That said, most of the characters, places and other elements in this story are my own creations and may not be re-used without notification or permission.
Also, please be aware that this story takes place in an 'undeveloped' region of the Periphery which has its own history and certain technological differences from the mainline CBT universe.
Manus haec inimica tyrannis ense petit placidam sub libertate quietam
("This hand of mine, which is hostile to tyrants, seeks by the sword peace and liberty.")
– Massachusetts state motto, c.1776
NUEVO BUENOS AIRES, ENSENADA
August 9, 2827, Terran Reckoning
It's a cool night – meaning that the thermometers are 'only' flirting with twenty degrees Celsius. The street-lights were shot out days ago – nobody with any sense wants to leave the damned spics any freebies – so the band of seven men in olive uniforms making their way towards what used to be a book-store have to do it by moonlight and soft footwork. Only the point-man's got his weapon ready: the others are moving in three pairs, each pair carrying a munitions crate between them.
Braaaaaaapp!
All seven men hit the pavement; the lead man's clutching his throat and choking on blood. There's a guerrillero leaning out a second-floor window across the street, unloading a Xia-27 at them; the sub-gun's muzzle-blast lights up the entire façade. Some of the others unsling their rifles to return fire, but the Ensie's long gone by the time they clear for action - all the rounds connect with is concrete and sign-fronts. He could be planning to do it again at some other shop-front or street-corner. He might not come back at all.
One of the survivors glances at the fellow who was on the other end of his crate; now, he's lying flat on his back with a bloody crater where his left eye used to be. "Dio mio," he mutters sickly.
"'Welcome to historic Buenos Aires, gateway to Ensenada'," another quotes at him sourly, having been on-world a little longer. "'We hope you enjoy your visit.'"
A third has been checking on the point-man, but could do nothing for him. "Yeah, kid, you're gonna love tha 'Nada – for-fuckin'-ever."
"Hey, let's keep movin', huh?" puts in a fourth, waving one hand towards their destination. "Let's get inside before –"
Part of his head comes off, and all of them are already on the ground when the krack! reaches their ears.
The sickly lad winces as he takes another lesson to heart: pointing in a sniper-rich environment invokes Darwin. "Everybody stay down!" he hisses. "I guess we're gonna have to crawl from here. Drag those crates behind you."
"Who put you in charge, rookie?"
"His Grace il Duce di Soren," is the caustic retort. "Or d'you wanna stay here?"
"Oh, fuck the crates – let's just get ourselves there!"
"They'll just make us come back for 'em," the lad points out. "You wanna do this shit again? Maybe in daylight?"
The complainer gives him a glare that's lost in the darkness and starts shuffling along the pavement on hands and knees, dragging his crate by one rope carry-loop, making a quarter-metre with each yank and cursing this whole fucked-up war under every breath.
It takes them almost half an hour to cover the last block; there's actually a sandbagged revetment around the entrance that gives them cover for the last stretch. They're met at the opening to the sandbags by two Soren Landsers; unlike the newcomers, they're unshaven and hollow-eyed, their uniforms faded and battered. "Resupply, huh?" snarks one. "Nice of 'em to remember we actually need ammo."
"Ammo and replacements," the young lad tells him.
"Four replacements – for the whole company?"
"We started with nine," the new arrival notes sourly. "Be glad for what you get."
"The fuckin' wops get all their resupplies in armoured carriers," the other Landser bitches, helping one of the other newcomers haul a crate inside. "Must be really fuckin' nice to get all of your replacements and ammo without the fuckin' spics cuttin' 'em to shreds before they get to you."
"I'll file a complaint," is the sardonic rejoinder. "Where's the guy in charge?"
"Back there," the first Landser says, jerking a thumb towards the staff-room. "Welcome to the shit, kid."
- - - - -
Acting-Sergeant Bauer's working on I-rat neotuna-and-noodles, wistfully remembering the venison stew he had on his last night on Soren. He looks up at the sound of footsteps, assessing the newcomer as he comes through the doorway.
