AUTHOR'S NOTES: It's been a little while, huh? I was on vacation, and just came off of a great time at Anime Central and Miscon. Now well fortified with ideas, having watched way too much anime and played a great deal of Battletech, I'm ready to go again, though this chapter is much shorter than the last.

A little bit of techie porn in this one as well, this time for tanks. Tanks have always been kind of neglected in the Battletech universe (especially in the novels), so I wanted to give the treadheads a bit of recognition. BTW, the song Der Panzerlied, which most war movie enthusiasts will recognize from the otherwise lamentable Battle of the Bulge, does have its basis in the Nazi era, but is not a Nazi song; the present Panzer units of the German Bundeswehr still use it. There is a faint whiff of We Were Soldiers in this, but that's probably because the actual book of We Were Soldiers Once…And Young was my recreational reading during my vacation (along with the superlative House to House by David Bellavia, which I can't recommend enough for anyone interested in Iraq).

A final note: Garryowen is a bit of a hard-luck song. It was popular among the British Light Brigade at Balaclava in 1854 (they were nearly wiped out) and among the 7th Cavalry in 1876 (which, of course, were wiped out at Little Bighorn). It remains popular with the 7th Cavalry today, despite taking horrendous casualties at Ia Drang Valley in 1965 and getting raked by friendly fire in the First Gulf War. I'd switch to another song.

REVIEWER'S CORNER:

SulliMike: Well, having all the misfits form an elite unit is a staple of military fiction (maybe even a cliché). But if there's one thing I've noticed from growing up in the military, it really is a cross-section of society.

FraserMage: Thank you. With the explosion of new 'Mech types in the FedCom Civil War and the Jihad, it's nice to kick it old skool.

4477: They're not problem children! Really, they're not!

RougeBaron: I hadn't thought of it that way, but yeah, maybe a little. Except Sheila's a lot better looking and much more sober than Pappy was. (I briefly met Boyington just before he died. Pretty kewl guy, but definitely not a man I would've wanted mad at me.)

GreenKnight: I am somewhat familiar with the partisans in the Philippines (my dad is a PT boat fanatic, and the men of Squadron Three that had to stay behind hold a particular fascination for him), so once I clear my backlog of reading, I'll have to look into that. As far as Blair Atholl and Butte Hold, well, we'll see…

TxAGunfighter: Gunny, thanks for your reviews, but please, just one story arc at a time. Right now my inbox thinks you're spamming it.

Wolfman: I hope so…

Panzerfaust: Kahvi and Senefa are both strangers in a strange land, so yes, they will probably have some interaction along the way. And I really like being compared to Hammer's Slammers, which has a very good reputation among my gamer buddies. As far as traditions, yeah, they need some. A "spur ride"? I'm afraid to ask.

MUSIC CORNER: "Der Panzerlied" and "Garryowen" of course, and for some reason, "Yurika's Theme" from Martian Successor Nadesico comes to mind.

Sentinel Base Sudeten

Sudeten, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth

5 October 3051

Sheila headed towards the vehicle bay with some trepidation. She was by herself. Both Max and Tooriu had volunteered to go with her, but she had refused. No, this was one lion's den she would have to enter alone.

Until the advent of the BattleMech, the tank ruled supreme on the battlefield. Despite the best and occasionally successful attempts of infantry to supplant it, the tank had been in continual use for 1100 years, since 1917 and the Battle of Cambrai, which was still studied in military academies even in Sheila's time. Since the first Mackie had marched off the production line in 2439, however, the tank was displaced permanently. Though many thousands, perhaps millions, of tanks were in service on virtually every planet in the Inner Sphere—and, from what Senefa had reported, among the Clans as well—they were considered far inferior to 'Mechs, relegated to supporting roles, in militia units, or in areas where 'Mechs were simply too precious to squander. Tankers were replaced by MechWarriors as the elite of the military branches, at least in the public's eye. At the Nagelring, the grizzled old instructors had warned Sheila and other MechWarriors never to underestimate tanks, some of which outweighed their 'Mechs and could kill a 'Mech and its pilot as swiftly as any other 'Mech. Tanks also came in a huge variety, far more than even 'Mechs, from the tiny five-ton Savannah Master, which Sheila had heard described as little more than "an engine, a fan, a cockpit, a laser, and a death wish," to the mighty 80-ton Demolisher, which mounted two giant Autocannon/20s and could blow a 'Mech in half with a single salvo. Even with that knowledge, most MechWarriors retained a feeling of superiority to their "treadhead" brethren throughout their career.

