By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)

[MondoMage]

“Sire,” Quintus said with a bow. “And if Michael doesn’t take one of the routes that Marshal Cline will be picketing?”

“Get that message out, Quintus,” Hanse whispered. “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

I'm not sure which I'd love to see more - Davion forces nuking the living hell out of Michael's forces when they refuse to obey the recall order, or the fun and games that will result if Michael bypasses the attempted interception and runs straight into the teeth of the (much stronger than he anticipates) Taurian defenses.

[masterarminas]

FSJS Samuel Davion
Zenith Point, Flintoft
Federated Suns
November 5, 3025

Ardan Sortek cursed as he reread the dispatch from New Avalon—the command circuit had brought him here in just nine days—and if he had received this message eighteen hours ago, he would have been IN the New Syrtis system to put a stop to this, this . . . idiocy of Michaels. But the newly approved command circuits had not yet been fully built—and there weren’t enough ships to make it a two-way circuit. It would be almost a week before this JumpShip could recharge its drives and head back . . . and New Syrtis was two jumps behind him.

Hopefully, the commanders of the units following Michael would heed Marshal Cline when he made contact—and Ardan shivered. Alan Cline wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was unflinchingly loyal to the House of Davion in general and Hanse Davion specifically. He wouldn’t hesitate to salvo a squadron’s worth of Alamos and tear out the heart of forces loyal to New Syrtis—if that became necessary.

“Marshal Sortek?” the voice of the commanding officer aboard Samuel Davion broke Ardan from his reverie. “We have detected the pre-emergence wave from Midale—it should be our guests.”

“Alert the troops, Commander Talbot, and prepare to hail them upon arrival,” he ordered. Lars Talbot nodded and passed along the orders to the crew of his Invader-class JumpShip—and to the detachement of the Davion Heavy Guards embarked aboard the three docked DropShips . . . an Overlord, an Intruder, and a Union-CV fighter carrier.

“Emergence,” the rating at Tracking called out in a clipped voice. “Confirm one Merchant-class JumpShip, two docked DropShips—one Union and one Fortress. Broadcasting Taurian IFF,” he finished.

“Hail them, Commander Talbot,” Ardan snapped.

“Taurian vessel, this is the Federated Suns JumpShip Samuel Davion with Marshal Ardan Sortek aboard—we have been assigned by the First Prince to escort you through Davion space to New Avalon.”

“Samuel Davion, this is the Taurian Concordat DropShip Black Bull; requesting permission to speak with Marshal Sortek directly,” the speakers broadcast.

“Black Bull, this is Sortek. Go ahead.”

“Marshal Sortek, this is Edward Calderon—we were not expecting an escort,” the young man’s voice echoed across the command bridge. “I take it that word of our mission has preceded me?”

“You could say that, Lord Calderon,” Ardan answered. “We have much to discuss—events have been set in motion that could have . . . disastrous effects upon that mission of yours, Lord Calderon.” Ardan paused. “Request permission to come aboard your vessel.”

Now the speaker remained silent; not for long, but it felt like an eternity to the Prince’s Champion. Finally, it bristled with static and then cleared. “Permission granted, Marshal Sortek—for yourself and a small party . . . an unarmed party.”

“Agreed, Lord Calderon. I will shuttle across in an unarmed small craft—until then, follow the instructions of Flintoft Traffic Control and prepare to begin recharge operations.”

A third Taurian voice emerged from the speaker, that of the commander of the JumpShip. “Understood, Samuel Davion. Auroch standing by for parking instructions and deployment of jump sail.”

“Radio transmissions end at source,” the rating reported.

“Commander Talbot,” Ardan began.

“A bus is fueled, prepped, and standing by in Small Craft Bay Two, Marshal,” the commander answered with a slight grin. “I’d feel better if you went across with an armed escort, Sir.”

“No need to make our guests too paranoid,” Ardan answered with a shake of his head. Besides, he thought, this news from home will do that all to well.

[masterarminas]

TCDS Black Bull
Zenith Point, Flintoft
Federated Suns
November 5, 3025

Ardan sat quietly as the twenty-three year old man across from him absorbed the news—in a rather surprisingly calm and rational manner, he thought to himself. But if the silent and reflective heir to the throne of Taurus was calm, his companions were not. The moment that Ardan had revealed what Michael Hasek-Davion was attempting, the cacophony had begun—until that boy, that man, had simply raised one hand and slowly silence came back into existence.

He—Edward Calderon—certainly had not been what Ardan was expecting. Not that he had really given much thought to his expectations—until this very moment, that was. Standing just an inch—maybe an inch and a half—shy of six feet (and Ardan snorted; even in this age of universally recognized metrics, the archaic term of ‘feet’ was still used to denote height!), the Taurian Prince was stocky rather than lean. One could almost say ‘soft’ was the word to use—until one noted that the muscles beneath Edward’s skin were well-toned . . . and his green eyes were like flints of pure malachite. No, Ardan thought, soft is a cover that he wears . . . for camouflage, perhaps?

Contrasting with the green eyes, Edward’s hair was dark brown—not black, nor sable, nor even a shining mahogany—but just plain old dark brown. Dark brown hair closely trimmed, just as his face was clean-shaven.

But it was the look on Edward’s face which gave Ardan Sortek shivers—it reminded him of a much younger version of Ian Davion . . . long before he had been killed on Mallory’s World.

“This,” Edward finally said, “this could be bad.”

“An understatement, Lord Calderon . . .,” Ardan began.

“We Taurians have many traditions,” Edward interrupted sharply. “You may not realize it by looking in, but we are a rather egalitarian society. Our nobles are those who have earned their titles in service to the Concordat, Marshal Sortek. I may be a Calderon—perhaps even the heir-designate for the Protector—but until I earn my title, I should not be addressed as ‘Lord’, ‘Prince’, ‘Your Grace’ or any other of the feudal trappings you people have enshrined.” Edward smiled. “Unless you are a sworn servant of my Father’s house in which case you may, legally, be entitled to address me as Lord Calderon—although you would have to renounce all obligation to Hanse Davion in order to be sworn as such.”

“Then what should I call you?” Ardan asked with a chuckle as he shook his head in an empathic gesture of NO.

“My rank of Subaltern I have earned, Marshal—it is, somewhat, equal to your AFFS rank of Captain. Or you may address me as Messer, or Mister, Calderon, but for today,” Edward’s smile broadened, “perhaps you can just call me Edward. And I will address you as Ardan—unless that insults your dignity, of course?”

“Your ship, your rules—Edward.”

The young man bowed his head slightly. “Touché, Ardan,” and then his smile faded. “Protector Calderon will—I am sad to say—renounce any collaboration with the Federated Suns if even a single one of those units set foot on a Taurian world and attack our people and our industry. Reason does not enter into this; this gesture of sending me is the limit of how far he is willing to go towards trusting you Davions. If your Michael Hasek lands his troops, the Protector will call me home at once—and there will be no exchange of information and financials between Taurus and New Avalon.”

“Prince Hanse did not authorize this and he is willing to use nuclear weapons on these units—including one of his own Guard regimental combat teams!—in order to stop it. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“It means a great deal to me, Ardan—but I am not my Father; nor am I Protector of the Taurian Concordat. It pains me to say it, but if even ONE of your troops manages to land and kills a SINGLE Taurian on our own soil, I will be recalled. And the Protector will instead make a deal with Janos Marik for the Core.”

“If we stop them though—will he recall you?”

“We are under Interdiction, may I remind you,” Edward said with a grin. “If you stop them before they enter Taurian space, he will not. Even if they enter Taurian space and you manage to get them to turn around and leave—if my compatriots in the TDF and TCN allow them to leave,” and Edward’s grin turned cold at that, “he will probably agree to any bargain that Hanse Davion and I strike. But you can kiss that good-bye if Michael lands any troops on the surface of those worlds.”

“Understood,” Ardan growled softly. “I’ll just have to make sure that Michael doesn’t cross your border, then.”

“That would be for the best, Ardan,” Edward answered a bit more warmly. “And, need I remind you, that we Taurians believe that all officer and diplomats need to be capable of acting on their own initiative when orders do not suffice. I have a small contingent of the finest soldiers at the Concordat here as my escort—can we be of any service in this matter?”

Ardan snorted. “One company of ‘Mechs, one of armor, two of infantry, and less than three squadrons of Aerospace Fighters—you aren’t offering me much to work with, Edward.”

“Ardan,” Edward said with a broad grin as he shook his head and went tsk, tsk, tsk. “This is a Taurian ship, bearing aboard it the Heir of the Protector—travelling into the very heart of our most hated long-time foe . . . well, only considering the SLDF and the Star League are dead and gone, that is. You mentioned that Marshal Cline and his 2nd Hussars are going to be packing nuclear weapons drawn from your depot on Frazer?”

And Ardan froze—then he slowly nodded.

Edward grinned and chuckled a bit. “Well, it just so happens that we are carrying four . . . ah, devices . . . of our own—just in case Hanse Davion decides that a hostage would be better than an agreement. You understand, of course?”

“Suicide devices or deliverable weapons?” Ardan asked coldly.

“A little of each, actually,” laughed Edward. “Rest assured, I do not in any way intend to nuke New Avalon—but Father insisted that I have the option; just in case. Now about those traitors of yours—would four Santa Annas deter them from going where the angels fear to tread?”

[MondoMage]

Alamos and Santa Annas, eh? That's some interesting symbolism there.

Although I have to wonder how the people on the Davion side of the border will react to hear that a Taurian ship nuked a Davion military expedition. Wouldn't matter that the local Davion forces had the same orders - people are fickle that way.

[masterarminas]

FSJS Bonecrusher
Nadir Point, New Syrtis
Federated Suns
November 6, 3025

Stephan Cooper drummed his fingers on the arm of the observer’s chair aboard the Monolith-class command JumpShip Bonecrusher, assigned so many decades ago as the lead transport for his Assault Guards. He snorted. His. Yeah, in name only—and only until Marshal Ashley managed to come running and take it away again. But what choice did he have? In the absence of orders from New Avalon, Field Marshal and Duke Hasek-Davion was the command authority in the Capellan March.

Damn it. He wasn’t supposed to be the one making these decisions; Winston Ashley would have told Michael Hasek-Davion to go fuck himself—he had the connections with the Court on New Avalon that would have kept him from facing a courts-martial. But not Stephan Cooper, Coop thought as he sighed. No, I just started my climb on the ladder of rank—hell, I’ve been a Colonel for only four bloody months! Other officers—Generals Ames and Gavin, the COs of the Infantry and Armor Brigades, respectively—outranked him, but tradition held that in the absence of the RCT commander and executive officer (Major General Erin Sorensen having retired last month and had yet to be replaced), the CO of the BattleMech Regiment at the heart of the Guards RCT was the acting commander. Cooper’s Regiment.

