By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Moderator: LadyTevar
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Edward is young, but no fool. Unlike Michael Hanse-Davion, who was ALWAYS a self-serving amoral opportunist who was a drain on House Davion from the first.
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
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- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
3rd Platoon, E Troop, Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion, Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
Leftenant Henry Barksdale scanned the horizon with a pair of binoculars as he stood in the open hatch of his Packrat recon vehicle. He swayed slightly and he lowered the glasses to wipe away the sweat from his salt-crusted forehead.
“You see it, LT?” asked Sergeant Bobby Gordon who manned the sensors in the steaming interior—the powerful climate control system of the recon vehicle was having difficulties of its own in coping with the oppressive heat. “Those are trees over in that ravine—and where there are trees, there’s water.”
“Maybe,” Henry answered. “Maybe not. The water could be deep underground, Sergeant; some trees have roots that run for quite a ways.”
“But there might be, LT—right?”
Henry licked his parched lips and he slowly nodded. “Right,” he whispered. “Any word from HQ on when we can expect resupply?”
“Yes, sir,” answered one of the recon infantry housed in the rear compartment. “We’ve outpaced the support brigade—they say that it’ll be tomorrow afternoon before the dromedaries catch up.”
“Damn,” Henry muttered under his breath. The Taurians were proving quite a bit more elusive than he had imagined they would be—his lip twitched as he remembered the old stories his grand-father told of fanatical defenders . . . stories handed down from his grand-father, who learned them from his. So far, he had only caught brief glimpses of the enemy—scouts like him, not the heavy combat troops. And the little fire exchanged had mostly come from snipers who shot once and then hauled ass.
Bastards. The snipers hadn’t shot at him or the other vehicle commanders; no, they had targeted the canisters of fresh water his vehicle carried on the external bustle racks. ALL of them now had a pair of holes in them . . . and the water he had expected to last three days was gone. Only the dregs left in their personal canteens and camelbaks remained.
Henry placed one hand (rather gingerly) on the Federated-Barrett M42B Auto-Rifle one of his troopers had mounted up here on a pintle; it wasn’t a proper machine-gun by any means, but it would serve in a pinch against light vehicles or infantry—not such much against tanks or ‘Mechs. The weapon was hot enough to scald bare flesh, and the young Leftenant just four months past graduation from the small Numenor Academy of Military Sciences made sure that he didn’t grab it; he just swiveled it out of the way and looked at the green foliage in the distance once again. One of the less prestigious schools in the Federated Suns, it had been the only one which had accepted Henry as a MechWarrior candidate—after all, his family wasn’t rich, nor had they been MechWarriors.
Despite that, he had graduated seventeenth in his class and won his spurs . . . and was then promptly assigned to the Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers where he had been told that they didn’t need another MechWarrior and didn’t have a ‘Mech for him if they did. No, those slots (and ‘Mechs) went to graduates from the Warrior’s Hall on New Syrtis—and Henry Barksdale found himself reassigned to the RCT Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion. To the Packrat scout vehicles of the CSR Battalion, Henry sighed to himself over the injustice of it all.
Sure, he was still an officer—still a platoon leader—but instead of a ‘Mech lance, he had four Packrats, the eleven NCOs and enlisted men who manned the vehicles, and a short platoon of twenty-four recon infantry . . . a six-man squad in each vehicle, divided into three two-man recon/scout/sniper teams.
“Fuck it,” Henry said in an exhausted voice. “Corporal Alexander,” he called out to the driver. “You think you can navigate us a way down into that ravine? Or should we dismount the infantry?”
“Hell, yes, LT,” came the answer. “There’s a slope about half a klick back that we can descend no problem.”
“Okay,” Henry answered and he keyed his helmet microphone. “Easy Three One to Easy Three Two,” he broadcast.
“Go ahead, Three One,” the veteran gunnery sergeant who served as his executive officer answered.
“Converge on my vehicle—we are going to laager for the night down in the ravine. There might be water down there and we’ve got shelter from the wind.”
“Permission to speak freely, Three One?”
“Go ahead,” Henry replied after checking to make certain he was on the private frequency between him and the gunny.
“Not a good idea, Sir. That ravine is tight—if the Taurians manage to ambush us in there . . . ,” his voice trailed off.
“Understood—but we need water and we are fifteen kilometers ahead of the combat formations. And it is going to get cold out here as soon as that sun dips below the horizon—very cold.” He sighed. “And half my boys seem to left their cold weather clothing back on the DropShips.”
Henry heard an answering sigh from the far end. “Understood—and I’ve ripped Alvarez a new asshole for doing the same. Moron is going to freeze his balls off tonight if we don’t break out the survival blankets for him.”
“Tell you what, Gunny, Alvarez can walk perimeter on two watches to keep warm, along with my band of idiots.”
A chuckle came over the radio at that. “Like the way you think, LT. Be there in five.”
“Roger that; Three One out,” Henry answered and he switched the radio back to the vehicle net. “Get us rolling, Alexander—Larson,” he ordered the senior of the recon infantry, “I want the entire ravine swept for surprises once we get down there.”
“On it, boss,” the recon grunt answered, just as the eight-wheeled Packrat began to accelerate towards the ravine’s distant entrance.
NOTE: I realize that in the AFFS of 3025 there is no rank of Gunnery Sergeant. BUT, the enlisted ranks just go Private, Corporal, Sergeant, and Sergeant Major. I mean, WTF? No, sorry, but this is one case where canon can bite me. ANY military needs more than four enlisted/non-commissioned officer ranks . . . COMBINED. Far more. Just my thought on the subject.
MA
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
Leftenant Henry Barksdale scanned the horizon with a pair of binoculars as he stood in the open hatch of his Packrat recon vehicle. He swayed slightly and he lowered the glasses to wipe away the sweat from his salt-crusted forehead.
“You see it, LT?” asked Sergeant Bobby Gordon who manned the sensors in the steaming interior—the powerful climate control system of the recon vehicle was having difficulties of its own in coping with the oppressive heat. “Those are trees over in that ravine—and where there are trees, there’s water.”
“Maybe,” Henry answered. “Maybe not. The water could be deep underground, Sergeant; some trees have roots that run for quite a ways.”
“But there might be, LT—right?”
Henry licked his parched lips and he slowly nodded. “Right,” he whispered. “Any word from HQ on when we can expect resupply?”
“Yes, sir,” answered one of the recon infantry housed in the rear compartment. “We’ve outpaced the support brigade—they say that it’ll be tomorrow afternoon before the dromedaries catch up.”
“Damn,” Henry muttered under his breath. The Taurians were proving quite a bit more elusive than he had imagined they would be—his lip twitched as he remembered the old stories his grand-father told of fanatical defenders . . . stories handed down from his grand-father, who learned them from his. So far, he had only caught brief glimpses of the enemy—scouts like him, not the heavy combat troops. And the little fire exchanged had mostly come from snipers who shot once and then hauled ass.
Bastards. The snipers hadn’t shot at him or the other vehicle commanders; no, they had targeted the canisters of fresh water his vehicle carried on the external bustle racks. ALL of them now had a pair of holes in them . . . and the water he had expected to last three days was gone. Only the dregs left in their personal canteens and camelbaks remained.
Henry placed one hand (rather gingerly) on the Federated-Barrett M42B Auto-Rifle one of his troopers had mounted up here on a pintle; it wasn’t a proper machine-gun by any means, but it would serve in a pinch against light vehicles or infantry—not such much against tanks or ‘Mechs. The weapon was hot enough to scald bare flesh, and the young Leftenant just four months past graduation from the small Numenor Academy of Military Sciences made sure that he didn’t grab it; he just swiveled it out of the way and looked at the green foliage in the distance once again. One of the less prestigious schools in the Federated Suns, it had been the only one which had accepted Henry as a MechWarrior candidate—after all, his family wasn’t rich, nor had they been MechWarriors.
Despite that, he had graduated seventeenth in his class and won his spurs . . . and was then promptly assigned to the Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers where he had been told that they didn’t need another MechWarrior and didn’t have a ‘Mech for him if they did. No, those slots (and ‘Mechs) went to graduates from the Warrior’s Hall on New Syrtis—and Henry Barksdale found himself reassigned to the RCT Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion. To the Packrat scout vehicles of the CSR Battalion, Henry sighed to himself over the injustice of it all.
Sure, he was still an officer—still a platoon leader—but instead of a ‘Mech lance, he had four Packrats, the eleven NCOs and enlisted men who manned the vehicles, and a short platoon of twenty-four recon infantry . . . a six-man squad in each vehicle, divided into three two-man recon/scout/sniper teams.
“Fuck it,” Henry said in an exhausted voice. “Corporal Alexander,” he called out to the driver. “You think you can navigate us a way down into that ravine? Or should we dismount the infantry?”
“Hell, yes, LT,” came the answer. “There’s a slope about half a klick back that we can descend no problem.”
“Okay,” Henry answered and he keyed his helmet microphone. “Easy Three One to Easy Three Two,” he broadcast.
“Go ahead, Three One,” the veteran gunnery sergeant who served as his executive officer answered.
“Converge on my vehicle—we are going to laager for the night down in the ravine. There might be water down there and we’ve got shelter from the wind.”
“Permission to speak freely, Three One?”
“Go ahead,” Henry replied after checking to make certain he was on the private frequency between him and the gunny.
“Not a good idea, Sir. That ravine is tight—if the Taurians manage to ambush us in there . . . ,” his voice trailed off.
“Understood—but we need water and we are fifteen kilometers ahead of the combat formations. And it is going to get cold out here as soon as that sun dips below the horizon—very cold.” He sighed. “And half my boys seem to left their cold weather clothing back on the DropShips.”
Henry heard an answering sigh from the far end. “Understood—and I’ve ripped Alvarez a new asshole for doing the same. Moron is going to freeze his balls off tonight if we don’t break out the survival blankets for him.”
“Tell you what, Gunny, Alvarez can walk perimeter on two watches to keep warm, along with my band of idiots.”
A chuckle came over the radio at that. “Like the way you think, LT. Be there in five.”
“Roger that; Three One out,” Henry answered and he switched the radio back to the vehicle net. “Get us rolling, Alexander—Larson,” he ordered the senior of the recon infantry, “I want the entire ravine swept for surprises once we get down there.”
“On it, boss,” the recon grunt answered, just as the eight-wheeled Packrat began to accelerate towards the ravine’s distant entrance.
NOTE: I realize that in the AFFS of 3025 there is no rank of Gunnery Sergeant. BUT, the enlisted ranks just go Private, Corporal, Sergeant, and Sergeant Major. I mean, WTF? No, sorry, but this is one case where canon can bite me. ANY military needs more than four enlisted/non-commissioned officer ranks . . . COMBINED. Far more. Just my thought on the subject.
MA
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
3rd Platoon, E Troop, Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion, Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
“I’ll be damned,” muttered Gunnery Sergeant Joshua Franks after he dismounted his vehicle and spotted the pool of clear, clean water that surrounded the roots of about a dozen trees and a thick curtain of vines covering the shaded side of the ravine.
“We still have the problem of holes in all of our water cans,” Henry said.
“Metal cans, LT,” the Gunny laughed. “And we’ve got welders in the tool kits—thirty minutes, and we’ll patch every damn canister we have.”
“The Taurians will just new holes in them,” chimed in Sergeant Bobby Gordon, and Henry sighed.
“We’re going to have to store the cans inside the Packrats—not on the external racks.”
The Sergeant winced, even as the Gunny nodded. “LT,” Bobby protested, “that’s twenty-seven cans per vehicle! There won’t be room for any of us!”
“We’ll make room,” growled the Gunny. “The food can go outside—it doesn’t matter if the bastards put a hole in that, we can still eat it. The hand tools—crowbars, shovels, picks. Our rucks with the platoon’s personal gear.”
“Gunny,” Bobby began, but the older man cut him off.
“You can live with a hole in your clothes, Sergeant Gordon—you can’t if you don’t have water to drink.”
“Agreed,” said Henry. “It’ll still be tight, but I want as much water under armor as we can cram inside. Second problem—that pool might not give us the four hundred plus gallons we need.”
The Gunnery Sergeant shrugged. “If it doesn’t it doesn’t, LT. We’re still better off having half our allotment than none if we drain it before we finish filling the cans.”
“Yeah,” Henry said softly. “Suns already starting to set, Gunny—let’s get cracking on patching those cans and getting them filled and loaded.”
“Tonight?” asked Bobby. “The boys are worn thin, LT.”
“We’re on an enemy world in hostile territory sitting around a water hole that you think the Taurians don’t know about, Sergeant! I don’t care if the boys and girls are tired—get the cans patched and get them loaded—before any of us get any shut-eye.”
Joshua smiled . . . and Bobby sighed. “I’ll get on it, LT. Is the water safe for drinking or are we going to have to filter it?”
Henry grinned. “The test strips say it’s A-OK, Sergeant—got an odd taste, but then every planet tastes a bit different, doesn’t it?”
“True enough, LT,” Bobby said as he walked off and began to bark orders at the infantry and vehicle crewmen—to be answered by groans and curses and then more barked orders.
Henry waited until the Sergeant had cussed the men into their work and then he turned back to Joshua. “Gunny,” he whispered, “admittedly, I haven’t been on too many worlds. But we have water here—in the middle of the desert. Why isn’t this ravine swarming with insects and birds, lizards and small mammals?”
“Yeah,” Joshua answered as he looked over the cliffs again. “It’s too quiet—we might have scared off the bigger stuff, but there should be bugs here still. Never seen a world that we colonized that didn’t have bugs.”
“Full security perimeter, Gunny—even if that slows down fixing and filling the cans,” Henry ordered. “Keep the lads and lasses alert and on their toes—I don’t like this.”
“Thinking about leaving just as soon as we fill up?”
“I am—is that the wrong decision?”
“You’re the officer, Sir—you make that call. But for the record . . . I agree. We patch the cans and fill them and get the hell out of this hole in the ground.”
That was when the first screams began.
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
“I’ll be damned,” muttered Gunnery Sergeant Joshua Franks after he dismounted his vehicle and spotted the pool of clear, clean water that surrounded the roots of about a dozen trees and a thick curtain of vines covering the shaded side of the ravine.
“We still have the problem of holes in all of our water cans,” Henry said.
“Metal cans, LT,” the Gunny laughed. “And we’ve got welders in the tool kits—thirty minutes, and we’ll patch every damn canister we have.”
“The Taurians will just new holes in them,” chimed in Sergeant Bobby Gordon, and Henry sighed.
“We’re going to have to store the cans inside the Packrats—not on the external racks.”
The Sergeant winced, even as the Gunny nodded. “LT,” Bobby protested, “that’s twenty-seven cans per vehicle! There won’t be room for any of us!”
“We’ll make room,” growled the Gunny. “The food can go outside—it doesn’t matter if the bastards put a hole in that, we can still eat it. The hand tools—crowbars, shovels, picks. Our rucks with the platoon’s personal gear.”