Sheila had privately dreaded the idea of attaching a company of tanks to her 'Mech units. She knew nothing about them. Even though Calla Bighorn-Vlata and the Sentinel Tank Battalion's commander, Richard Cannon, strove mightily to integrate the MechWarriors and tankers together, something that had mostly succeeded with the elite Sentinels Light Infantry, it just never seemed to take with either party. MechWarriors and tankers almost never messed together, they rarely drank together (though they more than occasionally fought each other), and both had a generally low opinion of the other: to MechWarriors, tankers were has-beens fit only for rear-area guarding, while tankers thought of MechWarriors as elitist prima-donnas. Now she was expected not only to cart these people into battle with her, but use them as well as she used her 'Mechs.

Well, Sheila thought, echoing an earlier conversation with Max, if these people are going to be expected to die with us, I'd better meet them. Apparently she was getting what her father called a well-rounded mix of vehicles, which did not make her feel better and made her wonder if Cannon was simply unloading his problem children on her.

She resisted the urge to sneak up to the vehicle bay, which was contained in a hangarlike structure not unlike the vaster 'Mech bays scattered around the base. Like all the buildings at Sentinel Base Sudeten, it had hand-lettered signs hastily covered with Sentinels emblems placed over the previous inhabitants of the base, the 39th Avalon Hussars. The Snowbirds' tank company—designated Delta Company—were supposed to be on this side of the bulding, the south side, but Sheila thought she heard singing and music from inside. She crept up to the door and put her ear to it, instantly recognizing the tune. It was der Panzerlied, an ancient song with its roots in the Panzerkorps of the Third Reich's Wehrmacht. Since the song itself had no Nazi connotations, it had remained in the lexicon of German marches to the time of the Exodus from Terra, and from there swiftly adopted by House Steiner's military. It had been adopted as well—though tankers claimed it was "stolen"—by MechWarriors after the BattleMech had gained prominence. It was one of the Nagelring's favorite marching songs and was always sung in German. A cacophony of voices was singing the fourth stanza of the song, which referred to bypassing enemy strongpoints, laughing at them, and finding paths that no one else found—the essence of blitzkrieg, lightning war. Sheila had to wonder at once more running into a reference to a thousand-year old war for at least the third time in a week. Behind the voices was a fiddle keeping time.

Sheila opened the door silently and walked in. She leaned on the side of a Pegasus hovertank, the first in line of over a dozen vehicles that wore the Snowbirds owl. She abruptly realized that she had no idea what exactly had been assigned to her. Bad move, Arla-Vlata, she lectured herself. You're supposed to be these people's commander, and you don't even know what they drive. Get with it, dumbass.

The song died away on a grim note, saying that if the tankers' luck ran out, their tank would be their grave. The Snowbird tankers took it as gallows humor evidently, for they laughed. A female voice yelled out, "What's next, guys?"

"How about 'Garryowen'?" someone else said.

God, no, Sheila groaned to herself. "How about not?" she said, stepping out from behind the tank. "It's a great song, but every unit that sang it got wiped out."

Sheila instantly regretted her grand entrance. The tank crewpeople—nearly eighty of them—gaped at her, then dropped what they were doing, which appeared to be a party, and came to attention as a young man lounging on the Pegasus' deflated hoverskirt yelled "Commander present! Atten-shoon!" Now she really felt like an intruder. Deciding to salvage the situation, she stepped forward, hands up. "No, no," she told them, "don't let me interrupt the revival."

The young man gave her a dazzling salute. "My apologies, Commander. I didn't know you were coming by—that is, we didn't know you were coming by."

"I gathered that…according to the schedule, you're supposed to be on normal working routine." She nodded towards the bottles of beer in a ice-filled tub. "It is lunchtime, yes, but you're not supposed to be drinking your lunch."