“Sir,” a rating called out from his station. “The final transport from the Sixth has completed their jump—we are next in the queue.”

“Very good,” replied the commanding officer of Bonecrusher. “Time to scheduled jump?”

“Three minutes with all transports jumping in sequence.”

“Start the clock—Bonecrusher will take the rear.”

“Status change! Emergence in the entry lane—clear of our safety perimeter, Sir!” tracking snapped.

Coop breathed a sigh of relief—the vast majority of ships were well aware that New Syrtis, indeed most civilized systems, had a designated area of the two major jump points for incoming and a separate one for out-going vessels. But there were always morons who violated the protocol . . . and when that occurred, if the incoming JumpShip emerged too close to an outbound vessel BAD THINGS tended to happen.

The communications Tech tensed at her station, and then she rotated her chair. “Skipper! The new arrival is broadcasting an omni-directional radio signal—SWORD encryption protocols, attention all AFFS vessels.”

“Authenticate, confirm, and decrypt!” barked out Stephan Cooper as he spat out a swallow of coffee. SWORD protocols were used only for dispatches directly from the First Prince of the Federated Suns.

“Authenticated and confirmed—computers are decrypting transmission . . . now.”

Over the ship’s speakers, a very familiar voice—that of Hanse Davion—began to play. “All AFFS units of the Capellan March—this is the First Prince of the Federated Suns. Stand down any and all offensive action into the territory of the Taurian Concordat effective immediately. Return to your normal garrison stations and await further instructions—disregard this order at your peril; I will consider any unit of the AFFS that violates this instruction to be in the act of mutiny against the Federated Suns and will pursue action against that unit and their officers accordingly. The Federated Suns and Taurian Concordat remain at peace—any offensive action against worlds of the Taurian Concordat is in direct violation of my authority. In addition, Duke Michael Hasek-Davion is to be immediately placed under arrest and transported to New Avalon on the first available transport. There he will be tried for conspiracy with Maximillian Liao against the Federated Suns and their rightful Prince. To repeat, . . .,” and the words began to repeat themselves.

“SIR! General Ames is demanding to speak with you!” the comm Tech shouted. “General Gavin, as well!”

Cooper closed his eyes. “Put me on the all-ships frequency,” he ordered. “All Crusher elements—this is Crusher Alpha-Six. Abort jump. I say again, abort jump! Stand by to receive new jump coordinates to our garrison station on Frazer.”

The Davion officer opened his eyes and turned his chair to the commanding officer of the JumpShip—that man nodded and snapped his fingers; techs and specialists raced to recalculate the jump coordinates.

“Commander Hale,” Coop said quietly. “Are all units complying with the message from Prince Davion?”

“1st Dragoons and New Syrtis CMM have stood down—the Fifth and Eighth Fusiliers are arguing with the courier over the legitimacy of the order.”

“Open mike,” he commanded. “All Crusher and Lion elements,” he began, referring to the Dragoons and his own Assault Guards, “launch ASF contingents and prepare to embark boarding parties to take the Fusilier JumpShips. Syrtis Fusiliers,” he continued, “you will stand down or you will be fired into.”

Calls of protest arrived over the speakers, but Stephan Cooper just shook his head. “Marshals Hasek, I don’t give a shit if you think that the First Prince cannot issue those orders—he has! And by God and Davion, madames, I will fire into the first one of your ships to attempt to make a jump—stand by to be boarded! You will receive new navigation coordinates to return to your assigned stations.” And with that, Coop made a slashing gesture, and the comm tech cut the radio broadcast.

“What about the Sixth? And Duke Michael? They’ve already departed,” asked the CO of Bonecrusher in a whispered voice.

“Frankly, Commander Hale, I don’t give a damn what happens to them,” Coop answered just as quietly.

[Vehrec]

Mister Cooper, your orders are explicit.

In addition, Duke Michael Hasek-Davion is to be immediately placed under arrest and transported to New Avalon on the first available transport.

Well, what are you waiting for? Go get him!

[masterarminas]

Chapter Two

TCDS Black Bull
Zenith Point, Flintoft
Federated Suns
November 6, 3025

“We managed to stop all but one of Michael’s units—the Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers,” Arden reported. “That is the good news, Edward. The bad news is that every one of his RCTs was assigned their own route to their targets . . . and Michael didn't share that information with the other commanders. On the plus side, we know when they expected to arrive at New Vallis; on the bad side that gives us seven routes through uninhabited systems to get there.”

Edward Calderon nodded as he considered the map. “And the briefing indicated that Cline’s Second Hussars have one of the jump points on one of those routes picketed—I presume that you are moving his Combat Commands Alpha and Charlie to cover two more of the routes?”

“I sent those orders immediately through the Flintoft HPG—Cline should be able to get into position to cover these three,” and Ardan pointed at three flashing lines, “well before Michael can make transit. But that still leaves four routes uncovered.”

“Four routes, yes,” Edward said with a sigh. “But we are forgetting something here—Hasek-Davion can choose to use either the Zenith or Nadir Point; well, he could also select a Pirate Point, but that is unlikely for such a large scale movement.” Ardan nodded. “Cline can only picket one of the two points—which means he can cover just three of the fourteen possible paths that your Duke of New Syrtis will use.”

“True . . . but what else can we do?” Ardan shook his head. “Even if your Protector gave us permission to picket New Vallis itself—which he won’t—that means we have to cover as many of the approaches as possible to have a chance of stopping Michael. Maybe we can get lucky here,” he whispered, even though he well knew that even adding his command to the routes would still give Michael Hasek-Davion a five-in-seven chance of slipping through.

Edward sighed again, and he sat down. “There is one chance that I see of avoiding the worst of this, Ardan.”

The older man looked over at Edward and he frowned. “Why do I get the distinct feeling that I am not going to like this chance?”

“Because you aren’t,” Edward snorted. “And neither is Hanse Davion.” The young man pointed at a chair, and Ardan’s lips twitched as he followed the unspoken command and sat as well.

“If soldiers of the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns strike a Taurian world, my Father will go utterly ballistic, Ardan. He will recall me and he will end this chance at normalizing relations—and you won’t get a copy of the Core. Which would be a bad thing for the both of us—I might not trust Hanse Davion fully, but he is rather more trust-worthy than Max Liao or Janos Marik . . .,” Edward’s lips twitched, “and with the purse of the Lyran Commonwealth behind him, he has more to offer us financially than those two combined.”

Edward paused and he shook his head looking at the map again. Then he steeled himself and looked Ardan square in the eyes. “The key words here being ‘soldiers of the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns’.”

Ardan inhaled deeply. “There are many officers and men in the ranks of the Sixth who remain loyal to the Federated Suns—and many who belong to powerful families, Edward.”

“As I said, neither you or your boss will like it—but it has to be done. Hanse Davion has to—publically—declare the Sixth Fusiliers as mutineers and renegades no longer associated with the Federated Suns. He has to declare that they are pirates, acting under no laws but their own. And he has to do it today.” Edward sighed again. “Today, Ardan. The news has to be circulated via HPG AND cross into the Concordat aboard a merchant vessel . . . which means that he has to make the announcement and distribute it to everyone. He can’t try and pull a fast one—he has to throw the entire RCT under the bus . . . if he wants the Core. There isn’t another way; not in the time-frame we have.”

Ardan shook his head. “Even if Hanse agrees—and I am not so certain that he will—Michael will land on New Vallis like the hammer of an angry god. And the Sixth Fusiliers are better than any unit you have—with perhaps the sole exception of maybe your First Battalion of the Taurian Guards.”

Edward nodded. “And New Vallis has only a Corps HQ and two BattleMech Battalions as its rapid-reaction force. Plus the local armor and infantry and the Constabulary—but those are barely even regular forces in terms of experience,” Edward said with a snort. “The regular Armor and Infantry have been thoroughly trained and spend a LOT of their time in the field . . . but they don’t ever rotate off-world and their combat experience is almost non-existent. Hell, even the 3rd Battalion of the Concordat Jaegers and the 1st Battalion of the Hyades Light Infantry have the majority of their combat experience in company-scale engagements against pirates—not in full-scale battalion or regimental operations. Whereas your Sixth constantly operates in at least battalion strength, and often enough in multi-regimental strength.”

Edward ran his hand through his hair. “Brigadier Tanis Verbet is the senior of the Battalion COs, but it is Corey Calderon,” Edward smiled, “yes, another cousin of my Father, Marshal Sortek; Corey is the Marshal commanding I Corps—and New Vallis is his HQ. Corey is pushing seventy—and he hasn’t commanded in the field for two decades. Tanis, on the other hand, she’s a devious sort and I wouldn’t put it against her to give Michael Hasek-Davion a run for his money.” Edward paused. “But she’s seriously outgunned. The Sixth has an entire reinforced regiment of one hundred and thirty-two BattleMechs, plus four regiments of tanks, six of infantry, a battalion of artillery, and eighty aerospace fighters—a full wing at the RCT level and one more for each of their ‘Mech battalions. If they are at full strength, which I doubt,” Edward drawled and Ardan nodded. “However, even at full strength Tanis would have just ninety-six ‘Mechs of her own—and just thirty-two ASF—to fight the Sixth Fusiliers; plus around five hundred tanks and around ten thousand relatively static infantry.”

“If she can draw him into a fight in the fortifications where our infantry and artillery are positioned, she might be able to win—but I don’t see your Duke or his commanders being that dumb, Ardan.”

“Gee, thank you, Edward.”

“No problem. No, once he realizes that Hanse has cut him loose, he’ll do his best to preserve the Sixth’s fighting strength—and take as much salvage as he can before he runs off to . . . well, somewhere else to live and fight another day.”

“Agreed.”

“So he won’t fight Tanis in range of her fortifications—he will make her have to come to him. And Corey, God knows I love him, but the man is a hard-headed ass almost the equal of the late Grover Shraplen, will order her to do just that because, of course, we can’t permit Davion boots on our worlds,” Edward continued with a wince.

“You can always nuke the Sixth on the approach,” Ardan said with a shake of his head.

“Eighty to thirty-two in ASF. At best, Ardan. Throw in another sixteen gunboats against your Assault DropShips . . . those aren’t odds I’d favor of getting into Alamo range,” Edward mused. Then he shook his head. “We might slip one or two nukes by, but we’d lose our entire air support in the process and the Sixth would STILL manage to land. And New Vallis isn’t New Vandenberg or Taurus—we won’t be popping out nuclear firecrackers on our own soil until and unless we have no other options, Ardan. And if he’s smart—and I think that even if he isn’t quite as smart as he thinks he is, he remains very smart—he won’t land in the area covered by the missile silos at I Corps HQ, which removes those from play.”