“Gunny,” Bobby began, but the older man cut him off.
“You can live with a hole in your clothes, Sergeant Gordon—you can’t if you don’t have water to drink.”
“Agreed,” said Henry. “It’ll still be tight, but I want as much water under armor as we can cram inside. Second problem—that pool might not give us the four hundred plus gallons we need.”
The Gunnery Sergeant shrugged. “If it doesn’t it doesn’t, LT. We’re still better off having half our allotment than none if we drain it before we finish filling the cans.”
“Yeah,” Henry said softly. “Suns already starting to set, Gunny—let’s get cracking on patching those cans and getting them filled and loaded.”
“Tonight?” asked Bobby. “The boys are worn thin, LT.”
“We’re on an enemy world in hostile territory sitting around a water hole that you think the Taurians don’t know about, Sergeant! I don’t care if the boys and girls are tired—get the cans patched and get them loaded—before any of us get any shut-eye.”
Joshua smiled . . . and Bobby sighed. “I’ll get on it, LT. Is the water safe for drinking or are we going to have to filter it?”
Henry grinned. “The test strips say it’s A-OK, Sergeant—got an odd taste, but then every planet tastes a bit different, doesn’t it?”
“True enough, LT,” Bobby said as he walked off and began to bark orders at the infantry and vehicle crewmen—to be answered by groans and curses and then more barked orders.
Henry waited until the Sergeant had cussed the men into their work and then he turned back to Joshua. “Gunny,” he whispered, “admittedly, I haven’t been on too many worlds. But we have water here—in the middle of the desert. Why isn’t this ravine swarming with insects and birds, lizards and small mammals?”
“Yeah,” Joshua answered as he looked over the cliffs again. “It’s too quiet—we might have scared off the bigger stuff, but there should be bugs here still. Never seen a world that we colonized that didn’t have bugs.”
“Full security perimeter, Gunny—even if that slows down fixing and filling the cans,” Henry ordered. “Keep the lads and lasses alert and on their toes—I don’t like this.”
“Thinking about leaving just as soon as we fill up?”
“I am—is that the wrong decision?”
“You’re the officer, Sir—you make that call. But for the record . . . I agree. We patch the cans and fill them and get the hell out of this hole in the ground.”
That was when the first screams began.
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
My money's on a hallucinogen in the water...
Probably should have had whoever's been shirking their duties the most taste it first, and then wait a little while while they fix the canteens.
(Incidentally, did you know that messing with the water supply is against the Geneva conventions? Not that the Taurians would give a toss about such old Earth traditions, necessarily, but I thought I'd better point it out).
Probably should have had whoever's been shirking their duties the most taste it first, and then wait a little while while they fix the canteens.
(Incidentally, did you know that messing with the water supply is against the Geneva conventions? Not that the Taurians would give a toss about such old Earth traditions, necessarily, but I thought I'd better point it out).
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
IIRC the Germans complained after WWI that the British had violated that rule back in East Africa during the fighting there. Every waterhole their troops tried to use had a warning sign that it had been poisoned and dead animal bodies around them in stark evidence. What monsters the British Army were, the dirty war criminals!
To which the British asked where in the Geneva Convention it said they couldn't post signs and deposit dead bodies around a few waterholes.
Sadly I suspect the Syrtis Fusiliers tests would probably notice that, so the exact ploy wouldn't work here. (While the Taurians don't care a hoot for the 'rules of war' as practised by the rest of the Inner Sphere, poisoning their OWN water supplies seems like something they'd want to be able to UNdo afterwards. They might want to use the water afterwards).
To which the British asked where in the Geneva Convention it said they couldn't post signs and deposit dead bodies around a few waterholes.
Sadly I suspect the Syrtis Fusiliers tests would probably notice that, so the exact ploy wouldn't work here. (While the Taurians don't care a hoot for the 'rules of war' as practised by the rest of the Inner Sphere, poisoning their OWN water supplies seems like something they'd want to be able to UNdo afterwards. They might want to use the water afterwards).
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
I suspect that whatever is in the water may be a naturally occurring compound - the Fusilier's test kits would most likely show any "normal" contamination, or even the presence of most typical chemicals that might be used to spike the water. Perhaps even a microbe or some other type of parasite, although the fact that insects were avoiding the water as well makes me think that particular theory is unlikely.drakensis wrote:Sadly I suspect the Syrtis Fusiliers tests would probably notice that, so the exact ploy wouldn't work here. (While the Taurians don't care a hoot for the 'rules of war' as practised by the rest of the Inner Sphere, poisoning their OWN water supplies seems like something they'd want to be able to UNdo afterwards. They might want to use the water afterwards).
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Forget a biowar or chemical compound my money is on an amphibious predator, likely the offspring of the Nile crocodile and a Honey Badger considering the 6th's luck to date. 
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
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- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
3rd Platoon, E Troop, Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion, Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
“I want to just lay down and let that water run all over me,” muttered Joachim Alvarez as he stared at the still pool of water in the shade of the cliff faces and trees.
“Alvarez,” snapped Sergeant Gordon, “you foul my drinking water with your grungy body and I’ll ride you from now ‘til the last light goes out in this universe. Dietrich, you and Kowalski join Alvarez in walking the perimeter—keep your eyes peeled for Taurians and local predators alike.”
“Ah, Sarge,” Ann Dietrich began to protest, but the Fusilier non-com cut her off short.
“Save your whining, solider, and get your ass moving. The rest of you—break out the jerry cans and the patches . . . we have work to do before we get a drink.”
As the rest of the platoon began to spot weld patches in place on the cans, the three—Alvarez, Dietrich, and Kowalski—began to circle the shallow pool towards the far end of the ravine.
“Too quiet,” mumbled Corporal Morgan Kowalski, his auto-rifle held at the ready. “Shouldn’t there be some of those local lizards here drinking the water?”
“Maybe they only come out at night,” Dietrich suggested. “The full heat of day has to be something that reptiles can’t handle all that well.”
“Not that hot down here in the shade,” Kowalski answered. Then he frowned. “What is that stuff having from the branches—moss?”
“Looks like it,” the lady scout said after a moment. “It’s on the vines and the cliff too.”
“Hello,” Alvarez said softly. “I call dibs,” he said in a more excited voice. The other two stopped and they looked where the private was pointing—and protruding from the mass of moss was the blue alloy barrel of a Taurian service revolver.
“Leave it alone, dipshit,” growled Kowalski. “We’re not here to collect souvenirs.”
“Sod off, man. Damn if I’m going to invade a Taurian world and not come home with a genuine Taurian magnum revolver—their officers carry those, you know.”
“So you can ooh and aah the girls back on New Syrtis, Joachim?” Ann asked. “You going to tell them you picked up an abandoned piece—or you going to weave a story about prying it from the hands of a Taurian officer that you personally killed in hand-to-hand combat?”
“Whatever works, Dee,” Alvarez replied as he made his way towards the cluster of trees and began to crawl over their gnarled roots to get to the weapon. “This shit is sticky,” he said in a puzzled voice, and then he brushed his face. “There are more strands of it hanging from the trees.”
“Leave it, Alvarez,” Kowalski warned. “Get your ass back here.”
“I’ve almost got it,” the private grunted as he stretched out, his fingers scrapping over the muzzle. “Come here, you piece of shit,” he grunted as he reached for the weapon—then he managed to get it in his hand. And snarled. “Damn thing is stuck,” he said as he pulled and the vines parted to reveal a large mass of the moss—four feet across—with the pistol tangled up inside of it.
“This isn’t a good idea, Private,” Kowalski snapped. “Leave the damn pistol alone!”
“I’ve got it, dude; quit your bitching already!” Alvarez barked back and he gave the revolver another yank—and it came free, along with the skeletal hand of the long-dead Taurian soldier still gripping it. Kowalski and Dietrich both inhaled sharply as the mass parted—because in that instant they realized it wasn’t moss. It was webbing that encased an egg sack.
“What the hell?” Alvarez blurted as he backed up, thousands of tiny diaphanous eggs spilling out—and bursting open as the immature insects inside suddenly awoke.
Furious at being disturbed before their normal hatching—and starving with hunger—the tiny creatures swarmed over the private, biting and stinging . . . and Alvarez howled in pain as they covered him from head to toe, the insects crawling up his nose and down his throat—across his eyes and into his ear canals.
“SHIT!” yelled Kowalski, but the Corporal didn’t move . . . his rifle was no use against such tiny targets and every instinct in his body screamed for him to run.
“CORP!” Dietrich yelled as faint strands of fresh webbing descended from the trees . . . and dozens of much larger insects slid down to begin cocooning the shrieking writhing private. They were almost spiders, a corner of Kowalski’s brain noted—six-legs, a body clad in dark chitin, two more limbs ending in claws like those of a mantis, clicking mandibles, and a sharp stinger protruding from the just above the snipperets. But these spider-things were the size of a terrier.
Dietrich fired—her rifle spitting a stream of bullets that tore into the crawling insects . . . and past them into the caves camouflaged by the vines. The vines quivered . . . and then hundreds of the adult spider-things emerged.
“Fuck me,” Kowalski whispered as he raised his rifle and began to service targets . . . while backing away as fast as he could on the uneven ground. “Dietrich! We are LEAVING!” he shouted.
But before the woman could begin to back away, several of the creatures crouched down and then jumped—they soared across the fifteen meters separating them from the soldier and she screamed as they began to tear into her flesh with their mandibles—and plunged those stingers dripping with venom into her body.
Kowalski blanched as tens of thousands of the hungry juveniles emerged, their legs a blur as they poured out of the caverns and moved towards him in a living carpet with no other purpose than to suck away his blood and bodily fluids—he turned and began to run . . . but the adults were atop of him before he took three steps and the veteran soldier screamed in agony as four-centimeter long stingers punched through his combat utilities and into his back.
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
“I want to just lay down and let that water run all over me,” muttered Joachim Alvarez as he stared at the still pool of water in the shade of the cliff faces and trees.
“Alvarez,” snapped Sergeant Gordon, “you foul my drinking water with your grungy body and I’ll ride you from now ‘til the last light goes out in this universe. Dietrich, you and Kowalski join Alvarez in walking the perimeter—keep your eyes peeled for Taurians and local predators alike.”
“Ah, Sarge,” Ann Dietrich began to protest, but the Fusilier non-com cut her off short.
“Save your whining, solider, and get your ass moving. The rest of you—break out the jerry cans and the patches . . . we have work to do before we get a drink.”
As the rest of the platoon began to spot weld patches in place on the cans, the three—Alvarez, Dietrich, and Kowalski—began to circle the shallow pool towards the far end of the ravine.
“Too quiet,” mumbled Corporal Morgan Kowalski, his auto-rifle held at the ready. “Shouldn’t there be some of those local lizards here drinking the water?”
“Maybe they only come out at night,” Dietrich suggested. “The full heat of day has to be something that reptiles can’t handle all that well.”
“Not that hot down here in the shade,” Kowalski answered. Then he frowned. “What is that stuff having from the branches—moss?”
“Looks like it,” the lady scout said after a moment. “It’s on the vines and the cliff too.”
“Hello,” Alvarez said softly. “I call dibs,” he said in a more excited voice. The other two stopped and they looked where the private was pointing—and protruding from the mass of moss was the blue alloy barrel of a Taurian service revolver.
“Leave it alone, dipshit,” growled Kowalski. “We’re not here to collect souvenirs.”
“Sod off, man. Damn if I’m going to invade a Taurian world and not come home with a genuine Taurian magnum revolver—their officers carry those, you know.”
“So you can ooh and aah the girls back on New Syrtis, Joachim?” Ann asked. “You going to tell them you picked up an abandoned piece—or you going to weave a story about prying it from the hands of a Taurian officer that you personally killed in hand-to-hand combat?”
“Whatever works, Dee,” Alvarez replied as he made his way towards the cluster of trees and began to crawl over their gnarled roots to get to the weapon. “This shit is sticky,” he said in a puzzled voice, and then he brushed his face. “There are more strands of it hanging from the trees.”
“Leave it, Alvarez,” Kowalski warned. “Get your ass back here.”
“I’ve almost got it,” the private grunted as he stretched out, his fingers scrapping over the muzzle. “Come here, you piece of shit,” he grunted as he reached for the weapon—then he managed to get it in his hand. And snarled. “Damn thing is stuck,” he said as he pulled and the vines parted to reveal a large mass of the moss—four feet across—with the pistol tangled up inside of it.
“This isn’t a good idea, Private,” Kowalski snapped. “Leave the damn pistol alone!”
“I’ve got it, dude; quit your bitching already!” Alvarez barked back and he gave the revolver another yank—and it came free, along with the skeletal hand of the long-dead Taurian soldier still gripping it. Kowalski and Dietrich both inhaled sharply as the mass parted—because in that instant they realized it wasn’t moss. It was webbing that encased an egg sack.
“What the hell?” Alvarez blurted as he backed up, thousands of tiny diaphanous eggs spilling out—and bursting open as the immature insects inside suddenly awoke.
Furious at being disturbed before their normal hatching—and starving with hunger—the tiny creatures swarmed over the private, biting and stinging . . . and Alvarez howled in pain as they covered him from head to toe, the insects crawling up his nose and down his throat—across his eyes and into his ear canals.
“SHIT!” yelled Kowalski, but the Corporal didn’t move . . . his rifle was no use against such tiny targets and every instinct in his body screamed for him to run.
“CORP!” Dietrich yelled as faint strands of fresh webbing descended from the trees . . . and dozens of much larger insects slid down to begin cocooning the shrieking writhing private. They were almost spiders, a corner of Kowalski’s brain noted—six-legs, a body clad in dark chitin, two more limbs ending in claws like those of a mantis, clicking mandibles, and a sharp stinger protruding from the just above the snipperets. But these spider-things were the size of a terrier.
Dietrich fired—her rifle spitting a stream of bullets that tore into the crawling insects . . . and past them into the caves camouflaged by the vines. The vines quivered . . . and then hundreds of the adult spider-things emerged.
“Fuck me,” Kowalski whispered as he raised his rifle and began to service targets . . . while backing away as fast as he could on the uneven ground. “Dietrich! We are LEAVING!” he shouted.
But before the woman could begin to back away, several of the creatures crouched down and then jumped—they soared across the fifteen meters separating them from the soldier and she screamed as they began to tear into her flesh with their mandibles—and plunged those stingers dripping with venom into her body.
Kowalski blanched as tens of thousands of the hungry juveniles emerged, their legs a blur as they poured out of the caverns and moved towards him in a living carpet with no other purpose than to suck away his blood and bodily fluids—he turned and began to run . . . but the adults were atop of him before he took three steps and the veteran soldier screamed in agony as four-centimeter long stingers punched through his combat utilities and into his back.
