Chapter 18

Viktoriya Zhukovna's blue eyes shone with all the icy mercy of her homeland's winters, the same winters that had swallowed the armies of Fedor von Bock, Friedrich Paulus, and Napoleon I. "This," she said in a voice that was even colder, so cold that each word seemed to freeze into ice and shatter as she spoke it, "is unacceptable."

"I'm sorry, Captain, but our stocks of the missiles you requested are severely limited," said the ordnance officer she had been arguing for more than two hours with. "I simply must retain some kind of reserve. Even if I didn't and wiped out my entire stock, it still wouldn't be enough to fill your request."

Viktoriya sucked in a breath to reply, but realizing it would get her nowhere, released it in an explosive rush. "Fine," she said tightly. "What can you give me?"

"Four hundred artillery rockets of the type specified," the other officer relented. "Eighty percent of the weapons of that type in stock."

It wasn't nearly enough. Roland wanted her to blast a travel corridor through a minefield that was two kilometers wide and had to be at least five times that deep. In addition there was the possibility of a duel with artillery-mechs which should, at least, not prove dull. Finally, she was supposed to re-crater the runway and engage any aerial targets that showed up to spoil the party. All of that, and provide an additional air-defense element against fighters and the possibility of enemy DropShips being used to achieve air dominance.

To do this she had twenty-four Padilla missile-artillery tracks. Eight of them were hers, but as the senior-most captain she was also in charge of the other two batteries that Colonel Chaffee had detached for this op. There were thirty-two field artillery ammunition support vehicles, the extras consisting of tracks whose primary had been destroyed. Each of the FAASVs was a Padilla hull with the launchers removed for ammunition storage racks, and a loading conveyor. With full loads her little command could carry over four thousand missiles. Four hundred Rocket, Anti-Area Denial missiles was less than a tenth that, and clearing that minefield was her primary mission.

"Fine," she said bitingly. Which left an awful lot of room in her tracks. A thought occurred to her. "How are stores of smoke and dual-purpose improved conventional munitions?"

Pause, then slow smirk. "I will require forty-eight FASCAM packs, and prepare a place in storage for twenty-four five-round missile stowage racks. We shall not need them."

"Hey, Boss, tell me something. Do you really think this is going to work?"

I glared at the mini-lop in the middle of the cockpit that was in the process of sharpening a bowie knife that was larger than it was.

"I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't," I said. Whoever was in charge over their had to be worried that I'd try an end-around or, at the very least, was keeping him occupied while another force set up to take the spaceport from the south. A minefield nearly ten kilometers deep that, while thin on the outer bands quickly grew increasingly dense, stretched out in a half circle from the spaceport, directly between it and me.

The only problem was that I didn't want to do an end-around. If I did that it would give him half of forever to bombard me with missiles as my little task force went racing down the approach. Sitting around wasn't an option either. Sooner or later Mr. Radick would figure out what I was doing and if he was smart he'd send a couple of his companies (together this time) to sort of hurry me along. If that didn't happen, the runway would get repaired and then it'd be enemy aerospace fighters…

"Did Merlin get his revised instructions?" I asked.

"Well it's not like he'd tell us if he did. I mean, he's like a bunny out in the middle of a pack of wolves. Best that kind of person can do is freeze and not get noticed. Who knows, sometimes it even works.

"Now, if you had sent a real rabbit, we could all have nice wolf-fur rugs to keep our feet warm on the damn dropship. It's all very well for you mammals who get to put on socks and shoes and stuff, but that damn deck is cold."

"Uh-huh," I said. After the first couple of years Bun Bun's antics had gotten so much easier to ignore. "So you haven't heard from him?"

"For the love of alfalfa…no, I haven't heard from the wizard."

"What about—"

"Him neither."

"Then what brought this on?" I asked.

Bun Bun didn't reply.

"Bun Bun?" I asked.

"The White Bitch called it in."

Viki was regular-SDLF, not THUS, although the Padilla missile-arty tracks she used was substantially better than anything she'd had before joining us. She and the rest of her battery were orphans that had been picked up shortly after we'd had to abandon Tirpitz and Abyss had shifted over to Admiral Murakama's flagship. They were often assigned to units as ad-hoc attachments, either to fill in for combat losses or to beef up strength.