“You’ve given this some thought,” Ardan said softly as he looked down at the worried young man, who snorted again and began to chuckle.

“We Taurians have dreamed up nearly every possible scenario for a future Davion invasion—and we have contingency plans for each,” Edward said with a grin. “What happens to the calculus if we add another ‘Mech Regiment to Tanis and her forces? Actually, a Regiment, a Battalion, and a Company?”

“Oh, Christ,” Ardan muttered. “Edward Calderon, are you suggesting that I take my force and your body-guard and proceed to New Vallis? Thomas would utterly lose his shit at that. And where are you planning to get that other Regiment, by the way?”

“I believe that Wylie’s Coyotes are garrisoning Bromhead—it’s on the way. Did I mention that I am quite wealthy, Marshal Sortek?” Edward asked. “More than sufficient in my own right to hire the Coyotes even with a ComStar Interdiction . . . provided that Hanse releases from their contract early and a . . . trusted friend of the First Prince gives his personal assurance that I will pay them.”

“And my troops? Because your father will shit a brick if I land on New Vallis with a battalion of the Davion Heavy Guard.”

“That’s the second part of what you personally are going to hate—you all have to turn in your resignations, and become mercenaries. How does Ardan’s Avengers grab you for a name? Or Sortek’s Slashers?”

The older man winced. “Thomas will see right through this, young man.”

“Yes, my father isn’t an idiot, Ardan,” Edward barked right back, and then he forced himself to calm down. “But if we give him a legitimate excuse to officially overlook that you are really Davion troops and instead go with a fiction that you are all mercs? I can convince him to overlook that and your boss will get his copy of the Core.” Edward shook his head. “And if in the process of defending New Vallis, we utterly and completely kick the ass out of the vaunted Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers—that’s icing on the cake, Ardan.”

“What if your father doesn’t? What then, Edward?”

“Then he will have to disavow and disown me, Ardan,” Edward said simply. “Taurian law allows for an officer in the field to make decisions of great import—but he bears full personal responsibility for those decisions. If I am wrong, if my Father disagrees with me and this call, then he will have to publically renounce my actions. Strip me of all my lands and titles and wealth and . . . he will have to remove me as his heir. Send me into Exile. That is what I’m putting on the line here, Ardan Sortek—what is Hanse fucking Davion risking here? A battalion of house troops? A regiment of mercenaries?”

Ardan stared at the young man for a moment and then he nodded. “Foxhounds. I think I can live with the name Foxhounds. And yes, I do believe that I convince Enzo Wylie to accept your contract . . . my Lord Calderon.”

“See,” Edward said with a laugh. “THAT time you used it in the proper context, Ardan Sortek of the Foxhounds mercenary company.”

[masterarminas]

The Palace of the First Prince
Avalon City, New Avalon
Federated Suns
November 6, 3025

“If I sign this, I am sentencing nearly ten thousand men and women to death—slandering them and their reputations for all time . . . for following orders that, as much as I hate to say this, Michael had every lawful right to issue,” whispered Hanse Davion, as he took another gulp from the glass half-filled with potent whiskey. The glass that a moment before had been almost full.

“The decision is yours and yours alone, my Prince,” said Quintus softly. “The same would happen if Michael runs into Cline’s Hussars—and he refuses to stand down. You have already given those orders.”

“Because I had to, Quintus. But this? I am telling the families of these men and women that their sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers deserted the Federated Suns—that they mutinied. Abandoned their oaths and turned pirate. Their families will be denied all benefits that those soldiers earned—many will be reduced to poverty.”

“Yes. Is this Core worth that price, my Prince?”

Hanse lifted the glass and he exhaled sharply before he drank deep again, and then he nodded. “It is. It is worth ten times this cost.”

Quintus simply sat and he waited; he waited for several minutes until Hanse set the now empty glass on his desk and lifted his pen. The Fox signed the document, and then applied his seal over the signature. Standing, he closed the folder and handed it to Quintus, who also stood, accepted the papers and bowed low.

“It goes out today, Quintus,” Hanse whispered as he lifted the crystal decanter and refilled his glass. “See to it, would you?”

“Of course, my Prince,” the Minister of Intelligence answered as he walked to the door and closed it behind him; leaving Hanse Davion alone with the bottle of liquor. And his conscience.

[MondoMage]

A true leader is one who can make the really harsh calls when needed. They will agonize over it, and their conscience will scream because of it, but they will make that call when needed.

I am really liking that we're seeing some realistically varied styles here - the zealots, the egotists, the truly great leaders and even the poor schmuck who winds up getting the short end but rises to the occasion. They're not cookie-cutter cliches or simple tropes... they have the feel of people that you might actually want to meet (well, maybe not Myndo).

[masterarminas]

Shraplen Imports Warehouse #23B
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 9, 3025

Major Julius Riese examined the photographs taken by the Maskirovka agents and he frowned. “This is where they keeping the Core?” he demanded.

“It makes some sense, Major,” another of the Death Commandoes said with a shrug. “According to the briefing the University of Taurus is home to one of the most modern main-frame computers in existence—if they have to brute-force decrypt the Core, this is the place to do it.”

“Yes,” added one of the Mask agents—a man known to the Capellan covert operations troopers as Agent V. “Security on the grounds was dramatically increased immediately after that warship came into orbit—which matches up well with the Taurians bringing the Core planet-side. It may appear to be lightly defended, but look here and here,” he said pointing to other visual images. “Not only has the TDF provided 24/7 guard details from one of their best-trained and drilled infantry units to the actual facility itself, they reactivated these two old bases—Fort Snowden houses an entire Taurian hover armor battalion with a company of VTOLs, and all of their vehicles carry a maniple of infantry . . . ten troopers. Fifty-four tanks, eighteen VTOLs, and seven hundred twenty infantry just two kilometers away. Fort Gaines to the South houses an entire battalion of BattleMechs—the third battalion of their Taurian Velites, with forty-eight BattleMechs and eight Aerospace Fighters. It’s twice as far away, but . . .,” the agent’s voice trailed off as he shrugged his shoulders.

Riese nodded. Four kilometers was nothing to ‘Mechs—they could be on top of the facility in minutes at the most . . . and they would be.

He tapped the photographs again. “Getting in isn’t a problem, people—it’s grabbing the Core and getting out. The campus and this facility are outside of the city proper, so blending in with the crowds isn’t going to work. And with their external security perimeter of ‘Mechs and armor, we aren’t crowding in a van and speeding away to safety. The moment we take out the guards, their alarms will sound—and that leaves us just a minute, maybe less, to find the Core, grab it, deactivate their booby-traps,” Riese snorted, “and don’t think that the damn Taurians won’t have them on the device—they will. And make our exit. I hope one of you sees something I’ve missed—because right now, I don’t have a clue how the hell we can get in.”

“Grabbing the Core is good, boss, but the Chancellor himself said we could destroy it if we can’t move it.”

“Suicide team?” asked Riese. “You volunteering?”

“If I need to, Sir,” the commando answered. “I’ll carry the warhead myself if necessary.”

“Good—that is mission one, gentlemen. Now, that damned WarShip.”

“All civilian traffic to Station Three has been curtailed,” answered V. “Only personnel approved by the highest levels of government are allowed access—and only aboard TDF shuttles and buses. A full company of SASF has been embarked on both the station and WarShip—and ALL transport on a vector towards the station is escorted and visually inspected.” V shook his head. “They are even inspecting waste dumps on a vector that approaches Station Three.”

“Taking that ship was always going to be one feat too many,” Riese mused. “I believe that means we need to get our second special weapon up there in order to destroy her.”

“Good luck with that,” V said sourly. “Every cargo pod is searched—every single one. All searches are conducted by rotating teams of three that are randomly chosen each day to prevent a single team from being . . . influenced by people like us. Not to mention, all flights to and from the station originate in the heart of the military space-port—where none of us have access.”

“Actually, we do,” Riese said with a grim smile. “Our late, unlamented friend had friends of his own—some of whom are quick peeved at the sudden fatal turn their leader took. We will have access.”

“Not for long,” cautioned V. “And even if you can get that weapon aboard, there is a second check at the station itself—or aboard ship. It will be found.”

“As long as the shuttle docks with that WarShip, it’s close enough—I’ll need a volunteer to be triggerman on that detail as well,” he told his commandos . . . and all of them stepped forward.

He smiled again. “And after that, we pack up and go home.”

“The Taurians aren’t dumb, Major,” V warned. “They will run a full analysis of the bomb debris and when they find it came from Capellan weapon plants? I don’t want to be here on Taurus when that happens—and I don’t even look Capellan. Using sunshine-in-a-can on the Taurians doesn’t strike me as all that healthy a decision.”

Riese snorted. “We are using Davion fissile material, Agent V—not our own. Got our hands on enough for two warheads a few years back; so when the Taurians run their analysis . . . well . . .,” Riese shrugged.

“It will be their enemies of old striking at them—very nice,” finished V. Then he shook his head. “IDs and cash in the bag along with the safe houses you requested. Make sure you have everything you need, gentlemen, because after today you will never see me again.”

“You heard the man—I want a full check on everything before we move to a more secure location,” barked Riese. “And then we start on planning the exact details for Boom One and Boom Two.”

[masterarminas]

Ivan Patrice Computer Sciences Center, University of Taurus
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 9, 3025

“Doctor Mosley . . . .,” the guard dressed in the uniform of the Taurian Defense Force muttered as he scrolled through a computer pad. “I’m sorry, sir—you aren’t on the authorized list for entry.”

Karl Mosley gritted his teeth and bit back his initial reaction; the myrmidon was just one of five stationed at the main doors of the PCSC, all of whom were armed with battle rifles and wearing combat armor. “My office is inside this building, son,” the doctor sputtered. “What do you mean I can’t go in?”

“Sir, this area is off-limits for all but authorized personnel—and you are not on my list.”

“This is ridiculous!” Karl snapped, as the new pair of female post-graduate assistants that trailed after him exchanged glances between them. “I go to Jamestown at the request of the government to examine the artifacts we recovered from that SLDF cache on . . .,” Karl paused, and he managed to recover his composure. The Celano cache was classified, and he had almost blurted out its actual location. “Never mind. Call Doctor Snyder. He will correct this misunderstanding.”