He hesitated, then sighed and looked at his boots. "It's my fault, Commander. It's just one beer per person. I thought we should just celebrate, that's all. We were all picked by Commander Cannon before Vantaa, and we finally got the word today that we were joining your unit. I just wanted to hold an impromptu party." He drew himself up to his full height, which was not considerable. "It's my fault. I take full responsibility, ma'am."

Sheila found herself liking him, a Major by his rank tabs. This is David Moore, then, she told herself, remembering the name. Moore looked as young as she was, but he had a good reputation: Moore had been the scion of a Lyran noble family who had walked away from a fortune to fight the Clans. Unlike Chuck Badaxe, he had not done it to impress a girl, but out of a genuine love of country. He had decided to start out at the bottom, in hovertanks, though a man of his intellect had to know that hovertanks were notoriously fragile in combat and their life expectancy in a pitched battle was measured in seconds. Yet he had excelled with the Sentinels, enough that Cannon had brevetted him to major and put him in charge of the Snowbirds' Delta Company tanks. That boded well. Obviously the company liked him too.

Still, Sheila couldn't be too easy on Moore. The last thing she needed was a company of closet drunks. "That's fine, Major. No blood, no report—but don't let it happen again. Not during working hours. Clear?"

"Crystal, Commander. If you'll give us a little time, we can clean up…"

"That's fine," she repeated. "I'd like to meet everyone now. I don't stand on ceremony. The Snowbirds are a fighting unit, not showpieces." She looked around at the gathered crews. "Major, your people may look like crap—but the equipment is in pristine shape. That's what I care about. That, and the fact that I don't expect strangers to go into combat with me…so…" Sheila put out her hand. "I'm Sheila Arla-Vlata."

"David Moore." The handshake was firm—not enough to crush her hand, but far from limp, either. "Let me show you around."

Moore introduced Sheila to the other tankers. There were 56 of them, total, and Sheila's hand ached at the end. She made sure she had something to say to each of them, remembering the old adage that truly good commanders made each person feel like they had been spoken to personally, picked out among their brethren alone as a close friend. She envied the great captains of military history who could pick a name from memory from among the ranks, because to Sheila, the 56 faces passed like a blur. She was ashamed to admit to herself that in an hour, she doubted she'd remember who half of these men and women were.

Still, some faces stood out. She had heard of Jacqueline Shaw, for instance, who had been with the Sentinels since the Fourth Succession War and probably should be at home playing with her grandchildren rather than still fighting in tanks. Moreover, she had picked for herself the least envied assignment in the Sentinels: antiaircraft duty. Flak tanks were prime targets for everyone, because they were the main obstacle to air support that could turn the tide of battle. At least Shaw would have a better chance of survival: she had one of the new Hawkslayer tanks, an uparmored version of the venerable Partisan AAA tank that replaced the quad autocannons with two LB-10X types. The LB autocannons were lighter and, best of all, could fire lethal flechette rounds that would be devastating to aircraft.

Shasti Buena she knew of as well, though Sheila wasn't sure if she was supposed to talk to her or read her: Buena's arms were covered in tattoos, and she had more elsewhere, if the intricate pattern around her navel was any indication; she had tied off her shirt and rolled up her sleeves to work on her machine, a Chuikov SRM Carrier. The Sentinels had added armor to their missile tanks, but though they were capable of unleashing a devastating cloud of missiles, they usually didn't survive more than the first salvo. Buena did look capable, at least, and her smile was infectious. She had been the one with the fiddle.

Jackson Dinson looked like he was about twelve, a little boy playing soldier. His blond hair was tied back in a queue, and he shook Sheila's right hand awkwardly with his left: his right arm was artificial, like Sheila's, but not quite as advanced. Dinson, Sheila remembered from his file, had been a MechWarrior until he and his Stinger had lost an argument with a Kurita Marauder in 3048. Having lost a leg as well, he had been deemed unfit for further duty and medically retired from the AFFC, but Dinson missed the military life, retrained in the only branch that would take him—artillery—and joined the Sentinels. Sheila wasn't sure what she was going to do with two Sniper self-propelled artillery pieces, but certainly they would be useful.

