SNOWBIRD'S TIGERS
A Snowbird Saga Story
Inspired by "Tigers of Terra" by Ted Nomura
By Sentinel 28II
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I began working on this story several years ago and planned on finishing it, but like a lot of my stories, I lost interest in it after I lost my beta reader when my father passed away. I found it again recently, and read it again. I think I can finish it now, and hopefully it'll also spur my muse to get off its butt and help me finish "Evangelion Evolution" and "The Snowbird and the Dragon," especially the latter.
Anyway, enjoy.
Sentinel Headquarters Virentofta
Sancrist, Virentofta, Draconis Combine
11 September 3060
Commander Sheila Arla-Vlata yawned and rubbed her eyes. She stretched in an effort to get the kinks out of her back, then leaned forward to look over the report again, cursing the need for the reading glasses she had to wear. It was the curse of her family; both her father and husband wore thick glasses all the time.
The report and the twenty dossiers attached to it were both good news and bad news.
Good news, in that the sixteen pilots and four tech chiefs of the Fyrebirds would provide a valuable addition to Arla-Vlata's mercenary unit, the Sentinels Regimental Combined Arms Team.
Good news in that half of those sixteen pilots—which remarkably, were almost all women-were experienced, some of them highly so, and had seen combat against the Sentinels' primary enemy, the Clans.
Good news in that they had an enviable reputation, and had joined the Sentinels rather than stay an independent mercenary fighter unit.
Bad news in that she needed to commit them to combat immediately.
Bad news that they had already lost one of their pilots.
Arla-Vlata turned her chair and looked out of her second-floor office window. Below her, fall was just starting to set in among the beautiful campus of the University of Virentofta, where the Sentinels made their headquarters. Students from all around the Inner Sphere, attracted to the natural beauty of Virentofta and its comparatively low prices, walked briskly towards classes, or lay on the grassy Oval, soaking up the sunshine while it lasted. It was a rather peaceful, pastoral scene, considering there was a war on.
To the south, barely eight hours flying time away, the southern half of Virentofta's largest continent, the region known as Abananasia, was under assault. Only two weeks previously, Clan Nova Cat had grounded three Clusters—the Clan equivalent of regiments—and begun its third attempt to retake Virentofta. Four years ago, Arla-Vlata and her Sentinels had liberated the planet in a bloody six-month struggle with the Nova Cats and their sometime allies, Clan Smoke Jaguar. The mystical Nova Cats, believing that the loss of Virentofta presaged the downfall of their Clan, had already tried once before to retake the planet, and lost badly.
This third attempt showed some promise. In the second Virentofta campaign, Arla-Vlata had been able to contain the Nova Cat landings within a week, then launch a surprise flank attack that forced the Clan warriors offplanet. There was no chance for that strategy this time; the Nova Cats were not to be contained. The fact that the students at the university could so blithely go about their lives, seemingly unconcerned that their studies and parties might be interrupted by Clan BattleMechs and fighter attacks, was to Arla-Vlata either remarkable courage or stupidity on a grand scale.
She turned back to the report and sighed. If the situation on the ground wasn't bad enough, now she had to deal with what could blow up into a major international incident. That she didn't need, not at all.
Her phone rang, and absently Arla-Vlata punched a button. "Yes?"
The broad face of Vornzel Sentinel stared back at her from the phone's viewscreen, looking decidedly upset. "Commander, there's a Captain Noelani Vought here to see you."
Arla-Vlata nodded. "Thanks, Vornzel. Send her up."
Vornzel Sentinel's look changed to one of surprise. His orders had been to make sure the Commander remained undisturbed, and Vornzel took any order very seriously. "Yes, ma'am." The viewscreen blanked out.