The newcomer's maybe twenty, with the stocky build and olive skin of Salernan extraction. Like every other member of 3 Company, he's wearing a ballistic-nylon flak-vest and steel-pot helmet – the kind of body-armour issued to most GCC colonial and conscript troopers: old, heavy, cheap... and close to useless. He blinks at seeing Bauer. "Uhh... I thought Captain Petrelli was running Three Company?"
"He was... until he decided to use his oh-so-fancy night-vision-binos an hour ago," Bauer shrugs, setting down his 'chewing-exercise, canned'. "The snipers don't like that: he's in the store-room with a tag in his teeth. Who're you?"
The kid groans something to himself, then turns a crooked smile on the blond non-com and shifts his vest; two stars run up the front of his over-the-shoulder service/rank-strip. "Tenente Antonio Ferretti. I was supposed to take over 'A' platoon."
Bauer snorts a laugh. "Sounds like you've been in charge since before you got here, sir," he drawls... then cocks his head. "Wait – 'Ferretti'?"
"Yes. And yes – those Ferrettis," the kid nods.
Oh, that's just GREAT, isn't it? Bauer realises. He's about to snap to his feet, but Ferretti waves him back before he can move. His eyes flash to the newcomer's belt, looking for something that should be there but isn't.
"I left my sidearm back at the depot – figured the snipers don't need the help." Ferretti shucks off his helmet and rifle to sit down, setting the former on the table and the latter against the side of his chair. "Learned how true that was on the way here. Christ, they told me this area was off the line, and we still lost five men getting here! Is it always that bad?"
"Yeah, that's about usual," Bauer nods, not letting his thoughts show. What the hell kind of Salernan officer comes to his duty-post with a friggin' resupply run instead of in a damned APC? I mean, he just saw how many guys get killed that way! "It's funny how many of the local 'barbarians' resent our being here. You'd almost think they didn't want to be 'administered' by 'their rightful landlords'."
Ferretti gives him a level look. "You might not want to say things like that where anyone else can hear you, Sergeant. The penal units are always looking for more bodies, and I don't yet know how much I may need you."
"But you're not going to say anything?"
"I don't yet know how much I may need you," the officer repeats evenly.
"That's a true comfort to hear, Herr Leutnant."
"Now that we're finished with the macho posturing, what's the company's status?"
"I don't know that 'company' is the right word, sir," Bauer snorts. "Not counting however many came with you, we've got seventy-one men in three platoons – and with you, one officer."
Ferretti winces. Authorised strength for an infantry company is four platoons, totaling eleven officers and a hundred and twenty-seven men, plus five 'supernumerary auxiliaries'. "No Royal Commissioners?"
"Some guerrillero tossed a potato-masher through the last one's window three days ago – they've got a real hard-on about killing Commissioners."
"Uh-huh," the lieutenant says neutrally. He's already seen enough to know that when it comes to Commissioners getting fragged, there are guerrilleros and 'guerrilleros'. "How are things looking otherwise?"
"Not counting whatever you brought with you, each of us is down to three spare mags, a day's rations and one canteen. We'd be worse-off –"
"Only being at 'decreased strength' means a company-issue goes further, especially if you scrounge leftovers off guys who don't need 'em anymore," Ferretti nods. "Any chance of further resupply?"
That prompts a bitter laugh. "For a colonial unit of Soren 'ferals', sir? Unless you're planning to trade on your name, I wouldn't bet on it."
"We'll see. Where's the comm. room? I need to make a call."
- - - - -
ELEVEN KLICKS NORTH OF NUEVO BUENOS AIRES
That same time
"Firebat-Black-01" (Hurón-class BattleMech)
Command 'Mech, F Coy/432nd Hussar Battalion
"Okay, you lot, this is the place," Captain Beatrice "Hammer" Kuznetsov declares over the company comm-laser 'net. "Everybody find a decent possie and go to EmCon, in case the 'Cadians are running early."
With that, she works her HOTAS controls for a moment, putting most of her Hurón's systems into standby. She leaves on her neurohelmet, but runs a finger down the zip-closure of her coolant-suit and tugs it open a little to let her skin breathe. Even with its comfort-lining, and the 'thermal mass' tucked into the cockpit's floor running fresh coolant through the meshwork of tubing in its underlayer, a Union MechWarrior's combat coverall is still in essence an insulated body-glove, which means it can get a 'little' sticky – especially on Ensenada.