Fianna Cassidy and her platoon executive officer, Dennis Dorinson, were a matched pair formerly from the Northwind Highlanders, and both spoke with the thick brogue of Northwind natives. Sheila noticed that both proudly wore clan badges on their uniforms, and that they thoroughly enjoyed sniping at each other. She wasn't sure if the sniping was good-natured or not. Cassidy was a tall redhead with a temper to match, while Dorinson was built like a fire hydrant. Both commanded Ontos tanks, 85-ton monsters that mounted LRM missiles and a murderous broadside of eight medium lasers.

Archibald Backs commanded the demi-platoon of two Lynx hover armored personnel carriers that would carry the attached SLI infantry into combat. At six foot six and with a beard that dropped to his barrel chest, he looked like a god of war; his handshake engulfed Sheila's hands and probably were responsible for the ache. He was in direct contrast to the SLI platoon leader, a young woman no older than Sheila, Nisa Kinosh. The latter gave Sheila a worshipful look and did everything but pledge her eternal fealty to her new commander. That made Sheila more than a little uncomfortable, but since Sheila's own mother had handpicked Kinosh for command—which was incredible considering her youth—she hoped it would be all right.

The others were a cross-section of the Inner Sphere: John Williams, a rough-looking, scarred Welshman from the Isle of Skye; Vincent Lian, a native of Liao space who talked so fast his words ran into each other and piled up into an unintelligible mess; Natasha Tal, an olive skinned beauty who had tied the ancient flag of Israel to her Sturmfeur missile carrier; Susan Johnston, known as General Quarters because of her reputation as a martinet; Henri Fromage, who was so obnoxiously French that it had to be an act; William Griffon, who looked like he would be far more comfortable teaching at a small community college than humping artillery rounds; Eric Sykes, an unsmiling, bitter young man who had already gunned down three men of different units in duels. And that was just the tank commanders: the individual crewmen were even more of a melting pot. For all that, however, Sheila was glad to meet and know them.

She just hoped she could keep them alive.

Sheila returned to her tiny command post to find she had two visitors: Max, and a swarthy, bearded man who wore the khaki duty uniform of the AFFC. He came to attention with an unlit cigar in his saluting hand and grinned at her. "Commander Arla-Vlata?"

"That's me," Sheila replied. "And you are?"

"Copeland, Commander. Hauptmann Robert Copeland. Call me Rob." To Sheila's dismay, he offered his hand, and she took it despite the fact that her fingers still hurt. "I'm your liasion officer." Next he proferred his orders. Sheila glanced at them and set them down on her desk. She exchanged a glance with Max, who rolled his eyes. She knew that look: Copeland was annoying him.

"Well, Hauptmann, it's good to finally have you here," Sheila said, trying not to sound irritated. It was part of the AFFC's new policy with mercenaries to assign liasion officers at the battalion level rather than merely regimental. Supposedly it was to promote better understanding and coordination between regular House units and mercenaries, but many mercs, Sheila included, wondered if it was an attempt by the AFFC to keep closer tabs on units and keep them from breaking contract and fleeing the Clans—or worse, make sure that mercenaries didn't sneak Clantech salvage, which was literally worth its weight in gold to units or to the very lucrative black market. Sheila supposed it made sense from Hanse Davion's point of view, but to her it was just another headache. Some liasion officers were solid—the Sentinels' regimental liasion, Allegra Grant, was widely respected—but too many thought of themselves as something akin to political officers, who were more concerned with House loyalty and second-guessing their assigned commanders than actually doing their jobs of making sure the contracts were being upheld and everyone was happy. Moreover, Copeland was a month late. "What kept you?"

"Oh. I had trouble wangling priority clearance to Sudeten. Just about everything's booked up with cargo. I was stuck on Skye, so I figured I might as well visit some family while I was cooling my heels."

"I see," Sheila said, though she really didn't: there were ways to get clearance, and liasion officers could easily claim priority. She leafed through his file, paying special attention to security checks. He had been vetted clean. "Says here you served with the 12th Star Guards and Lindon's Regiment."