“Yes, sir; Dr. Snyder is on his way down,” the guard answered as the main doors buzzed, and then opened, and another tall man wearing a lab coat exited the building.

“Karl? What are you doing back here? My god, it is good to see you again—you’ve got to see what we are working on!”

“Matt,” Karl snarled, “these idiot guards are saying that I don’t have authorization to enter my office! Or even the building!”

Matt Snyder blushed and he nodded. “We thought you were going to be on Jamestown for the next two weeks—I’ll get everything cleared,” he answered as he turned to the guard. “Put Dr. Mosley on the list—my authority.”

“Sir,” the guard began.

“He’s one of the foremost experts on pre-Star League computer technology in the Hyades, Corporal!” Matt barked. “If he hadn’t been on Jamestown when our new project arrived, he would have been the one we assigned to unlock its secrets.”

“Unlock? Matt, did you people recover a Core?”

Matt grinned. “That ain’t the half of it, old friend. We have a Data Core—an intact Data Core—from 2596; untampered with and chock full of information that we have to decrypt.”

“The fail-safes?”

“Bomb disposal has deactivated all three of the explosive charges and we have drained the cylinder of war gas—we think we got them all. It’s a Mark XI . . . a Naval Core, Karl.”

“Mark XI, hmmmmm,” the scientist pursed his lips. “There should be one more fail-safe—a second pressurized reservoir containing a chemical agent. We have to disarm that one before we can begin trying to break the encryption—I don’t suppose we were lucky enough to recover the keys?”

“No, not that lucky, but the government has given this top prior-. . .,” Matt Snyder began.

“Doctors, please. This is not a secure area for this conversation,” the guard snapped.

“Sorry, Corporal,” Matt said as he blushed again. “Get Karl cleared—I want him to start his examination of the Core immediately.”

“And my assistants,” Karl muttered. “And get my luggage moved to my offices at once—there are some fragile things in there, so handle them with care.”

“I can admit Dr. Mosley on your authority, sir, but protocol says the post-grads stay out here—along with the luggage until we do a full security scan.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Matt. “Corporal, people who work for the PCSC have already been cleared by the government; I know Karl, and if he says he needs those two women, he needs those two women. And his bags. Get them to his office and put all three of them on the cleared list—my authority.” Matt paused. “Unless you want me to contact Colonel Lopez?”

“No, sir,” the guard said as he snapped to attention and saluted. He then lifted a phone. “I need . . . three security and a carryall at the main entrance,” he ordered after appraising the pile of luggage. He racked the phone. “If I can scan your IDs, sir? Madames?”

Karl passed over his University ID, followed by the two very lovely women, and the Corporal uploaded them into his computer. “Wear your ID at all times—you will be detained if you are not wearing your ID in plain view or if you misplace it,” he warned, then he shrugged and stepped back, opening the doors.

“Picked up two new assistants on Jamestown, eh, Karl?” Matt whispered as they entered the building. “Easy on the eyes—but can they actually read and write?”

“Oh, they are bright girls, Matt. Very bright—and very motivated to secure a letter of recommendation from me when they move on to their own careers and research,” Karl said just as quietly with a smile on his face. “I cannot believe they were working for Paterson just cataloguing the Celano artifacts—wasted they were, working for that hack.”

“Paterson is a serious researcher, Karl,” Matt chuckled, “and he doesn’t fool around with his post-grads. Which is why he is in charge of the Jamestown Institute and you still work for me.”

“Politics,” Karl spat. “If there was any justice in the world, I’d have your job and you’d be slaving away for me.”

“No, it’s not politics, Karl; it’s you thinking with your zipper. I’m not going to have any complaints from these two, am I?”

“I didn’t make the first move—they came on to me, Matt.”

“I hope you are right, Karl,” the administer of the research facility said. “God knows, I can’t save your ass if one of them decides to file a complaint—you’ve had too many of those in the past decade as it is.”

“No worries this time, Doctor Snyder,” the scientist answered. “Now when can I see this Core?”

“Soon as we get you settled and you go through decon—I’m not taking any chances of someone wrecking the artifact before we get that information.”

“Good enough—you think this one is the Grail?”

“Karl, I believe this one is the Grail, the One True Cross, the Spear of Destiny, and the Ark of the Covenant all rolled up into one technological prize. If the précis on the contents are correct, this is the motherlode of all discoveries.”

Karl smiled as he pulled off his suit jacket. “Then let’s get to work—girls?”

The two nodded, one of them taking the jacket and the other handing Karl his lab-coat. And they followed behind the two scientists, exchanging another glance with each other.

“The guards are in better shape,” one whispered. “At least they are not fat and entirely unskilled like that buffoon.”

“Yes, but the guards can’t get us direct access to the Core, Sandra. This buffoon can—and you’ve had worse.”

“Don’t remind me,” the second agent from MIM drawled.

[masterarminas]

Quick Pick Convenience Store #1173
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 9, 3025

“What the hell is a taquito?” Phil Sheridan, field agent for MI-4 muttered to himself as he watched the long crispy-appearing cylinders rotate over a heating element. It looked like a stick of rolled tortillas—and just about as hard, but a pureed filling leaked out from the ends, the scent of beef, beans, and spices filling the air.

He grabbed a pair of tongs and lifted one—and he took a sniff. He winced. But then he sighed and he opened a bag and put the nasty greasy item inside, followed by another dozen. Along with all four of the sausages that had rolled on the machine beside them. He put several packets of salsa and more of sour cream into the bag as well and set in within the shopping basket he carried, and then he walked over to the chillers containing cold drinks.

Energy drinks in a dozen flavors all in metal cans, cans of distilled water, canned iced coffee, canned sweat tea (cans, what the hell was it with Taurians and cans?) . . . but almost no carbonated beverages. And the few imports that were present were three times the price a drink would normally be worth in the heart of the Federated Suns. But liquor? Beer? Wine? That covered three-quarters of the wall . . . along with an entire freezer just containing glass bottles of MILK. Almost the only item NOT in a can, at least, Phil thought with a shudder.

Sighing, he began to put an assortment of the multi-hued cans into his basket—not even looking at the labels—and then he froze. Son of a . . . !

Standing four feet away from him (and looking just as shocked) was Victor Li . . . a Maskirovka agent with whom Phil had often sparred in the worlds of the Capellan March and the St. Ives thumb. Both men reached for their waist-bands—for the concealed weapons each carried under their jackets—but then they stopped at the same time.

Victor shook his head. “Long time, Phil,” he said. “What brings you to sunny Taurus? The food?” he said, pointing to the basket. “I’ve got to warn you—those are a bit spicy.”

“I’m on vacation,” Phil answered. “Yourself?”

“Strangely enough, so am I,” Victor replied with a smile. “I heard that the fishing is good off-shore.”

“Fishing? I’ll have to look into that.”

“Never know what you can catch if you spend an afternoon just casting lines, eh?”

“Right,” Phil answered, glancing to his left and right—and noting that Victor was doing the same. The store wasn’t—quite—full, but it was far from empty . . . and Phil nodded. Starting a gun-fight here and now would just bring the local Constabulary down on their asses—and pose questions that Phil really didn’t want to answer. Nor did Victor, it seemed, because he nodded and slowly lowered his gun-hand; Phil did so as well.

“Another time, eh, Phil?” the Capellan asked with a grin.

“Be seeing you around, Victor.”

“Not if I see you fir- . . . SHIT,” the expletive was not shouted, but was heartfelt all the same as Phil felt the barrel of a gun prod him in the back.

“Okay, both of you—why are you two on Taurus?” a harsh voice asked.

“Who are you?” asked Victor.

“I’m asking the questions here, Cappie,” the man spat in a thick Marik accent.

“Wait just a damn minute,” Phil said as he half-turned in recognition of the voice, and then sighed. “Victor Li, meet Walter Krogh—the SAFE liaison at the Marik embassy on Taurus.”

“SAFE? SAFE?” Victor asked in disbelief. “What are you planning to do, Mister Krogh? Shoot us down in the full view of the customers of this store?” Some of which were beginning to notice the whispers—and drawn gun—and began to back off, a few dialing numbers in their mobile phones.

“Both of you are coming back to the Embassy with me to answer questions,” Walter answered. “If you try to run, I’ll shoot him dead.”

Victor laughed, and Phil groaned. “Did you just tell me—a Capellan—that if I run, you will, as means to stop me, shoot a Davion?”

Krogh didn’t answer, he just jerked his head to one side. “Let’s go.”

“Excuse me, are you paying for those?” a woman asked.

“What?” Krogh said as he half-turned—and grunted as a petite red-haired woman swung a fist clad in brass knuckles into his jaw. The SAFE agent dropped like a sack of bricks, and the customers began to applaud—two even gave wolf-whistles.

“That’ll teach you for trying to rob my boy-friends!” the girl shouted, and she winked at Victor and Phil before lowering her voice to a whisper. “Time to run, boys.”

“WHAT THE HELL?” hissed Phil—and then he saw Victor cradle his face in both hands.

“Phil Sheridan, meet Nicky Kirkland—of the Magistracy Intelligence Ministry.”

“MIM? Oh could this cluster-fuck get any worse?” moaned Phil.

A siren sounded outside and flashing blue and red lights began to dance off of the glass.

“You had to ask?” said Victor.

“There’s an exit in the rear,” Nicky said.

“I’ll bet there’s an entrance too,” Phil muttered, drawing a harsh glare from the Magistracy agent as the three of them left the Marik spy unconscious on the floor and headed into the backroom.

“HEY! YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR THAT!” the clerk shouted. Phil threw a wad of 20-Bull notes into the air in answer—and the crowded store erupted as people started to grab money.

The fire-door opened to an alley way—and a spot-light illuminated the faces of the three agents.

“HALT! SAMANTHA CITY PD—HANDS IN THE AIR!” a voice amplified by a loud-speaker called out.

“Well isn’t this lovely?” asked Phil—and then five gun-shots rang out and the spotlight died away, leaving two officers bleeding out on the ground next to their car.

Phil, Victor, and Nicky drew their weapons—but none of them fired as a fourth man exited the shadows. “I’d advise you to run; they’ve got your faces on video,” the stranger said, lowering his hood.

“Oh the shit has hit the fan,” muttered Phil. “ROM. Victor, Nicky, meet Adept Robert West—what the hell did you shoot them for?”

The ROM agent smiled. “Because they have your pictures—not mine. And while they are chasing you, they aren’t chasing me. But I do believe,” he said stepping back into the shadows and into a doorway set in the wall of the alley, “their fellow officers are rushing through the store to get back here to the sound of those shots.” He then closed the door and locked it. “Good night and good luck,” Phil faintly heard after the lock clicked.

