The SM1 on the far right took a ranging shot with its autocannon. The shells stitched across the Hatchetman’s back. The impact spots glowed in infrared.
“Dress it up. Stay in line,” the tank commander told the other Warriors in the armored squad. “Stay together. Tank destroyers, fire at will. Missiles, fire as soon as you have a fix and lock.”
The line of armor crossed the western edge of the muddy collection of shell holes. The Hatchetman gained the top of the rise on the east and started down the other side.
The Scimitar MKII tank approached the still-smoldering wreck of the Blade.
“Looks like someone had a fire,” the Scimitar’s sensor operator commented to the tank’s commander. “I wonder if anybody bothered to get out of the Mech Warrior before it went up?”
“Not our problem,” said the tank commander. He had the Scimitar’s extended-range laser locked onto the fleeing Hatchetman and was firing, adding a little heat to the mix. “Concentrate on the one that is still on its feet.”
The Steel Wolf Warriors had all heard of this Hatchetman, and of the way it had fought them in the streets of Northwind’s capital.
Honor to the one who brought it down.
Tara Campbell watched the approaching Steel Wolf units through her rearward-facing sensors. She was taking the Hatchetman forward as fast as she dared. The muddy ground was slowing her, making her work too hard for every step, setting her power plant on the verge of betraying her.
She found the crest of the hill. On the other side of the crest line one of the Highlanders’ SM1 tank destroyers was waiting. Not much of an ace in the hole, but it would have to do.
Her long-range weapons were empty, and she didn’t dare to fire her laser for fear of the heat. ’Mechs could be overcome by enough force, and enough force was heading her way—the pursuing armor had drawn even with the wreckage and was coming on fast. The autocannon hits rattled like hailstones against the back of her ’Mech.
“Bishop,” she said. “Now.”
On the western edge of the mud pit, Captain Tara Bishop’s Pack Hunter sat up from under a concealing and cooling layer of mud. The three SM1s were the chief threat. Bishop targeted the farthest one, out to the right, with her Ripper particle cannon. The tank destroyer’s main gun was pointed away from her, its vulnerable side and rear armor showing. She fired.
Without waiting for damage assessment she switched her aim to the next closest SM1 and fired again. Then to the one remaining. Before the startled tank destroyers could react, she repeated the entire sequence a second time, and then a third, before the SM1s fell still and silent.
“Good shooting,” Campbell said. “You got all of them.”
Surprise was lost now; the tactical missile carrier had spun in place with the speed and agility that only a hover could demonstrate, and was moving in close. Its first turret-mounted short-range missile box lined up, then shook with fire and smoke.
“Incoming!” Bishop shouted, out of habit.
Then the missiles struck. Damage lights lit up all over her control board. Before another salvo could hit, she fired up her suite of minilasers and played their beams over the missile carrier. As she did so, a second multiple launcher cut loose.
Then Bishop’s particle projector fired. The beam could cut through a tank destroyer’s armor; the light armor of the missile carrier could not withstand it. The JES’s missiles impacted the Pack Hunter, and the missile carrier itself detonated, both at the same moment.
Then it was the Scimitar’s turn. That vehicle was still racing at flank speed toward Tara Campbell’s Hatchetman, trying to bring its short-range weapons to bear. Its machine guns were chattering, even though they were nothing more than annoyances to the armored ’Mech. Soon they were joined by the Scimitar’s extended-range laser, by its small lasers, and by its four short-range missiles. All inbound.
Tara Campbell raised her hatchet like a shield, trying to take as many of the hits as possible on its solid depleted-uranium blade. Better that, than on the hull of her ’Mech, where autocannon and missile fire had been striking her all morning.
The multiple impacts staggered her backward. Then the hover vehicle sped past her and over the crest line—into the sights of the Highlander SM1 that lurked there.
The SM1 fired once, and the Scimitar died.