Speaking of which... Kuznetsov leans back in her command-couch and speaks in weary tones, hoping to pre-empt the resumption of an old discussion. "No, Olivia! I am not going into business with you after the war!"
In her 'operator's seat' behind the pilot, her Ensenadan CSO makes a rude noise. "I'm tellin' you, Hammer: the only way you could make money faster would be to print the stuff yourself!"
"You'd know," Hammer murmurs. Warrant Officer de'Rio is one-point-seven metres tall and has the dark-olive complexion and black hair of most Ensenadans, piercing green eyes... and a 'sex-bomb' yield in the megaton range. As many of the men (and not a few women) within ten light-years can attest, since the last magazine-pictorials and trid-discs she appeared in before enlisting sold half a million units in just the first week of pre-order. "I don't really see myself doing too well in the media, Succubus, let alone that genre: I get stage-fright just talking to the Colonel, and that's when I'm fully dressed."
Her Gal-in-Back laughs. "It's not like you're doing Shakespeare, boss-chica. Hell, in most of the stuff I did after I founded Bliss Productions, all I used for a storyboard was 'point the camera and enjoy the show'. And in case you hadn't noticed? Tall, well-built blonde women are kind'a in short supply in Massachusetts' industry, bio-sculpt notwithstanding. Trust me: with my people representing you, you wouldn't have to get out of bed for less than two thousand marks an hour."
"Or get into bed, as the case may be." Hammer sighs a helpless laugh. "And that reminds me: how the hell did you con the EDF into letting you do 'Candid Seductions VI' in EDF uniform, on EDF installations – with fellow servicemen as most of your co-stars?"
"Pitched it to 'em on the basis of maintaining force morale, boss – and I thought you said you didn't see 'Seductions Six'?" Succubus adds blandly. "You remember how enlistment enquiries spiked three points in the first two hours after they announced I'd signed up? Same thing. Plus I cut 'em a 'serviceman's discount', let 'em divert half the net royalties into Survivors' Benefits."
"Huh." Hammer shakes her head in wonderment. Ah, the absurdities of war. What twist of cosmic and/or military humour saw her assigned as my Combat Systems Operator? "Y'know, Olivia, I've always wanted to ask this, but I never wanted to give you the satisfaction –"
"Why'd I enlist? Hell, boss, most people ask me that inside the first hour. Believe me: you're ahead of the game."
"That's not an answer."
"No, it's not." A sigh. "You want the real reason, boss? And this doesn't go any further, okay?"
"Of course – my word on it."
"I always planned to enlist."
"Uhh... say again, Seize-oh? You're coming in broken."
Another sigh. "Ma'am, I was ten when they invaded Highside. My uncle worked for a suborbital cargo/passenger business centred on this old, beaten-to-hell Mark Nine shuttle –"
"My God – he was at the Newport evacuation?" More than half a million Union military personnel and three hundred thousand dependents and civilians – one of them being a fourteen-year-old Beatrice Taylor-now-Kuznetsov – all lifted out of the Newport space-facility, on everything from military 'Mech-transports down to private prospecting shuttles.
"Yes, ma'am. And I was with him – stowed away so I could go on my first interstellar trip. I picked a hell of a time to do it, huh?"
"... I'm having a hard time picturing you as a ten-year-old, Olivia."
"Yeah, well, I didn't stay a kid too long. They didn't find me until after San Antonio had jumped, so they put me out into the boat-bay gallery." Behind her pilot's head, Succubus half-smiles at the memory. "I wouldn't leave, just kept watching all the shuttles coming and going: greatest show I'd ever seen... Uncle Paolo offloaded a hundred and three people after their first round trip: Highsiders, Svobodans and Ensenadans from First Expeditionary, a bunch of civvies – even a few expatriate Sorens." The smile fades suddenly. "They made two more trips; twenty minutes after they leave for their third run, a shuttle's just pulling through the airlock when there's this... flash, and the whole friggin' boat-bay just comes apart. I look back through the observation window, and there's this young Highsider soldier clinging to the other side, must've been thrown there by the blast. Red-head, brown eyes, freckles, couldn't've been more than twenty; there was blood on her tunic and this... this horrified look in her eyes. Next second, she's gone – the whole bay blows out to space, and she goes with the rest of the 'loose debris'."