Where and when she had picked up the handle 'Jadis' I had no idea, and the most I had ever gotten out of her was that 'the character reminds me of home.' Considering that her home's winters had a tendency to eat armies I'm sure there was some kind of profound statement in there somewhere. It was not surprising, however, that she had tagged her battery after herself using the callsign 'White Witch'.

Bun Bun didn't like her.

Well…it didn't like her so far as it actually had feelings. It was easy to forget, especially among us that really should know better, that the diagnostic interface computers weren't true AS. He could manage my communications as well as any human comm.-officer and run tactical analysis as any intel officer, as well as interpret my sense of balance for the gyro buried in my mech's torso, but all of that came from a revolution in super-conductor technology, more than a decade working together, and the most technically advanced neuro-helm ever devised.

Bun Bun the DI, on its own, without my brainwaves, scored about the same as a really bright dog on the sentience scale, which was neither fair to it nor the dog. Bun Bun was an expert at what it did, but it had no room to grow outside of the limitations of its programming. A dog could learn tricks, true enough, but it could also tell when someone was sad and offer support, or it could detect when its master was going to have a heart attack of seizure, or it could even see for a person. A dog could form likes and dislikes in music, be lonely when no one was around, and form a preference of squirrels to rabbits to chase.

Bun Bun's, and its fellows, ability to pass the Turing Test (well, computers had been doing that since before humanity set foot on Mars) was strictly put into its programming to make it seem less alien to the end users (yours truly). Why the so-called 'personality programming' had chosen Viki as the specific person to go off on I had no idea. In all likelihood some little random event generator buried in its programming had flipped and decided that it was going to display antagonistic personality quirks toward Viktoriya Zhukovna.

I considered dialing down the personality programming again, but decided against it. The damn DI was just better when I left it alone and right now I was going to need it. But at the same time I made a note to talk with the techs, none of the other DIs seemed so…individualistic.

"And what did Captain Zhukovna want to know?" I asked mildly just to tweak it a little.

The radio crackled before the personality programming of Bun Bun's DI computer could reply.

"White Witch-Lead to Dagger-Six."

"Go, Witch," I responded.

"In position. Guns deployed."

It is a very minimal message. Micro-burst transmission. Minimal in duration, minimal in information. It was also very hard to direction-find and almost impossible to jam.

Her tracks didn't have AVIX, the Automated Vehicular Information Exchange that was to the Cavalry and Marines on troop/squadron/regiment-or higher level, what ARES was to the individual soldier, whether a mech-jock or a vehicle driver or, well, anyone really. Her comms just weren't as secure. There was no point at this late in the game of tipping off the enemy if they were able to penetrate our communications because of it. But the point was still clear. The revised plan was go the moment I gave the word.

On the wide-cast holographic battlefield suspended in front of me, nine tiny little machines were running towards me.

"Are their safe-lanes accurately plotted?"

"Affirmative." Bun Bun's avatar had taken on a pronounced Austrian accent. "They are approaching the end of their runs."

I smirked. "Jadis, the Deplorable Word is given."

"Fireball, White Witch-Lead. Charn, I say again, Charn."

"Dagger," I said. "Dagger-Six. Execute missile barrage."

The Titan-Master series of heavy LRM launchers were reliable, robust, and expensive. Like the Super-Archer series of light LRM launchers they could tie into a dual Artemis IV Fire Control module—officially it was designated Ullr after the Norse Archer-God, but nobody but the manufacturer and the manufacturer-provided technical manuals called it that. The dual AFC could link together two adjacent launchers to fire at one target. In effect it allowed two LRM or SRM launchers to share a single Artemis IV Fire Control Module, which saved weight and mass.