40
Belgorod
Terra
Prefecture X
April 3134; local spring
One-Eyed Jack Farrell sat in the command seat in the cockpit of his Jupiter. His mercenary unit was arrayed in formation behind him, ready to move out. The DropShips that had brought them to Terra were staged yet farther back from the fighting line. In a few minutes, he and his troopers would be moving out—another day, another battle.
He paused, took a deep breath. By nightfall, some of his people might not be alive. He’d do his best to keep them all safe, but there was no getting around the fact that combat operations were dangerous. He knew that luck would take some. It was the nature of the job.
The other nature of the job was to give the employer what he paid for: the selective application of violence in support of some larger goal.
“Okay, guys, listen up,” Farrell said over his all-circuit command net and external speakers. “We are going to link up with the Northwind Highlanders. This is going to be tricky.
“First off, as you know, any linkup can turn into a cock-up in about a minute flat. Thirty seconds or less if it’s in the middle of a shoot-out. Second thing, the Highlanders may not know that we’re coming. Third thing, last time we saw them we kinda had a spat. They may not be the forgive-and-forget types.
“So here’s the scoop: Under no circumstances shall anyone here shoot at a Highlander unit. Even if they take you under fire.”
“Who do we shoot at, boss?” The question came from second echelon.
“The Tin Puppies are our targets for today. Separate ’em out, push ’em back, get ’em off planet. The battle’s started. We finish it. We’re moving north to contact. Now move.”
With that he stepped forward. The Jupiter had a low cruising speed, and the rest of the mercs limited themselves to its slow but relentless pace. They formed up in open order with scouts and skirmishers out, and with the sun on their right side, the long advance began.
“Rotten ground for a fight,” Jack’s segundo said over the private command net.
“Sloppy underfoot,” Jack acknowledged. “Not too bad, otherwise. Good lines of sight. Our ranged stuff will pull us through today if anything will.”
“Right, boss. But I sure wish we had us some eyes in the air.”
“Maybe I can arrange some intel from that side,” Jack said. “Depends on how happy our friends from Northwind are to see us once we show up. Meanwhile, look sharp. The good guys and the bad guys are using the same sorts of gear. Be really sure of your targets before you fire.”
“You got it.”
The mercenaries walked north, dead slow.
Up the road, the hills were brown. Smoke rolled across the sky. The road itself was little more than a pair of ruts that had once had gravel on it. It marked the path across endless rolling steppes.
Farrell’s mercenaries guided on the road. They spread out to either side. Individual men and women in battle armor jumped and skittered ahead of the main column, looking for targets and checking for ambushes. So far the fighting had consisted of a patrol of Steel Wolves running into far more firepower than they’d counted on. Jack Farrell expected the Wolves’ return hammer blow to come down at any time.
“I’m seeing magnetic anomalies heading south,” a sensor operator reported across the tactical net.
“So they see us heading north,” Farrell said. “Identify them, if you please.”
“Two ForestryMods, a pair of SM1s, maybe some smaller stuff.”
“Which team are they playing for?”
“We’re checking that out.”
A man sped forward on a hoverbike—a light,
fast vehicle with a satellite uplink.
“Give me some cover,” Jack said. “All self-propelled artillery, load long. Close on me, best speed.”
He continued to stride up the road. A Jupiter was too big to hide and too slow to run, but when it kept on coming forward most things eventually got out of its way.
The road was where the ground was most solid, but nevertheless Jack was splashed with mud up to the waist of his ’Mech. “Hovers,” he ordered. “Form up, hunter-killer groups. Swing west, get around by the Wolves’ DropShips. Force them to fall back to defend their line of retreat.”
“Suppose that Kerensky doesn’t plan to retreat?” his segundo asked over the private circuit. “Then what?”
“Then we’ve got some DropShips to sell next time we go to market.”
“Commander,” the voice of the scout said. “Positive ID on inbound units. Three. Two ’Mechs plus one Smiley. Forestries have autocannons plus forestry saws. Smiley has one autocannon plus MGs. No supply or support. Traveling south, speed two-five. Steel Wolf markings. No unusual equipment.”