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PhilosopherOfSorts
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1008
- Joined: 2008-10-28 07:11pm
- Location: Waynesburg, PA, its small, its insignifigant, its almost West Virginia.
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Nasty. Pretty dumb, too. Everything I know about the Taurians I picked up from your fics, and I would expect any piece of Taurian hardware I came across to be booby-trapped in some way, so I wouldn't fuck with any of it. A Taurian service revolver? Just laying in a hole, abandoned? Its probably rigged to the Taurian equivalent of a claymore mine, leave it the fuck alone.
A fuse is a physical embodyment of zen, in order for it to succeed, it must fail.
Power to the Peaceful
If you have friends like mine, raise your glasses. If you don't, raise your standards.
Power to the Peaceful
If you have friends like mine, raise your glasses. If you don't, raise your standards.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
3rd Platoon, E Troop, Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion, Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
“Sweet Jesus,” Henry whispered as the three scouts were engulfed by the swarm of creatures emerging from the hidden caverns behind the vines. But then he shook his head. “Get to the ‘Rats!” he yelled. “MOVE, PEOPLE!”
The troops needed no encouragement—many were already running, leaving empty water cans in their wake. The swarm turned, alerted perhaps by the heavy thuds of the combat boots on the baked soil of the ravine’s floor . . . and it was fast enough that not all of Henry’s people managed to reach safety in time.
Terrified screams echoed throughout the cleft in the rocks as the adults pounced on soldiers ahead of the arrival of the swarm, their powerful limbs sending them on fifteen and twenty meter leaps. Henry pulled out his pistol and he took a step forward—but a hand clamped down on his bicep like a vise and hauled him back.
“YOU TOO, LT!” snarled Gunny Franks as he pulled the officer away from the men and women being submerged under the tsunami of oncoming insects. The young officer tried to pull away—his face twisted with anguish over his men—his men—screaming in agony in front of him. “THEY ARE ALREADY DEAD, SIR!” The gunny bellowed again, yanking Henry towards the nearest vehicle.
The two men stumbled up the rear ramp of the closest Packrat—a ramp that the other troops had already begun to raise; and then the engine roared, the vehicle shook as the driver put it into gear, and the eight wheels spun like mad before they caught traction and the twenty-ton recon vehicle accelerated away.
The stutter of the pintle-mounted auto-rifle echoed in the stagnant and blistering heat of the troop bay. Henry half-stood and he looked out of the small armored periscope . . . , “Sweet jesus,” he repeated himself as one of the four scout cars suddenly began to weave and then flipped over on its side—the spider-things had already managed to get inside. For just a second, Henry could see the face of the driver as he swatted at the juveniles . . . and then a far larger adult closed those hideous claws around the driver’s head and squeezed. Blood splashed across the wind-screen . . . and then Henry’s ‘Rat rounded the bend and started up slope.
“Not your fault, LT,” the gunny whispered as he sat down next to Henry. “Not your fault, sir.”
“I’m in charge, Gunny—they were my responsibility.”
“LT, I’m going to tell you a secret that everyone who has been in combat knows—but no one really shares,” Joshua said after a moment’s pause. “Shit happens. People die. And sometimes, LT, sometimes it isn’t the fault of any of the survivors. Just like this SNAFU today.”
“How many?” Henry asked. “How many of our boys and girls are gone?”
“Too many, LT,” the non-com sighed. “We still need that water.”
Henry looked up and he nodded. “One ‘Rat—volunteers only. And I want Infernos loaded in the missile launcher. I’ll take it down there.”
“Not your job, sir—that’s mine.”
“Today, Gunnery Sergeant Franks, today it is my job,” Henry whispered—and the experienced NCO began to nod his head.
“Get in, get the cans, patch them, get the water, and get the hell out, Sir,” Joshua said. “They are bugs—you can’t avenge the troops by killing them. Set up a perimeter with fire and grab that water and get the hell out of there, LT.”
“I won’t be sight-seeing, Gunny,” Henry said as the ‘Rat came to a halt at the top of the slope . . . the blazing sun already nearing the horizon and the winds beginning to howl. The ramp dropped and Henry walked over to the edge of the ravine and looked down—but the swarm had not bothered to chase the speeding vehicles. No, those spider-things were hauling his boys and girls—all wrapped up in silk strands—back towards the caves. “I need a driver and four volunteers . . . can you talk them into it?”
“You’ll have them, LT.”
“Volunteers, Gunny—don’t strong-arm them if they don’t want to go,” Henry warned.
“You do your job, Sir; I’ll do mine. You’ll get your volunteers . . . Parsons, Hondo, Bowen, Chin, and Early—you just volunteered to ride with the LT. RIGHT?”
The five soldiers paused, but then one of them—Janice Early—sighed. “Might as well . . . if we don’t get that water, the desert will kill us as sure as those bugs.”
Henry frowned, but one by one, the other four nodded their agreement . . . and the very junior officer decided not to push it. “Break out the flamers and incendiary grenades,” he ordered. “Saddle up when you’re ready—Gunny, the platoon,” what’s left of it, Henry thought, “is yours.”
“We’ll be waiting, Sir,” Joshua said. “Good hunting.”
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
“Sweet Jesus,” Henry whispered as the three scouts were engulfed by the swarm of creatures emerging from the hidden caverns behind the vines. But then he shook his head. “Get to the ‘Rats!” he yelled. “MOVE, PEOPLE!”
The troops needed no encouragement—many were already running, leaving empty water cans in their wake. The swarm turned, alerted perhaps by the heavy thuds of the combat boots on the baked soil of the ravine’s floor . . . and it was fast enough that not all of Henry’s people managed to reach safety in time.
Terrified screams echoed throughout the cleft in the rocks as the adults pounced on soldiers ahead of the arrival of the swarm, their powerful limbs sending them on fifteen and twenty meter leaps. Henry pulled out his pistol and he took a step forward—but a hand clamped down on his bicep like a vise and hauled him back.
“YOU TOO, LT!” snarled Gunny Franks as he pulled the officer away from the men and women being submerged under the tsunami of oncoming insects. The young officer tried to pull away—his face twisted with anguish over his men—his men—screaming in agony in front of him. “THEY ARE ALREADY DEAD, SIR!” The gunny bellowed again, yanking Henry towards the nearest vehicle.
The two men stumbled up the rear ramp of the closest Packrat—a ramp that the other troops had already begun to raise; and then the engine roared, the vehicle shook as the driver put it into gear, and the eight wheels spun like mad before they caught traction and the twenty-ton recon vehicle accelerated away.
The stutter of the pintle-mounted auto-rifle echoed in the stagnant and blistering heat of the troop bay. Henry half-stood and he looked out of the small armored periscope . . . , “Sweet jesus,” he repeated himself as one of the four scout cars suddenly began to weave and then flipped over on its side—the spider-things had already managed to get inside. For just a second, Henry could see the face of the driver as he swatted at the juveniles . . . and then a far larger adult closed those hideous claws around the driver’s head and squeezed. Blood splashed across the wind-screen . . . and then Henry’s ‘Rat rounded the bend and started up slope.
“Not your fault, LT,” the gunny whispered as he sat down next to Henry. “Not your fault, sir.”
“I’m in charge, Gunny—they were my responsibility.”
“LT, I’m going to tell you a secret that everyone who has been in combat knows—but no one really shares,” Joshua said after a moment’s pause. “Shit happens. People die. And sometimes, LT, sometimes it isn’t the fault of any of the survivors. Just like this SNAFU today.”
“How many?” Henry asked. “How many of our boys and girls are gone?”
“Too many, LT,” the non-com sighed. “We still need that water.”
Henry looked up and he nodded. “One ‘Rat—volunteers only. And I want Infernos loaded in the missile launcher. I’ll take it down there.”
“Not your job, sir—that’s mine.”
“Today, Gunnery Sergeant Franks, today it is my job,” Henry whispered—and the experienced NCO began to nod his head.
“Get in, get the cans, patch them, get the water, and get the hell out, Sir,” Joshua said. “They are bugs—you can’t avenge the troops by killing them. Set up a perimeter with fire and grab that water and get the hell out of there, LT.”
“I won’t be sight-seeing, Gunny,” Henry said as the ‘Rat came to a halt at the top of the slope . . . the blazing sun already nearing the horizon and the winds beginning to howl. The ramp dropped and Henry walked over to the edge of the ravine and looked down—but the swarm had not bothered to chase the speeding vehicles. No, those spider-things were hauling his boys and girls—all wrapped up in silk strands—back towards the caves. “I need a driver and four volunteers . . . can you talk them into it?”
“You’ll have them, LT.”
“Volunteers, Gunny—don’t strong-arm them if they don’t want to go,” Henry warned.
“You do your job, Sir; I’ll do mine. You’ll get your volunteers . . . Parsons, Hondo, Bowen, Chin, and Early—you just volunteered to ride with the LT. RIGHT?”
The five soldiers paused, but then one of them—Janice Early—sighed. “Might as well . . . if we don’t get that water, the desert will kill us as sure as those bugs.”
Henry frowned, but one by one, the other four nodded their agreement . . . and the very junior officer decided not to push it. “Break out the flamers and incendiary grenades,” he ordered. “Saddle up when you’re ready—Gunny, the platoon,” what’s left of it, Henry thought, “is yours.”
“We’ll be waiting, Sir,” Joshua said. “Good hunting.”
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
TDF Field Headquarters
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
Edward kept all expression removed from his face as the guards ushered in the ‘delegate’ from Michael Hasek-Davion. The officer was dressed in the field uniform of the AFFS—albeit covered with dust—although he lacked any (visible) weapons. And at that thought, Edward’s lips did twitch; his guards would certainly have made sure that there were no hidden weapons as well. In fact—and now Edward smiled a grim smile—he was reasonably certain his guards had strip-searched the man outside . . . and done a cavity search in addition to a complete scan for metal, ceramic, or plastic objects that could be used as a weapon.
The man—one Colonel Malachi Russert—stopped some distance away from Edward and he came to attention and rendered a smart salute.
Edward did not return it, nor did any of his officers. As the silence grew oppressive, Russert slowly lowered his hand and he stood there at parade rest.
“I understand that you bear a message for me?” the young Taurian asked as he poured himself a glass of water—and did not offer the messenger any.
“I do, Lord Calderon,” Malachi answered. And Edward’s lips twitched again.
“My rank is Subaltern, Colonel—you will use that title to address me. I should note, however, that it is Marshal Cory Calderon who commands the defenses of New Vallis,” he said with a nod of his head to the older man seated beside him.
“Here to beg your way out of the trap, FedRat?” Cory asked. “You can surrender now and be sent to a penal colony for five years—or you can dance at the end of a noose.”
Malachi nodded and then he smiled. “The problem with that is . . . I work for Quintus Allard, Marshal Calderon—Subaltern Calderon.”
Edward arched one eyebrow. “Really? I suppose that you have some code phrase which can confirm that?”
“I do—but you are not likely to possess the challenge,” Malachi answered. “However, if you can contact New Avalon my story will be confirmed.”
“We are under an Interdiction, Colonel Russert,” Edward replied. “That would be a bit difficult to accomplish—however, we have no need to contact New Avalon to confirm your story,” and he nodded to one of the guards who left the command tent. Only to return a moment later with Ardan Sortek in tow.
“Marshal Sortek!” Malachi snapped as he came to attention.
“It’s Colonel Sortek—commanding officer of the Foxhounds mercenary battalion.” He paused and considered the man and then he shrugged. “I’ve never seen him before—but the AFFS is a large organization and if he works for Minister Allard I doubt that I would have encountered him.”
“He claims to have a recognition phrase, Ardan,” Edward said. “You do know those, correct?”
“Some of them,” Ardan answered with a frown. “Hello darkness, my old friend.”
“You would pick that one,” muttered Malachi. “Life is a lemon and I want my money back.”
Ardan nodded. “It’s a valid counter-challenge, Lord Calderon.”
Edward leaned back in his chair. “Tell me then, mister secret agent-man—why is Michael Hasek-Davion still alive?”
Malachi flushed hotly. “I didn’t—and I don’t—have authorization to terminate the brother-in-law of the First Prince, the Duke of New Syrtis.”
“And if you had authorization? Would Michael be dead—or would you still be in his command staff wondering how the hell you are going to escape?” Edward asked bluntly.
The Davion officer jerked, his jaw dropped, his eyes widened. And then he bit his lip and forced himself to calm down. “If Hanse Davion issued an order for me to kill Michael, Subaltern, then Michael would be dead right now.”
“Fair enough,” Edward answered. “Why did he send you here?”
“To convince you that we are not invading the Concordat—that the Fusiliers are refugees seeking asylum from the tyranny of Hanse Davion,” Malachi answered with a slight smile.
“I would be a fool to believe that—do you think I am a fool, Colonel Russert?” Edward asked.
“No.” The Colonel paused and then he sighed. “As a fall-back, Michael offers to give you the Fusiliers on a silver platter—in exchange for transport off-world to a . . . ‘neutral’ power. For himself and a handful of trusted aides.”
“Ah,” Edward sighed as he considered the officer. “Why would Michael think I would consider such a deal—when I have the troop strength and firepower to defeat his Fusiliers without letting the Rat go?”
Malachi exchanged a glance with Ardan, who nodded, and then he sighed. “Because he is offering you the accumulation of two decades of dirty little secrets of the Davion family and their government. Secrets that will—would—cause Hanse Davion great difficulties at home and abroad.”
“Tempting,” Edward mused, but then he tapped the desk top. “But it is rather like trusting a snake. Frankly, I’d rather see him hung than risk getting bitten.” And then the heir to the Protector smiled again. “He does command a great loyalty—the majority of his forces are following him to their doom.”
“Duke Michael doesn’t trust the common soldier, Subaltern,” Malachi answered. “Only the vetted crews of the DropShips and command-level officers heard your broadcast—the vast majority of low-ranking officers, NCOs, and enlisted personnel are not even aware the Eighth hasn’t made their landing on schedule.”
Now Edward frowned and he sighed. “We need your radio encryptions in that case, Colonel—I will give your . . . common soldiers . . . one more chance at preserving themselves. After that, when your water starts running low,” Edward shrugged. “That is when we will attack and annihilate Michael and his Fusiliers.”
“He is expecting that.”
“I do not doubt it, Colonel. You have his latest troop dispositions?”
Malachi nodded. “As of two hours ago,” and then he paused. “The crew aboard my VTOL are fanatically loyal to His Grace—and the bird is armed.”
Several of guards drew in a quick breath of air, but Edward just nodded. “Ardan?”
“Foxhound Actual to Hound Three Six—take the chopper,” the AFFS officer turned mercenary (officially, at least) spoke into a microphone. And from outside the tent came the roar of autocannon and the scream of missiles . . . and a lone VTOL on a pad half a kilometer away simply disintegrated under the weight of fire of an entire company of the once-and-future Davion Heavy Guards.