“Suggestions?” he asked.

“Running sounds good,” replied Victor as he put his words into action.

“Yeah, don’t have to outrun the local cops, FedRat,” Nicky said as she took off, “just have to outrun you.”

Damn it all, Phil thought as he too began to run into the night—and I still didn’t get any food!

[masterarminas]

General Headquarters, Taurus Defense Force
Mount Santiago Defense Complex, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 10, 3025

“Henri, I think your plan to dangle irresistible bait in front of everyone has managed to work rather too well,” Thomas Calderon growled after his Minister of Intelligence completed the briefing on the incident just off-campus of the University last evening. “We have ROM agents still unaccounted for on Taurus, and now you’ve got teams from the Maskirovka, MI-4, MIM, and SAFE running around shooting officers of the law and trying to kill each other in a public store! All we are missing is LIC and the ISF.”

“Actually, we’ve identified the Lyran Intelligence Corps team—they are taking the slow and methodical, but traditional, approach of attempting to bribe several of our senior research scientists. And I am quite convinced that an ISF is present . . . we just haven’t seen them yet, Protector Calderon. And you left out the Outworlders,” Henri finished with a smile.

Thomas buried his face in his hands. “We have a team of spies from the Outworlds Alliance that are trying to get to the Core as well?”

“Two of their agents—Fitz-Hume and Milbarge—landed on Taurus three days ago. Right now, they are convinced that the facility at the University is a decoy and that we are actually hiding the Core in the Calderon Nature Preserve on Gamma Continent.”

Thomas blinked. “The preserve is uninhabited and untouched—there aren’t any people living there!”

“Yes, and they are convinced the entire Nature Preserve is a cover to shield a secret facility dedicated to recovering lost technological secrets—I believe that they are in the process of hiring a boat to carry them across.”

The Protector groaned. “Henri, I want them all identified—we’ve got dead Taurians on our hands and I want these teams shut down hard.”

“If we do that, my Lord, then they will be back—and we will not have as much of an opportunity to identify them ahead of time. Last night’s incident was not planned—that much I am certain of. Messer Krogh was the triggering catalyst, but he is the SAFE liaison to the Marik Embassy—not a part of their team. After speaking with Messer Krogh for some hours last night, I am convinced that his own people shut him out of the loop, leaving him to try and abduct one of his competitors to find out what is going on in his backyard.”

“Henri,” Thomas growled, but he quieted as Henri held up one hand and bowed his head.

“If you insist, Protector Thomas, I will comply. However, none of these teams have yet made a run at the Core. I would suggest that we wait—perhaps even allow one of the teams to be ‘successful’ in their attempt—until they are convinced that one of the others has succeeded or the Core has been destroyed.”

Thomas grunted as he slowly shook his head. “I’d rather see them hung.”

“We can arrange that if you wish, Protector Calderon,” Henri answered with a laugh. “Starting with Messer Krogh.”

“Erebor?” asked Thomas.

“Quiet as a mouse—that information has not leaked. And our teams report that they have finished making the first copy of the Core’s data.” Henri shook his head. “The amount of information is staggering, Thomas. It will be years before we manage to process it all—if not decades.”

For several moments neither man said a word, and then Thomas sighed. “I’m not happy with this, Henri. Taurian citizens are dying—I’m not happy one bit. But for now—for now—we will play it your way. How’s Commander Fletcher coming with the HPG?”

Henri smiled broadly. “He is cursing all Terrans ever born, my Protector. But he believes that by tonight, he should have the HPG on Taurus fully operational,” Henri paused. “Not to the quality standard that ComStar had, perhaps, but good enough. In fact, last week he dispatched a team to New Vandenberg to rebuild their HPG as well—if both of the modifications prove workable, we can begin to restore communications between our worlds that possess an HPG—without relying on an outside source that will read our mail.”

“Good. The sooner we get reliable communications back up and running the better I will sleep at night,” Thomas said in a tired voice. “Any word from Ed- . . .,” but the Protector was interrupted by a stream of officers flooding into the room. “What is it, Brenda?” Thomas asked.

“Protector Calderon. Commander Fletcher’s rebuilt HPGs apparently work—we have just received a transmission from New Vandenberg . . . courier ships from Laconis and MacLeod’s Land have reported that those systems are under attack by forces of the Capellan Confederation—multiple regiments of McCarron’s Armored Cavalry, supported by a handful of Capellan House troops.”

[masterarminas]

DropShip Vixen
Inbound to Atmospheric Entry, MacLeod’s Land
Taurian Concordat
November 10, 3025

Archibald McCarron frowned as he considered the data scrolling on the monitor screen within the cockpit of his GHR-5H Grasshopper. His pilots had cleared him a path to the planet—but at a high cost. Too high. The intelligence that Romano had provided—the intelligence that he had on hand as well—none of that indicated this level of defenses. Forty aerospace fighters and sixteen gunboats had met his Regiments on the way in—and that was far too many ASF for the perennially weak TDF to deploy here. Unless those fighters had been attached to ‘Mech units below.

Which meant, Archie thought with a silent curse, that instead of facing off just against militia and armor and infantry, the Taurians had at least four battalions of ‘Mechs beneath the clouds ahead of him. And with their larger battalions, that meant he was facing somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred and eighty to two hundred ‘Mechs. But then he smiled. Fuck the Taurians. Even if they had two hundred ‘Mechs on the surface, he had the Nightriders, the Wild Ones, and Rob’s Renegades with him—three hundred and twenty-two BattleMechs of his own . . . plus the first wave of Home Guard armor and infantry units.

More enemy ‘Mechs just meant more salvage, he thought with a nod. “This is Mac,” he broadcast. “Throw out the game plan, boys and girls—looks like we are going to have a real fight after all. Primary target is Dougal—we take the capital and the Pinard lines there, and they are going have to come to us to take it back. Expect heavy resistance,” and he paused, “and throw out the rules of engagement. If it shoots at you—or looks like its thinking about shooting at you, kill it.”

“DROP IN ONE MINUTE!” blared the loud-speakers. Archie tightened his straps and pulled his leather gloves taut, and then as the LCD display slowly counted down, he took a thick cigar, placed it in his mouth, lit it, and began to puff as he returned his hands to the controls.

“Last one down buys the beer,” he growled around the smoking cigar and then the bay doors slammed open, the drop light turned green, and Archibald McCarron was flying through the sky towards the surface—straight into a veritable wall of flak. Above him he could see the Overlord-class DropShip stagger as anti-aircraft artillery slammed into her armored flanks—and he cursed.

Breathing smoke around the cigar, he chopped his jets and the Grasshopper fell like a rock—he plunged down through the atmosphere and stood on jump jets just before passing through the minimum safe altitude. The jets roared amid the winds and the storm clouds; his cockpit was plastered with drops of rain and ice, but then he broke through the ceiling and hit the ground running, the rest of the Nightriders following in his wake.


NOTE: I couldn’t remember what ‘Mech Archie piloted in canon and it isn’t on Sarna.net. I can’t find my MAC sourcebook right now, so I went with the much unappreciated Grasshopper. One of my personal favorites of 3025.--MA

[masterarminas]

Command Lance, 2nd Battalion, Red Chasseurs
Dougal, MacLeod’s Land
Taurian Concordat
November 10, 3025

Brigadier Michael Griswald reached down and armed the control panel located on the right arm of his ejection seat. He could not see the long lines of the heavy-weight ‘Mechs of McCarron’s Regiments advancing through the blowing storm with his eyes, but his sensors detected them just fine. Such storms were common here on MacLeod’s Land—that was why most of the planet’s structures were built under-ground; and those few necessary above-ground structures were heavily reinforced against the violent weather.

Structures like Port Caine, the main space-port complex serving the capital that Griswald now defended—the first objective that McCarron had to secure before he moved on to the capital itself. He held the Pinard Protectorates Limited factories outside the city, true, but Archie McCarron would need this space-port if he wanted to land more troops—or leave MacLeod’s Land. And the extensive air-defense of Port Caine meant that if Archie wanted the port, he had to take it the hard way.

Wonderful things, these storms, Michael thought. Our air support may well be grounded (or it would be if it still existed)—but so is theirs. Missiles were almost useless in these winds—and artillery was even more haphazard than normal, he thought with a snort. No, this fight would be up-close and personal . . . and Michael smiled. For the Second Chasseurs were not alone. No, the nobles of MacLeod’s Land had turned out their forces and an assortment of tanks, infantry, and some few ‘Mechs stood with him.

Behind him, the regular TDF armor and infantry manned the fortifications and bunkers that surrounded Dougal; well, most of them. A few of the furthest formations had been left to secure less vital cities . . . and while Michael might miss their firepower today, he fully understood the need to keep McCarron’s Regiments outside of the densely populated capital—even though most of the population was underground, heavy battles could collapse the subterranean structures. So it was imperative to keep these Capellan mercenary scum as far away as possible.

Michael smiled. They think we Taurians aren’t ready for an attack? Well, we’ve got a few surprises for you, Archie. Including Gordon’s Armored Cavalry—all three battalions of the Regiment turned out in the Taurian style at four companies apiece, plus a command company. And if my Bright Flame troopers aren’t as skilled as yours, Nicholas Gordon’s soldiers sure as hell are—and they have a bone to pick with those who willingly follow Mad Max Liao.

Colonel Gordon was out there now, somewhere, swinging deep around the invaders—the hammer to Michael’s anvil. The console he armed began to beep and the Taurian Brigadier looked down and he smiled. “Bright Flame Two,” he broadcast, “attached auxiliaries. Time to earn our princely salaries, gentlemen.” He triggered the first band of command-detonated mines over which McCarron’s Regiments were advancing—and a thousand individual mines erupted in plumes of smoke and soil . . . and dozens of shattered ‘Mechs.

The mercs began to trot forward, still not at full speed, and Michael triggered the second band—and more mines detonated. Now, the enemy was running at full tilt and he hit the final trigger, and the last band exploded—but half of these mines were infernos and 'Mechs covered in blazing streams of flowing ignited gel entered range at last..

“BRIGHT FLAME!” he yelled out, swinging the arm of his Centurion forward. “CHARGE!”

Outnumbered six-to-one, Michael Griswald led his battalion in the teeth of McCarron’s Regiments, supported by fire from a hundred tanks and crew-served guns manning the parapets that surrounded the oh-so-vital tarmac and hangers.