Arla-Vlata pushed the report aside and took out the first of the dossiers. At the top, it read VOUGHT, NOELANI PEARL. A holographic image of a young blond woman smiled back. Arla-Vlata read Vought's vital statistics: 28 years old, five foot eight inches by the Davion imperial system, slight build. Reputation as a superb pilot, well liked by her peers and respected by her enemies. Arla-Vlata's eyes flicked down to an underlined entry: new to command. Vought had inherited the Fyrebirds when her older sister, the unit's former commander, had been killed on the Marik frontier. It had been Vought's decision to join a larger unit, for better maintenance, better pay, and better protection. As Arla-Vlata knew only too well, the life of an independent mercenary was a hard one. She respected Vought's maturity in recognizing a bad situation and taking steps to immediately improve it; Arla-Vlata only hoped that she hadn't signed her unit's death warrant. Virentofta was becoming the hot spot of the fitfully ongoing war between the Inner Sphere and the Clans, and it was a cruel mistress. Another lesson Arla-Vlata had learned at high cost.
The door opened and Arla-Vlata stood, taking off the reading glasses. Ushered in by the hulking Vornzel, Noelani Vought entered the office, came to attention, and saluted—correctly for the Sentinels, Arla-Vlata noted, in the Steiner style, palm-down. She still wore her flight suit, a rather smart looking outift of orange, black, and white, making it easy for a rescue team to find her if she was ever shot down. It looked a little worn, except where Vought had added Sentinel rank tabs and regimental patch, on her left arm. Her right shoulder held the Fyrebirds' patch, a stylized phoenix. The patch was new as well, having added a small Sentinel crest at the bottom and the legend FITRON 7, the contraction for Fighter Squadron Seven, the latest addition to the Sentinels AeroWing. Honey blond hair tumbled in even waves to her shoulders, except around her ears, where it was pinned back. Soft blue eyes dominated an attractive face, which was only slightly marred by the bags under her eyes; it was obvious that Vought hadn't slept much lately. "Captain er Major Noelani Vought reporting as ordered, Commander." Her expression was sheepish. "Sorry, ma'am, still getting used to the new ranks." Since joining the Sentinels, the Fyrebirds had to adopt the latter's rank structure, which did not use the rank of captain. As a squadron commander, Vought was entitled to the rank of major.
Arla-Vlata returned the salute, came around the desk, and shook hands with Vought. For her part, Vought was somewhat taken aback by her new commander's appearance. The two had never actually met; because of the urgency of getting the Fyrebirds into combat and the need for Arla-Vlata to manage the campaign, they had been formally welcomed into the unit by the Sentinels' AeroWing commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander Martin St. Mawgan. Sheila Arla-Vlata was six feet tall, four inches taller than Vought. Vought shook the proferred hand, noting in passing that the other, left hand was made of metal and plastic. Arla-Vlata wore the everyday working uniform of the Sentinels, all smoke gray, and wore her coal black hair in a ponytail. Both women noticed simutaneously that they each had a katana thrust into their belts. To Arla-Vlata's unanswered question, Vought said, "It's a gift I served with the CosmoDragons before I joined my sister's Fyrebirds."
The CosmoDragons? Arla-Vlata thought. One of House Kurita's elite fighter squadrons, no less. There's more to Vought here than her dossier says. And she became a mercenary. I wonder what happened.
Vought took Arla-Vlata's silence as disapproval. "I'm sorry, Commander—I shouldn't be wearing a weapon in your presence."
"Not at all, Major." Arla-Vlata smiled and patted the hilt of her own katana. "Mine's a gift too. I got mine from Sun Zhang after defending Kagoshima back in '52." She waved that aside. "Enough of that. Have a seat." Vought did as she was ordered.
"I also apologize for not wearing a formal uniform—" Vought began.
"Do you apologize for everything?"
Vought's sheepish expression returned. "No, Commander."
"Good. You wouldn't be the first fighter pilot I've met without a king-size ego, but you'd be the third or fourth." Arla-Vlata leaned back in her chair, crossing her long legs. "In any case, it's me who should be apologizing, Major. You petitioned to join the Sentinels two months ago, we accepted a month later. In two weeks you were here, and last week you went into combat. That's damned little time to get used to things."