Edward smiled again. “They will present no threat to this headquarters, Colonel Russert. Show me where Michael is deploying—and tell me what his plans are,” he ordered.
And with a sigh, Malachi walked over to the map. “The Duke has deployed in three separate formations that are moving east-north-east along this line of ad- . . .,” he began.
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
Edward kept all expression removed from his face as the guards ushered in the ‘delegate’ from Michael Hasek-Davion. The officer was dressed in the field uniform of the AFFS—albeit covered with dust—although he lacked any (visible) weapons. And at that thought, Edward’s lips did twitch; his guards would certainly have made sure that there were no hidden weapons as well. In fact—and now Edward smiled a grim smile—he was reasonably certain his guards had strip-searched the man outside . . . and done a cavity search in addition to a complete scan for metal, ceramic, or plastic objects that could be used as a weapon.
The man—one Colonel Malachi Russert—stopped some distance away from Edward and he came to attention and rendered a smart salute.
Edward did not return it, nor did any of his officers. As the silence grew oppressive, Russert slowly lowered his hand and he stood there at parade rest.
“I understand that you bear a message for me?” the young Taurian asked as he poured himself a glass of water—and did not offer the messenger any.
“I do, Lord Calderon,” Malachi answered. And Edward’s lips twitched again.
“My rank is Subaltern, Colonel—you will use that title to address me. I should note, however, that it is Marshal Cory Calderon who commands the defenses of New Vallis,” he said with a nod of his head to the older man seated beside him.
“Here to beg your way out of the trap, FedRat?” Cory asked. “You can surrender now and be sent to a penal colony for five years—or you can dance at the end of a noose.”
Malachi nodded and then he smiled. “The problem with that is . . . I work for Quintus Allard, Marshal Calderon—Subaltern Calderon.”
Edward arched one eyebrow. “Really? I suppose that you have some code phrase which can confirm that?”
“I do—but you are not likely to possess the challenge,” Malachi answered. “However, if you can contact New Avalon my story will be confirmed.”
“We are under an Interdiction, Colonel Russert,” Edward replied. “That would be a bit difficult to accomplish—however, we have no need to contact New Avalon to confirm your story,” and he nodded to one of the guards who left the command tent. Only to return a moment later with Ardan Sortek in tow.
“Marshal Sortek!” Malachi snapped as he came to attention.
“It’s Colonel Sortek—commanding officer of the Foxhounds mercenary battalion.” He paused and considered the man and then he shrugged. “I’ve never seen him before—but the AFFS is a large organization and if he works for Minister Allard I doubt that I would have encountered him.”
“He claims to have a recognition phrase, Ardan,” Edward said. “You do know those, correct?”
“Some of them,” Ardan answered with a frown. “Hello darkness, my old friend.”
“You would pick that one,” muttered Malachi. “Life is a lemon and I want my money back.”
Ardan nodded. “It’s a valid counter-challenge, Lord Calderon.”
Edward leaned back in his chair. “Tell me then, mister secret agent-man—why is Michael Hasek-Davion still alive?”
Malachi flushed hotly. “I didn’t—and I don’t—have authorization to terminate the brother-in-law of the First Prince, the Duke of New Syrtis.”
“And if you had authorization? Would Michael be dead—or would you still be in his command staff wondering how the hell you are going to escape?” Edward asked bluntly.
The Davion officer jerked, his jaw dropped, his eyes widened. And then he bit his lip and forced himself to calm down. “If Hanse Davion issued an order for me to kill Michael, Subaltern, then Michael would be dead right now.”
“Fair enough,” Edward answered. “Why did he send you here?”
“To convince you that we are not invading the Concordat—that the Fusiliers are refugees seeking asylum from the tyranny of Hanse Davion,” Malachi answered with a slight smile.
“I would be a fool to believe that—do you think I am a fool, Colonel Russert?” Edward asked.
“No.” The Colonel paused and then he sighed. “As a fall-back, Michael offers to give you the Fusiliers on a silver platter—in exchange for transport off-world to a . . . ‘neutral’ power. For himself and a handful of trusted aides.”
“Ah,” Edward sighed as he considered the officer. “Why would Michael think I would consider such a deal—when I have the troop strength and firepower to defeat his Fusiliers without letting the Rat go?”
Malachi exchanged a glance with Ardan, who nodded, and then he sighed. “Because he is offering you the accumulation of two decades of dirty little secrets of the Davion family and their government. Secrets that will—would—cause Hanse Davion great difficulties at home and abroad.”
“Tempting,” Edward mused, but then he tapped the desk top. “But it is rather like trusting a snake. Frankly, I’d rather see him hung than risk getting bitten.” And then the heir to the Protector smiled again. “He does command a great loyalty—the majority of his forces are following him to their doom.”
“Duke Michael doesn’t trust the common soldier, Subaltern,” Malachi answered. “Only the vetted crews of the DropShips and command-level officers heard your broadcast—the vast majority of low-ranking officers, NCOs, and enlisted personnel are not even aware the Eighth hasn’t made their landing on schedule.”
Now Edward frowned and he sighed. “We need your radio encryptions in that case, Colonel—I will give your . . . common soldiers . . . one more chance at preserving themselves. After that, when your water starts running low,” Edward shrugged. “That is when we will attack and annihilate Michael and his Fusiliers.”
“He is expecting that.”
“I do not doubt it, Colonel. You have his latest troop dispositions?”
Malachi nodded. “As of two hours ago,” and then he paused. “The crew aboard my VTOL are fanatically loyal to His Grace—and the bird is armed.”
Several of guards drew in a quick breath of air, but Edward just nodded. “Ardan?”
“Foxhound Actual to Hound Three Six—take the chopper,” the AFFS officer turned mercenary (officially, at least) spoke into a microphone. And from outside the tent came the roar of autocannon and the scream of missiles . . . and a lone VTOL on a pad half a kilometer away simply disintegrated under the weight of fire of an entire company of the once-and-future Davion Heavy Guards.
Edward smiled again. “They will present no threat to this headquarters, Colonel Russert. Show me where Michael is deploying—and tell me what his plans are,” he ordered.
And with a sigh, Malachi walked over to the map. “The Duke has deployed in three separate formations that are moving east-north-east along this line of ad- . . .,” he began.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
3rd Platoon, E Troop, Cavalry-Scout Recon Battalion, Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
Henry sat down (he all but fell) on the ramp of the scorched Packrat—after his troopers, the three who had survived at least, had passed out the water cans. Soot and ash covered his body from head to toe; his hands and arms were red from the heat of the flames with which he had burnt away the infestation of those spider-things. He sat down and closed his eyes—and his hands shook. He shivered in the cold night air; for the sun had already descended . . . and the only light was the reflected the flickering remains of the pyre he had lit in the ravine to hold the creatures at bay.
“Shit’s gotta be filtered first, people!” Joshua snapped as several of scouts opened one of the cans and started to refill their canteens and camelbaks. “Unless you like drinking pieces of burnt bugs and trees and the residue of inferno gel.”
With a groan, the recon troopers hauled out the filters and began to process the water—the priceless water that had cost them so very much. They bitched about it, but Joshua didn’t care; as long as the troopers did their job, it didn’t matter if they bitched and whined. And frankly, he wouldn’t have trusted soldiers very much who didn’t moan and groan. Then he knelt down next to the ramp and handed the young officer a canteen.
“You need some burn gel on your arms and hands and face, LT,” he said softly.
“I’ll live, Gunny,” Henry answered as he took the canteen and sipped the tepid water within. Although it tasted metallic from the chemicals used to purify it, in that moment the bitter water was almost the nectar of the ancient Greek gods. “We got twenty-five cans patched and filled before the pool became too shallow to drain more,” he added. “Not as much as I hoped.”
“That is more than I expected, LT. It’ll hold us for a day or two—but we have another problem,” the non-com said with a sigh.
Henry gave Joshua a tired smile. “My instructors at NAMS always said there’s no such thing as problems . . . only challenges.”
“Typical REMF bull-shit—life ain’t a Zen koan, LT. And we have problems,” Joshua snarled as he spotted a tiny spider-thing crawling on the ramp and squashed it with his boot.
Henry sighed. “And those are?”
“The invasion is FUBAR, LT,” the Gunny said in a flat voice. “You know Colonel Russert?”
“Duke Michael’s Operations Officer? I know of him—I haven’t ever met him.”
“He made a broadcast—apparently, he’s really part of the Department of Military Intelligence. And the First Prince is pissed that Michael has invaded the Concordat,” Joshua paused. “New Avalon has declared the entire Sixth to be in a state of mutiny—they threw us under the bus and there are AFFS forces here on New Vallis working with the Taurians to stop our assault.”
“Shit,” whispered Henry.
“Yeah—it gets worse. The Taurians have taken our JumpShips and consider us all pirates and renegades. We can surrender and get sentenced to a penal colony for five years . . . or we can fight and die.” The Gunny shook his head. “And if we do that and get captured, we get hung afterwards.”
“This is just getting better and better,” Henry muttered. “So no reinforcements? No incoming supplies? No way off this rock?”
“That’s about the size of it—and that moron Michael low-balled the defenses here by a factor of four,” Joshua added. “We don’t outnumber the Taurians—they have more ‘Mechs, more tanks, more infantry, and they are dug in deep to stop us from getting to Port Sheridan and fresh water supplies.”
“Wonderful.” There was several minutes of silence and then Henry pressed his swollen hands into his itching eyes. “We get any instructions from Central Command?”
“Oh, yeah. Command says that the Taurians are lying—about their troop strength and accepting our surrender. But scuttlebutt says they aren’t lying about taking our jumpers—so we’re stuck here in the desert fun, LT.”
“We can avoid the Taurians—until we run out of water and die,” Henry said in a bleak voice. “Or we can go back to the DropShips, which the Taurians probably have targeted, run out of water and die. Or we can try to break through their lines and die trying. Or we can surrender and get killed by our own forces—and if we are lucky enough to avoid that fate, probably be killed by the Taurians anyway. They hate us, you know.”
“That’s about the size of it, LT. Major Potter wants us on the move by 0300—he wants the approaches to that river scouted out and we pulled the short straw.”
“You have a . . .,” Henry began, but the Gunny just smiled grimly and unfolded a map and turned on a red-light. “Thanks,” he finished as he considered the map and frowned. “Tight terrain—and I’m not really happy about taking Packrats into the teeth of the Taurians.”
“You got that right,” muttered the non-com. “Aerial recon wasn’t able to get pictures—half of them got shot down by flak approaching the sector that Potter wants us to recon.”
“Flak. We don’t need to scout it—the Taurians are already there if they have flak emplaced.”
“Command believes that it is a small Taurian blocking force and that we can push through to the river and resupply.”
“Based on what?” snorted Henry. “Getting everything else perfectly right to date?” He shrugged and then sighed. “What do you suggest, Gunny?”
Gunnery Sergeant Franks paused and he looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Three Packrats and less than a platoon of infantry aren’t going to make a difference, LT,” he said very quietly. “The Taurians might shoot us—or hang us—but they might not. And Russert said that we might get ransomed out early from that five-year sentence. If not, doing five is better than buying the farm or dancing Danny Deever.”
“Command will consider that desertion in the face of the enemy, Gunny,” Henry cautioned.
“Yeah—the Sixth will consider that desertion. But, we have orders from Hanse freaking Davion himself to stop this madness.” Joshua snorted. “Thank your lucky stars you are in CSR Battalion, LT. We get the folks who aren’t fanatical followers of the Haseks—unlike the ‘Mech and armor battalions.”
“Praise God for small miracles,” the Leftenant whispered. “If we broadcast our surrender, those fanatics will be on us in less than an hour, Gunny. They are only fifteen klicks back, after all.”
Joshua nodded again. “Russert broadcast coordinates—way the hell up here in the north,” he said pointing to the map. “Get there and throw down arms and we are golden, according to the Taurian prince.”
“The Taurians have a prince?”
“Yeah. Edward Calderon is running the show here apparently—something else we didn’t know going in.”
Henry considered for a moment and then he sighed. “We don’t have the water supplies to make it two hundred kilometers, do we? And . . . what about fuel?”
“If we ration the water hard—maybe, LT. Fuel, we’ve got enough with a bit to spare.”
“How hard on the water rations?”
“Seven liters a day per trooper; maybe less.” Henry winced, but Joshua just shrugged. “Better half rations than none, Sir.”
“You have a point, Gunny,” Henry acknowledged and then he sighed. “There’s really no other choice is there?”
“Not a good many of them, Leftenant.”
Henry looked out over the nineteen enlisted soldiers and lower-ranking NCOs that remained—in addition to himself and the gunny . . . and he sighed. “Start setting up way-points to the surrender coordinates, Gunny Franks,” he ordered. “We leave at 0300; I’m going to get a bit of shut-eye until then . . . that is, if you have things under control?”
“Can do, LT,” the Gunnery Sergeant breathed with a sigh of relief. “Just as soon as I have the Doc slather on some burn gel on your roasted skin—no arguments. I don’t want to lose you to infection if those arms blister up on the move.”
“Whatever you say,” Henry mumbled as he leaned back against a ruck sack—in seconds he was fast asleep.
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
Henry sat down (he all but fell) on the ramp of the scorched Packrat—after his troopers, the three who had survived at least, had passed out the water cans. Soot and ash covered his body from head to toe; his hands and arms were red from the heat of the flames with which he had burnt away the infestation of those spider-things. He sat down and closed his eyes—and his hands shook. He shivered in the cold night air; for the sun had already descended . . . and the only light was the reflected the flickering remains of the pyre he had lit in the ravine to hold the creatures at bay.
“Shit’s gotta be filtered first, people!” Joshua snapped as several of scouts opened one of the cans and started to refill their canteens and camelbaks. “Unless you like drinking pieces of burnt bugs and trees and the residue of inferno gel.”
With a groan, the recon troopers hauled out the filters and began to process the water—the priceless water that had cost them so very much. They bitched about it, but Joshua didn’t care; as long as the troopers did their job, it didn’t matter if they bitched and whined. And frankly, he wouldn’t have trusted soldiers very much who didn’t moan and groan. Then he knelt down next to the ramp and handed the young officer a canteen.
“You need some burn gel on your arms and hands and face, LT,” he said softly.
“I’ll live, Gunny,” Henry answered as he took the canteen and sipped the tepid water within. Although it tasted metallic from the chemicals used to purify it, in that moment the bitter water was almost the nectar of the ancient Greek gods. “We got twenty-five cans patched and filled before the pool became too shallow to drain more,” he added. “Not as much as I hoped.”
“That is more than I expected, LT. It’ll hold us for a day or two—but we have another problem,” the non-com said with a sigh.
Henry gave Joshua a tired smile. “My instructors at NAMS always said there’s no such thing as problems . . . only challenges.”
“Typical REMF bull-shit—life ain’t a Zen koan, LT. And we have problems,” Joshua snarled as he spotted a tiny spider-thing crawling on the ramp and squashed it with his boot.