de'Rio takes a ragged breath. "Couple'a years later, Uncle Julio told me that it was a fighter off one of those PoG carrier-corvettes. Anyway, once we got home again, I, uh, I just couldn't let it go – wanted to know why it all happened, why the Imperium invaded Highside..."
Why that girl had to die in front of ten-year-old-you, Hammer nods silently. Not that there always is a 'why' for things like that...
"I read up on the Salernans and how they'd 'rationalise' our civilisation if they took us. Didn't like what I read too much, so I decided to do whatever I could to stop 'em – or at least make 'em pay cash for the privilege. They started invading Ensenada during my first year of high school, and that kind'a made up my mind: I decided I'd enlist as soon as I'd made sure my family would be taken care of if I got zapped. Saw an ad for a casting agency that week, went to talk to 'em when I turned sixteen. Fast forward six years and a very successful career –"
"Of which you clearly hated every minute!" is the droll response. Sounds like she almost crashed and burned on that little memory-trip: bring it back, keep it light...
"Boss, I got to fly all over the system to beautiful and exotic locations where I was paid absurd amounts of money to get boned brainless by gorgeous people. It was torture of the worst kind," de'Rio smirks. "Not to mention a great big 'FUCK YOU VERY MUCH' to those feudo-fascist bastards who'd deny me any choice about who I do, or when, where or how I do 'em."
"And once your family's financial future was secure, you retired – mostly – and signed on the dotted line to shove it right up the Royalists." Hammer sits back a little. She's known Succubus for almost eighteen months – they trained together, as all Union 'Mech-crews do – but for the first time, she almost feels like she actually understands her notorious CSO. "I just hope your accountant's on the ball – I'd hate to see you go broke while you're out here givin' it to the PoGs the way they wish they could give it to you."
"How's that, ma'am?" Succubus blinks. "What was that about my accountant?"
"Things like... those royalties you're donating from 'Seductions Six': you're paying your taxes on those, right?"
"Why would I need to pay taxes on 'em, ma'am? It's not like I'm keeping the money!"
"Yeah, but it's still technically 'income' before you donate it, right? You might want to check with the Ministerio de Renta Interna about things like that, so there aren't any misunderstandings."
"Sangre de Diablo," Succubus murmurs. I never even thought of that! "I'll, uh... I think I'll make a call when we get back to Brigade." A moment passes as she rolls that around her head. "Y'know, that kind'a thinking just makes me want on the payroll even more, boss. Hell, even if you don't go into the 'active' side of things, it sounds like you'd make a pretty good personal assistant."
Another long-suffering sigh. "Succubus, will you friggin' drop it? Cripes, one word about this to Pyotr and he'll go apeshit!"
"Don't be so sure, ma'am. Svoboda's got half Ensenada's population, but it generates fifty-six percent of my business, especially the repeat customers. The Svobies act all prim and proper and too uptight for their own good –"
"Not this one and not with me," Hammer murmurs without thinking – then hastily adds, "and that's as much as I'm ever saying, clear?"
"Strength Five, ma'am," Succubus agrees piously; her pilot can't see the sly grin. She's about to speak again when her MFCD lights up. "Heads-up, boss-chica, I'm getting a relay from the crunchies over the fibre. Five – check that, six contacts, following the anticipated route at a... thirty-klick ground-speed. Computer's running IR and seismic-tremor profiles against the warbook... high-confidence of contact with six Morningstar-series BattleMechs. Looks like the patrol, all right – and they're even three minutes early!"
"That's their bad luck," Hammer shrugs, smiling fiercely. Her left thumb keys the company 'push'. "Firebat-Niner to all Firebats: our trade is here, everyone. Engage as briefed, and –"
"Ma'am, you might want to re-think that."