"Yes, Commander. I was with the Star Guards right out of Sanglamore Academy and just finished up my hitch with Lindon." He paused. "I volunteered for the Snowbirds. You guys seem to be where the action is."

"You could say that," Max spoke up. "Have you seen any action?"

"Not against the Clans, but I've seen some fighting on the Marik and Kurita frontiers." He fingered a small, twisted piece of metal on a chain around his neck, which Sheila and Max quickly recognized: a 'Mech charm. Some MechWarriors kept a piece of their first machine if they had it shot out from under them. "I had a Warhammer until some Kurita SOB blew me away on Galtor III."

"Bad luck," Sheila said.

"Maybe. I managed to get off a shot before I went down. Potted him in the head. They fixed it up and gave me the 'Mech. Still pilot it, too—a Crusader-K."

Well, that's something, Sheila thought. Copeland had done his time. "You had a lance with Lindon. It's a bit beneath you, but I'll give you one of my lances. That okay?"

"Sure," Copeland answered, "I didn't think I'd be getting a company anyway."

"There's three solid guys in there, but they've never worked together. That'll be your job, Hauptmann. We're going to be putting everyone through some refresher training over the next month before we're expected to be assigned to operations, so you'll have time. They're over at 'Mech Bay Nine right now, if you want to meet them."

Copeland smiled, his teeth stark against his beard. "Okay. Anything else, Commander?"

"No, I think that's it for now. Have you reported in to Major Grant?" He nodded. "Good. Carry on then." Sheila again felt awkward. She honestly didn't know what to do with a liasion officer.

Copeland seemed to sense it. "Don't worry, Commander. I've been doing this for about six years now. I'll help you through the rough spots of having a liasion. Just treat me like one of the guys." His grin grew wider as he saluted. "I'll be off then…see if I can whip these guys into shape for fighting Hanse Davion's war."

Something in Copeland's tone of voice brought Sheila up short. "What was that you said?" Sheila asked, quietly.

Copeland's grin remained. "Hanse Davion's war. You know how it is."

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

Max shot Copeland a warning glance, willing the other man to simply apologize, salute, and leave: Sheila had suddenly become dangerously quiet. But Copeland was oblivious. "Ahh…" He waved it off. "It's just like it was in '39, when my daddy was with Nondi Steiner around Lyons. Hanse Davion, ol' Blood and Guts—our blood, his guts." He shrugged. "Don't mean nothing, Commander, I'll fight all the same—"

"It's not Hanse Davion's war," Sheila said coldly. "It's our war, Copeland. Every one of us. Everyone. And if you go into battle with that kind of flippant attitude, some young and enterprising Clan warrior is going to make you very dead."

Copeland suddenly realized what he had done. "I…I'm sorry, Commander, I didn't mean it like that. Just a joke, huh? We tell jokes like that all the time on Skye—it don't mean nothing—"

"It does mean something!" Sheila shouted. "I've seen too many of my friends killed, Hauptmann! Don't you ever say it doesn't mean anything!"

"That's not how I meant it, ma'am—"

"Are you a Skye separatist?" Sheila snarled. "Are you fucking Free Skye?"

"God, no!" Copeland was now almost pleading. "I'm loyal, Commander; I wouldn't be in the AFFC if I wasn't—"

Max put a hand gently on Sheila's. "Hauptmann…please understand. Free Skye isn't very popular with the Sentinels, much less with the Snowbirds. If you can't accept that, maybe you'd better find another assignment."

Copeland's face became set. "No, Major. I got it. I wanted this assignment."

"Then you keep your damn jokes to yourself."

"Right, right—"

"See to your lance," Sheila snapped. Copeland gave her a quick salute and fled. It was a full three minutes after he had left that Sheila sank back into her chair. Max perched himself on the side of her desk. "You want to get rid of him?" he said into the silence, which had been ominously broken only by the whine of the servomotors in Sheila's left arm.

"No," she sighed. "It would take too long, and we can't do anything until we have a liasion officer. We'll just have to keep an eye on him, that's all."

"So what happens if he steps out of line?"

"Then he's dead," Sheila said simply.