Outside Bliven, Alkalurops

25 August 3134

Captain Yonni Brassenbird, commander of A Company, realized he might have misled Hanson a bit as he heard the new orders come over the static of the long-range radio. He hadn’t actually forced a crossing of the river up ahead. What he had done was flush out six snipers and they had fled in their pickups for the river. Minor difference.

Yonni urged his first platoon forward—a task force with two tanks and two squads of infantry mounted in Giggins armored personnel carriers. “Keep those trucks under fire, but don’t hit them. If they got the need to flee, let ’em go, and anyone they talk to.”

That was Major Hanson’s idea. If a bunch ran, encourage them. Send enough fire their way so they don’t forget why they’re pedal to the metal. Prisoners were to be passed through to the Black and Reds. Yonni didn’t need that blood on his conscience.

First Platoon reached the last bluff this side of the river. Yonni halted them on overwatch and ordered Second Platoon to pass through. Second had two hovertanks well suited for the riverbed. Its infantry were in trucks. They dismounted and began the river crossing on foot. Third and Fourth Platoons, ’ Mech-infantry task forces, would come up on each flank, provide cover fire, and be ready to exploit forward. The ’Mechs should have no trouble climbing down the riverbank and crossing a river barely two centimeters deep.

Yonni led his headquarters section forward in his newly assigned Legionnaire. This big ’Mech was one of the best in the battalion, and Yonni intended to show he knew how to lead from the front. Chasing a running bunch of civilians wouldn’t be much of a test, but the Major expected this push wouldn’t stop until they took Falkirk. Yonni intended his Legionnaire to be the first Roughrider into that burg.

Leaving his command van with First Platoon, Yonni joined Second Platoon as it made its way gingerly down the riverbank. There were plenty of paths worn by the local cows, but only the bridge offered an easy crossing. One squad of infantry moved across it under desultory and inaccurate long-range rifle fire.

“Bridge is rigged for demolition. We’re yanking wires,” the corporal leading that squad reported.

Well away from the bridge, the hovertanks sped down the bank, bouncing right and left as they nosed over. A Condor landed hard on its bow at the bottom and ended up stalled sideways. Yonni took his Legionnaire down a cow path, then patrolled back and forth in front of the stalled tank. Stopped dead, the tank was a perfect target for a antitank rocket, but all the hostiles got off were a few rifle shots.

“We got a tank stopped dead on our front and a Legionnaire just prancing back and forth,” Syn Bakai reported on radio.

“Hold your fire,” Wilson reminded her. He could spot her ’Mech MOD, as well as Jobe’s, under cover behind an iron grain elevator. “I’m coming up. Remember the plan.”

Syn snorted. “You won’t let me forget it.”

Wilson’s son gunned the jeep forward. Two pickups passed them, headed north out of Bliven. The good old boys in the back waved, rifles in hand. They’d done their jobs. Wilson shook his head. Sometimes herding dumb cows was easier than getting ’Mech pilots to do what they were told.

There was no cover the last hundred meters to the elevator. They took some fire, but nothing came close. Yep, there was nothing wrong with Syn’s eyes. A hovertank and a huge ’Mech with one nasty-looking rotary autocannon marched back and forth in front of a parked hovertank. Across the gulch came the sound of a starter grinding. That would be the dead tank.

A Navajo trotted out from the elevator’s office, grinning. “We’ve got everything in place,” he said, climbing in the back of the jeep. “Those mercs are going to love dancing with Coyote.”

Wilson pointed for his son to park at the foot of Syn’s MiningMech MOD, and reached for the large wrench he kept under his seat for just such occasions. Shouldn’t be long now.

The stalled motor caught, and the tank got under way slowly. “I think we bent a blade,” the driver reported. Infantry were halfway across the trickle that the locals called a river. Yonni waded in behind them. Here and there, rocks created eddies in the water. He avoided the potential deep spots behind them as consciously as he negotiated the questionable footing of the rocks.

Suddenly, on his left, two gray ’Mech MODs stepped out from behind a tall metal building. They fired missiles, as well as a long stream of slugs. He snapped off a quick burst of fifty-millimeter rounds and sidestepped right, positioning himself at an angle that would complicate their firing solution. He adjusted his pace to avoid a rock as he tried to sight in on the lead ’Mech for an aimed burst.

Then he felt his left footpad sink into the muddy water. He bent his right knee quickly, taking the pressure off his ’Mech’s hips and hardly felt the explosion that sent water geysering up around his left leg. He pulled that leg up as a spray of enemy fire splashed a line of mud and water to his right. His footpad dangled uselessly.

“Damn.”

Yonni tried to fire off a burst even as he set his left leg down gingerly. Standing on one leg and shooting was not something ’Mechs did. Gyros screamed, and he jammed down his damaged leg to keep his ’Mech from toppling over.

To his right, infantry fire reached out for the gray ’Mechs from the perimeter on the north side of the bridge. That squad had cut all visible demolition wires. A Demon medium tank from First Platoon slowly nosed onto the bridge, its turret rotating to take the hostile ’Mechs under fire.

Then all hell broke loose.

An explosion shattered the middle bridge span, sending chunks of deck and girders skyward. Then charges sheared off the two spans on either side of the middle one. Two final explosions dropped the last spans, intact, so they now led down to the dry riverbed at totally unusable thirty-degree angles.

“What did I tell you?” the Navajo crowed, tossing the remote detonator on the seat of the jeep. “They got the ’Mech. I got the bridge. Perfect!”

To Wilson’s right, Syn’s and Jobe’s ’Mechs each took a step forward. They were supposed to be backing out. He was out of his jeep in a second, wrench in hand. Behind him, his son shouted, “Get back! Get back!” into the jeep’s mike. “Remember the plan.”

Wilson caught up with Syn’s back leg and rapped it, then rapped it again. “Back up,” he shouted in case she had her outside mike on. “We retreat now. Remember.”

“You are no fun,” came from the ’Mech’s outside speaker.

Wilson hammered the leg again.

The tank that hadn’t made it onto the bridge sent a large-caliber shell their way, reminding Wilson just how exposed he was.

“Maybe we should back up,” came Jobe’s voice from the jeep’s speakers. “If they clobber this grain elevator, things could get real bad.”

One ’Mech backed up. The second one joined it. Wilson ran to his jeep, and his son gunned out to the left, away from the ’Mechs who retreated into Bliven, snapping off short bursts at anyone who sent fire their way.

For a long moment Yonni watched the expanding clouds of explosives. Around him, everyone did the same. Here and there a man, ’Mech or tank maneuvered to dodge a falling chunk of debris.

Then the Demon tank that hadn’t been blown up with the bridge expressed its opinion by snapping off a laser shot at the gray ’Mechs. They started backing up, firing back at anyone who fired at them. When they passed out of sight behind the multistoried buildings that must represent Bliven’s main street, the riverbank grew silent.