Henry sighed. “And those are?”
“The invasion is FUBAR, LT,” the Gunny said in a flat voice. “You know Colonel Russert?”
“Duke Michael’s Operations Officer? I know of him—I haven’t ever met him.”
“He made a broadcast—apparently, he’s really part of the Department of Military Intelligence. And the First Prince is pissed that Michael has invaded the Concordat,” Joshua paused. “New Avalon has declared the entire Sixth to be in a state of mutiny—they threw us under the bus and there are AFFS forces here on New Vallis working with the Taurians to stop our assault.”
“Shit,” whispered Henry.
“Yeah—it gets worse. The Taurians have taken our JumpShips and consider us all pirates and renegades. We can surrender and get sentenced to a penal colony for five years . . . or we can fight and die.” The Gunny shook his head. “And if we do that and get captured, we get hung afterwards.”
“This is just getting better and better,” Henry muttered. “So no reinforcements? No incoming supplies? No way off this rock?”
“That’s about the size of it—and that moron Michael low-balled the defenses here by a factor of four,” Joshua added. “We don’t outnumber the Taurians—they have more ‘Mechs, more tanks, more infantry, and they are dug in deep to stop us from getting to Port Sheridan and fresh water supplies.”
“Wonderful.” There was several minutes of silence and then Henry pressed his swollen hands into his itching eyes. “We get any instructions from Central Command?”
“Oh, yeah. Command says that the Taurians are lying—about their troop strength and accepting our surrender. But scuttlebutt says they aren’t lying about taking our jumpers—so we’re stuck here in the desert fun, LT.”
“We can avoid the Taurians—until we run out of water and die,” Henry said in a bleak voice. “Or we can go back to the DropShips, which the Taurians probably have targeted, run out of water and die. Or we can try to break through their lines and die trying. Or we can surrender and get killed by our own forces—and if we are lucky enough to avoid that fate, probably be killed by the Taurians anyway. They hate us, you know.”
“That’s about the size of it, LT. Major Potter wants us on the move by 0300—he wants the approaches to that river scouted out and we pulled the short straw.”
“You have a . . .,” Henry began, but the Gunny just smiled grimly and unfolded a map and turned on a red-light. “Thanks,” he finished as he considered the map and frowned. “Tight terrain—and I’m not really happy about taking Packrats into the teeth of the Taurians.”
“You got that right,” muttered the non-com. “Aerial recon wasn’t able to get pictures—half of them got shot down by flak approaching the sector that Potter wants us to recon.”
“Flak. We don’t need to scout it—the Taurians are already there if they have flak emplaced.”
“Command believes that it is a small Taurian blocking force and that we can push through to the river and resupply.”
“Based on what?” snorted Henry. “Getting everything else perfectly right to date?” He shrugged and then sighed. “What do you suggest, Gunny?”
Gunnery Sergeant Franks paused and he looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Three Packrats and less than a platoon of infantry aren’t going to make a difference, LT,” he said very quietly. “The Taurians might shoot us—or hang us—but they might not. And Russert said that we might get ransomed out early from that five-year sentence. If not, doing five is better than buying the farm or dancing Danny Deever.”
“Command will consider that desertion in the face of the enemy, Gunny,” Henry cautioned.
“Yeah—the Sixth will consider that desertion. But, we have orders from Hanse freaking Davion himself to stop this madness.” Joshua snorted. “Thank your lucky stars you are in CSR Battalion, LT. We get the folks who aren’t fanatical followers of the Haseks—unlike the ‘Mech and armor battalions.”
“Praise God for small miracles,” the Leftenant whispered. “If we broadcast our surrender, those fanatics will be on us in less than an hour, Gunny. They are only fifteen klicks back, after all.”
Joshua nodded again. “Russert broadcast coordinates—way the hell up here in the north,” he said pointing to the map. “Get there and throw down arms and we are golden, according to the Taurian prince.”
“The Taurians have a prince?”
“Yeah. Edward Calderon is running the show here apparently—something else we didn’t know going in.”
Henry considered for a moment and then he sighed. “We don’t have the water supplies to make it two hundred kilometers, do we? And . . . what about fuel?”
“If we ration the water hard—maybe, LT. Fuel, we’ve got enough with a bit to spare.”
“How hard on the water rations?”
“Seven liters a day per trooper; maybe less.” Henry winced, but Joshua just shrugged. “Better half rations than none, Sir.”
“You have a point, Gunny,” Henry acknowledged and then he sighed. “There’s really no other choice is there?”
“Not a good many of them, Leftenant.”
Henry looked out over the nineteen enlisted soldiers and lower-ranking NCOs that remained—in addition to himself and the gunny . . . and he sighed. “Start setting up way-points to the surrender coordinates, Gunny Franks,” he ordered. “We leave at 0300; I’m going to get a bit of shut-eye until then . . . that is, if you have things under control?”
“Can do, LT,” the Gunnery Sergeant breathed with a sigh of relief. “Just as soon as I have the Doc slather on some burn gel on your roasted skin—no arguments. I don’t want to lose you to infection if those arms blister up on the move.”
“Whatever you say,” Henry mumbled as he leaned back against a ruck sack—in seconds he was fast asleep.
Last edited by masterarminas on 2013-07-24 11:02pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
I have to say I enjoy all the music references
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
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- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Maintenance & Logistical Support Field Depot, Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers RCT
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
Leftenant General Kevin Rostov—as naked as the day he was born—tumbled to the floor of his luxury climate-controlled trailer the instant he heard the gunfire from outside. Half asleep, he hit the carpeted surface hard and managed to take the sheets and blankets with him . . . which resulted in pulling the sleeping woman (also quite nude) who had shared his bed (no mere bunk for such an important man, even in the field!) down atop of him, where she landed with a shriek of her own.
“GET OFF OF ME!” Rostov yelled as he crawled across the floor and pulled down the direct phone to the mobile command center that the trailer was parked adjacent to. Shots continued to ring out—and one of the heavily tinted windows shattered above, showering fragments of glass shards over the two. “Have the Taurians found us? Are we under attack? Hello? Hawkins, report!” he yelled . . . but the phone was dead.
The gunfire outside slowed . . . and then there was silence; followed by a polite knock on the door of the trailer. The door opened, and Sergeant Major David Slocum stepped inside; he was wearing a sub-machine gun on a travel sling—the muzzle still smoking slightly.
“What the devil is going on?” Rostov asked as he brushed off the glass, trying to stand up as the woman quickly pulled on her uniform blouse. “Where’s my guard detachement, Slocum?”
“Dead, sir,” the Sergeant Major answered bluntly and he shook his head. “You and Major Calley are going to want to get dressed.”
“Taurians?” Rostov asked as he stood up and began to step into a pair of boxers.
“No, sir—we enlisted have decided that following the Duke of Morons to our death is a bad idea.”
“WHAT?” Rostov screamed.
“The techs and engineers and support personnel, General Rostov, Sir,” Slocum repeated, “we are moving the DropShips and the supplies to the surrender point—and we are laying down our arms.”
“THIS IS MUTINY!”
Slocum shook his head. “It was mutiny when His Idiocy decided to invade another power without telling New Avalon first. It was mutiny when you officers decided to ignore the messages of the First Prince and failed to tell the rest of us that we were totally fucked, Rostov,” Slocum spat on the floor. “We’ve recalled the dromedaries and ordnance transports—when they get back, we are lifting and leaving before the Taurians start bombing us.”
“THIS IS TREASON!” Rostov yelled, but then he drew a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “Look, Slocum—Sergeant Major! Emotions are running a little high right now, but if you put down the gun, I won’t have you arrested and tried.”
“A little high? I’ve spent thirty-two years in uniform, Rostov—thirty-two years and now I don’t have a pension. My family back on New Syrtis no longer has medical coverage—my wife and kids will lose the house because they aren’t getting my pay any longer. THIRTY-TWO FUCKING YEARS WASTED, YOU FAT INBRED CRETIN!”
“I am a superior officer, Slocum.”
“No, sir—just a higher ranking one,” the Sergeant Major answered as he charged the SMG with a fresh round in the chamber. “You and the other officers? You want to support the Duke of Dunces, you can go right ahead—we’re leaving your asses here in the desert. His Stupidity is ninety kilometers THAT way,” he pointed with the muzzle of the SMG. “Have a nice walk, Sir—because we are taking the vehicles. Oh, I’ll leave the trailer, though—gaudy civilian thing that doesn’t belong here anyway.”
Rostov’s face went white. “That’s murder, Sergeant Major—you can’t do this. You can’t leave the loyal people here with no supplies, no transport, no arms. You can’t!”
“Watch me, asshole,” Slocum growled.
“I’ll surrender,” squealed Major Calley as she pulled on a pair of panties to go with her blouse. “I’ll go with you and surrender!”
David Slocum frowned and then he shook his bed. “You made your bed, Major—your people consider you a worthless piece of ass who got your job because of your family connections and that you don’t mind sleeping your way to the top. You are lucky if I give you a uniform and boots,” and then he raised the SMG as Rostov pulled out a pistol from beneath the bed.
“DROP IT, SIR!”
“You will lower that weapon, Slocum! I’m not losing my command to mutiny that easi- . . .,” he began, but before he could finish raising the pistol, Slocum squeezed the trigger and held it down—thirty bullets tore across the trailer and ripped into Rostov and Calley.
More enlisted men and NCOs burst in through the door, and they looked at the bloody mess.
“Damn. He got off easy,” muttered one with a grimace as the smell of urine and feces suddenly filled the air; the muscles of the two dead suddenly releasing as the last bit of life faded from their bodies.
“Bury them, Sergeant Major?” asked another.
“Leave them to rot—and get the other officers and loyalists moving. We lift as soon as the supply convoys get back here,” Slocum answered.
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
Leftenant General Kevin Rostov—as naked as the day he was born—tumbled to the floor of his luxury climate-controlled trailer the instant he heard the gunfire from outside. Half asleep, he hit the carpeted surface hard and managed to take the sheets and blankets with him . . . which resulted in pulling the sleeping woman (also quite nude) who had shared his bed (no mere bunk for such an important man, even in the field!) down atop of him, where she landed with a shriek of her own.
“GET OFF OF ME!” Rostov yelled as he crawled across the floor and pulled down the direct phone to the mobile command center that the trailer was parked adjacent to. Shots continued to ring out—and one of the heavily tinted windows shattered above, showering fragments of glass shards over the two. “Have the Taurians found us? Are we under attack? Hello? Hawkins, report!” he yelled . . . but the phone was dead.
The gunfire outside slowed . . . and then there was silence; followed by a polite knock on the door of the trailer. The door opened, and Sergeant Major David Slocum stepped inside; he was wearing a sub-machine gun on a travel sling—the muzzle still smoking slightly.
“What the devil is going on?” Rostov asked as he brushed off the glass, trying to stand up as the woman quickly pulled on her uniform blouse. “Where’s my guard detachement, Slocum?”
“Dead, sir,” the Sergeant Major answered bluntly and he shook his head. “You and Major Calley are going to want to get dressed.”
“Taurians?” Rostov asked as he stood up and began to step into a pair of boxers.
“No, sir—we enlisted have decided that following the Duke of Morons to our death is a bad idea.”
“WHAT?” Rostov screamed.
“The techs and engineers and support personnel, General Rostov, Sir,” Slocum repeated, “we are moving the DropShips and the supplies to the surrender point—and we are laying down our arms.”
“THIS IS MUTINY!”
Slocum shook his head. “It was mutiny when His Idiocy decided to invade another power without telling New Avalon first. It was mutiny when you officers decided to ignore the messages of the First Prince and failed to tell the rest of us that we were totally fucked, Rostov,” Slocum spat on the floor. “We’ve recalled the dromedaries and ordnance transports—when they get back, we are lifting and leaving before the Taurians start bombing us.”
“THIS IS TREASON!” Rostov yelled, but then he drew a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “Look, Slocum—Sergeant Major! Emotions are running a little high right now, but if you put down the gun, I won’t have you arrested and tried.”
“A little high? I’ve spent thirty-two years in uniform, Rostov—thirty-two years and now I don’t have a pension. My family back on New Syrtis no longer has medical coverage—my wife and kids will lose the house because they aren’t getting my pay any longer. THIRTY-TWO FUCKING YEARS WASTED, YOU FAT INBRED CRETIN!”
“I am a superior officer, Slocum.”
“No, sir—just a higher ranking one,” the Sergeant Major answered as he charged the SMG with a fresh round in the chamber. “You and the other officers? You want to support the Duke of Dunces, you can go right ahead—we’re leaving your asses here in the desert. His Stupidity is ninety kilometers THAT way,” he pointed with the muzzle of the SMG. “Have a nice walk, Sir—because we are taking the vehicles. Oh, I’ll leave the trailer, though—gaudy civilian thing that doesn’t belong here anyway.”
Rostov’s face went white. “That’s murder, Sergeant Major—you can’t do this. You can’t leave the loyal people here with no supplies, no transport, no arms. You can’t!”
“Watch me, asshole,” Slocum growled.
“I’ll surrender,” squealed Major Calley as she pulled on a pair of panties to go with her blouse. “I’ll go with you and surrender!”
David Slocum frowned and then he shook his bed. “You made your bed, Major—your people consider you a worthless piece of ass who got your job because of your family connections and that you don’t mind sleeping your way to the top. You are lucky if I give you a uniform and boots,” and then he raised the SMG as Rostov pulled out a pistol from beneath the bed.
“DROP IT, SIR!”
“You will lower that weapon, Slocum! I’m not losing my command to mutiny that easi- . . .,” he began, but before he could finish raising the pistol, Slocum squeezed the trigger and held it down—thirty bullets tore across the trailer and ripped into Rostov and Calley.
More enlisted men and NCOs burst in through the door, and they looked at the bloody mess.
“Damn. He got off easy,” muttered one with a grimace as the smell of urine and feces suddenly filled the air; the muscles of the two dead suddenly releasing as the last bit of life faded from their bodies.
“Bury them, Sergeant Major?” asked another.
“Leave them to rot—and get the other officers and loyalists moving. We lift as soon as the supply convoys get back here,” Slocum answered.
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
When you start messing with the enlisted man's pay and pension, that's when you start playing with fire. Especially if there's a family involved. Stuff like that's liable to get you shot... oh, yeah, I guess it did in this casemasterarminas wrote:“A little high? I’ve spent thirty-two years in uniform, Rostov—thirty-two years and now I don’t have a pension. My family back on New Syrtis no longer has medical coverage—my wife and kids will lose the house because they aren’t getting my pay any longer. THIRTY-TWO FUCKING YEARS WASTED, YOU FAT INBRED CRETIN!”
Michael's gotta be going ape over the desertions. And even if the Mechs and armor units stay loyal, if the logistics and maintenance crews bail on them those that remain aren't going to get very far. Complex mechanical systems and deserts tend not to get along very well, more so when regular maintenance isn't being conducted (for whatever reason).