"Firebats, wait one. What is it, CSO?"
"The feed I'm getting from the 'Suits is... ma'am, these are Morningstars, all right, but they're not any mark I recognise."
Succubus slugs the feed onto her pilot's secondary display; Hammer sees the differences immediately and her eyes narrow. Well, Jesus H. bloody Christ. Two hundred years of constructing three established series of Morningstars without a hint of deviation or innovation, and the damned Gehennans have to pick now to get creative? "Slug it to the company, too, Olivia. Assessment?" 'Cause Gawd knows I'm having a hard time working out what I'm looking at...
"Markings look like 9th Salernan Field Army, ma'am." Both women wince at that: Salernans are always hard bastards, and the 9th trebly so – even though their off-battlefield conduct is a perfect illustration of why the Gehennans mustn't win the war. "These are a new model of Morningstar, ma'am; I'm putting them into the warbook as Morningstar-Foxtrots, designating contacts as Foxtrots One through Six. It almost looks like the body of a Morningstar-Delta, their knock-off of the Warhammer-Six-Romeo, but they've got the arms of Morningstar-Charlies, hands and all. Funny – there isn't much visible armament, just a couple of laser-emitters in each side-torso and Hatchet four-packs on each forearm. The upper-chest on either side looks like it might hold snap-open missile-hatches, though, like the SLDF's Archer-Two-Romeo has. I don't know that a missile-duel's going to go our way, ma'am."
New models with guesstimated capabilities. Charming. On the other hand, there are sixteen of us (plus the crunchies) against six of them, we have surprise... and the best way to evaluate these things is to see how they handle in combat, Hammer judges. "Prepare a burst to Brigade and send it when we break cover: 'Engaging six Morningstars of previously unknown type, provisionally designated Foxtrot series. Requesting reinforcements and Section 9 team ASAP.'" Even if the PoGs manage to reclaim the wrecks when we're done dropping 'em, just twenty minutes with the hulks and the Ghosts will have complete downloads of all their technical data. "Firebats, this is Firebat Niner; same fire-plan applies. Gold One, designate Foxtrot-One for missile-fire on my order, Gold Two will sparkle Foxtrot-Six." Even as she speaks, her fingers are 'playing the piccolo' again, once again checking the company's datalink-feeds to be sure all of her 'Mechs have things under control. "Heat 'em up and let's go."
Hammer's engagement plan makes maximum use of the Union's traditional advantage in missile range, seeker-technology and throw-weight; with its point-man and tail-end Charlie marked for a barrage of missiles to be launched over the intervening ridgeline, the Salernan force will be rocked and shocked – easy pickings, even for the lighter Huróns.
"Gold elements, start the music... Firebats, engage!" Hammer barks, and thumbs the 'pickle'.
The Hurón's missile-rack is mounted on its right shoulder, above and behind the cockpit, much like that of the Griffin-One-November or Wolverine-Six-Romeo which lent so much to the Ensenadan machine's design. When Hammer hits the Big Red Switch, the launch-tubes' front-and-back weather-covers snap open and three MTM/15A 'Javelin' missiles screech down-range, trailing flame and smoke in their wake. All fifteen of her fellow Hurón pilots are doing much the same as she, and even with the inevitable misfires – for which the crew-chiefs for Red-02, White-03, and Blue-01 will later undergo thorough ass-chewings – forty-five ripple-fired Javelin-As arch over the ridge into the valley below, homing on the laser-dots held on their two targets by the power-suit platoon attached to the company for this operation.
Succubus watches the camera-feeds from the 'Suit-infantry, ready to carry out BDA from the missile-strike... and witnesses the exact moment that the plan comes unglued.
As the Union missiles crest the ridgeline, the upper-chests of all six Salernan 'Mechs snap open almost simultaneously, revealing their own missile-launchers. Succubus feels a split-second of pleasure at being proven right – before all of those torso-mounts flare with missile-launches. And not the expected single launches, either, but 'ripple-twos' of their own!