"We've fought the Clans before, ma'am."
"I know. But every enemy is different, and certainly Virentofta will take some getting used to. Your last assignment was Gacrux, correct?" Vought nodded. "Mostly flatlands, then. Virentofta's heavily mountainous, and it doesn't rain as much—though we are supposed to get a cold front through here in the next 48 hours. Might even dump some snow on us. Down in Abananasia, it's mostly semiarid, until you get north—then you start running into heavy forest as well." Arla-Vlata shrugged. "I suppose I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, so I'll shut up about that."
Arla-Vlata walked over to a wall map, covered in colored pen lines and acetate. A more sophisticated holographic display was available at her command post, but in her office, she preferred the old way of pen and paper. "I don't know how much you know about the ground situation, but it's pretty much like this. The Nova Cats hold the central part of Abananasia, namely the Plains of Dust and the cities of Virentofta Falls and Zeriak. We had hoped to hold them at the Blackfoot, Camas, and Big Lost River lines, but that didn't work. They've pushed us back into the mountains—Tarsis in the northwest, Monida Pass due north, the Targhees to the northeast and east. In the south, we've lost Zeriak and the Kurita Alpencorps there has had to pull back. They're pretty bottled up. So are the Virentofta Militia at Heyburn in the southwest.
"The Nova Cats are, at the moment, making their main push in the northern sector—trying to drive us off Monida Pass and take the high ground there, and driving on Solace in the northwest. We've got elements of my—our—Sentinels there, along with parts of the 32nd Recon Regiment of the Lexington Combat Group and the Scavengers. Right now it's a patchwork line until I can get more reinforcements across Newsea and into action." Arla-Vlata's hands moved across the map in emphasis.
Vought thought about the situation. The Fyrebirds were assigned to Teton, an expanded airport just south of the magnificent mountain range known as the Palisades. According to the map, Nova Cat ground forces were barely forty kilometers away, and it didn't look like there was much in their way. "Are we in any danger from land attack?"
"No, I don't think so. Like I said, they're concentrating more to the north-northwest. Besides, you have the Silvanesti Rangers in your sector—they're the best unit the local militia has, and yes, that is saying something." Arla-Vlata sighed. "The big problem, Major, and the reason why I threw you into the shit without so much as a 'hello' was because we need to get the situation under control. To do that, we need air superiority. As you know, the Sentinels have one of the largest AeroWings of any merc unit in the Inner Sphere. If nothing else, we can usually overwhelm our opponents with sheer mass. I don't like fighting that way, and neither does Martin—Commander St. Mawgan. But in any case, we usually can."
"Except we've been facing far more opposition than anyone thought." It wasn't a question.
"Exactly, Major." Arla-Vlata looked at the map. "We've run recon missions all over the map. They've got fighters at the bases and ports that can support them—Virentofta Falls, Zeriak, small emergency strips at Blackfoot, Tarsis, and Rigby. Yet you guys get jumped every time you fly, and we don't know where from. Which brings us to the next problem." Arla-Vlata walked towards Vought and sat on the side of her desk. "What the hell happened with J.J. Condorcet?"
Vought had known this was coming, and took a deep breath. "It was my fault, Commander. He wanted to get some extra flight time, and we went looking for one of those strips you were just referring to. So we went up in a two-seat Tigerhawk. We were attacked over the Caribou Range by Clan heavy fighters—ones we had never encountered before."
"Scythas," Arla-Vlata supplied. "We didn't know the Nova Cats had them either. Go on."
"Not much else to say. We were shot down in the ensuing battle. Combat SAR was able to pick me up, but Flying Officer Condorcet disappeared. We've heard nothing from him since."
Arla-Vlata smiled wanly. "And you've been flying nonstop trying to find him."
"Yes."
"When was the last time you got some sleep?"
