39

Belgorod

Terra

Prefecture X

April 3134; local spring

Agroup of Steel Wolves shot over the low crest of a rise to the west of the muddy ground where Tara Campbell had devastated Ezekiel Crow: Three SM1 tank destroyers, their hungry autocannons seeking prey, a Scimitar MKII tank providing close-in support, and a JES tactical missile carrier with medium-range six-packs studding its body, ready to deliver a devastating volley into any armor or ’Mech.

The hover vehicles did not care about the churned-up ground. Their powerful fans could carry them across water or sand, mud or stone. Ahead of them, bright in their infrared sights, the Countess of Northwind’s Hatchetman strode back toward the Highlander lines. The ’Mech was moving at a slow, deliberate pace, its power plant clearly on the verge of an overheat shutdown.

The five Steel Wolf vehicles did not pause. They opened out into a combat line, so that no one of them blocked another’s line of fire. The JES missile carrier was the slowest of the group; the rest guided on it, spreading out to either side.

The SM1 on the far right took a ranging shot with its autocannon. The shells stitched across the Hatchetman’s back. The impact spots glowed in infrared.

“Dress it up. Stay in line,” the tank commander told the other Warriors in the armored squad. “Stay together. Tank destroyers, fire at will. Missiles, fire as soon as you have a fix and lock.”

The line of armor crossed the western edge of the muddy collection of shell holes. The Hatchetman gained the top of the rise on the east and started down the other side.

The Scimitar MKII tank approached the still-smoldering wreck of the Blade.

“Looks like someone had a fire,” the Scimitar’s sensor operator commented to the tank’s commander. “I wonder if anybody bothered to get out of the Mech Warrior before it went up?”

“Not our problem,” said the tank commander. He had the Scimitar’s extended-range laser locked onto the fleeing Hatchetman and was firing, adding a little heat to the mix. “Concentrate on the one that is still on its feet.”

The Steel Wolf Warriors had all heard of this Hatchetman, and of the way it had fought them in the streets of Northwind’s capital.

Honor to the one who brought it down.

Tara Campbell watched the approaching Steel Wolf units through her rearward-facing sensors. She was taking the Hatchetman forward as fast as she dared. The muddy ground was slowing her, making her work too hard for every step, setting her power plant on the verge of betraying her.

She found the crest of the hill. On the other side of the crest line one of the Highlanders’ SM1 tank destroyers was waiting. Not much of an ace in the hole, but it would have to do.

Her long-range weapons were empty, and she didn’t dare to fire her laser for fear of the heat. ’Mechs could be overcome by enough force, and enough force was heading her way—the pursuing armor had drawn even with the wreckage and was coming on fast. The autocannon hits rattled like hailstones against the back of her ’Mech.

“Bishop,” she said. “Now.”

On the western edge of the mud pit, Captain Tara Bishop’s Pack Hunter sat up from under a concealing and cooling layer of mud. The three SM1s were the chief threat. Bishop targeted the farthest one, out to the right, with her Ripper particle cannon. The tank destroyer’s main gun was pointed away from her, its vulnerable side and rear armor showing. She fired.

Without waiting for damage assessment she switched her aim to the next closest SM1 and fired again. Then to the one remaining. Before the startled tank destroyers could react, she repeated the entire sequence a second time, and then a third, before the SM1s fell still and silent.

“Good shooting,” Campbell said. “You got all of them.”

Surprise was lost now; the tactical missile carrier had spun in place with the speed and agility that only a hover could demonstrate, and was moving in close. Its first turret-mounted short-range missile box lined up, then shook with fire and smoke.

“Incoming!” Bishop shouted, out of habit.

Then the missiles struck. Damage lights lit up all over her control board. Before another salvo could hit, she fired up her suite of minilasers and played their beams over the missile carrier. As she did so, a second multiple launcher cut loose.

Then Bishop’s particle projector fired. The beam could cut through a tank destroyer’s armor; the light armor of the missile carrier could not withstand it. The JES’s missiles impacted the Pack Hunter, and the missile carrier itself detonated, both at the same moment.

Then it was the Scimitar’s turn. That vehicle was still racing at flank speed toward Tara Campbell’s Hatchetman, trying to bring its short-range weapons to bear. Its machine guns were chattering, even though they were nothing more than annoyances to the armored ’Mech. Soon they were joined by the Scimitar’s extended-range laser, by its small lasers, and by its four short-range missiles. All inbound.

Tara Campbell raised her hatchet like a shield, trying to take as many of the hits as possible on its solid depleted-uranium blade. Better that, than on the hull of her ’Mech, where autocannon and missile fire had been striking her all morning.

The multiple impacts staggered her backward. Then the hover vehicle sped past her and over the crest line—into the sights of the Highlander SM1 that lurked there.

The SM1 fired once, and the Scimitar died.

40

Belgorod

Terra

Prefecture X

April 3134; local spring

One-Eyed Jack Farrell sat in the command seat in the cockpit of his Jupiter. His mercenary unit was arrayed in formation behind him, ready to move out. The DropShips that had brought them to Terra were staged yet farther back from the fighting line. In a few minutes, he and his troopers would be moving out—another day, another battle.

He paused, took a deep breath. By nightfall, some of his people might not be alive. He’d do his best to keep them all safe, but there was no getting around the fact that combat operations were dangerous. He knew that luck would take some. It was the nature of the job.

The other nature of the job was to give the employer what he paid for: the selective application of violence in support of some larger goal.

“Okay, guys, listen up,” Farrell said over his all-circuit command net and external speakers. “We are going to link up with the Northwind Highlanders. This is going to be tricky.

“First off, as you know, any linkup can turn into a cock-up in about a minute flat. Thirty seconds or less if it’s in the middle of a shoot-out. Second thing, the Highlanders may not know that we’re coming. Third thing, last time we saw them we kinda had a spat. They may not be the forgive-and-forget types.

“So here’s the scoop: Under no circumstances shall anyone here shoot at a Highlander unit. Even if they take you under fire.”

“Who do we shoot at, boss?” The question came from second echelon.

“The Tin Puppies are our targets for today. Separate ’em out, push ’em back, get ’em off planet. The battle’s started. We finish it. We’re moving north to contact. Now move.”

With that he stepped forward. The Jupiter had a low cruising speed, and the rest of the mercs limited themselves to its slow but relentless pace. They formed up in open order with scouts and skirmishers out, and with the sun on their right side, the long advance began.