There were, of course, downsides to the system. Nestled between two launchers, especially the Titan-Masters LRM launchers, over-heating its more delicate insides was always an issue. Also, there was a lack of redundancy. One good penetrating hit could cost the enhanced fire-control capability of two different launchers whereas losing a standard control unit would only cost that of a single launcher. And, because the launchers needed to be stacked 'above' and 'below' the control module, ammunition almost always had to be carried somewhere the launchers weren't. The right kind of hit could seriously compromise missile feed-tubes, and losing a limb could mean losing either the launchers or ammunition for them.

The Titan-Masters, however, were not more expensive because of the dual AFC. Most of the expense for that system was in the control module. No, the Titan-Masters had an ability that, like the Marine's multi-environment launchers, R&D had been promising for centuries and never able to develop. A single Titan-Master LRM-20 launcher could split its fire up to four ways.

Like many proclaimed 'super weapons' it fell well short of what its supporters' claims.

It couldn't use any kind of fire-control enhancement in multi-target mode. Partial sections couldn't be reloaded individually, the entire launcher had to be shot dry first. Maintenance was absolutely horrendous. And, while the 'first' target had all the accuracy anticipated, it fell off with each subsequent target.

As far as a surprise weapon went, it was fairly effective, but on a tactical level it was another story. In tactical situations with a LOS on the enemy it was fairly useless, in indirect fire-support it was even worse—at least so far as mechs and tanks were concerned. Against infantry in the open it was just dandy, and the results of a Titan-Master LRM-20 loaded with fragmentary missiles in a bombardment mission against infantry in the open had to be seen in all of its gory detail to be believed.

We carried them for two reasons. First, the scattering affect in indirect-fire mode was very useful for scattering ordnance over a wide area, so long as you only had a general area you wanted it spread out in and nothing too specific. Second, the construction used to make the launchers able to split their fire involved putting a section of armored plate between every five tubes. This, coupled with four independent fire-circuits, was the cause of much of the maintenance headaches but actually increased ruggedness. Even a penetrating hit wouldn't be guaranteed to 'kill' the weapon, as the cofferdam construction could protect the rest of the launch tubes.

The Archers, ironically, carried more of the LRM-variant RAAD than the larger Longbows. Unlike the smaller mechs, the Longbows had no integral jump jets and so had been forced to carry heavy, bulky strap-on jets for the jump. Without the need for the strap-on jets, the Archers had been able to load down a mission support pack with a variety of niche ammunition types, knowing that, in an emergency the MSP could be jettisoned without worrying about suddenly being out of necessary ammunition. Now the Archers went to rapid-fire on their launchers while the Longbows took somewhat slower, more deliberate shots.

Kilometers away Viktoriya was watching the tactical display inside the command compartment of the Padilla tracked rocket-artillery vehicle known to its crew as Artic Thunder. Now she stretched in her seat before speaking in a husky voice. "All units, White Witch-Lead. Load FASCAM. Go to rapid fire on all launchers…shoot!"

In rapid-fire it took each of the improved launchers six seconds to cycle. The first shoot was complete in thirty seconds, and the drivers, who had been holding the Padillas in 'drive' with the brakes on instead of in 'park' like the Book called for, slammed their throttles wide open. With the stabilizers and shock supports locked down for the firing sequence the sudden ride was far rougher than normal. The window shutters had been thrown closed and bolted (the exhaust from the rockets was mildly toxic) and nobody took the time to open them so they couldn't see—though in this case there really wasn't anything too be seen so the point was a wash.

"Overheat warning on #2!"

The new launchers cycled faster, but for simplicity they retained the original 'hot-shot' specification. A more complicated 'cold-shot' system would have kicked each missile clear using compressed gas, which would have produced less wear on the launcher and a smaller thermal bloom. Unfortunately the designers had failed to include such a system and the material construction of the launcher had not been upgraded to fully deal with the effects of the faster possible launch time.

"Coolant flush," Viktoriya ordered as the stabilizers and shocks were released a moment before there was a terrific thump as they went through a hedgerow.

A hiss filled the compartment as a small quantity of coolant from the tank that had replaced one of the eight missile stowage racks inside of the Padilla was sprayed from the track's coolant system into the launcher where it boiled away.

"Light green."

"Fireball, White Witch-Lead, break as assigned and continue bombardment as planned," Viktoriya ordered. She switched to the intercom. "Prep fire mission two."