The night sky in the valley is strobe-lit by a brief, intense, and deceptively beautiful fireworks display: Gehennan missiles screech up to meet Ensenadan, detonating almost as they clear the tubes and flinging shotgun-blasts of shrapnel through the air that rake Javelins from the sky by twos and threes. Point-defence guns mounted in the Foxtrots' heads swat down even more of the Union weapons.
They don't come through the missile-storm unscathed, of course – no defence can ever be perfect – but a barrage meant to generate massive overkill lands only seven hits on their two targets. Foxtrot-One staggers under three hits across its upper half, shedding shards of shattered armour like a dog shaking off water, but somehow remains upright. Foxtrot-Six's pilot has worse luck; the leading pair of Javelins blows off the right leg just below the hip. Even as the pilot ejects, the remaining two missiles strike home against the left-shoulder and right-wrist missile-launchers; in an eyeblink, secondary explosions virtually disintegrate the seventy-ton BattleMech.
"Dammit!" Hammer snarls. We should've nailed 'em both cleanly with all that! Where the hell'd they come up with that trick? Clever – and you know how short of missiles Huróns are, don't'cha, ya bastards? "Everybody save your missiles for backshots! Red Section, Black Section, we'll engage by wing-elements – thump-and-jump, no slugfests! Blue Section, move to Waypoint IVY and keep 'em penned in; White Section, waypoint LILY."
A moment later, with Second and Third Platoons moving to block the roadway east and west, the remaining eight Huróns kick in their jump-jets and settle on the other side of the ridgeline, looking down on the heavier machines. With their attackers now in the open, the Gehennans are more than eager to start handing out punishment, even so outnumbered. Each Foxtrots' shoulder-launchers flare again, but this time the rippled-missiles are aimed at the interlopers themselves. Sophisticated ECM and their own point-defence guns do their best to decoy or destroy the inbounds, but for the first time in the war, Union forces are the ones facing 'broadsides'.
Nonetheless, they're still fairly lucky: the Salernans aren't concentrating their fire, and of the twenty Hatchets fired, only three connect. Heavy warheads detonate against Black-02, blasting patches of armour from the Hurón's right flank and leg; W.O. Faraday's well-trained, and easily rides out the hits to stay standing. The other scores a crater into the armoured 'sternum' of Sub-Lieutenant daSouza's Red-04 – the Hurón barely wavers.
New design or not, it looks like they're still wrapped up in that whole 'knights in laminar armour' routine, Hammer muses, replying to the Salernan barrage with a pulse from Black-01's ninety-millimetre laser. The Union troopers have no such delusions of battlefield 'honour', and all of their own fire is concentrated on Foxtrot-One. The actinic-red after-images of Union laser-fire pound the point-'Mech, and it reels as chunks of armour explode on its right thigh and all across its torso; Hammer can almost swear that one of those beams plunges right through the 'Mech's heavily-armoured 'breastbone'. An instant later, gouts of smoke and flame burst through Foxtrot-One's every opening and seam – including the cockpit. There's no 'chute from this kill. Must've touched off the PDGS-magazine. Heh – that's two down. If we can keep the range open, we should –
"Vulture, vulture, vulture!" Succubus sings out. "Enemy fighters inbound from the west, boss, they're angling for the heights!"
Jeezus – they got here quickly! "All 'Mechs, clear the ridgeline, now! Get amongst 'em so the fighters won't have clean targets!"
"You sure that's a good idea, boss?"
"I know it isn't – but it's about the only one going with fighters overhead! Call battalion and get us some air-cover, dammit!"
The main party's eight Huróns start bounding down the hillside on their jumpjets, ducking and weaving mostly-randomly to throw off Gehennan gunners both ground-bound and aerial. They barely make it in time: the wing-pair of Leones strafes the heights just as the last Hurón clears the area, sending massive lines of earth exploding skywards and leaving half-slagged furrows in their wake. Red-03 ripples three Javelins after them even as the EDF machines send more energy-fire lashing down on the Salernan 'Mechs; two of the missiles find the trailer's left wing and all but amputate it, sending the bat-winged machine tumbling into a hillside.
But miss or hit, those fighters accomplished at least one thing: forcing the EDF 'Mechs to close the range to where the Salernans can engage them more effectively.
