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That is one big honking ’Mech. Buck screwed up his face in a frown, then let loose a gob of blacker’n tar spit before tonguing his wad from his left lower lip to his right and settling into some serious chewing. He didn’t have the slightest idea what the ’Mech was; hadn’t ever seen it before. Clearly, Kuritan. That ba
Probably they had a right to be. Compared to those ’Mechs, his guys were like a bunch of villagers with pitchforks and clubs going after some fire-breathing lizard as big as a skyscraper. Buck’s eyes rolled over a straggly line of Brotherhood troops, a platoon strong, taking cover behind the sheltering ridge created by granite outcroppings. The men weren’t talking. Their faces were tight, the skin tented down with tension until their bones showed. If they lived through this cockamamie plan, Buck was go
He’d tucked two mortar squads, each with a quartet of portable, armor-piercing SRM launchers, behind rocks in the bowl of the valley at ten and four o’clock. No suicide mission; he’d made the men be especially careful to leave a narrow swath of green and rock to use for getting their asses out when the time came. But he needed those launchers in the valley. Besides the tanks, these squads were Buck’s heavy hitters. The rest of their arms was piddly stuff: a ragtag collection of pulse lasers, slug throwers, laser rifles and one bonus—three Thunderstruck Gauss rifles.
From a distance, the quagmires looked like mud, easily crossed. Only someone brought up on Ancha would recognize that the peaty bogs, once disturbed, went down for a good half klick and were as deadly as quicksand. This particular bog extended for five klicks in every direction except here at this choke point, and Buck was counting on… well, he was counting on arrogance and plain old dumb luck.
Buck raised his binoculars again. The ’Mechs jumped into focus. His digital readout told him that in about five minutes, well, things were going to get pretty busy. Squirting black juice, Buck hauled off his Stetson, armed away sweat, then slammed that hat back into place. “Boys? Time to bag us some ’Mechs.”
Question: How does a BattleMech make short work of renegade traitors?
Answer: Easily.
On the other hand, the guy with that crazy hat… well, he was a little different. Perched high in the cockpit of his shiny, seventy-five ton Rokurokubi, Fourth Sword of Light Chu-sa Terry Merrick searched the terrain dead ahead. Absently, he gave the back of his neck a good scratch, grateful that he had one of the newer, lighter neurohelmets that perched upon rather than encased his head. He and his lance were two klicks away from the ridge, and Merrick saw at once that the hat guy’s plan showed a flash of brilliance. The valley was a rough bowl, about five klicks wide and long. A fine web of mist hung over the churned earth like the interlacing weave of a cobweb: simple matter to wade across. The only thing that looked remotely daunting was the lip of a steeply canted cliff dead ahead. Tongues of gray-and-white scree on the cliff face licked rocks heaped at the base of the ridge. He saw that the rocks were rotten, granite mixed with crumbly limestone and calcite.
His helmet buzzed, and the Catapult’s pilot said, “Merrick-san, I’m picking up body heat behind those rocks up there. Kasu. Scum might as well take out an ad.”
“Probably waiting for us to make a move.” This from the Pack Hunter. “Chu-sa, may I suggest we fan out instead of trying the cliff directly?”
“Hai, my thoughts, exactly,” said Merrick. “We’ll wade into the valley about a half klick. That way, we’re still out of range of those tanks and that Schmitt.”
“Nothing to worry about.” The Catapult’s pilot laughed. “Give me a clear shot, Merrick-san, and that Kono yaro? History.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Merrick said, but with less enthusiasm than he should’ve felt. Thing was, he didn’t mind blowing a couple hundred Blues to kingdom come, and he was proud of his ’Mech, knew that his ten-meter-long katana inspired real fear. The entire design was deliberately and carefully constructed to resemble a samurai’s helmet and armor, and that was as it should be because Merrick was of the Sword of Light, a member of the Combine’s most elite units.
Yet, was there honor here? There’d been talk about Sakamoto ordering attacks on civilian targets as if the Ares Conventions hadn’t existed for hundreds of year. Only bullies murdered civilians, and they were warriors. There was no honor in killing defenseless civilians. Or shooting at forces that clearly had orders to pull their punches. The Fury had dealt them half-hearted blows in stylized combat, signaling their disinclination to fight their spiritual brethren. And we answered with killing blows, and there is no honor there, either.
Irritated, Merrick shook his head. What was he thinking? I exist to serve; honor demands obedience and my duty is to fight. Whatever his personal thoughts, one thing was certain. Now, the Fury would kill them if they could. So, morality later. Whatever Merrick thought of Sakamoto’s tactics would have to wait. They had an enemy to engage, and the battle should be short. And what were a few dozen infantry and creaking treads against the Sword of Light?
“Temae!” said Merrick, and gri
Buck watched as the ’Mechs waded into the bog, that katana-wielding fella first, and his heart banged against his chest like to bust. The ground immediately around and before the ’Mechs was just solid enough to reassure them, and Buck knew they wouldn’t hit the bad stuff for another several paces. He saw the ’Mechs’ plan immediately—the slower, heavier ’Mech led the charge into the valley, with the lighter Catapult and Pack Hunter right behind but peeling off right and left, respectively. And they’d have to watch that Pack Hunter ; that baby had jump jets and the last thing they needed was a ’Mech screaming down their throats. The lead honcho, that katana guy, probably figured to take on whatever Buck’s boys could muster, keep them busy while the other two came in at their flanks and bound them up tight, like the pincer-grip of a lobster’s claw.
Yeah, good plan. Buck’s lips split in a grin. But there’s plans, and then there’s plans…
He saw it as soon as it happened; in fact, he heard it, the sucking, squelching sound of mud, and then that katana-’Mech’s right leg sank up to its knee, the ’Mech pitching the way Buck had seen happen with horses snagged on a trip wire. The ’Mech teetered like an axed tree, and the pilot tried backing up, with a grinding rrrr-rrrr sound that set Buck’s teeth on edge, same as a teacher scratching her nails over a chalkboard.
Buck keyed his mike. “Lock and load and let ’er rip!”
The bluff exploded.