Whom the gods would destroy
"12th January 3076, Right resonator, retuned." Lance Corporal Frank Dranski intoned as he completed his weapons maintenance record. Replacing it in his pack he sat down in the gunner's seat of his heavy support laser and scanned the horizon. Somewhere on the other side of the valley their enemy, the WOB 9th Division waited. Frank liked to imagine his opposite number was watching him from his weapon pit, just another solider doing his duty on a planet far from his birth. It calmed Frank's soul to remind himself that he faced merely men, too many of his comrades thought of them as monsters from a nightmare, untouchable, unstoppable. Frank disagreed, he had fought Capellans, Kuritans, Leaguers and Clans; Blakists were no different, they bled like other men and could be killed just as easily.
"Here's your tea." Private Joseph 'Joe' Ekman handed Frank a canteen before settling down on the edge of the weapon pit with his own. "It was only a routine repair, why record it?"
Joe was new to this, Frank reflected. "Because this is not a routine weapon." He shifted the camo net up so the maker's plate could be read. "This laser was made on Luthien in 2898. We captured it in 2974. There's no instruction manual for this weapon, no standard procedure for maintaining it. If I die tomorrow and don't record what modifications I've made no-one will know how to fix her and we'll be a gun down."
Joe listed intently, he had been merely 15 when Mount Davion fell to WOB attackers and had immediately resolved to join up and fight for the Federated Suns. Unable to afford a flight off world he had waited until he was 17 then joined the Logandale Militia and volunteered for off world service. Now he found himself assigned as a Gunners' Mate in the heavy company of the 2nd/14th Logandale Infantry, under the tutorage of Frank. At first he had been disappointed, the Lance Corporal, a 15 year veteran, lacked the fire to defeat WOB that the younger man had expected, none the less he quickly came to understand that what Frank lacked in fire he made up for in experience and grit and what he had to say on military matters was worth listening to.
"Over 150 years old." Joe whistled. "I'd have though a replacement would be in order."
"There's never enough of them." Private Michael Spence joined the conversation as he dropped in the pit. The gun crews third man he was carrying spare weapons batteries. "One laser alone against a battlemech is pretty useless."
"But combine all 48 in the battalion and we'll ruin an Atlas' day." Frank continued with a smile. "Truth is we've never had enough guns to go around. We've only got enough because they've been stripping equipment off the reserve formations. Can't go retiring perfectly good weapons just because they're a bit old."
Joe looked across to Michael. Short, but well-built, he'd spent 5 years on campaign off world and had a reputation as the company scrounger, a man who could find what you needed. Right now, they apparently needed more ammunition.
"Are we expected action?" Joe asked.
"That's the rumour. Nothing official, same as usual, but the buzz around the officer's dug out is we attack at dawn tomorrow." Michael replied. "Worried?"
"No way." Joe lied unconvincingly. It was one thing to want to fight; it was another to face that possibility directly.
"Keep calm, do as we do and do nothing stupid." Frank added; he was testing the transverse controls now, staring through the sights. "We'll see you through."
"Thanks." Joe replied, a little reassured. He lend back against the pit's wall gazing at the enemy's lines, though they were too well camouflaged to be visible at this distance. Tomorrow the Marksan Army would leave its lines and advance on the enemy's positions, mechs would take the lead, then the tanks and finally the infantry would mop up whatever remained. Numbers were on their side, but the WOB 9th Division was a battle hardened force with numerous victories behind it while the Marksan Army was a cobbled together collection of militia units from the Achemar Combat Region. It had a few veteran units, but most, like Joe, had never seen combat. The valleys of Caselton would be their first test as a unit.
"You see that Frank." Michael had stood up on the edge of the pit. He was shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked to the far left of the enemy's line.
"Hang on." Frank swung the laser round so he could use the sighting scope. "Got it….6 mechs, looks like lights heading our way…..go get the Lieutenant, Joe get your helmet on and pass me a spare power pack."
Michael look off towards the officer's dug out while Frank and Joe brought their laser up to readiness. Along the line other gun crews were doing the same while the infantry took post in their foxholes.
"Are we under attack, or is it just a probe?" Joe asked as he crouched by the laser. His job was to reload spent power packs which meant he couldn't see what was going on."