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masterarminas
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- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers Field HQ
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
“How many are following Slocum?” Michael Hasek-Davion gritted his teeth as he asked his staff the question.
There was a pause and the men and women in his command center looked at each other before one sighed. “Your Grace, every unit—except for your own command headquarters—has reported at least a few desertions. The ‘Mech battalions and armored regiments have the fewest . . . but we have lost the entire support command and nearly half of infantry.”
“Damn that traitor Russert,” Michael hissed as he stared down at the map. Then he glared at his aerospace commander. “Can your fighters get to his DropShips while he is in the air?”
“No, Your Grace—they have already lifted off and should be landing at Edward’s surrender coordinates now.”
Michael didn’t respond; he just looked at the map and then he nodded. “We need to show those peasants that Edward’s offer is false—that he means to kill them all. Otherwise, gentlemen, we will piss away our strength to the point where we stand no chance of taking Port Sheridan and holding until relief arrives.”
“Relief, my Lord?” one of the armor commanders asked in a sudden start.
The corners of Michael’s mouth twitched. “Relief, Tom. Whether it comes from my supporters in the March or from . . . other avenues, we will receive reinforcements. But we must hold the Sixth together until they arrive,” he finished as he considered the map. And then he nodded.
“How will our soldiers react if they see Edward has used this surrender point as a trap to eliminate our assets? If say, the boy prince of Taurus instead of putting them to work in a POW camp or penal colony instead just drops a nuclear weapon atop of them?” Gasps erupted from the staff and line officers alike, and Michael ginned. “We know that the Taurians have an obsession with weapons of mass destruction—what happens if Eddie boy drops one right atop of Slocum?”
“He won’t, Your Grace,” stated Karl Oldendorf bluntly. “He’s not that stupid—if he did, the Fusiliers that survived would never surrender; they would fight to the death because that would be the only choice they had.”
“Yes, they would, wouldn’t they?” Michael agreed with a broad smile on his face. “I want an ASF strike package assembled—if the Taurians play true to form, they will intercept us as we head to hit Slocum.” Michael paused and he smiled. “And who’s to say which side drops the nuke atop of that traitor? Am I understood?”
Nods answered the Duke and Michael sighed. “Of course, we open ourselves up to counter-attack . . . which is why we must launch our ground offensive immediately. The Sixth must break through the Taurian defenses and secure Port Sheridan to keep Edward’s people from nuking us in retaliation.”
“That won’t be easy,” the Fusiliers executive officer, Major General Orville Corn said slowly. “The scouts are reporting dense minefields and prepared positions between us and the Port—with ‘Mechs and armor in place defending, along with infantry and artillery.”
“We aren’t going to charge in like the Light Brigade, gentlemen,” Michael shook his head. “We have enough anti-mine munitions in the field artillery to clear a path—and every fighter, both aerospace and conventional—that isn’t delivering our message to Slocum and Edward—will be concentrated here,” he said pointed at the map.
“There are weaker points on their defensive line,” one of the armor battalion commanders mused.
“Which are intended to draw us into a trap—those weak points will let the Taurians catch our formations in an enfilade with entrenched forces on our flanks . . . and more defenses on the far side. No,” Michael ordered as he tapped the map. “We won’t play their game—we will hit them here and smash right through them after the artillery clears us a lane. If we are fast enough, if we are good enough, we can get inside Port Sheridan before they redeploy and hold it until our relief arrives. Make no mistake, gentlemen,” Michael said in a grim voice. “If we fail to accomplish this task, each and every one of us are dead—we have to take those civilians as shields and secure the parts and provisions in their warehouses or we have no chance whatsoever. Between the simple fact that we are in a vise and ‘Edward’s’ first use of nuclear weapons on Slocum, you should have all that you need to amply motivate your men.”
There was a moment of silence and then—one-by-one—the senior officers began to nod their agreement. “Then let’s get cracking.”
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 22, 3025
“How many are following Slocum?” Michael Hasek-Davion gritted his teeth as he asked his staff the question.
There was a pause and the men and women in his command center looked at each other before one sighed. “Your Grace, every unit—except for your own command headquarters—has reported at least a few desertions. The ‘Mech battalions and armored regiments have the fewest . . . but we have lost the entire support command and nearly half of infantry.”
“Damn that traitor Russert,” Michael hissed as he stared down at the map. Then he glared at his aerospace commander. “Can your fighters get to his DropShips while he is in the air?”
“No, Your Grace—they have already lifted off and should be landing at Edward’s surrender coordinates now.”
Michael didn’t respond; he just looked at the map and then he nodded. “We need to show those peasants that Edward’s offer is false—that he means to kill them all. Otherwise, gentlemen, we will piss away our strength to the point where we stand no chance of taking Port Sheridan and holding until relief arrives.”
“Relief, my Lord?” one of the armor commanders asked in a sudden start.
The corners of Michael’s mouth twitched. “Relief, Tom. Whether it comes from my supporters in the March or from . . . other avenues, we will receive reinforcements. But we must hold the Sixth together until they arrive,” he finished as he considered the map. And then he nodded.
“How will our soldiers react if they see Edward has used this surrender point as a trap to eliminate our assets? If say, the boy prince of Taurus instead of putting them to work in a POW camp or penal colony instead just drops a nuclear weapon atop of them?” Gasps erupted from the staff and line officers alike, and Michael ginned. “We know that the Taurians have an obsession with weapons of mass destruction—what happens if Eddie boy drops one right atop of Slocum?”
“He won’t, Your Grace,” stated Karl Oldendorf bluntly. “He’s not that stupid—if he did, the Fusiliers that survived would never surrender; they would fight to the death because that would be the only choice they had.”
“Yes, they would, wouldn’t they?” Michael agreed with a broad smile on his face. “I want an ASF strike package assembled—if the Taurians play true to form, they will intercept us as we head to hit Slocum.” Michael paused and he smiled. “And who’s to say which side drops the nuke atop of that traitor? Am I understood?”
Nods answered the Duke and Michael sighed. “Of course, we open ourselves up to counter-attack . . . which is why we must launch our ground offensive immediately. The Sixth must break through the Taurian defenses and secure Port Sheridan to keep Edward’s people from nuking us in retaliation.”
“That won’t be easy,” the Fusiliers executive officer, Major General Orville Corn said slowly. “The scouts are reporting dense minefields and prepared positions between us and the Port—with ‘Mechs and armor in place defending, along with infantry and artillery.”
“We aren’t going to charge in like the Light Brigade, gentlemen,” Michael shook his head. “We have enough anti-mine munitions in the field artillery to clear a path—and every fighter, both aerospace and conventional—that isn’t delivering our message to Slocum and Edward—will be concentrated here,” he said pointed at the map.
“There are weaker points on their defensive line,” one of the armor battalion commanders mused.
“Which are intended to draw us into a trap—those weak points will let the Taurians catch our formations in an enfilade with entrenched forces on our flanks . . . and more defenses on the far side. No,” Michael ordered as he tapped the map. “We won’t play their game—we will hit them here and smash right through them after the artillery clears us a lane. If we are fast enough, if we are good enough, we can get inside Port Sheridan before they redeploy and hold it until our relief arrives. Make no mistake, gentlemen,” Michael said in a grim voice. “If we fail to accomplish this task, each and every one of us are dead—we have to take those civilians as shields and secure the parts and provisions in their warehouses or we have no chance whatsoever. Between the simple fact that we are in a vise and ‘Edward’s’ first use of nuclear weapons on Slocum, you should have all that you need to amply motivate your men.”
There was a moment of silence and then—one-by-one—the senior officers began to nod their agreement. “Then let’s get cracking.”
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
TDF Field Headquarters
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
Edward and Arden entered the communications room at a run, and the young Taurian saw the ashen looks on the assembled officers and staff as a frantic voice continued to emerge from the speakers.
“Look, I don’t have much time—this is an atrocity that I cannot let happen. You have to stop the fighters! You have to!”
Cory lifted the transmitter and the fury of his expression caused Edward to wince. “Colonel Bragg . . . you claim that Michael Hasek-Davion is going to use a nuclear weapon on his own men? On Taurian soil? And blame us for it?”
“Yes, yes, you damned fool! That’s what I’ve been telling you! The fighter strike is getting ready to launch right now—you’ve got to stop to this! I can’t! He’s going to kill them all—our own people! And then you will respond and we will all die in this miserable damned desert!”
Ardan cursed and Edward’s face blanched.
There was a pause, and in the background a faint voice was heard. “BRAGG! You traitor!”
“No, I can exp- . . .,” but the voice was cut off with the sound of gunfire . . . and then the radio transmission ended.
“Are the Fusiliers launching fighters?” Edward asked.
Cory nodded. “Two strikes—one is inbound against the southern flank of our defensive lines and the second is still forming up,” he paused and looked at the map. “Recon reports that Fusiliers are moving en masse towards the 1st Hyades Lights,” the old man shook his head. “Are they deliberately trying to get us to split our response? Make us chase after this smaller force of ASF while they pummel our lines undisturbed?”
Ardan shook his head. “No. This is just like Michael—he sees the men who surrendered as betraying him personally . . . and he wants to exact his revenge,” he winced. “And Colonel Russert has confirmed that Michael has a dozen Alamos at his disposal, taken from the Strategic Weapons Depot on New Syrtis.”
“Can our fighters intercept theirs?” Edward asked.
“It’ll be tight,” Cory said after a moment. “The big problem is their base is almost a hundred klicks closer to the surrender point than our fighter bases—and our fighters will have to move through their incoming strike to get to the second flight. Fifty-fifty,” he finished with a shrug.
Edward shook—it wasn’t fear that was causing the young man to shake, Ardan realized, but absolute, implacable fury. “We have four thousand of our own people—three-quarters of them civilians!—there to provide medical care and security for those who quietly stood down. What about in orbit? Where’s Fleet Marshal Vickers?”
“Sam suffered an engineering casualty after her jump,” Cory said with a sigh. “She’s making her way from the jump point to orbit—but she’s limping and still an hour out. Those guardships are in orbit, however, and they carry four fighters each.”
“Michaels got twelve Corsairs and eight Stukas in that strike,” Ardan pointed out. “Not good odds at 5-2.”
“Better than nothing,” Edward growled. “Get them moving, Marshal Calderon,” and he stood up straight and took a deep breath. “As Ambassador Plenipotentiary for Protector Thomas Calderon, and acting as the Protector’s Heir, I, Edward Calderon, do hereby instruct you, Marshal Calderon, that the retaliatory use of nuclear weapons has now been authorized.”
Ardan’s head snapped around; his jaw dropped and he began to protest.
“NOT NOW!” Edward barked. “Michael Hasek-Davion wants to unleash the nuclear genie on Taurian soil? In order to intimidate us? He will kill civilians—and his own captured personnel—just in an attempt to intimidate and cow ME? Not today, Colonel Sortek—not today nor ever will any Calderon submit to nuclear blackmail.”
The command center was silent. “Cory,” Edward said in a softer voice. “You have a squadron of Stingrays on alert, do you not?”
“I do—armed with F61s,” the old Marshal answered.
“Do we have a fix on Michael’s headquarters?”
One of the staff officers nodded. “It’s on the move—but we have it.”
“Marshal Calderon—show Michael Hasek-Davion the errors of his judgment,” Edward ordered in a dead flat voice. “I want maximum yields on the devices, mind you.”
Cory smiled and he nodded, then began to bark orders.
“Just his command headquarters?” asked Ardan quietly, in a voice that was somewhat relieved. “Not the entire combat formations of the Sixth?”
“They haven’t ordered the detonation of a nuclear weapon on Taurian soil, Ardan—Michael has. And besides,” Edward smiled grimly, “the forward elements of the Sixth are too close to risk using nukes unless I want to accept heavy losses from collateral damage.”
“With Alamos? That’s the only fighter delivered ordnance,” Ardan asked in a skeptical voice. “Even six might not take out his HQ if he is dispersed.
“Alamos are the only fighter-deployable nuclear-tipped missile in service, Ardan,” Edward corrected. “The F61 is a gravity bomb—capable of adjusting the yield from a minimum of 10 kilotons to a maximum of approximately 200 kilotons.”
“TWO HUNDRED KILOTONS!” Ardan barked. “That’s the yield of four Santa Annas!” He paused and then he shook his head. “Your crews are going on a suicide run, Edward.”
Edward snorted. “Bombers have delivered nukes like this for centuries, Ardan—ever hear of the loft bombing technique? The aircraft approaches the target very fast at low level—and then it climbs steeply on maximum thrust. At a certain point, the pilot releases the bomb, which continues up and forward on an arc as the aircraft rolls over and retreats,” Edward smiled. “It’s very effective at delivering ordnance when you don’t want to be in the neighborhood at detonation. Our pilots practice that—for just such an occasion as this.”
And then the smile faded. “Damn Michael for making me do this,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to, Edward,” Ardan said just as quietly. “We have the firepower to take the Sixth conventionally.”
“No, Ardan—I have to do this. I cannot—literally can not—let this go unanswered. If I did, the public would demand my head . . . and Father would give it to them.” Edward paused. “And the Old Man would be right in doing so. We’ve warned everyone since the fall of the Star League—use a weapon of mass destruction on our soil and we WILL retaliate in kind and with an order of magnitude greater destruction. I won’t be the Calderon who showed the galaxy that threat was a bluff, Ardan—I won’t. I can’t.”
Cory walked over the two men and he nodded. “They’re airborne—it’ll be about twelve minutes, my Lord,” he said with a bow of his head.
“And Michael’s strike?”
Cory paused and then he shook his head. “They’ll be in range of Alamos in seven minutes—our own fighters will take at least eight to catch up; well, except for the ones in the orbit, but as your friend here said, five-to-two is long odds.”
“SIR!” one of the enlisted technicians yelled out. “IT’S TITAN! She’s diving into the atmosphere alongside her fighters!”
“WHAT?” shouted Cory, Edward, and Ardan at the same time. “She’s not rated for atmospheric operations!” screamed the Taurian Marshal.
“Space Master Liam Zahra on-speaker, Sir,” the com tech reported—and Cory snatched up the microphone.
“What the hell do you think you are doing, Zahra?” he thundered.
“Going to the sound of the guns, Sir,” a distorted voice broke through the static. “She’ll hold together.”
“She wasn’t designed to fly in an atmosphere, you damn fool!”
Static hissed, “. . . –ck about what she was designed to do, Marshal, she can take it! She’ll hold toget- . . .,” and the speaker crackled with static again.
“Can she? Can that ship get in range of the incoming strike?” Edward asked.
“If she doesn’t break up in the upper atmosphere? If she doesn’t lose control over the target? If she doesn't shear off her radars and fire control systems—and weapons—during reentry?” snapped Cory. “If she holds together—she might. She just might.” Cory paused, and then he nodded. “Damn me if I wouldn’t have done the same,” he said with a sigh. “I think, my Lord Calderon, that if Zahra survives—and if I don’t throttle the imbecile—he might be worthy of the Standard of Taurus.”