"Fire mission two," repeated the gunner. "Transmitting…" In his armored compartment he transmitted the copy of fire mission two that was in his computer to all of the other Padillas in the battery. They transmitted theirs to all the other tracks as well, and the computers checked all of the copies to make sure there weren't any mistakes. "…Good copy, Cap. Loading fire mission two."

Loading mission two consisted of selecting a preset and pushing a button. The feed queue cycled automatically, pulling the anti-air Arrow missile that had been automatically fed into #1 launcher at conclusion of fire mission one, #2 launcher having aborted the loading sequence automatically when the overheat warning had been triggered. Tube one was reloaded with a dual-purpose improved conventional munitions dispensing rocket, while a large cratering charge was fed into launcher two. The latter would make a big hole in the runway being rebuilt, and the DP-ICM would scatter cluster bombs across the runway. Some of the bomblets would explode immediately and create further, smaller craters that would have to be patched while others ran on time delays or until they were disturbed, which would make it more hazardous for those doing the repairs.

"Witch-Seven, fire mission complete."

"White Witch-Eight, mission complete."

Viktoriya nodded to herself. Seven and Eight had been tasked with a PsyOp mission. The last sequence of missiles they had launched had contained remote deployed speakers and leaflet dispensers. The speakers produced an audible version of the warning on the leaflets, namely that the runway and air-traffic facilities were going to come under artillery attack.

"Captain, fire mission two, up!"

"Driver, halt."

The track came to a rapid, shuddering halt.

"Lock down."

Stabilizers and shocks, which had been released after the initial rush to displace from their first firing position lest they fall victim to counter-battery fire, once more locked and the Padilla went rigid.

She looked at the clock. Twenty seconds since Seven and Eight? Better consider it as ten.

"Gunner, rapid-fire, fire mission two. Fifty seconds."

"Fifty seconds, fire mission two."

The delay seemed impossibly long. Across the compartment the Master Gunnery of her battery was drumming a thumb on his control panel. Safely away from the large red button, Viki noted, before turning back to her own panel.

Shoot!"

Again the thunderous noise of the launchers, the Padilla was shaken violently. It was so load that even with the full-ear headsets and the intercom it was hard to be heard.

Latharn Fetladral slowly tapped his fingers on the arm of his command couch and tried to make sense of the information flowing to him.

The BattleMechs that were now once again resuming their advance had done something impossible to their missile launchers…or at least to the LRM launchers carried by the pairs of ancient Archers and Longbows. Given how backwards their missile-technology was, mounting three or four LRM-5 packs was lighter and than a single LRM-15 or -20. In the case of the LRM-20 a quartet of LRM-5s were less bulky as well. But to get the kind of accuracy displayed by the one Longbow in the missile-duel hours before with Trinary Battle they had to be using some kind of fire control unit. The Clans could do that, barely, if they maximized weight savings and managed to keep the bulk down, but they could not fit in all of those launchers with their fire-control systems, and still have enough mass and room to fit in a decent amount of ammunition much less any other weapons

The initial artillery barrage had effectively pinned his binary, a tactically brilliant move, but then they had failed to follow up on it. Instead of a long-range artillery duel—albeit with his machines low on ammunition of the wrong type—they had settled for littering over his base and broadcasting warnings about their next attack. Was it some kind of ploy to sow trouble among the lesser castes, or an effort to make them desert, or was it just some ham-handed way of trying to retain honor while using weapons that did minimal damage to the runway but caused grievous injuries to the civilian technicians and laborers?

And then there was the artillery itself that had been deployed against him. Tracks of the launches had made it quite clear that there were twenty-four tracks, each with two launchers. But after the initial bombardment to deny his binary safe passage through their own minefields, only sixteen had been observed.

What he really wanted to do was load up his OmniMech and go hunt down and destroy the artillery tracks. They had to be Padillas. The only other missile-artillery track observed were ancient Chaparrals and they possessed only a single launcher and were twenty klicks slower than the data indicated. Obviously modified, perhaps with some kind of carousel clip for rapid fire capability? With two pulse lasers—albeit inferior ones—and deeper missile magazines, each actually outgunned one of his Nagas, but their armor was weak.