Vought shrugged. "I slept on the way up here. Besides, I can go without sleep for awhile. I've trained myself to—"
"So have I. We're roughly the same age, Major, and in case you haven't figured it out, you can't get away with pushing your body when you're 28 as you could when you were 19. And catching a few hours on a suborbital lob on a DropShip isn't sleep." Arla-Vlata sighed again. "Of course, you'll disobey me if I order you into a hotel here, or turn your command over to your XO, Reina Siddeley. So I won't bother. Just be damned careful, okay? I can't afford to lose any more pilots, much less a squadron commander." She pushed off the desk and walked over to the window. "Intel has reason to believe that the Nova Cats know we have a missing pilot in that sector, but apparently they don't care if he's picked up or who he is. We don't have that luxury." Vought saw her fists clench. "The problem is, Condorcet is the heir to Condorcet Enterprises, one of the biggest combat computer firms and aerospace industries in Davion space. The press has gotten wind that he's been shot down, and they're going to tighten the screws. Once the Cats find out, and they will, they'll definitely redouble their efforts. Condorcet has more secrets rattling around in his empty skull than you or I do put together." Arla-Vlata shook her head. "Another rich kid out on a sightseeing tour."
Despite herself, Vought had to defend her squadronmate. "He has a lot of talent, Commander. Plus he brought in a good deal of spare parts we otherwise wouldn't be able to find out here in the Periphery. Which reminds me, Commander, we're very short of fresh supplies "
"I know, and for that I apologize. Those roads in western Silvanesti where you are aren't designed to take heavy loads. It's taking some time to get things to you, and frankly, you don't have priority. That has to go to ammo and parts for the Alpencorps in the southeast and my 'Mech units in the Targhee." Arla-Vlata smiled. "You're a lousy poker player, Major. You're thinking that I've given you a Catch-22 assignment—establish air superiority in your sector—while not giving you the stuff to do it with. You're probably right, too. But all the bombs and missiles in the world isn't going to help you if Teton gets overrun by Cat 'Mechs. I'll do what I can to get some DropShips to you." Arla-Vlata sat down. "I don't think Condorcet has any business being out here, but the fact remains that he is out here, somewhere. You need to find him, ASAP."
Vought bristled. "He's one of my pilots, Commander. I'll find him for that reason, not because of who's son he is."
Arla-Vlata looked at her sharply for a moment, then slowly nodded. "You're right. Look, I'll be sending you some help. I don't know if the Cats have the resources to hit Teton with an airstrike, but they've been full of surprises so far. No reason you should have to look over your shoulder when you're out on fighter sweeps. If we start showing undue attention to the area, I'm sure the Cats will move units into the area, maybe turn that whole sector into a flak trap for you, so get to him quick." She smiled. "Of course, I probably didn't need to tell you that." She rose, and so did Vought. "Major, while finding Condorcet is a priority, he is still one man. I need you to establish air superiority over the Targhees first. That's dependent on finding out where the hell these fighters are coming from. In the meantime, do what you've been doing, and kill anything Nova Cat that flies."
"Ground targets?"
"I'll leave that up to you. My people on the ground appreciate close air support, but in your sector, they don't need it—yet. They appreciate it even more if they're not getting strafed by Clan Omnifighters. Okay?"
Vought returned Arla-Vlata's smile. "Okay, Commander."
"I suppose I should be giving you a 'go out and give 'em hell' speech, but I think it would be lost on a professional like yourself. You're damned good, Noel Martin St. Mawgan told me that, and he doesn't give compliments lightly." The two women shook hands, then saluted. "Good luck and God be with you, Major."
"Thank you, Commander." Vought turned to leave. Her hand was on the doorknob when Arla-Vlata spoke again. "By the way, what's this I hear about you confining yourself to your quarters except for flying?"
Vought hesitated. "I broke radio silence and I shouldn't have. I want to set an example."
Arla-Vlata paused for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. Carry on, Major." Vought returned the nod and left. For a long time, Arla-Vlata stared after her, at the shut door. Then she shook it off, picked up the phone, and began dialing.