“Very well,” Jack said. “The ’Mechs are mine. Can we get some long-range missiles onto that tank destroyer?”
“Got a section of Jousts in range.”
“Take care of it,” Jack said, and marked the bearing and range of the two ’Mechs.
He picked up his pace, even if it felt like strolling through wet cement. Combined speed put their closing velocity at about fifty. He didn’t want to waste his autocannon or his long-range missiles on low-value targets like these, not this early in the fight. So he’d take them hand-to-hand with a bit of particle projector fire to soften them up on the way in. It was a risky tactic, especially against close-in brawlers like ForestryMods, with their massive armor-chewing chain saws, but he had some ideas about how to deal with that.
The heat buildup would just have to take care of itself. He set his heat-sensor alarms to warn him when he was one minute from redline and concentrated on understanding the shape of the battle to come.
“The Steel Wolves are trying to destroy the Highlanders utterly. The Highlanders are planning to bloody the Wolves enough to make them want to retreat. And I’m here to make sure that the Highlanders win. Highlanders to the east, Wolves to the west and . . . here we go.”
41
Belgorod
Terra
Prefecture X
April 3134; local spring
A moment later, the tank destroyers vanished amid the smoke and flying earth of a barrage of missile hits. The two ’Mechs were still visible.
Jack left his armored forces to handle the SM1s. He had lock on. He fired. The particle projectors in his right and left torso pressed against him; he could feel their recoil in the feedback from his ’Mech’s controls.
He linked the projectors’ fire to his visuals, so that the beams would strike where he was looking. Then he glanced from one ForestryMech to the other as they split up in an attempt to jump him from either side. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, and halted so as to ruin their predictions concerning where he would be at a certain time.
He felt a hammering in his right leg and knee, and looked to his right. At least one of the SM1s had escaped from the missile barrage and was targeting his mobility.
There was a time to be frugal, and there was a time to expend ammo. Jack raised and pointed with his ’Mech’s right arm, allowing the twin DL Ultra-5 autocannons to do their work and chew into the SM1 tank destroyer’s superstructure. The hovertank broke off the engagement, circling out and away from him.
Jack ignored the Smiley. The Jousts could handle it, or the Jupiter’s armor could take the punishment if it returned.
Here were the ForestryMods. Jack lit them up with particle beams, and was pleased to see their IR signatures flare up. Overloaded and shut down, they’d be easy prey for his infantry.
All he had to do was keep their saws off of him. Close-up in hand-to-hand fighting, those saws—designed to tear through the thickest forest on any world—could damage even his armor.
He turned both his particle beams onto the closest of the two ForestryMods. It and its partner responded with their own autocannons, the rounds spattering off his torso and trunk—annoying, but not immediately damaging.
“More Steel Wolves, incoming.”
The hovers were out to the west, circling wide. That left wheeled and tracked vehicles plus infantry to deal with the newly arriving forces.
“Screw this,” Jack said, and charged the nearest ForestryMech. He pressed against the ’Mech, put one of his Jupiter’s legs behind its leg, and used a hundred tons’ worth of hip throw to flip the ’Mech onto its back. Then, standing with one foot planted firmly on the overturned Forestry-Mod so that it couldn’t get its saw back into action, he raised both arms and hosed down the second ’Mod with autocannon fire at close range.
It staggered, turned, and in the next moment an infantry squad with flamers showed up to put the ’Mod into heat overload shutdown. The ’Mech burned inside a coating of jellied gasoline, frozen in its last position.
“Pull the MechWarrior out of there as soon as that thing cools down,” Jack said. “Stand by flamers on this unit if he gives you any funny business.”
He turned on his universal ’Mech-to-’Mech circuit.
“Forester under my foot,” he said. “This is the Jupiter that’s standing on top of you. Surrender or die. Your call.”