[masterarminas]

Command Lance, McCarron’s Armored Cavalry
Dougal, MacLeod’s Land
Taurian Concordat
November 12, 3025

“WHAT THE HELL!” a panicked voice suddenly shouted over the command circuit—and Archie McCarron spat out his cigar in disbelief. Forty meters to his right, Olivia Sanchez and her Banshee was engulfed in a sheet of brilliant flame and smoke as an explosive geyser literally erupted from the ground beneath her. Dear GOD, Archie thought as the ground shook, rattling his ‘Mech even at this distance and a column of fire tore into the sky; the shocked MechWarrior and her 95-ton assault ‘Mech propelled into the air by the force of the blast.

It rose for one hundred and ten meters—both legs sheared off by the tremendous concussion—and then gravity held sway once more. The blackened and burnt shell of a ruin, shattered by the force of man-made volcano, paused at its apogee—and Olivia triggered her ejection system as it began to fall back towards the ground.

“HOLY SHI-!” the pilot of a Valkyrie screamed in shocked disbelief and abject fear as the mangled Banshee tumbled out of the sky and slammed down atop the light-weight ‘Mech, crushing it to the ground in a pile of twisted scrap.

How much damn explosives did these Taurians have? Archie thought with a curse under his breath. He had never encountered a target this fortified—and it was only the space-port; his scouts reported that at least eight battalions of tanks (and a dozen regiments of infantry) manned interlocking bunkers defending the capital city itself. All while the Wild Ones were tangling with that regiment of Taurian mercs—the traitors that had defected from the Confederation a few years back led by Nicholas Gordon—that were trying to get to the handful of his supply DropShips that had managed to make planet-fall.

DAMN ROMANO! And damn me for listening to her, Archie thought rather more soberly. This wasn’t worth triple pay—hell, it wasn’t worth five times normal pay! And the five DropShips—three Unions and two Leopards—he had lost to the grim determination of the Taurian fighter pilots and unending artillery flak just added salt to the wounds.

But he was winning—even if it was almost pyrrhic in nature. And even if it had had taken almost forty-eight hours to accomplish. The survivors of the Red Chasseurs had been forced to withdraw, leaving his units to fight dug-in tanks and infantry for the space-port tarmac . . . and the hangers, supply depots, and underground fuel bunkers. And still, the scum didn’t seem to know when they were beaten—armor and infantry stood their ground and they died in numbers that would have made an Inner Sphere commander blanch . . . but they fought back instead of running and their own fire was tearing into Rob’s Renegades as that regiment cleared the Port of all hostiles.

He was winning . . . and the storm had almost broken. Already his air support was on the way back down into the atmosphere since the winds had died down—for how long, Archie didn’t know. But in the meantime, the bomb-laden fighters would be here supporting him . . . and extracting revenge upon the Taurians for their fanatical defense.

“Mac,” the radio crackled with static, “Fallen Angels inbound with heavy ordnance—confirm target?”

Archie snarled. “Dougal,” he spat.

“Roger that, Mac. Be advised, we are carrying a mixed load of HE, cluster, and inferno.”

“Good—bust them up, burn them out, and make them pay, Fallen Angels.”

“Mac,” the exhausted voice of Frank Bronson—the XO of the Nightriders—burst from the speakers.

“Go, Frank.”

“Artillery is finally down and deployed, Mac; where you want the guns to support?”

“Hammer that city, Frank—I want these fuckers to learn what it means to fight the Big Mac.”

Archie walked his Grasshopper to the top of a slight ridge and he snarled as the first flight of aerospace fighters passed by far overhead—oblong shapes tumbling down and down and down into city where they exploded in flame and fury.

“Boss,” the radio broadcast with the exhausted voice of Colonel Robert Heptig. “We’ve secured Port Caine—and captured two Unions intact.”

“Two? I thought we identified four?” Mac asked.

“Yeah, the others were manned and decided to fight—they aren’t lifting again . . . ever.”

“Good job, Rob,” Archie said with a tired sigh. “Get the rest of our Droppers down here—we need resupply before we go in there and make those bastards in Dougal surrender. Have the Wild Ones finished off Gordon yet?”

“Negative, Mac,” Heptig answered. “Gordon is damn good—he is withdrawing in good order and remains a threat to our landing zone.”

“Tell Linda to get her thumb of her ass! She out-masses Gordon and has more firepower—CRUSH THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH!”

“She’s got the firepower, but Gordon’s command is faster—he’s fencing with her, Boss, not engaging in a slugging match . . . and he is drawing her further and further afield. But if she lets him go . . .,” and Archie could picture Heptig shrugging. “We lose contact with that man and he can reappear almost anywhere.” Rob chuckled. “We should have hired that son-of-a-bitch ourselves five years ago.”

“Water under the bridge, Rob. I don’t want to be fighting Gordon here for weeks or months—tell Linda to get the job done or I’ll find an officer who can—understood?”

“Understood, Mac,” the voice paused. “First DropShips on final approach—our supplies are almost he- . . .,” the radio screeched and then went silent. Archie looked up, and then a distant BOOM sounded and he cringed at the massive fireballs rising into the air. From the Port—that damned Taurian Port.

“ROB!” he yelled into the microphone. “Any Renegade—REPORT, DAMN IT!”

The radio crackled, and then a shaken voice came on the net. “The Taurians detonated their fuel storage bunkers—and their munitions depots. Mac—the Port is closed. I repeat the Port is closed.”

“Fuck the Port!” screamed Archie. “Where are my Renegades!”

“Mac,” the voice came back again, “this is Captain Steele, Oscar Company. Boss—I think I’m the senior Renegade left. Most of the Regiment was in the Port—they’re . . .,” and then the sounds of retching came over the speakers. “Dear god, they’re gone.”

This contract is just getting better and better, Archie thought. “Okay. Here’s what we are going to do . . .,” he began, trying to salvage something from the disaster that was the Battle of MacLeod’s Land.

[masterarminas]

Flight Operations Control Tower
Samantha City Spaceport, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 12, 3025

“Thomas, we are committing our reserves too early,” Brenda whispered to the Protector one last time as long lines BattleMechs marched past the Tower on their way to board their waiting DropShips. “We know that there is still heavy fighting continuing on both MacLeod’s Land and Laconis—but this could be just the first push into our space by the Capellans. We can’t commit this much of our reserves yet—this deployment will leave us with just one battalion in reserve here on Taurus. One battalion—for the entire Hyades, Thomas.”

Thomas Calderon frowned and he waved away the crowd of aides and staff; his bodyguards formed a perimeter around him and Brenda and Marshal Vickers, leaving them within a bubble of semi-privacy. “War is risk—you both said that. I want to send a message to Maximillian Liao that he won’t soon forget,” Thomas spat. “I don’t just want McCarron and his men defeated—I want them dead, Marshals.”

“We can redeploy two battalions from New Vandenberg and Pinard, plus four from here on Taurus, Protector,” Helena answered. “That will give us the same numbers that you are sending—while keeping three battalions in central reserve.”

“NO,” growled Thomas. “What if New Vandenberg and Pinard are their intended targets? We will send the Guard Corps out and we will shatter them.”

“Even if they plan on hitting New Vandenberg and Pinard, Protector,” Brenda continued, “they cannot have planned for Laconis and MacLeod’s Land having four battalions of defenders—plus the local regulars and Constabulary. Odds are they won’t have the force left to assault New Vandenberg or Pinard . . . unless there is another wave coming from inside the Confederation. That, my Protector, is a contingency which we need to stand ready for—by preserving the Guard Corps here to respond if necessary.”

“My mind is made up, Brenda. Helena,” Thomas said in a calmer voice. “Yes, it is a risk—yes, it leaves our reserves dangerously weak. BUT,” he stressed, “if Edward and Henri are right—if Hanse Davion truly wants peace, then our border there will be secure. And we still have the garrisons on worlds facing Davion. Liao has invaded—in force. And Our Defense Forces will meet them—in force.”

“Hanse Davion is not the only leader in the Federated Suns,” Helena cautioned. “If they attack and our reserve is already committed to the far ends of the Concordat, they will be out of position to react, Thomas. We don’t need the entire Guards and Velites regiments . . . we have to retain a reserve.”

“And how long would that delay this operation—the Guards are loading NOW, Marshal Vickers?” Thomas retorted with more than a little heat. “We would have to send a message to New Vandenberg and you, better than any among us, know that such orders take time; it takes time to ready a unit to deploy, even one that is supposed to be ready to go on a moment’s notice.” He snorted. “Hell, it took us two days to get the Reserve ready to lift. How much longer will our citizens have to suffer at the hand’s of that Butcher McCarron before we relieve these worlds if we wait? A week? Two?”

“Not that long, Protector,” Helena said with a sigh.

“No, not that long, Marshal Vickers—but it will delay this deployment . . . or offer the Capellans a chance to defeat our reinforcements in detail with them arriving at different times and perhaps different jump points. Yes?”

“That is a . . . possibility, Protector.”

“No,” Thomas said again as he shook his head. “My mind is clear on this—we sending in the Guards and Velites . . . and we are redeploying one battalion each from Pinard and New Vandenberg to garrison Brisbane. I’m not happy that they are hanging out there in the wind—a Cappie Home Guard unit could take that system.”

Brenda and Helena both winced. “Brisbane has armor and infantry units, plus the Constabulary, Thomas,” Brenda began. “They aren’t Ishtar, after all.”

Thomas didn’t answer, he just looked at the line of ‘Mechs loading aboard their transports. “You have your orders, Marshal Calderon,” he said at last. “Bring me Archie McCarron’s head.”

“Sir,” she answered, snapping to attention and saluting. Thomas nodded and then she did an about-face and marched off to join her troops.

“How are your repairs coming, Helena?”

“We have managed to jury-rig a number of components—at the price of gutting the K/F cores of four JumpShips. Samantha Calderon will be able to deploy—if it is an emergency—by next week. But I recommend we wait for the first of the new machined parts; if we have another drive failure away from Taurus, we will be extremely vulnerable to attack.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Marshal—not going to argue any more?” he asked with a crooked smile.

“You are the Protector, Sire—I’ll fight you tooth and nail if I think you are wrong, but this? This is a judgment call. I wouldn’t have made the same choice—but you’ve made up your mind. And I understand your reasoning, so no. I’m not going to fight you on this call.”

“Is it the right choice?” Thomas softly asked.

“History doesn’t tell us ahead of time whether or not our choices will be right, wrong, or fatal, Protector. We put our money on the table and we play the hands we are dealt—nothing more, nothing less.”

“No regrets?”

“Regrets I’ve had a few—but then again,” she said with a smile, “too few to mention.”

Thomas snorted. “I did what I had to do . . . and saw it through without exception.”