"Could just be a probe, don't think so though, they look like they are screening for something bigger, can't see past all the dust they are kicking up." Frank replied, the ground had begun to vibrate softly as the Battlemechs drew closer, their feet pounding the ground.
"Feel that?" Frank asked with a slight smile.
"Yes." Joe replied somewhat taken back.
"That's more than a recon lance, that's at least a battalion, coming this way."
"We can't stop that can we?"
"That's not our job. We'll break up the attack, wreck their momentum and then our own mechs will counter attack and sweep them from the field. All we have to do is hold our ground and keep firing."
"I can do that."
"Good." Frank wanted to reassure Joe, but he also needed him to understand his role in the overall battle. It was a daunting role, as the foremost battalion in the Division the attackers would almost certainly surround them and cut them off from reinforcements. Most battalions would break and make for the rear, but not the 2nd/14th. This was the role they had chosen for themselves, the rock upon which attacks were broken and for the past 200 years they had gained an impressive reputation for tenacity in the face of overwhelming odds. But, he also knew it was only part of the battle, even the best infantry could only hold off Battlemechs for so long, they relied upon their own Mechwarriors to ride to their relief and numerous battalions had been wiped out when the cavalry had failed to arrive in time.
The thundering sound of the advancing mechs was getting louder, only 500 meters out and closing quickly. "LT said to engage once they get within 300." Michael dropped back into the weapons pit as he caught his breath and took post next to the laser. He was going to continue when he was drowned out by an intolerable roaring sound. The crew didn't see the Aerospace Fighters pass overhead; they just heard the sonic boom trailing behind them. But they felt and saw the explosions in the battalion's rear area and saw the three box like shapes flying behind the fighters as the WOB Leopard Class Dropships bypassed the front line and combat dropped their load of Battlemechs over the Marksan Army's command post. Staring in shock and amazement, they were all caught by surprise as the enemy artillery opened up a whirlwind bombardment.
Frank tried to shout a warning, but the world was already exploding into flame and flying debris. Throwing himself flat he clutched his helmet to his head as the others did likewise. He saw a direct hit on the neighbouring gun position, the laser thrown from its mountings, the crew almost certainly killed; nothing he could do, nothing but wait and hope his number didn't come up. As suddenly as it started the bombardment stopped, but the bombardment had done its job, the Logandalers were slow to respond, shocked by the sudden assault to their senses and the leading edge of the WOB advance was now within 150 meters.
"Get up, Get up!" Frank ordered, his ears ringing from the concussive effect of the bombardment, but knowing that their only chance of survival lay in getting the lasers into action as quickly as possible. He sighted on the nearest mech, a Gurkha, and opened fire. The beam would normally be invisible, but the bombardment had kicked up enough dust and smoke to make it clearly visible as a ruby line. The rest of the battalion's lasers started to open up, heavy beams from the gun teams matched by more numerous but less powerful beams from the laser rifle armed infantry. The mech seemed unaffected and returned fire, its own beams tore into the trenches and foxholes and while they rarely found their mark, when they did their target stood no chance.
"Fresh pack." He shouted as the 10th shot rang out. Like a well oiled team, Joe and Michael opened up the back of the laser, pulled out the expended power pack and replaced it with a fresh one. Michael tapped the top of Frank's helmet, "Go", and the firing continued. The Gurkha had passed beyond his position now, smoking but not crippled. Frank switched targets, a Warhammer, closing steadying as it pounded the positions in front of it with twin PPCs. Every time it fired, the hair on the back of Frank's hand stood up on end and another Logandale position exploded in a cloud of dirt and body parts. But Frank couldn't worry about that, the next shot might be for him, unless they kept on firing, unless someone could find a weak spot, unless…his heart leapt as smoke poured out of a small hole in the right side of the Warhammer, seconds later a catastrophic explosion tore off the right side and the mech slumped to the ground. Someone had found the ammo bin. Frank didn't see if the mechwarrior had ejected, he didn't much care; he was busy lining up his next target.