But while he did that the BattleMech force to the north would destroy his binary and seize the DropShips and he could not allow that to happen.

"Star Captain."

He turned to his communication screen with a vile invective on his tongue for the person who had interrupted his thinking, but paused at the sight of Point Commander Dursk. Dursk was part of the star of normal infantry who provided security and law enforcement functions for the facilities in use by Beta Galaxy. He and his fellows provided necessary and useful services, but only in extremely unusual circumstances could they be expected to have the chance to achieve any glory. Many were insular and dogmatic, isolating themselves from other warriors by contempt from MechWarriors, Pilots, and Elementals, and what they saw as an unjust denigration of the service they provided the Clan.

It was a view that Latharn understood. Many of the same people viewed the artillery the same way, and despite winning a bloodname he had found himself in a succession of artillery assignments for many long years. It was also a view that he loathed as much as he understood it because he was in a position to see just how much the lackluster support sapped from front-line elements. That the same lackluster support was what was expected by the front-line elements, was, in fact, encouraged by the front-line elements, only made the whole situation ever more intolerable whenever Latharn thought about it.

Dursk, however, was bright enough that Latharn sometimes wondered if the man should not have been quietly shifted to the Scientists in his sibko. Oh, he was skilled enough to pass as Warrior, and against the surats the Inner Sphere bred he was probably quite good, but aside for a few specialized units with similarly specialized training, the warriors relegated to artillery stars were mostly average at best. That, coupled with the fact that artillery stars (and those in them) were also generally ignored, went a long way to explaining why he was only a simple MechWarrior instead of a Star Commander.

Sill, he was very bright, and very creative, and probably would have made a very good member of the scientist caste. A scientist with a practical understanding of the realities that warriors faced was a very rare and valuable thing. He was also in the habit of taking more than his star's worth of initiative entirely on his own, and the fact that his ideas had more often proved brilliant than not went a long way in making up his relative lack in skill—that his superiors were half-afraid of what he would do with any more initiative was the other major obstacle that kept him from rising any higher.

"Yes, Point Commander?" Latharn asked.

"We can launch two fighters," Dursk announced.

"I gave orders that the runways were not to be a priority, and no DropShip could possibly have been fully embarked yet."

"Aff, Star Captain," Dursk said. "One of the fighters, when it was being lifted, the chain to the aft-end of the lift-cradle snapped, swinging the fighter vertical. A support frame was put into place to hold it until a new lift rig could be brought over."

"Your point," Latharn said.

"Early VTOL experiments used fighters that took off vertically," Dursk said. "By putting on rockets to the after-most pod spaces, we should be able to achieve a similar result. There is a second suspension cradle that could be easily modified to a vertical launch cradle as well."

With the runways still out it would be a one-way trip, but it was an observation that both understood and neither needed to comment on. It was not the Clan way. The pilots would eject and survive, or they would not. But where to use them?

There were only three targets. He could send them after the enemy BattleMech force, he could send them after the enemy artillery force, or he could send them to clear mines for his binary. If he was on the other side the artillery batteries would be covered by at least two of those anti-air tracks that Star Captain Sumner Johns had run into the other day. Sending only two fighters against that would be suicide, and death without gain was a waste of resources. Likewise, two OmniFighters could not be expected to deal critical damage to such a large formation of BattleMechs, not BattleMechs that had proven themselves so effective.

There was another option. The command codes that would detonate the mines. Normally it would have been reserved to post-battle cleanup, or ahead of a breakout. But he could use it now to open a lane for his trapped OmniMechs to retreat through and allow his fighters to concentrate against one enemy…except that it would also give the enemy BattleMech force a clear run to the StarPort he was trying to defend.

No. Detonating the mines could not be considered an option. He did not have so many detonation frequencies and just one would be more than sufficient to leave the base exposed. Which left the fighters.

"Why the rockets? OmniFighters have sufficient thrust to break orbit on their own, quiaff?"