“Free passage?” came the reply.
“Don’t know about that. Safe haven’s the best I can offer.”
“I’ll take it.”
“We’ve got one coming out here,” Jack said to his people over the Jupiter’s external circuits. “Take the Warrior to the rear. Don’t flame him.”
The leader of the infantry squad looked up at Jack’s pilot compartment and gave him a big thumbs-up.
“That’s a Ryoken II up there,” the forward scout reported. “Inbound from the northwest, moving fast.”
“Ah. I think I know who that is. So let’s go play.”
Jack left the two ForestryMechs to the infantry, and turned his steps toward the Ryoken over the quaking plain.
42
Belgorod
Terra
Prefecture X
April 3134; local spring
Jack Farrell looked out to the northwest. The Ryoken II was approaching fast, splashing over the muddy ground. He marked the oncoming ’Mech both visually and by IR. It was hot, but not yet approaching redline.
“Someone’s spoiling for a fight,” he said. “I can give it to ’em.”
He keyed the command link. “Anyone want to report to me on how our hovers are doing?”
“They’re moving west. Haven’t reached the turn point for the run north yet.”
“Roger that,” he said. “Let me know if they meet any significant resistance, or when they have the Wolves’ DropShips. I’m going to be busy here for a bit.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
The Ryoken II was nearer now. Jack turned toward it and keyed the long-range missiles on his right torso for salvo fire, locked on and tracking.
His own ’Mech was a bit hotter than he’d like. He paused, considering.
Let the Ryoken II come to me, he thought. Every step closer that it takes is a step closer to being in range. Let it come.
Anastasia Kerensky saw the smoke of battle ahead and picked up the magnetic signature of the ’Mechs at the same time.
She listened on her own tactical circuit. Her people were getting hit. The hitter was someone in a Jupiter. None of the Highlanders had anything nearly that big. Not many merc units did either. That meant . . . .
“Jack Farrell. You owe me a debt,” Anastasia said. “You let that bitch from Northwind get by you. Now you have to pay.”
The Steel Wolf units up ahead, a pair of modified ForestryMechs, were definitely getting the worst of their encounter with One-Eyed Jack and his Jupiter. Her fault, probably. She hadn’t expected mercs
down here. What other surprises did Terra hold for her before she could walk into Geneva as a conqueror?
She keyed up the all-frequencies link. “Jack Farrell!” she said. “Whose pay are you in this time?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential,” he replied over the same frequency. “Let’s just say that it’s not yours and leave it at that.”
“Are you planning to sell them out, too?”
“I’m planning to follow my orders and fulfill my contract,” he said. At that moment the missile warning gauge in her cockpit chimed—long-range missiles, inbound.
“No fair, Jack, shooting while we were talking,” she said, and keyed up her own spread of Streak short-range missiles.
If she wasn’t in range now, he would be inside Streak range soon. The missile pack on her left torso held six short-range missiles. She set them to begin continuous fire as soon as the Jupiter came within range, so that the next one would launch the moment the first one cleared the tube, then powered up her medium lasers.
Maybe he wasn’t expecting those; and they could play hob with his missiles. She scanned the skies ahead, using vision both normal and enhanced. There he was, standing tall on the horizon.
“I see you, Jack Farrell,” she said. “I see you.”
In the noise, dirt, and confusion of the battlefield, at least one unit of the Steel Wolves was advancing rapidly, moving north and south behind the Highlander lines. The unit was divided into hunter-killer groups—two JES Tactical Missile Carriers traveling with and guarding one SM1 tank destroyer, and two Scimitar MKII weapons carriers with one Condor Multipurpose Tank. They crossed mud and streams with equal ease. They ran as tactical teams, each group moving at the fastest speed of the slowest unit in the little fire groups.
“Commence turn, all units, turn to rendezvous point,” Command and Control back at the DropShips advised.
Service for the Dead Page 16