but at least I'm better off than our observer."

  "How's that, ma'am?' Barclay's voice had a guarded quality as though she were oblivious to Winston's deadpan humor.

  "The Eridani Light Horse is sorry to inform you of the death of Marshal Morgan Hasek-Davion. He died in battle, with his face to the enemy."

  "What?" Barclay's surprised yelp startled her commanders.

  "That's right, Colonel. I guess he'd been playing with the politicians too long. He forgot how to duck."

  Morgan laughed at Winston's jibe. "I'm sorry, General. I guess I just need a little more time to adjust. I'll be more careful next time.

  "After all, it wouldn't do for me to die before we even start this business."

  12

  Fort Defiance

  Defiance, Crucis March

  Federated Commonwealth

  25 April 3059

  1025 Hours

  The officer's briefing room at Fort Defiance was as drab and depressing as the rest of the base. The wall, once painted a pleasant desert tan, had faded, the paint oxidizing to a mournful off-mustard color. Near the ceiling, the paint had darkened to a black-brown, stained by years of smoke and grime. The mid-morning sun filtering through the dusty windows did little more than magnify the dinginess of the scene. The only bright spot in the room was a white piece of cloth draped against the wall behind the briefer's podium. Even that clean sheet took on the look of a burial shroud in the bleak chamber.

  Morgan Hasek-Davion leaned forward in his chair, looking around the conference table. He could tell that the assembled unit commanders felt subdued by the somber surroundings. At the same time, he sensed an air of expectation that warred against the depressing ambiance of the room. He felt the same contradictory spirit. The individual units that made up the task force were as combat-ready as they'd ever be. They had been ready before they'd arrived on Defiance, otherwise the leaders of the Whitting Conference would never have selected them for the mission. That knowledge gave him a feeling of confidence—that and the three months' worth of training and integration exercises the task force had just completed. But his confidence was tempered by an underlying concern that the task force, as a whole, was still not ready to embark upon its mission.

  Morgan, though eager to finally come to grips with the Clans, had known there was an edge of desperation surrounding this mission, had known that even as he'd been the one to propose the ideas to the Whitting Conference. Though Victor Davion had disagreed at first, Morgan had known it was the right move, despite the risks and the difficulties. He knew that once such a decision was made, the only proper course was to go forward with it, resolving problems as they arose and drawing on every shred of one's will and courage so as not to lose heart. He had undertaken the task of welding a total force strength of eight regiments composed of eleven units drawn from across the Inner Sphere, into a single, deadly weapon. And he had never looked back. The training and integration exercises had gone a long way toward accomplishing this purpose, and if there were still areas that needed work, well, there were always areas that needed work.

  The time allowed for that phase of Operation Serpent had run its course. Now was not the time to wallow in doubts and fears. They were on a schedule, and Morgan knew he must continue full speed ahead and trust that they'd accomplished enough in the time allotted. He looked around the room at the assembled commanders, silently assessing them.

  Andrew Redburn, commander of the First Kathil Uhlans, slouched in his chair, absently pecking away at the data unit lying open on the table before him. Andrew was one of Morgan's oldest friends. They had been together since the Fourth Succession War, when the Uhlans had been formed out of the fragments of three Davion combat units.

  Andrew Redburn's presence on this mission was comforting to Morgan. He was one of the finest
soldiers Morgan had ever met, steady, stubborn, and as loyal to House Davion as Morgan himself. Though Morgan's responsibilities as commander of the AFFC army had kept them apart in recent years, it had done nothing to dim their friendship. Andy was always ready with a word of support, a dry-humored jest, or a scathing reproof, if he felt one was needed. Their experience on Kathil thirty years ago had bonded them, and Morgan felt they were as close as any brothers.

  Feeling Morgan's eyes on him, Redburn gave his old friend a smiling thumbs-up.

  His gaze traveled next to Marshal Sharon Bryan, the staunchly pro-Katrina leader of the elite Eleventh Lyran Guards, who returned his gaze defiantly. Sitting next to her was Paul Masters, the ever-proper commander of Thomas Marik's Knights of the Inner Sphere. Colonel Masters did not look up from the quiet chat he was having with Major Marcus Poling, commander of the First Battalion of the Second St. Ives Lancers.

  Masters and the Knights had been included in the task force for several reasons, the most important being the fact that they comprised a reinforced regiment-sized unit with their own transportation, in the form of several DropShips and the JumpShip Bernlad. A secondary, but no less important, reason for the Knights' inclusion was their high moral code. When it was first proposed to send a task force on a long, roundabout march to strike at the Smoke Jaguar homeworld of Huntress, Morgan had asked the Knights to act as the conscience of the task force. He'd never doubted that Masters would take the job seriously or that the man might rapidly become a pain in the butt when it came to matters of military expediency, such as dealing with displaced Clan civilians and managing prisoners.

  Across the table from Masters and Poling sat Overste Carl Sleipness, whose Fourth Drakøns had been whittled down to one battalion when the Clans had overrun the Free Rasalhague Republic eight years ago. Keeping his own council, the Overste stared morosely into the coffee cup grasped between his scarred hands.