Toshira waved his arm at Naiku, who passed the signal to Gudmansen.
Ropes slithered backward through the exit. Two figures armed with infernos popped up at the far corners of the room.
Reacting to the sight, the Marauderswung its arms and fired both PPCs. Bright blue lanced into the corners, obliterating the stuffed clothing and empty weapons.
The 'Mech staggered back. Toshira and Wanabe could see waves of heat rise from the machine.
Paint-blocked heat sinks were unable to deal with the intense build-up. The temperature in the cockpit shot up.
‘I don't see how the pilot can breathe,’ Wanabe whispered.
The Marauderbrushed against wash hoses designed for water only, not the solvent pumped into the tank by Gudmansen. A flame danced across the 'Mech's left arm and leaped to the hoses. Rubble interfering with its backward steps, the 'Mech pivoted to spot the opening.
Wanabe, mixed emotions obvious in her voice, pulled on the Sergeant's tunic. ‘He's going to make it out!’
There was a burst of rifle fire from the far doorway. Streams of liquid poured out of the tank onto the Marauder.A blue tunnel of fire, like a slow burst from a tiny PPC, darted from the 'Mech up to the storage tank.
Toshira and Wanabe ducked as the explosion engulfed the Marauderin flames.
Miko, unable to control her curiosity, lifted her head enough to watch the 'Mech stagger backward. ‘He's not going to eject.’
The Marauder'sleg thrust to the rear, trying to stop the momentum. The tip of the foot scraped concrete, flattened, and put its weight on burning gray plywood. The machine crushed the covering and toppled into the mechanic's pit.
Wanabe turned away as 75 tons of Marauderlanded on a -dozen brittle plastic barrels filled with thermo-chem.
Sitting on top of the broken Hunter at the main gate. Toshira cupped his hand over the old communicator's mouthpiece. He shook his head at Mannimoto. ‘This is typical. Headquarters wants to know it we'll need transportation back.’
An eyebrow-less Mannimoto shrugged. ‘Gudmansen and the others should be back soon. They seemed confident that they would come up with something. They’ve got some talent’
‘That they do.’ Toshira smiled and removed his hand from the phone. ‘We're—’
A familiar engine note and thudding sound stopped conversation. Both soldiers straightened.
Toshira whispered into the communicator. ‘Stand by.’
Mannimoto cocked his head, then turned away from the gate. ‘Toshira,’ he said. ‘Back here.’
A Marauderstalked slowly up the street, dragging an engine-less APC. Canopy gone, its body stuck facing left, arms frozen, the paint-splashed 'Mech looked more like an amusement park statue than a war machine.
Recruit Miko Wanabe sat in the pilot seat, showing a huge grin. ‘Need a ride, Corporal Mannimoto?’
Chewing his lower lip, Mannimoto turned to Toshira. ‘You know, there are some things I regret saying.’
Toshira started to point at Wanabe. then couldn't think of an appropriate reply and merely waved his hand aimlessly.
‘Edith figured out how to get it on its feet and Aragi bypassed the start sequence.’ Wanabe indicated the top of the APC where Naiku and Gudmansen sat. ‘So. Sergeant, want a ride?’
Toshira pulled his helmet off and wiped his bald spot. A squawk from the radio brought him back and he lifted the handset to his ear again. ‘Oh, sorry. Yeah, transportation? Ah, let me get back to you.’
THE RACE IS NOT TO THE SWIFT
-Bear Peters
‘... St. George... Three... incoming...’
The snarl of the radio faded, inaudible amid the rattle of falling shrapnel. Encased in his Shadow Hawk,Captain Cyrus St. George did not fear the flying debris, only the incoming missiles that caused it.
He cut from the command frequency, on which he had been alternately requesting and demanding close air support, to his tactical link with his Lance Sergeant Major. ‘Say again, Sergeant. Your transmission's garbled.’
‘Captain St. George, we've got a problem with Swords Three.’
‘Sergeant, can you nail it down? I'm trying to pry free some fighter support from H.Q.’
‘Sir, I don't think Swords Three can wait. Their CO. was taken out over 20 minutes ago. There doesn't seem to be any real command over there.’
The Captain looked out over the terrain that separated him from his right flank, not liking what he saw. The rolling ground provided too much opportunity for the enemy to form up beyond a ridgeline for a counterattack. The good news was that there were no Steiner fighters in the steel-gray sky for the first time today. ‘What's their active strength, Sergeant?’
‘They have three 'Mechs still operational—a Wasp,a Hermesand a Stinger.C.O.'s gone, and they're being hit on the front by long-range stuff, same as us. We will fall back on your position as soon as I can reach Swords One.’
‘Aye, sir. We'll be there. Count on it’
As the Sergeant's Wolverinemoved away from Swords Two's perimeter, Captain St. George muttered to himself, ‘Just buy me a minute or two to form up the company, and find out what's going on.’
Ever since the Solaris strike force had deployed, things had seemed to get progressively worse. Though the disguised DropShips had reached the landing field unscathed, the trouble began as soon as the troops had reached their primary targets. That's when the hammer fell. The Lyrans counterattacked, first with fighters in relatively weak strength, then with huge unreported concentrations of 'Mech forces. The regiment, the 33rd Marik Militia, took it on the chin for about three hours. When the Lyran attack seemed to slacken, Colonel Drinkwater, the 33rd's CO., dispatched the 131st Battalion under Force Commander Sen Sho Keshii to strike into the suburban hills. Where went Keshii's 131st, so went the Captain's 'Mech Company, The Swords of St. George, with its Swords One, Two, and Three lances.
They had been successful at the onset, but soon bogged down after they had left the city proper and penetrated the rolling countryside. After the first hours, it became obvious that the Lyran forces were winning the air war. First, the Marik fighters became scarce, then completely unavailable. Without air support, the thrust had ground to a halt. While St. George was talking to the Sergeant, Regimental had come on his command frequency with word that there was no available air support in the 33rd's theater of operations.
‘Swords One. Swords One. This is Swords Leader. What's your status? Over.’
‘Swords Leader, Sergeant Harris here. We are holding on to this front for now, sir. Where's our fighter support? We're being cut to ribbons.’
Sergeant Harris?‘Where's Lieutenant Tragg?’ St. George could not keep the worry from his voice, for his command structure was unraveling fast.
‘The Lieutenant had to punch out, sir, That last fighter wave hit us with inferno cluster bombs. His Maraudercouldn't take the heat. Reactor overload.’ The Sergeant sounded wretched. ‘He didn't make it. sir.’
Take charge, Sergeant. You're in command over there. Now report. What opposition are you facing?’
‘We've got a lot of long-range stuff coming from our front, but nothing that's a real problem.’ The Sergeant paused. ‘Unless those fighters come back.'
Harris's unspoken question hung in the the static-filled air: What happened to our fighters?Captain St. George wished fervently that he knew.
‘Swords One, fall back behind that ridge to our rear. Sergeant McHaigh should be digging in there with Swords Three. I'll be providing cover for you both.’
‘Captain, does this mean we're pulling out? What about the...’
‘Sergeant, fall back to the ridge. That's an order.’