Joe struggled to take it all in. The ground vibrated and shook beneath him as angry gods of steel and fire thundered towards him. The best part of a company had already passed beyond the 2nd/14th's position and punched a hole between her and her sister battalion the 1st/8th. Many of the battalion were dead and they had yet to score a single kill, the damage they had inflicted on the mechs bypassing their position was cold comfort as he watched a burst of autocannon fire annihilate an infantry position to his left. Then to his eyes a miracle occurred, a Warhammer, caught in the concentrated beams of the heavy company stumbled and then exploded. Caught in total awe he half stood to stare at the defeated mech.
"Get that power pack in!" Michael shouted above the din and gave Joe a shove. Knocked out of his daze, Joe blinked before realising that Frank had stopped firing and Michael had opened up the back of the laser. With a start he grabbed the next power pack and slid it in position, Michael slammed the cover down and Frank resumed firing. Michael couldn't take everything in, so he didn't, instead he focused on his job and ignored the rest. Every 10 shots he opened the cover so Joe could fit a new pack and then he closed the cover again, repeated over and over again. That way he could blot out the terror of what was coming towards him, he could ignore the increasing likelihood of his death and focus on the only thing likely to keep him alive, keeping the laser firing.
Frank was just beginning to believe that they might make it out of this, after the Warhammer the other mechs were beginning to give the infantry a wider berth and most had already bypassed his position and headed to the rear where they were someone else's problem. Then he saw a burst of flames roll over the battalion's forward positions and he knew they were in trouble.
"Battle Armour, Battle Armour, Battle Armour." Frank shouted the warned and Michael took off to ensure the other positions had seen them. Mechs were bad news, but Battle Armour was deadly to infantry and only an immediate response stood a chance of seeing them off.
A single Level III, 36 suits using the latest in mimic armour technology, had used the cover of the mech attack to infiltrate right up to the Logandaler's positions and now swept through A Company's fox holes, wiping them out in moments with a hail of flame and machine gun fire. Frank opened fire as did the other surviving gunners, but he knew it took at least 4 direct hits to kill a single suit and they only presented fleeting targets as they used their jump jets to move around the field. Soon C Company suffered A Company's fate, brave men, they had stood against the battlemech attack, but no man can stand up to the rolling flames from the lead squads flame throwers and as they fell back they were cut down by machine gun fire from the following units.
Still the gunners in the Support Company continued to fire as did those fugitives from A and C Company that reached their position. But, moment by moment that fire slackened as casualties mounted. Michael died first, a machine gun bust taking him full in the chest as he brought forward spare power packs. Frank and Joe continued firing into the attackers. A small laser blast took off Joes arm at the shoulder; he collapsed at his post without a sound. Frank couldn't go to his aid, a mere 50 meters in front of him a lone suit was advancing on his position. He fired, the shot striking the centre of the suits breast plate, but had no visible effect. The few seconds it took the laser to recharge seemed like an eternity. The light went green and he fired again. This time the suit stumbled but it carried on advancing.
"Come on, come on." Frank whispered frantically under his breath. The light went green again and he fired, just as the suit raised its weapon arm and Frank's world went black.
Adept Pierre Asper sat on the edge of the overrun gun pit as he composed his report. His right leg was splinted and bandaged, the gunners last shot had caused his suit's leg to go haywire and snap his leg like a twig, only a significant amount of morphine was keeping the pain at bay. The rest of the division had carried forward the attack and the following wave of mercenary troops had already finished moping up the pockets of resistance, now he had only the company of the dead until his own side returned to pick him up along with the bodies of his 5 comrades who had died in the assault. He hoped his son was alright, he had been so proud when he had been selected as a Mechwarrior but it was still hard to see him race off ahead into the thick of the enemy fire. He would be out there somewhere, fighting Blake's enemies and with luck Blake's light would protect him. Closing his report Pierre glanced over at the laser's gunner. It seemed fitting to Pierre that even in death he remained at his post, in his seat, hunched over the controls ready to fire another shot, a fitting tribute to an enemy that had fought to his last breath. It was a shame, he reflected, that such men could not have been brought into Blake's fold peacefully, but he was also a pragmatic man and knew that war spared neither the righteous nor the wicked, but only the lucky and today he had been lucky and his enemy had not.