“Exactly, Thomas. Make your choice—and live with it. For good or ill, stand by it. Because right now, at this moment, we don’t know. And I really can’t say that your decision doesn’t appeal to me in assembling a force to utterly destroy those who dare to invade the Concordat. Good or bad, I’ll back you. And I’m the one with the WarShip.”

Thomas didn’t answer, he just came to attention and rendered a hand salute, Helena following, as the standard-bearer of the Taurian Guards marched by—the flags of Taurus and the Concordat, along with the regimental standard, held high as he marched over the tarmac and up the ramp to the waiting DropShip.

[Deebles]

“Regrets I’ve had a few—but then again,” she said with a smile, “too few to mention.”

Thomas snorted. “I did what I had to do . . . and saw it through without exception.”

Groan...

[LadyTevar]

“Regrets I’ve had a few—but then again,” she said with a smile, “too few to mention.”

Thomas snorted. “I did what I had to do . . . and saw it through without exception.”

Groan...

Sounds like military men to me LOL

[masterarminas]

Field HQ, McCarron’s Armored Cavalry
Pinard Protectorates Limited Facility Eight, MacLeod’s Land
Taurian Concordat
November 14, 3025

“Tell me we got something worth our time and losses,” Archie snapped as he walked into his temporary Field Headquarters half a kilometer from the PPL production facility. For the past two days, the break in the weather systems had allowed the MAC to bombard Dougal, smashing buildings flat and starting fires—but the Taurians had not budged, nor had they asked for any terms of surrender. And Archie was beginning to believe that they wouldn’t. He was being pressured by Romano’s liaison—Major Eric Handel—to go ahead and assault the city . . . but Archie had no intention of doing that. Not after the meat-grinder of Port Caine.

The loss reports were bad—not quite as morbid as he had first expected, but bad all the same. The Renegades—Richard Steele’s Renegades, now—had more than seven companies worth of ‘Mechs out of the fight . . . and just half of those were fit for salvaging. That Regiment had suffered the worse, and the loss of three cargo ships filled with munitions and supplies had made the situation even more untenable. The Wild Ones and Nightriders had suffered less—but even they had nearly one ‘Mech in three fit only for rebuilding or spare parts.

So, no. Despite what Major Handel was demanding, Archie wasn’t about to charge head-long into the bunkers surrounding Dougal. In fact, he thought to himself, it is time to think about ending this will I still can—at least he had crippled the TDF’s battalion of Chasseurs; if they had so much as a lance left intact, it would surprise him. And that bastard Gordon—Gordon had made one mistake when he tried to double back and catch Archie’s DropShips in the Drop-zone . . . but Archie had been prepared for that and a composite battalion from the Wild Ones and Nightriders had been waiting for him. The lighter ‘Mechs of the Taurian mercenaries had been hit hard . . . and now Nicholas Gordon was somewhere out there licking his own wounds.

The good news was that his techs had been able to salvage about two dozen of the Taurian ‘Mechs to make up for his losses—well, recover, if not fully salvage. The latter would take time . . . more time than Archie knew he had. And if the excited reports from his search teams here at PPC/Fac 8 were anything to go by, then he might well have hit the motherlode.

Jethro Harper grinned at his boss—as the Chief Technical Officer of McCarron’s Armored Cavalry it was his job to keep Archie’s machines running. “I think so—lighter than we like, but it’s a gold mine in there, Mac.”

Archie grunted. “Talk to me.”

“Well, first off—Pinard was producing three types of ‘Mechs here: Stingers, Locusts, and Clints according to intelligence. Intel was wrong,” Jethro chuckled. “The Taurians stopped production on their bugs and instead retooled to produce those new lights we’ve been hearing rumors about . . . and that you’ve spent the past four days fighting.”

Archie grimaced. The Taurians had fielded two new models of BattleMechs that he had never seen before—he had only heard a few whispered rumors circulated among mercenaries of some new Taurian scout 'Mechs. Both were thirty-tonners, light-weight fighters to be certain, but heavier than the traditional Stingers and Locusts by ten tons. The BDT-1A Bandit was heavily armored—for a light BattleMech—and carried pretty hefty firepower for a 30-ton war machine . . . while still managing to be as fast and mobile as the more traditional Stingers and Wasps. The PRT-1A Patriot sacrificed the jump jets for a larger engine; although not quite as fast as a Locust, it was able to match an Assassin or Jenner in a foot-race, and it too carried armor all out of proportion to what most ‘Mechs these days carried; along with a pretty decent package of guns.

“Apparently, they were getting ready to ship out the first export units, Mac—there are ten Patriots and twenty-two Bandits complete just sitting in the warehouse, with a baker’s dozen in various stages of construction. Along with a dozen finished Clints—they are producing those here, still.”

“The 2-3T? Or those slower ones we encountered?” asked Archie.

Jethro grinned again. “All twelve are those 3-3Ts you’ve been fighting—bit slower, but heavier armor and a few more guns.”

“Forty-four fresh ‘Mechs?” Archie mused.

“Hot off the production lines—and I’ve looted enough spares to keep ‘em running for years,” he looked down at the ground. “Mac, I’ve been ordered to wreck this place and I know that you didn’t issue that order. ‘Mech factories are too rare to just destroy for the hell of it, and frankly it goes against the grain.”

Archie winced. “Let me guess—Handel?”

“Right in one, boss.”

“Ignore his orders, Harp,” Archie said bluntly, “you work for me, not some Romano stooge. I want everything you can get loaded in the next thirty-six hours aboard the ships—we should have enough empty bays to get them all in. Then, we are going home.”

“Not waiting for Phase 2?” asked Jethro with a look of apprehension on his face.

“Not a chance in hell, Harp—if MacLeod’s Land is this heavily defended, I don’t want to even think about hitting New Vandenberg. This fucking campaign is over—that’s why I got us command rights from that Liao bitch.” Archie paused. “Thirty-six hours . . . can you do it?”

“It’ll be tight, but not having to divert men to wire this place to blow sky-high will help . . . we should be able to get everything loaded in what transport we have left, boss.”

“Then get to it.”

“What about Handel?”

“Oh, didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“About that mortar attack this afternoon,” Archie said with a smile. “Poor Handel was killed.”

“Boss, it’s morning.”

“Yeah, I know. Son-of-a-bitch doesn’t seem to want to fit inside a mortar tube, but I told the staff to break his hips and shoulder blades; that should make it easy to slide him down the tube of one of the big mortars. When they get him loaded, we are going to shoot him at Dougal,” Archie chuckled. “The report will read KIA in mortar attack—it won’t say that it was our attack and he was our shell!”




NOTE: The designs mentioned above can be found at the following.

Bandit
Patriot
Clint

MA

[masterarminas]

Export Transshipment Warehouse
Pinard Protectorates Limited Facility Eight, MacLeod’s Land
Taurian Concordat
November 16, 3025

“You’re certain that those SOBs haven’t rigged the engines to blow? Or the magazines? Or whatever?” Captain Walter Isaac Grey—known to his fellow soldiers of McCarron’s Regiments by the nickname of Wig—asked Jethro Harper as the wounded and dispossessed MechWarrior stood on the lowest rung of the boarding ladder, clad just in shorts, boots, and a cooling vest.

“For God’s sake, Captain,” Jethro spat. “We’ve spent the last thirty-four hours digging into the machines—there ain’t no explosives aboard them! The magazines are empty; there are no pressure triggers on the fusion engine to cause a catastrophic detonation . . . my Techs know their jobs, Wig!”

“Sorry, Harp,” the MechWarrior answered glumly, his right forearm still encased in a cast and bandages wrapped around his neck and head. “These bloody Taurians have got me twitching at shadows—it’s like the whole bloody planetary population has taken a course in building improvised explosive devices and made a pact with the devil himself on how to use them in the most fiendish ways possible.”

“Didn’t mean to snap at you, Sir,” Jethro answered as he ran one hand through his hair. “Haven’t had a lot of sleep these past few days, Sir,” he stepped up closer. “Look, we’ve checked every nook and cranny for explosives and even had a bomb-sniffing dog poke his nose inside. If they have anything rigged, it ain’t explosives or the fusion engine. The magazines are empty and my folks have even disconnected the laser from the power supply—just so that can’t be overpowered.”

“You’ve bypassed the lock-outs?” Wig asked, and then he shook his head and held up his uninjured hand at the angry expression on Jethro’s face. “Sorry, dumb question. I’m just surprised you managed to break forty-four encryptions in the time you had.”

Jethro snorted. “I’m good—but not that good. Turns out that these export models have the same access key . . . and Mac persuaded one of the execs to provide us with that information.”

“Yeah, heard about that when I was getting the arm patched up—didn’t realize it was for all of the command codes for these ‘Mechs.”

“SOP for any manufacturer—the end-user selects his own access codes; the machines all get the same primary code when they walk out of the factory. Of course, that changes every shipment, so it ain’t as easy as it sounds to steal one and walk away, but it sure as hell made my job easier,” Jethro said as he aided the injured warrior up the access ladder and opened the cockpit of the 30-ton Bandit.

Wig whistled. “They might all be stubborn bastards who don’t fight fair, but damn if they don’t make a good-looking cockpit,” then he paused. “Where’s the ejection seat?”

The chief technician for McCarron’s Armored Cavalry snorted. “No ejection seat—no jump seat either,” and he grinned at the shocked expression on the face of the MechWarrior. “But you can still eject, Wig. The Taurians decided to make the entire cockpit itself detachable—the ejection rockets are beneath this . . . tub that contains your seat, the control systems, the main computers, AND the canopy. Yank the ejector and the whole thing is blasted clear—it’s more complicated and costs more than standard ejection seats, but the Taurians swear by it.”

“Yeah,” Wig answered with a far-away look in his eyes. “I busted the arm when I struck the edge of the canopy ejecting out of my old Quickdraw—this sounds safer . . . if it works.”

“It works,” Jethro said with a drawl. “God knows enough of the Taurians here on MacLeod’s Land have punched out, after all.”

Wig stepped into the cockpit and the tech began to strap him into place—and then he saw the controls.

“Dials? Gauges? Where’s the Multi-Function Display?”

“You’ve got two small displays on the right and left sides,” Jethro explained. “The Taurians prefer old-school controls—all of the gauges are analog, not digital, if you can believe it! But they work,” and Jethro sighed. “And if something goes wrong with the computer, they STILL work, because they aren’t run by the computer—this puppy doesn’t have the hair-trigger response of most ‘Mechs, but it’s good enough . . . and a lot cheaper. Plus, if something goes wrong with a gauge, a good tech can fix it with a caliper and pair of pliers—modern MFDs you have to yank the whole damn thing and hope you have a spare in storage.”