Across the company, three Hurón's threat-receivers light up with 'sparkle' warnings, and the Morningstars cut loose with full broadsides – ripple-twos from the body-launchers, and single shots from the wrist-mounts. Each targeted EDF 'Mech now has to deal with six missiles – and the things are guiding on the laser-dots, ignoring evasive manoeuvres!
Martinez' Red-02 is caught mid-landing and takes four hits in less than a second; the Hurón stumbles and drops flat on its 'face', smoke streaming from its shattered head and canopy. Lieutenant Villalobos' Red-01 somehow weaves between three missiles as it lands from its jump, almost casually guns two more from the sky, and all but ignores the single hit which scores the armour over its midriff. Faraday has a little more trouble keeping his balance when three more Hatchets slam into Black-02 in mid-air, but keeps his feet when he lands and even manages to return fire. The only one of the four Huróns not 'sparkled' by the Salernan pilots, daSouza's Red-04, has a far easier time evading the Hatchets aimed his way, and his PDGS explodes the only weapon which might have connected.
Meanwhile, Foxtrot-Three jolts and staggers under a succession of laser-hits – five in all. Armour on its body and left limbs flakes away in sheets, but nothing penetrates to cause serious harm.
"What the - semi-active seekers?" Hammer marvels bitterly. This is getting better by the minute! "Olivia, how's Martinez?"
"Telemetry lost, boss," her CSO says simply – really meaning 'they're dead', and both of them know it – then adds "¡Merda!" as her master tactical display lights up with a rash of fresh red icons. "Three Platoon's got more 'Stars coming from the west, boss!"
"Execute Curtain-3." Let's see if the new guys will fight in the rain...
Succubus punches a key. Nineteen kilometres to the east, an EDF 'mini-fortress' – part of the interlocking network of fortifications defending Nuevo Buenos Aires – receives the burst transmission and trains out three of its eighteen secondary turrets. Within seconds, all six of those 150mm rifles are thundering, each one flinging thirty-kilo shells downrange as fast as the magazines can serve them.
The Firebats are just entering proper thump-and-jump ranges from the invaders' 'Mechs when the first salvo of 150s lands to screen their west flank, and things get... busy right about then.
- - - - -
Almost half an hour later, Hammer and Succubus lean back in their command-couches and sip from packets of electrolyte-laced sports-drink as they watches the Section 9 types dismount from their vertol. Neither really wants to linger here much longer – indeed, they've already stayed far too long – but once they made the call about 'new types', it was a given that the cyber-warfare weenies would want to inspect any such wrecks they might down reasonably intact and do a full data-rip on them, which meant having to hold onto said wrecks and the place where they fell. And nobody ever said the job was safe, now did they? Hammer notes dryly.
There are six of them in all: four humans in the field-grey uniforms of Fleet Intelligence, and perhaps the most valuable of their number, two field-grey robotic spiders the size of a sub-sub-compact hovercar. Succubus notices something painted on the side of one's abdomen, pulls up a zoom-view, and snorts in weary amusement. In a fashion borrowed from its human comrades and now popular amongst its kind, the cybernetic sentience has splashed out on some personally-distinguishing side-art for the benefit of its 'wetware' comrades: under the stenciled '316' of its personal bort number, there's a black disc adorned with, of all things, a grinning chrome skull with flaming red eyes. (She makes a note to ask what it means, if she ever gets the chance, but doubts she'd truly understand the answer; she likes the 'guys', of course, but they do tend to be rather... 'opaque', since much of their cultural lexicon stems from their near-obsession with recordings produced in the first century of broadcast media.)
"They should find something useful," Succubus muses. "They usually do."
"Here's hoping," Hammer sighs, glancing into the side-panel that holds her field-rations. Nope: still not quite that hungry. Especially since we'll be back at base in an hour or so anyway. "That counter-missile trick's gonna be a bitch to beat."
Succubus winces. Hammer's right – and since the EDF's 'Mech forces are equipped almost exclusively with Huróns, whose long-range firepower stems from their Javelin batteries... If they get that set-up fully deployed before we can work up a counter, we are so friggin' boned...