“If he stops that nuke, I’ll recommend the Brand myself,” Edward replied, and Cory nodded.
“Just let me sear it into his flesh. Damn all pilots—doesn’t matter that he is flying twenty-five thousand tons of ship, he still thinks and acts like a fighter jock!”
“Stand in line, Cory—stand in line,” Edward said with a grim chuckle that held no humor . . . but his hand was caressing the beads of his rosary and cross.
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
Edward and Arden entered the communications room at a run, and the young Taurian saw the ashen looks on the assembled officers and staff as a frantic voice continued to emerge from the speakers.
“Look, I don’t have much time—this is an atrocity that I cannot let happen. You have to stop the fighters! You have to!”
Cory lifted the transmitter and the fury of his expression caused Edward to wince. “Colonel Bragg . . . you claim that Michael Hasek-Davion is going to use a nuclear weapon on his own men? On Taurian soil? And blame us for it?”
“Yes, yes, you damned fool! That’s what I’ve been telling you! The fighter strike is getting ready to launch right now—you’ve got to stop to this! I can’t! He’s going to kill them all—our own people! And then you will respond and we will all die in this miserable damned desert!”
Ardan cursed and Edward’s face blanched.
There was a pause, and in the background a faint voice was heard. “BRAGG! You traitor!”
“No, I can exp- . . .,” but the voice was cut off with the sound of gunfire . . . and then the radio transmission ended.
“Are the Fusiliers launching fighters?” Edward asked.
Cory nodded. “Two strikes—one is inbound against the southern flank of our defensive lines and the second is still forming up,” he paused and looked at the map. “Recon reports that Fusiliers are moving en masse towards the 1st Hyades Lights,” the old man shook his head. “Are they deliberately trying to get us to split our response? Make us chase after this smaller force of ASF while they pummel our lines undisturbed?”
Ardan shook his head. “No. This is just like Michael—he sees the men who surrendered as betraying him personally . . . and he wants to exact his revenge,” he winced. “And Colonel Russert has confirmed that Michael has a dozen Alamos at his disposal, taken from the Strategic Weapons Depot on New Syrtis.”
“Can our fighters intercept theirs?” Edward asked.
“It’ll be tight,” Cory said after a moment. “The big problem is their base is almost a hundred klicks closer to the surrender point than our fighter bases—and our fighters will have to move through their incoming strike to get to the second flight. Fifty-fifty,” he finished with a shrug.
Edward shook—it wasn’t fear that was causing the young man to shake, Ardan realized, but absolute, implacable fury. “We have four thousand of our own people—three-quarters of them civilians!—there to provide medical care and security for those who quietly stood down. What about in orbit? Where’s Fleet Marshal Vickers?”
“Sam suffered an engineering casualty after her jump,” Cory said with a sigh. “She’s making her way from the jump point to orbit—but she’s limping and still an hour out. Those guardships are in orbit, however, and they carry four fighters each.”
“Michaels got twelve Corsairs and eight Stukas in that strike,” Ardan pointed out. “Not good odds at 5-2.”
“Better than nothing,” Edward growled. “Get them moving, Marshal Calderon,” and he stood up straight and took a deep breath. “As Ambassador Plenipotentiary for Protector Thomas Calderon, and acting as the Protector’s Heir, I, Edward Calderon, do hereby instruct you, Marshal Calderon, that the retaliatory use of nuclear weapons has now been authorized.”
Ardan’s head snapped around; his jaw dropped and he began to protest.
“NOT NOW!” Edward barked. “Michael Hasek-Davion wants to unleash the nuclear genie on Taurian soil? In order to intimidate us? He will kill civilians—and his own captured personnel—just in an attempt to intimidate and cow ME? Not today, Colonel Sortek—not today nor ever will any Calderon submit to nuclear blackmail.”
The command center was silent. “Cory,” Edward said in a softer voice. “You have a squadron of Stingrays on alert, do you not?”
“I do—armed with F61s,” the old Marshal answered.
“Do we have a fix on Michael’s headquarters?”
One of the staff officers nodded. “It’s on the move—but we have it.”
“Marshal Calderon—show Michael Hasek-Davion the errors of his judgment,” Edward ordered in a dead flat voice. “I want maximum yields on the devices, mind you.”
Cory smiled and he nodded, then began to bark orders.
“Just his command headquarters?” asked Ardan quietly, in a voice that was somewhat relieved. “Not the entire combat formations of the Sixth?”
“They haven’t ordered the detonation of a nuclear weapon on Taurian soil, Ardan—Michael has. And besides,” Edward smiled grimly, “the forward elements of the Sixth are too close to risk using nukes unless I want to accept heavy losses from collateral damage.”
“With Alamos? That’s the only fighter delivered ordnance,” Ardan asked in a skeptical voice. “Even six might not take out his HQ if he is dispersed.
“Alamos are the only fighter-deployable nuclear-tipped missile in service, Ardan,” Edward corrected. “The F61 is a gravity bomb—capable of adjusting the yield from a minimum of 10 kilotons to a maximum of approximately 200 kilotons.”
“TWO HUNDRED KILOTONS!” Ardan barked. “That’s the yield of four Santa Annas!” He paused and then he shook his head. “Your crews are going on a suicide run, Edward.”
Edward snorted. “Bombers have delivered nukes like this for centuries, Ardan—ever hear of the loft bombing technique? The aircraft approaches the target very fast at low level—and then it climbs steeply on maximum thrust. At a certain point, the pilot releases the bomb, which continues up and forward on an arc as the aircraft rolls over and retreats,” Edward smiled. “It’s very effective at delivering ordnance when you don’t want to be in the neighborhood at detonation. Our pilots practice that—for just such an occasion as this.”
And then the smile faded. “Damn Michael for making me do this,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to, Edward,” Ardan said just as quietly. “We have the firepower to take the Sixth conventionally.”
“No, Ardan—I have to do this. I cannot—literally can not—let this go unanswered. If I did, the public would demand my head . . . and Father would give it to them.” Edward paused. “And the Old Man would be right in doing so. We’ve warned everyone since the fall of the Star League—use a weapon of mass destruction on our soil and we WILL retaliate in kind and with an order of magnitude greater destruction. I won’t be the Calderon who showed the galaxy that threat was a bluff, Ardan—I won’t. I can’t.”
Cory walked over the two men and he nodded. “They’re airborne—it’ll be about twelve minutes, my Lord,” he said with a bow of his head.
“And Michael’s strike?”
Cory paused and then he shook his head. “They’ll be in range of Alamos in seven minutes—our own fighters will take at least eight to catch up; well, except for the ones in the orbit, but as your friend here said, five-to-two is long odds.”
“SIR!” one of the enlisted technicians yelled out. “IT’S TITAN! She’s diving into the atmosphere alongside her fighters!”
“WHAT?” shouted Cory, Edward, and Ardan at the same time. “She’s not rated for atmospheric operations!” screamed the Taurian Marshal.
“Space Master Liam Zahra on-speaker, Sir,” the com tech reported—and Cory snatched up the microphone.
“What the hell do you think you are doing, Zahra?” he thundered.
“Going to the sound of the guns, Sir,” a distorted voice broke through the static. “She’ll hold together.”
“She wasn’t designed to fly in an atmosphere, you damn fool!”
Static hissed, “. . . –ck about what she was designed to do, Marshal, she can take it! She’ll hold toget- . . .,” and the speaker crackled with static again.
“Can she? Can that ship get in range of the incoming strike?” Edward asked.
“If she doesn’t break up in the upper atmosphere? If she doesn’t lose control over the target? If she doesn't shear off her radars and fire control systems—and weapons—during reentry?” snapped Cory. “If she holds together—she might. She just might.” Cory paused, and then he nodded. “Damn me if I wouldn’t have done the same,” he said with a sigh. “I think, my Lord Calderon, that if Zahra survives—and if I don’t throttle the imbecile—he might be worthy of the Standard of Taurus.”
“If he stops that nuke, I’ll recommend the Brand myself,” Edward replied, and Cory nodded.
“Just let me sear it into his flesh. Damn all pilots—doesn’t matter that he is flying twenty-five thousand tons of ship, he still thinks and acts like a fighter jock!”
“Stand in line, Cory—stand in line,” Edward said with a grim chuckle that held no humor . . . but his hand was caressing the beads of his rosary and cross.
Last edited by masterarminas on 2013-07-28 10:25am, edited 1 time in total.
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Vehrec
- Jedi Council Member
- Posts: 2204
- Joined: 2006-04-22 12:29pm
- Location: The Ohio State University
- Contact:
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Well the G-loads won't be a problem-lack of streamlining will be, but assuming properly curved armor, that might not be much on an issue either. And at the speed they're going, the wake turbulence caused by it plowing through the air might be it's most powerful weapon-I'd rule that anything near it has to make a lawn-dart check.
Commander of the MFS Darwinian Selection Method (sexual)Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Now that is just damn foolhardy
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
- Posts: 10369
- Joined: 2010-03-09 02:16pm
- Location: CIC, Battlestar Temeraire
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
I really hope Michael has enough time to realise how stupid he is before he gets atomised.
Plus, hat's off to the guardship commander. That's just awesome.
Plus, hat's off to the guardship commander. That's just awesome.
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Taurian Concordat Navy GuardShip Titan
Local Space, New Vallis System
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
Sweat poured off the face of Space Master Liam Zahra as the immense—and aerodynamically unstable—DropShip plunged down into the atmosphere. Titan shuddered and she groaned with a metallic shriek as she was buffeted by the unyielding atmosphere.
“Main radar dish off-line!” a rating reported, then he paused. “The dish is gone—it tore off the hull.”
“Secondary arrays?” asked Zahra.
“Resolution degraded—but still with us, skipper.”
Alarms were beeping and hooting and emitting shrill tones, amid the red and yellow flashing lights of warnings and cautions. “Keep it together, baby,” he muttered, and then there was a ripping sound and a massive thud.
“We’ve lost turrets Six through Eleven! Hull breach on Decks Three, Four, and Five!”
“Maneuvering, shallow our descent angle . . . raise the nose seven—no nine!—degrees.”
“Increasing positive nine degrees on Z axis, aye, sir,” the helm crew chief answered. “Just tap the forward ventral and stern dorsal RCS, Perez—easy now,” he paused and looked over at the commander. “She’s wallowing like a pig in slop, skipper.”
“She’ll hold, Chief—she’ll hold. Reduce mains to ten percent power,” Zahra ordered. “Let gravity finish bringing us in.”
“Mains at One Zero percent military power,” the chief answered. And the rough shaking began to subside. “She’s settling down—we are dropping like a rock, skipper.”
“Understood, Chief. Tracking, do you have a fix on the FedRat strike?”
“Rough locus, Space Master,” the technician answered. “No hard fix—twenty birds . . . intercept in thirty seconds.”
“Tie the tertiary Targeting and Tracking Arrays into the sensors—get me a lock, damn you!”
“Aye, sir—TTAs are on-line . . . negative weapons lock, sir.”
“Guns,” Zahra growled.
“We’ve lost half the forward battery, Skipper, and the nose tracking arrays took heavy damage from reentry—recommend we rotate thirty-five degrees to port to unmask the starboard battery.”
“We ain’t in vacuum, Guns.”
“I know that, Skipper—fifteen seconds to weapons range.”
Zahra clenched his fist and then he nodded. “Maneuvering, rotate thirty-five degrees to port—maintain descent angle and take the mains to standby.”
“Rotating ship Three Five degrees to port, mains on standby,” the helm crew answered . . . and the severe shaking resumed. “Rate of descent is increasing—she’s fighting me!” And in a softer voice, the man continued. “It’s like flying with a herd of bloody damned rhinos on your back!”
“Starboard TTAs are LOCKED!” targeting cried. “Starboard battery is clear!”
“GUNS!” Zahra barked.
The gunnery officer twisted a key and then pressed a single button. “Take this, you sons-of-bitches,” he muttered.
Headhunter Lead, 80th Syrtis Aerospace Wing
Inbound to target, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
“Headhunter Able,” Major Fred Larson called out as he armed the two Alamo missiles beneath the wings of his Stuka, “go hot on the special ordnance. Headhunter Baker and Charlie, keep those Taurians off our ass.”
“Baker Two to Headhunter Lead,” the radio crackled, “I’ve got incoming descending from orbit . . . got a lot of clutter here, but it looks like eight medium-weights and a shit-load of debri- . . . HOLY SHIT! Incoming DropShip!”
Larson looked up from his sensors and he sucked in a deep breath as he saw the massive fireball that surrounded the DropShip plunging down through the atmosphere—and then it swung around and he recognized it. Oh fuck, he thought.
“ALL HEADHUNTERS! EVASIVE MANEUVERS!” he yelled as he jerked his own stick to the left and rolled. But at that moment, sixteen Class 2 autocannons, four LRM-15 launchers, four PPCs, four Large Lasers, six Class 5 autocannons, four Class 10 autocannons, six Medium Lasers, two Class 20 autocannons, four SRM-6 launchers, ten Small Lasers, and sixteen Machine-Guns began to spit fire as the massive DropShip plunged into range.
The staggered formation of the Headhunters broke apart in chaos as a third of the fighters either exploded or spun out of control—and then the Fusiliers pilots entered the opposite side of the DropShip and fresh weapon batteries began to fire missiles and shells and beams.
Taurian Concordat Navy GuardShip Titan
Local Space, New Vallis System
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
“FULL POWER ON THE MAINS!” Zahra barked. “Alter course to pursuit vector—I want those survivors to have the fear of God Almighty put into them!”
“Going to military power on the main drives,” maneuvering reported—and Zahra slammed back into his seat as the powerful transit drives accelerated at six-Gs. “Pursuit vector . . . stabilized,” the Chief reported with a shake of his head. “She’s holding steady at ten thousand, skipper,” then there was a groan and THUD as another piece of hull plating and armor tore loose and slammed against the hull before falling towards the ground. “But she can’t take much more of this.”
“She can. She will, Chief,” Zahra answered. “Guns?”
“We are overtaking the Feddies, skipper . . . forward battery will engage in . . . fifteen seconds.”
]Headhunter Lead, 80th Syrtis Aerospace Wing
Inbound to target, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
“She’s chasing us—she’s gaining on us,” a panicked voice called out over the radio.
Larson gritted his teeth . . . with full external loads, the Stukas flew much like a brick; the assault-weight fighters were slow and relatively unable to maneuver—and that Taurian bastard back there was ignoring the escorting Corsairs and concentrating on the fighters carrying the nuclear ordnance.
“Sixty seconds to target, Able Three—sixty seconds.”