Wig shook his head. “Same with the weapons—manual arming for the separate systems? God damn, the Bulls are paranoid aren’t they? Still, the leather seats are nice,” he continued as Jethro plugged his cooling vest into the cockpit interface.

“Go ahead, fire her up.”

“Access code?”

“Printed on that piece of duct tape,” Jethro said as he pointed at a combination of letters and numbers stenciled in black ink on the grey strip.

“Hail Mary full of grace,” Wig whispered as he began to flip switches and then gingerly depressed the red key labeled FUSN IGNT. There was a sudden hum coming from beneath the cockpit, and then the needles on the various gauges twitched, jumped, and settled on idle. He entered the sixteen digit alpha-numeric combination on an old-fashioned key-pad and, after a moment to think and confirm the code, the main computer brought the gyro on-line.

“All systems looking good,” he reported as Jethro set the heavy neuro-helmet over his shoulders and plugged it into sockets built into the cockpit. “HUD is . . . active,” Wig broadcast.

Jethro stepped back and he closed the cockpit canopy, giving the MechWarrior a thumbs-up, which Wig returned with his good hand. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, and engaged the motive system—the 30-ton BattleMech took first one step, then a second, and (with confidence building by the second) Wig pressed the throttle forward until the machine was moving at its full normal walking speed of 64.8 kilometers per hour.

Wig began to sweat as the heat from the engine bled into the cockpit, and he glanced down at the air circulating vents—nothing was flowing from them. His cooling jacket was working, but without the high-pressure air circulating from the cooling unit, the cockpit was rapidly becoming a sauna. He began to curse, and then he saw that there was a seperate control for the chillers. Blushing, he activated the unit and it began to hum, and with the surety of any veteran MechWarrior, he twisted the dial to allow for maximum air-flow—and then he froze as a spray of fine mist erupted out of all of the vents.

“SHIT!” he yelled, and he brought the Bandit to a halt as he checked his chemical-warfare detection strip built into the cooling vest—all green, he realized, his heart pumping wildly.

“Problem, Wig?” crackled the radio.

“Negative—the chiller vents discharged an oily mist when I turned them on.”

“Acknowledged,” the voiced said and then paused. “Others are reporting the same—Harp says it might be oil in the ventilation unit . . . any chem-markers registering?”

“Negative. Proceeding to the DropShips, Central.”

Taking the throttle in hand once more, Wig began to accelerate, and then one of the two display screens flashed.

LEAVING PPL GROUNDS. ENTER SECONDARY SECURITY CODE.

“Central, it’s asking me for a secondary security code,” Wig broadcast—and he could hear cursing over the radio, including the voice of Harper in the background, “No one has TWO BLOODY DAMN security codes! No one!”

“Wait one, Wig,” Central answered. The screen blanked, and then the message repeated. And then it blanked again, and was replaced with blocky 5, then 4, and then 3. “Oh shit,” Wig whispered, as it counted down to zero.

GOOD MORNING, DAVE, the screen flashed, and then everything died—except the access panels in front of the primary and secondary computers. Those sparked and crackled, and then the fusion engine went into emergency shutdown and all of the controls died. “Fuck,” growled Wig, as he activated the emergency radio.

“My computer just fried itself, Harp!” he barked. “Gyro is dead, engine is off-line—but, yeah, the gauges still work and it’s hotter than hell in here!”

That was the moment, when he was waiting for a reply, that Wig realized his skin was itching—he looked down and saw his naked arms, chest, and legs were bright red and already swelling.

“SHIT!”

***********************************************************

“HARP!” Archie bellowed.

“Look, no one uses two security codes, Mac!” the Tech yelled back. “We’ve got to pull the computers and . . . damn, we don’t have enough spares.”

“HARP!”

Ignoring his boss, the Chief Tech raised the microphone. “Get the heavy transporters out there—we are hauling the ‘Mechs the rest of the way by hand, people!”

“How long?” Archie said through clenched teeth.

“Six hours? Maybe eight?” Harp said with a shrug. “We are talking about more than fourteen hundred tons of ‘Mechs, boss.”

The sudden cacophony of screaming and cursing from forty-four cockpits interrupted Archie’s answer.

***********************************************************

“I hate Taurians,” Archie muttered. “What the hell is urushiol and why didn’t the chem-strips detect it?”

“It’s the active agent in poison ivy, poison oak, and sumac, Mac,” the senior medical officer attached to the Armored Cavalry said. “Non-fatal and no one uses it in chemical weapons—but those MechWarriors were covered with the oil from head to toe. None of them are going to be fit to pilot a ‘Mech for weeks. And I hope to God I have enough anti-histamine ointment for all of them.”

“The oily mist,” Harp muttered. “They planted liquid urushiol in the cockpit blowers. Those miserable damned hateful sadistic SOBs.”

“God damn, I hate Taurians,” Archie swore once again.


NOTE: You can find Urushiol and The Rash it induces at those wiki sites.

MA

[masterarminas]

DropShip Vixen
Boosting for Orbit, MacLeod’s Land
Taurian Concordat
November 17, 3025

Finally, everything was loaded. And just in time, as the next line of storms were racing in towards Dougal and the factory at almost one hundred kph. One by one, the remaining DropShips of Archie’s regiments lit off their drives and they began to climb towards orbit and the JumpShips waiting at the pirate point. Two hours, and we will be out of here once and for all. He had already ordered one of the JumpShips—a Scout-class vessel—to inform Marcus Baxter that it was past time to leave the Concordat once and for all.

But it seemed as if the thrice-damned Taurians weren’t done with him, he sighed as he buried his face in the palms of his hands.

“What do you mean that those Taurian ‘Mechs can’t use our computers?”

Jethro Harper swallowed. “Mac,” he began, “they use a different operating system—none of our computers are compatible with them.”

“BULLSHIT! Every ‘Mech uses the same basic computer system! Even I know that! The software differs because of mass and weapons, but the basic system has been the same ever since the bloody Star League!”

“Except the Taurians,” Harper sighed. “They . . .,” but he was interrupted.

“WE HAVE ‘MECHS WE PURCHASED FROM TAURIAN FACTORIES!” Archie thundered. “THEY USE THE SAME COMPUTERS!”

“Those are export ‘Mechs, Mac,” Jethro said quietly. “Apparently, these ‘Mechs were intended for the Taurian Defense Force—and they don’t use the same operating systems as we do.”

“Well, replace them,” Archie growled. “When we get home, we’ll buy more computers and replace them.”

“Boss, it ain’t that simple. The fusion engines? The gyros? The sensors? The comm system? All of it is designed to interface ONLY with the Taurian OS—without a Taurian computer, none of them will work.”

“Okay, you said we got years worth of spares from the factory—plug in those spare computers!”

Jethro shrank down in his seat, and he mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“I said, there weren’t any spare computers in the factory. We can rebuild those ‘Mechs to use our systems—but it will take months, boss. And quite a lot of C-Bills.”

Archie began to snarl when the phone in his cabin buzzed. “YES!” he snarled as he lifted the phone. And then he said, “On my way,” and slammed it down before he buried his hands in his palms again.

The chief tech licked his lips. “Did we . . . miss . . . a booby-trap, Mac?”

“No, Harp. The JumpShips have just reported that a Taurian relief force—two regiments strong at a minimum—has jumped into a pirate point. And that they are launching fighters and gunboats; they should be able to intercept us before we can dock . . . although, thank the Devil for small favors, their DropShips will arrive after we’ve jumped.”

[Highlord Laan]

Now that was just plain mean! I love it!

[masterarminas]

DropShip Vixen
En route to Proximity Point, MacLeod’s Land
Taurian Concordat
November 17, 3025

Archie pulled himself onto the bridge of the Overlord-class DropShip. “Status,” he said quietly.

“Lots of firepower coming our way, Mac,” the DropShip skipper answered just as quietly. “Two waves of fighters and gunboats . . . but we may have an advantage here,” he said as he activated a holographic projector that showed the icons of incoming aerospace fighters and small craft—dozens of icons. Archie walked over, joined by a third officer dressed in a flight suit.

“The Taurians have launched fifty-two fighters and sixteen of their gunboats . . . but they are sending in their lighter fighters ahead of the second wave—and there are just twenty of them.”

“Twenty?” Archie mused with a sudden grin. “About time we caught a break. What’s their composition?”

“Wave I has twenty Hellcats . . . . Wave II is an even mix of sixteen Thunderbirds, sixteen Havocs, and sixteen Defiance gunboats.”

“Our own birds?” Archie asked.

“We took some losses, but we can still put about sixty up for operations from all three wings,” the skipper responded.

“Options?”

“Mac,” the third person present spoke up. Major Sarah Carmichael was the senior fighter pilot left among the Big MAC, and Archie knew her well. “I recommend two waves as well—we outnumber the Taurians and all of our fighters are heavy-weight sluggers. Sure, those Hellcats are dangerous, but we’ve got Eagles and Transgressors of our own that can match them in acceleration. We hold back a full Wing—thirty-nine fighters—and send the remaining twenty-one to engage the Taurians. Sure, it’s even odds in numbers, but our fighters are heavier, better armed, better armored, and we have better pilots.” She paused. “We should be able to defeat their lead element in detail AND have the time to get back to the ships as the second strike launches—with full loads of fuel and external ordnance to engage Wave II. While that happens, we rearm, refuel, and relaunch our first strike to take care of any stragglers.”

“Do it,” Archie ordered, and then he bit his lip. “Twenty? That’s an odd number for Taurians . . . and they don’t normally fly Hellcats.”

“Taurians operate in divisions of four birds, Mac,” Sarah answered. “That’s five divisions—probably one division shy of a reinforced wing. And the Hellcat is a common fighter out here—sure, not all Taurians fly them, but there are some in service.”

“You’re sure you can take them, Sarah?”

The pilot laughed. “Mac, those Taurians are brave—but these aren’t Reunification War veterans we are flying against. The TDF and TCN don’t have good training programs—that is why they have imported those Outworlders to teach basic flight and combat at their Flight Academy on Samantha. They’re brave, I’ll give them that—but frankly, they don’t know jack shit about flying.”

“Okay,” Archie said slowly and he looked at a shaking hand. “Go out there and get them, Sarah—and then we are getting the Hell out of this hellhole.”



NOTE: The Havoc can be found on Solaris VII. It is not canon, but is a (relatively) common Heavy-weight ASF in the TDF and TCN in my universe.

[jpdt19]

Woohoo. I was getting serious withdrawal symptoms!

And you just had to use that line didn't you. Yes MA you know the one i mean