"Engine plasma striking the landing pad's surface would blow back and damage the fighter's armor, Star Captain. The rocket pods could be angled so that this would not be a problem."

"Do it, Point Commander," Latharn decided. "Inform the pilots that they are to load pods and external ordnance for mine-clearance operations and a secondary strike at the artillery units. Make sure that they realize the artillery is the secondary target. Advise them to keep the range open to avoid being attacked by their ground-based air-defense units."

"Aff, Star Captain!" the other warrior said before the communications screen went blank.

Sumner Johns nodded in satisfaction as the crane eased the slack and the Visigoth moved not at all. This was how the Clans were supposed to work, he thought enthusiastically, all the castes working together to harmony to achieve their goal. The idea for a vertical launch by one of the little-thought of security troops had been brilliant. One of the scientists who served in the aerospace fighter support team had computed the proper load and distribution of launch rockets, literally at a moment's notice. Laborers had quickly modified two cradles into launch frames and provided the skills to raise the sixty-ton OmniFighters, rotate them, and then lower them into the racks. Technicians had moved in and quickly armed and fueled the fighters despite their atypical profile.

He shifted in his seat again. The last time he had flown a Visigoth it was in his Trial of Position in Clan Wolf and had ended with him ejecting, badly injured, and he had never flowing the B-configuration in combat before. But it was a lethal ground-attack configuration and the Visigoth was vastly more mobile in atmosphere than his normal Jagatai was.

A slap on his canopy shook him from his musings. Johns twisted his head 'up' to see his crew chief grasping onto a maintenance access panel while dangling from the overhead crane by a harness. The man plugged a lead into a slot, and then his voice came over the OmniFighter's intercom.

"Star Captain?"

"Aff."

"The rockets have been rigged to jettison automatically once they have completed their burn," the tech said. "Just remember, with that tail-slot empty this fighter will be slightly nose-heavy."

"I will remember," Johns assured him.

"They are pulling the last safety ribbons on your external ordnance rack right now, Star Captain. Good luck and happy hunting!" his crew chief said, reciting the ancient litany that was not quite Clan but that even the Founder himself had been unable to change, before removing the intercom lead. He patted the canopy twice, then waved up at the crane and was whisked out of sight.

"Tiamat flight, all ribbons have been pulled, umbilicals are retracted. Our tests on the rockets show green."

"One," Johns responded.

"Two." Tamm Ch'in never made it out of his fighter. Mart Mehta normally flew Bravo-One-Two on Star Commander Leo Leroux's wing, but he was a highly capable pilot and highly skilled in the use of external ordnance which most aerospace pilots regarded as little more than obsolete. It was for this reason that Johns had tapped him to replace the dead Tamm as his wingman for this flight.

"Clearing launch platform."

A distant siren wailed.

"Tiamat, you are go for launch." In the spaceport control facility a technician sat back in his chair and added, "I sure hope this works."

"Launching," Johns said, pressing the button next to the multi-function display that currently read 'ROCKET- -IGNITION'.

"Two."

A roar filled his cockpit as the rockets lit off. Almost immediately the ladder tracks along his HUD began to move as his fighter was propelled straight upwards. Johns flipped the guarded lever that would start venting plasma from the core of his fusion engine into the propulsion system, then reached for the throttle and shoved it to the full-power stops, then past the stops into overthrust.

He was slammed back into the command couch of his fighter far harder than the normal four-point-five G's of overthrust would normally cause. The ladder tracks blurred at the edges of his HUD.

"YEEE-HAW!"

Sumner Johns cut his own cry short and punched the transmit button. "Chatter," he grunted into the circuit before releasing the control.

"Two," Mehta replied.

A moment later his navigation computer pinged.

"Rotate," Johns ordered as he began to pull back on the stick.

"Two."

As they pulled back the rocket packs detached with shuddering bangs though could be felt through the spaceframe of the fighters. They rolled upright into level flight at five thousand meters.

"System check," Johns ordered, then added, "One is green."

"Two."

"Control, Tiamat flight, launch complete and on station. Proceeding with mission."

"Control copies, Tiamat flight. Control clear."