“We ain’t gonna last thirty seconds, Lead!” the radio crackled with static, and then the other pilot sighed. “Who the hell put so many damn AC-2s on a frigging DropShip?” The sole remaining Stuka—other than Larson’s own bird—began to shiver and smoke as a hail of light slugs slammed home, followed by flight after flight of LRMs. “EJECTING, EJECTING, EJECTING!” the pilot cried as the hundred ton fighter’s engine suddenly died and it rolled over and began to spin towards the ground.
“SHIT!” cried Larson as he wildly maneuvered his Stuka. “Baker and Charlie—where the hell is my cover?”
“Baker Two, Lead—the Taurian fighters have arrived . . . we are keeping them off your ass . . . SIR.”
Larson looked at his scope and he shook his head. He would never survive to launch range—not with this hulking monster on his tail—and two Alamos would do jack and shit to the dispersed formations unless he deliberately aimed for the hastily erected buildings that sported the universal sign of non-combatants on their roofs . . . a big red cross in a white circle.
He cursed under his breath, and pulled back on the stick while pressing the throttle to the stops. “You want to play chicken, you Taurian SOB?” he growled as he locked the Alamos onto the oncoming DropShip. “Well let’s play.”
As the shrill tone of a lock sounded in his ear-piece, Fred Larson pulled the trigger; first one and then the second missile streaked away from the rails—just moments before his fighter ran head-long into a storm of shells, missiles, and beams.
Taurian Concordat Navy GuardShip Titan
Local Space, New Vallis System
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
The damaged and overstressed sensors of Titan never saw the two small missiles that sped forward—not until it was too late to respond. Liam Zahra heard the cry of, “INCOMING NUKES!”, but before he could even open his mouth the Alamos slammed home against the nose . . . and detonated.
Local Space, New Vallis System
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
Sweat poured off the face of Space Master Liam Zahra as the immense—and aerodynamically unstable—DropShip plunged down into the atmosphere. Titan shuddered and she groaned with a metallic shriek as she was buffeted by the unyielding atmosphere.
“Main radar dish off-line!” a rating reported, then he paused. “The dish is gone—it tore off the hull.”
“Secondary arrays?” asked Zahra.
“Resolution degraded—but still with us, skipper.”
Alarms were beeping and hooting and emitting shrill tones, amid the red and yellow flashing lights of warnings and cautions. “Keep it together, baby,” he muttered, and then there was a ripping sound and a massive thud.
“We’ve lost turrets Six through Eleven! Hull breach on Decks Three, Four, and Five!”
“Maneuvering, shallow our descent angle . . . raise the nose seven—no nine!—degrees.”
“Increasing positive nine degrees on Z axis, aye, sir,” the helm crew chief answered. “Just tap the forward ventral and stern dorsal RCS, Perez—easy now,” he paused and looked over at the commander. “She’s wallowing like a pig in slop, skipper.”
“She’ll hold, Chief—she’ll hold. Reduce mains to ten percent power,” Zahra ordered. “Let gravity finish bringing us in.”
“Mains at One Zero percent military power,” the chief answered. And the rough shaking began to subside. “She’s settling down—we are dropping like a rock, skipper.”
“Understood, Chief. Tracking, do you have a fix on the FedRat strike?”
“Rough locus, Space Master,” the technician answered. “No hard fix—twenty birds . . . intercept in thirty seconds.”
“Tie the tertiary Targeting and Tracking Arrays into the sensors—get me a lock, damn you!”
“Aye, sir—TTAs are on-line . . . negative weapons lock, sir.”
“Guns,” Zahra growled.
“We’ve lost half the forward battery, Skipper, and the nose tracking arrays took heavy damage from reentry—recommend we rotate thirty-five degrees to port to unmask the starboard battery.”
“We ain’t in vacuum, Guns.”
“I know that, Skipper—fifteen seconds to weapons range.”
Zahra clenched his fist and then he nodded. “Maneuvering, rotate thirty-five degrees to port—maintain descent angle and take the mains to standby.”
“Rotating ship Three Five degrees to port, mains on standby,” the helm crew answered . . . and the severe shaking resumed. “Rate of descent is increasing—she’s fighting me!” And in a softer voice, the man continued. “It’s like flying with a herd of bloody damned rhinos on your back!”
“Starboard TTAs are LOCKED!” targeting cried. “Starboard battery is clear!”
“GUNS!” Zahra barked.
The gunnery officer twisted a key and then pressed a single button. “Take this, you sons-of-bitches,” he muttered.
Headhunter Lead, 80th Syrtis Aerospace Wing
Inbound to target, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
“Headhunter Able,” Major Fred Larson called out as he armed the two Alamo missiles beneath the wings of his Stuka, “go hot on the special ordnance. Headhunter Baker and Charlie, keep those Taurians off our ass.”
“Baker Two to Headhunter Lead,” the radio crackled, “I’ve got incoming descending from orbit . . . got a lot of clutter here, but it looks like eight medium-weights and a shit-load of debri- . . . HOLY SHIT! Incoming DropShip!”
Larson looked up from his sensors and he sucked in a deep breath as he saw the massive fireball that surrounded the DropShip plunging down through the atmosphere—and then it swung around and he recognized it. Oh fuck, he thought.
“ALL HEADHUNTERS! EVASIVE MANEUVERS!” he yelled as he jerked his own stick to the left and rolled. But at that moment, sixteen Class 2 autocannons, four LRM-15 launchers, four PPCs, four Large Lasers, six Class 5 autocannons, four Class 10 autocannons, six Medium Lasers, two Class 20 autocannons, four SRM-6 launchers, ten Small Lasers, and sixteen Machine-Guns began to spit fire as the massive DropShip plunged into range.
The staggered formation of the Headhunters broke apart in chaos as a third of the fighters either exploded or spun out of control—and then the Fusiliers pilots entered the opposite side of the DropShip and fresh weapon batteries began to fire missiles and shells and beams.
Taurian Concordat Navy GuardShip Titan
Local Space, New Vallis System
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
“FULL POWER ON THE MAINS!” Zahra barked. “Alter course to pursuit vector—I want those survivors to have the fear of God Almighty put into them!”
“Going to military power on the main drives,” maneuvering reported—and Zahra slammed back into his seat as the powerful transit drives accelerated at six-Gs. “Pursuit vector . . . stabilized,” the Chief reported with a shake of his head. “She’s holding steady at ten thousand, skipper,” then there was a groan and THUD as another piece of hull plating and armor tore loose and slammed against the hull before falling towards the ground. “But she can’t take much more of this.”
“She can. She will, Chief,” Zahra answered. “Guns?”
“We are overtaking the Feddies, skipper . . . forward battery will engage in . . . fifteen seconds.”
]Headhunter Lead, 80th Syrtis Aerospace Wing
Inbound to target, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
“She’s chasing us—she’s gaining on us,” a panicked voice called out over the radio.
Larson gritted his teeth . . . with full external loads, the Stukas flew much like a brick; the assault-weight fighters were slow and relatively unable to maneuver—and that Taurian bastard back there was ignoring the escorting Corsairs and concentrating on the fighters carrying the nuclear ordnance.
“Sixty seconds to target, Able Three—sixty seconds.”
“We ain’t gonna last thirty seconds, Lead!” the radio crackled with static, and then the other pilot sighed. “Who the hell put so many damn AC-2s on a frigging DropShip?” The sole remaining Stuka—other than Larson’s own bird—began to shiver and smoke as a hail of light slugs slammed home, followed by flight after flight of LRMs. “EJECTING, EJECTING, EJECTING!” the pilot cried as the hundred ton fighter’s engine suddenly died and it rolled over and began to spin towards the ground.
“SHIT!” cried Larson as he wildly maneuvered his Stuka. “Baker and Charlie—where the hell is my cover?”
“Baker Two, Lead—the Taurian fighters have arrived . . . we are keeping them off your ass . . . SIR.”
Larson looked at his scope and he shook his head. He would never survive to launch range—not with this hulking monster on his tail—and two Alamos would do jack and shit to the dispersed formations unless he deliberately aimed for the hastily erected buildings that sported the universal sign of non-combatants on their roofs . . . a big red cross in a white circle.
He cursed under his breath, and pulled back on the stick while pressing the throttle to the stops. “You want to play chicken, you Taurian SOB?” he growled as he locked the Alamos onto the oncoming DropShip. “Well let’s play.”
As the shrill tone of a lock sounded in his ear-piece, Fred Larson pulled the trigger; first one and then the second missile streaked away from the rails—just moments before his fighter ran head-long into a storm of shells, missiles, and beams.
Taurian Concordat Navy GuardShip Titan
Local Space, New Vallis System
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
The damaged and overstressed sensors of Titan never saw the two small missiles that sped forward—not until it was too late to respond. Liam Zahra heard the cry of, “INCOMING NUKES!”, but before he could even open his mouth the Alamos slammed home against the nose . . . and detonated.
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
- Posts: 10369
- Joined: 2010-03-09 02:16pm
- Location: CIC, Battlestar Temeraire
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Oh you bastard.
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
The Taurians are definitely going to remember those two missiles...
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
Hammer Flight, Taurian Aerospace Command, New Vallis Detachment
Inbound to Point Sunshine, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
“Approaching Sunshine, Hammers,” Cornet Shelly Lee said crisply; “Eagle Lead are we go/no-go to deploy?”
The lead pilot of the four escorting Stingrays of Eagle Flight clicked his transmitter twice. “Hammer Lead, the sky is clear of all bogies—you are GO for mission. Eagle Flight is breaking off and returning to base—good hunting, Hammers.”
Shelly inhaled deeply and she made certain her oxygen mask was tight against her face. She looked left and right, and then at the rear display . . . the three remaining Stingrays of her wing were tucked in tight as they flew low and fast over the parched wastes below.
“Arm the weapons,” she ordered as she toggled two switches and lifted a safety cover to slide a third home. On her HUD, the icons of the two F61 bombs changed from red to green—all systems go. “Confirm tritium injection for maximum yield,” she continued, double-checking her own gauges . . . all were good.
“Hammer Two, confirm.”
“Hammer Three, confirm.”
“Hammer Four, good to go—it’s Hammer Time, boss.”
“Central, Hammer Flight is go for loft toss . . . request final authorization,” she broadcast.
“Hammer Flight, Central—you are GO. Repeat GO for delivery.”
“Roger that, Central—ten seconds to Initial Point,” Shelly broadcast. “Stand by for maximum overthrust climb.”
As the counter in her HUD raced down to zero, she slammed the throttle to the firewall and pulled back on the stick, making certain to keep her bird steady—the slightest rocking of the wings could send these firecrackers kilometers off target . . . and she wasn’t about to waste two 200-kt warheads on empty desert.
The Stingrays accelerated as they climbed steeper and steeper, clawing towards the vertical—and all of the pilots felt the crushing pressure as the G’s piled on their bodies. But still they climbed . . . until the HUDs flashed green and Shelly squeezed the pickle once, and then a second time as she yanked the stick back and hard to her right.
The Stingray rolled over onto its back and righted itself, rocketing away along its original course as it dove, adding still more speed to the stressed airframe as it put kilometers of distance between Shelly and her target with each passing moment. The two F61 bombs, however, they flew up and away on a ballistic course now in the capable hands of Sir Isaac Newton . . . well, him and the local jetstream.
Eight nuclear weapons flew up on the curve of a parabola—until gravity remembered that it was charge here; the bombs reached the apex and then they began their long descent towards the target far, far below them. Down they plunged towards the silent desert, separating slightly to box in the target between the eight detonation points. At 610 meters above the desert floor, a pressure detonator in each of the F61s clicked on . . . and eight massive fireballs blossomed into momentary existence, heralding the release of almost unimaginable amounts of energy.
Energy that slammed into the Command Headquarters of the Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers from all sides before hurricane force winds ablaze with fire formed into eight mushroom-shaped columns of ash and soot and dust visible for scores of kilometers.
Inbound to Point Sunshine, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 23, 3025
“Approaching Sunshine, Hammers,” Cornet Shelly Lee said crisply; “Eagle Lead are we go/no-go to deploy?”
The lead pilot of the four escorting Stingrays of Eagle Flight clicked his transmitter twice. “Hammer Lead, the sky is clear of all bogies—you are GO for mission. Eagle Flight is breaking off and returning to base—good hunting, Hammers.”
Shelly inhaled deeply and she made certain her oxygen mask was tight against her face. She looked left and right, and then at the rear display . . . the three remaining Stingrays of her wing were tucked in tight as they flew low and fast over the parched wastes below.
“Arm the weapons,” she ordered as she toggled two switches and lifted a safety cover to slide a third home. On her HUD, the icons of the two F61 bombs changed from red to green—all systems go. “Confirm tritium injection for maximum yield,” she continued, double-checking her own gauges . . . all were good.
“Hammer Two, confirm.”
“Hammer Three, confirm.”
“Hammer Four, good to go—it’s Hammer Time, boss.”
“Central, Hammer Flight is go for loft toss . . . request final authorization,” she broadcast.
“Hammer Flight, Central—you are GO. Repeat GO for delivery.”
“Roger that, Central—ten seconds to Initial Point,” Shelly broadcast. “Stand by for maximum overthrust climb.”
As the counter in her HUD raced down to zero, she slammed the throttle to the firewall and pulled back on the stick, making certain to keep her bird steady—the slightest rocking of the wings could send these firecrackers kilometers off target . . . and she wasn’t about to waste two 200-kt warheads on empty desert.
The Stingrays accelerated as they climbed steeper and steeper, clawing towards the vertical—and all of the pilots felt the crushing pressure as the G’s piled on their bodies. But still they climbed . . . until the HUDs flashed green and Shelly squeezed the pickle once, and then a second time as she yanked the stick back and hard to her right.
The Stingray rolled over onto its back and righted itself, rocketing away along its original course as it dove, adding still more speed to the stressed airframe as it put kilometers of distance between Shelly and her target with each passing moment. The two F61 bombs, however, they flew up and away on a ballistic course now in the capable hands of Sir Isaac Newton . . . well, him and the local jetstream.
Eight nuclear weapons flew up on the curve of a parabola—until gravity remembered that it was charge here; the bombs reached the apex and then they began their long descent towards the target far, far below them. Down they plunged towards the silent desert, separating slightly to box in the target between the eight detonation points. At 610 meters above the desert floor, a pressure detonator in each of the F61s clicked on . . . and eight massive fireballs blossomed into momentary existence, heralding the release of almost unimaginable amounts of energy.
Energy that slammed into the Command Headquarters of the Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers from all sides before hurricane force winds ablaze with fire formed into eight mushroom-shaped columns of ash and soot and dust visible for scores of kilometers.
Re: By the Horns (A BattleTech Alternate Universe)
10 Nukes, two on the Titan, the rest neatly (hopefully) taking out Duke Mikey.
I say "hopefully" because he's always been a slick SOB who got away with far more than he deserved.
I say "hopefully" because he's always been a slick SOB who got away with far more than he deserved.
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet