AUTHOR'S NOTES: Running a bit late this week due to getting sick last week. Nothing serious, luckily.
I know this has been something of a slow burn of a story, but one of the problems I think the Snowbird stories had when I first wrote them was that they just jumped into the story, without really giving any background to Sheila, Max or the Sentinels. I wanted to do that here. I also wanted to give a sense of dread-we know the Clans are only a few months away, but the characters don't. All they can do is speculate about who these people might be. Max's thought that it's the Minnesota Tribe, or someone like it, is basically just a wild guess on his part and literary license on mine-but it's like the people who predicted Pearl Harbor would happen on a Sunday morning. They turned out to be exactly right, though if the Japanese had hit on Saturday, no one would remember all those who predicted the attack on a Sunday.
Those of you who read the old Snowbird Saga remember that Elfa and Tooriu were an item...but how did they get that way? Well, this chapter describes it. I thought about going into a little steamier detail, but...this isn't my RWBY smut stories, after all, and this site frowns on that sort of thing. (This site does, anyway.) Readers of Lethal Heritage can also time the meeting to immediately after Chapter 11, the first appearance of Galen Cox.
And because I like shout-outs, there's a few in here to Tombstone and The Hunt for Red October.
Jestin Ridge Repair Facility
Persistence, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
19 October 3049
"Damn," Tooriu Kku cursed as Elfa Brownoak spread her cards on the table. He'd played a weak hand, hoping to bluff her, but Elfa had called his bluff and was now reaping the benefits.
"Always a pleasure taking your money." Elfa reached out and pulled 60 C-Bills into an already considerable pile. Tooriu was in well into a month's pay to her. She had beaten him at pool as well, before they'd headed back from the bar to her quarters.
"Is there a game you're not good at?"
"We could try a spelling contest." Elfa grinned at him.
Tooriu took it as the joke it was and grinned back. "I think I'll grab a beer instead. Want one?"
"Oh, no." She held up a bottle of Timbiqui Dark, the fourth of four she had sitting on the table, and the only one that wasn't empty. "I've already had one more than I should have." She wasn't drunk, but she had a pleasant buzz going. One more and she might just be drunk, and Elfa didn't want to be drunk. She couldn't win more money if she was.
She watched Tooriu get up and head into the room's tiny kitchen. They were both dressed casually, which for Tooriu meant blue jeans and a T-shirt with the Nagelring's emblem on it. It was a size too small, all the better at showing off his pectorals and abdominals. Elfa suspected it was deliberate, to invite her attention and throw her off her game. The latter hadn't worked, but the former was working quite well. She felt her mouth go a little dry at the sight of Tooriu's back and rear end. Easy there, Elfa. He's just a kid compared to you. He's also two ranks lower. Tooriu was not in Elfa's company or even the same battalion, but it could still be an issue. Calla Bighorn-Vlata would be a hypocrite if he discouraged relationships in the Sentinels, but Majors were not supposed to carry on affairs with MechWarriors.
The problem was, Elfa wanted Tooriu. He'd come to her the night he'd broken up with Sheila Arla-Vlata. Nothing had happened—he'd just asked basically for a sounding board, to know he had done the right thing. Elfa had lent an understanding ear. Since then, they had spent quite a few nights, either at the town bars shooting pool, or in her quarters playing cards. They were friends, nothing more, and Elfa knew it really should stay that way.
But she still desired him. It had been a long time.
Stop it, Elfa, she told herself. You're a woman of a certain age, and he's what, nineteen? He could be your son. Besides, he's not interested in a woman who's just about middle-aged. Quit thinking like that. She pasted a bored look on her face as he walked back to the small table, and shuffled the cards.
Tooriu twisted off the top of his beer; it was his third, but his metabolism was such that it would take two more to start feeling silly. For his part, he tried not to stare at Elfa as she dealt the cards. He had worn the shirt deliberately to throw her off her game, but that wasn't the only reason. The fact was, he wanted Elfa as well. He didn't know why, for the same reason that she didn't: Elfa was old enough to be his mother. But dammit, he groused to himself, why does she have to be so damn cool? And so farking attractive?
She dealt the cards out. Tooriu looked at his hand and nearly dropped it. He quickly tried to hide his expression by taking a drink of beer.
It was too late. Elfa was watching him the whole time. "Must be a peach of a hand." She took a drink as well.
Tooriu decided to brazen it out. "Sure as hell is."
"Mmm. Let's up the ante." What are you doing, Elfa? her mind screamed, but Elfa—with just enough alcohol in her system to take her past the limits of common sense—ignored it. She placed her hand on the table, face down. "If I win this round…you have to strip."
He stared popeyed at her, and for a moment, Elfa thought she'd gone too far. Sexual harassment did work both ways, and he could turn her in; a Major saying that to a MechWarrior was enough that the latter might feel pressured to obey, even if it wasn't an actual order. Then a slow smile spread across Tooriu's face. "You must have one hell of a hand yourself."
"Mm-hm."
"Okay. But if I win, you'd better do the same." He raised his eyebrows.
"Deal." Elfa's heart began to beat faster, but she turned over her cards. "Full house." She leaned back in her chair, and waved her hand. "Look, I was just kidding about the stripping part."
"Oh? Damn shame." Tooriu set his cards down. Elfa looked down, and her smile disappeared faster than a snowball in perdition. It was a straight flush. He leaned back in his chair. "I was kidding about the stripping part, too. However, I do think I deserve my money back, given the odds of this." He pointed to the cards. Elfa leaned forward, obviously checking to see if he had cards stashed somewhere. Then she sighed, and pushed the C-Bills back towards him. Tooriu laughed and hit the table, causing it to jump. "Gotcha!"
"Indeed." Elfa finished her beer, and stood up. For a moment, Tooriu thought she was going to flip the table over—Sheila had done that once, when she'd lost a game of Succession Wars—but instead, her hands grabbed the hem of her blouse. Tooriu's jaw dropped as she pulled it up over her head and her long fall of blond hair, and tossed it aside. While his brain was still processing that, she reached behind her and unsnapped her bra. Tooriu had fantasized about Elfa Brownoak naked, older woman or not, and figured that there was some sagging to be expected in a woman of 43 years old. Looking at her exposed breasts now, Tooriu realized he had been very wrong.
Elfa took a step back and shimmied out of the slacks she had been wearing, kicking them aside, then pulled off her panties, leaving her only in white socks. While he gaped at her, she pulled those off too. Then she stood naked, hands on her hips. "There. Never let it be said that I don't keep my bargains."
"But…but…but I told you that I was just fooling around! You said you were just fooling around!" Tooriu couldn't keep his eyes from roving her body. She made no move to cover herself; this was no demure teenager. "That wasn't part of the bargain!"
"I am altering the bargain." An eyebrow quirked upwards. "Do you like what you see?"
"Uh, yeah." Tooriu was used to being the one in charge. Even when Sheila had surprised him with her idea of a seduction—which was simply to drop her skirt and pull her panties to one side before straddling him—he had taken control, the experienced man, guiding her, always the one in charge. Sheila, inexperienced, seemed to prefer it that way. With Elfa, he felt rudderless for the first time in his life. She was clearly in control here, and Tooriu wasn't sure if he should seize her and make love to her, or dodge her and run out the door.
"That's good." She came around the table and sat on his lap, putting her arms on his shoulders. She kissed him, and Tooriu's head swam. Elfa pulled back and smiled as she felt him moving beneath her. "So. Who's the oldest girl you've ever been with, Tooriu?"
"Buh," Tooriu answered before finally managing to recover the ability to speak. "Nineteen…maybe twenty-"
"Amateurs." She licked at his lips like an animal, and her hands reached down to the zipper on his pants. "Now you're going to have a woman who knows what she's doing." Her eyes sparkled with pure lust. "I wonder how long you'll last?"
12th Donegal Guards Headquarters
Trellwan (Trell I), Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
19 October 3049
Max tugged at the collar of his dress uniform. "Stupid thing is too tight."
Sheila reached over and helped him with it. "Well, no wonder. It's brand new."
"Isn't yours brand new?"
"Sort of," Sheila answered, "but I stomped on it a few times. Loosens up the fabric." He looked at her strangely. "Look, I don't know why it worked! I don't argue with results." It was a good thing too, Sheila reflected. She had been given a dress uniform at the beginning of her senior year at the Nagelring as a gift from her parents. It had been so tight that not only could she barely breathe, it had a tendency to enhance her bust a lot more than she was comfortable with. Mimi had fallen at her feet and salaamed her the first time she'd worn it—before the stomping. "How's the pants?"
"Let's not talk about the pants." The Sentinels' dress uniform was white, with the rank on shoulder boards and repeated on the collar. To show which lance the wearer belonged to, a stripe or sash was added to the uniform, along with the lance patch below the battalion one on the left shoulder. In Sheila's case, the pants had gold and blue piping, referencing the ancient 13th Light Dragoons uniform. In Max's, it was the tartan of the famous, and equally ancient, 93rd Highlanders. Whereas the piping enhanced the white pants Sheila wore, the tartan gave Max's an almost plaid appearance. "It could be worse," he remarked. "Your dad used to require kilts with the dress uniform."
"Kilts were too expensive to get," Sheila said, which was only half the truth. Calla Bighorn-Vlata was a leg man, and he liked to admire the women in short kilts. Arla had finally put a stop to it. "Are the pants too tight, too?"
"Let's just say that if I sit wrong, I'm never fathering children." He smiled at her, and Sheila laughed.
They walked down the long hallway between the entrance to the 12th Donegal's headquarters and the briefing room. "I'm a bit nervous," Max admitted. "What kind of person is Victor Steiner-Davion?"
"Pretty down to earth," Sheila answered. "He just wants to be treated like everyone else. I mean, don't go up and slap him on the back, but also don't toady him. He gets pissed. Just treat him like you would any other Kommandant."
"I guess I can do that."
Max and Sheila reached the briefing room and had their identifications checked by the two guards there, then were shown in. As the door was shut behind them, Sheila noticed only two other people in the room—two men. One she didn't recognize: he was tall, slender, and sandy-haired, and wore the rank of Hauptmann. The other was Victor. He jumped to his feet and came around the table. "Sheila! Good to see you!" He shook hands with her, then turned to Max. "I'm afraid I don't know you, Lance Commander." Victor accurately read the rank off their uniforms, although the Sentinels had their own ranking system.
"Max Canis-Vlata," Max answered, a little nervous despite himself. Victor Steiner-Davion was, after all, more than just one of hundreds of Kommandants, battalion commanders, in the AFFC; he was the heir to the combined thrones of the Lyran Commonwealth and the Federated Suns. "A pleasure to meet you, sir."
Victor shook hands with him as well. "You went to school at NAMA, right? I remember Sheila mentioning you once or twice. You used to write each other a lot."
"Yes, sir. Graduated a few months ago."
"Then you know Kai Allard-Liao?"
Max gave a sort of shrug. "Not well, sir. He sort of kept to himself."
"Kai's like that." He slapped Max on the shoulder, which wasn't that easy—Max was a foot taller than Victor. "Well, welcome aboard." He motioned to the other man, who stood. "This is Hauptmann Galen Cox. He's my aide." Victor chuckled. "For the past thirty minutes, anyway. I didn't want one, but anyway…" Cox grinned and shook hands with Sheila and Max.
They all took their seats around the oblong table. "I was surprised to hear you were on Trellwan," Sheila said, mainly to keep the conversation from getting awkward.
"Not as surprised as I was to get the orders. I really expected something like what Kai got—the 10th Lyran Guards on Skondia. But…" Victor shrugged. "Theodore Kurita posted his son to the 14th Legion of Vega on Turtle Bay, so that was it—I got stuck out here in the middle of nowhere as a gesture of peace." He glanced at Cox. "It's damn fine regiment, mind, but it wasn't what I had in mind."
"It's better than Persistence," Sheila said. "At least you have some seasons out here."
"I guess." Victor looked petulant, realized it, and brightened up. "So—they gave you both lances. How is it?"
"It was tough at first, but I'm getting into it." Max nodded, agreeing with Sheila. "They gave you a battalion?" She couldn't keep the wonder out of her voice.
"Rank hath its privileges," Cox said with noticeable sarcasm, and Victor only laughed. He was about to reply when the doors opened. "Attention! Commanding officer present!" Cox sang out, and all four of them got to their feet.
Leftenant General Jeremy Hawksworth, the commander of the 12th Donegal Guards, walked into the room. "At ease. Be seated." He nodded to the man who entered with him, the only one in the room not wearing a uniform. "This is Edward Browning of the Lyran Intelligence Corps, Intelligence Command Network." He checked that the doors were closed. "These proceedings are secret. Lance Commander Arla-Vlata, Lance Commander Canis-Vlata, we normally do not share such things with people of your rank, much less mercenaries—but since you're the ones who recovered this intelligence, you're not only going to stay, but present what you know. You were aware of this, correct?"
"Yes, sir," Sheila answered. She and Max had practiced the presentation on the DropShip ride down from the jump point. They hadn't been aware they would be briefing the LIC. "General, with respect…we had thought this briefing was for yourself and Kommandant Steiner-Davion. We thought the information had already been presented to the LIC by Miss Danderson."
"It was," Browning answered. "But my superiors wanted to hear it from a representative of the Sentinels themselves. Miss Danderson is not a MechWarrior." He smiled and spread his hands. "To be honest, I expected either one of Commander Bighorn-Vlata's battalion commanders, or the man himself. No offense, but the fact that he entrusted such information to two lowly lance commanders tells me he doesn't think it all that important."
Sheila bristled at the lowly lance commander line, so it was Max that answered. "Mr. Browning—as Lance Commander Arla-Vlata said, we thought we would just be briefing the General and the Kommandant. No one else. If they thought it important enough, others might be sent to brief other commanders on the Periphery rim."
Browning nodded. "I see." He took a seat; Hawksworth followed a moment later. "Well, let's get on with it."
Max looked at Sheila, who swallowed her pride. She took a chip out of her pocket and inserted it into the holoprojector on the table, then switched it on. Between them, she and Max ran through the battleroms of both Phelan Kell and Frederick Matria. She watched her audience. Hawksworth, Cox and Victor were showing intense interest; Victor didn't bother disguising his surprise and shock at the assessment of the Marauder/Catapult hybrid. That didn't surprise her: all three men were MechWarriors, and Hawksworth had a record stretching back to the Fourth Succession War. What did surprise her was the bored expression Browning wore. He was not ignoring her, but he seemed disinterested. He wore a business suit, which meant nothing; many members of the LIC were former MechWarriors. She wondered if, as a professional spy, Browning was simply keeping his cards close to his chest. It made sense not to show surprise or bewilderment in front of, in his words, lowly lance commanders from a nobody mercenary unit.
When their presentation was complete, Victor sat back in his chair. "Jesus," he murmured. "That's pretty high-powered technology. Hitting harder at longer range, better armor…"
"It's something to think about. Luckily, it doesn't seem like there's very many of them." Hawksworth looked over at Browning. "Your assessment, Mr. Browning?"
The LIC official got up and walked around the table to the holo of the Marauder/Catapult hybrid. He examined it closely. Then he shrugged. "Yes, well…I shouldn't think it's anything to worry about."
Hawksworth's eyebrows went up. "Mr. Browning, someone with that level of technology is something to worry about."
"To pirates, General?" Browning gave another shrug. "Of course, but to them, the Kell Hounds are no less lethal, or the 12th Donegal, or the Sentinels." He graced Sheila and Max with a nod. It wasn't meant to be condescending, she knew, but it felt like it. "I'll allow that it is interesting, but as you said, General, there doesn't seem to be very many of them. I believe the initial assessment by Commander Bighorn-Vlata was correct: this is another pirate band that lucked into a Star League cache, perhaps one of those Periphery-based research facilities that we always hear stories of. But nothing more than that. A threat to Redjack Ryan? Yes. A threat to the Oberon Confederation? Certainly. But to the Federated Commonwealth? To the Draconis Combine? Even the Free Rasalhague Republic would be able to easily handle a small band such as this." He walked back to stand behind his seat. "Gentlemen, and lady, it is the official position of LIC that this is nothing more than that. Naturally, we will reassess the situation if more information becomes available." He nodded once more to Sheila and Max. "Thank you, Lance Commanders. Your presentation was excellent; I will pass it on to my superiors."
Hawksworth wasn't quite ready to dismiss everyone just yet. "Victor, what do you think?"
Victor was quiet for a moment. "No offense, Mr. Browning, but I think there is something more. The problem is, you're right—we just don't have enough information. If you're asking my opinion, sir—"
"I am, Kommandant." Hawksworth noticed the expression on Victor's face. "And not because you're a royal. I'd ask the same thing from Fraser or Mike Sullivan. A good commander listens to his subordinates."
"Well, General, I would suggest maybe a heightened state of alert along the Periphery. Maybe we coordinate with some of the other commanders. Certainly we increase our training tempo."
Hawksworth pursed his lips. "Agreed. Mr. Browning, if you could pass that on to Mr. Johnson at LIC, and to the Archon…"
"Of course, General." The LIC man gave a slight bow of the head to Victor. "Highness."
The general then looked at Sheila. "Lance Commander Arla-Vlata, you scored fairly high at the Nagelring. Do you also agree with this assessment?"
"I do, sir," Sheila replied, with a glance at Victor. "I agree that their numbers do seem to be low, and admittedly they caught the Kell Hounds by surprise. That accounts for a lot. We shouldn't underestimate them, but not overestimate them, either. Whoever the hell they are. Sir," Sheila finished, afraid she'd been too candid.
"And you, Lance Commander Canis-Vlata? You graduated from NAMA recently yourself. What do you think?"
Max hesitated. "Permission to speak frankly, sir."
"Certainly. I thought I'd made that clear. Speak your mind, son."
"Sir, we're deluding ourselves." Heads turned at that, but Max, despite going a little red in the face, continued on. "General, I think we're making the same mistake that a lot of people have made throughout history—we're judging our enemy by what we assume they will do, rather than what they're capable of. Sheila—Lance Commander Arla-Vlata—is right: they caught the Kell Hounds by surprise. But they still managed to wipe out an entire battalion of arguably one of the best mercenary units in the Inner Sphere. We know how good Morgan Kell is, and how well he trains his people. The fact that these Wolves were able to do that with a minimum of forces is not something to dismiss so lightly…sir."
Browning shook his head. "I think you are jumping at shadows—"
"Continue, Lance Commander," Hawksworth interrupted.
"Yes, sir. What if there's a lot more than just one small pirate band? What if it's an organized force?"
"I'll play devil's advocate," Hawksworth told him. "Such as Wolf's Dragoons, back in 3005?"
"Yes, sir, something like that." Max paused. "Though I was actually thinking of the Minnesota Tribe."
His words brought silence to the room. The legendary Minnesota Tribe had cut their way through the Kurita periphery in 2825 and 2826, using Star League-era 'Mechs and tactics. No one knew their origins, or where they had gone; the Tribe had disappeared as fast as they had come, leaving only scattered artifacts behind, most of which marked with a patch of the ancient American state of Minnesota. "It's possible," Victor said. "Though I don't think it would be likely, Max. The Tribe used SLDF 'Mechs, not new designs."
"I think it's preposterous!" Browning exclaimed.
"I think the return of the Minnesota Tribe is a bit of a stretch," Hawksworth agreed. At the deflated look on Max's face, the general smiled. "Relax. It may not be the Tribe, but something like the Dragoons wouldn't surprise me, though the Dragoons didn't attack the Inner Sphere when they showed up. Still, you're right. We shouldn't assume that this is just a small pirate band. A large, well-organized one would be a better bet—and that makes it a threat."
"Sir, in my defense, I never said it was the Minnesota Tribe, just that it might be someone like them," Max said.
"True." Hawksworth looked back at Browning. "You'll pass that on to the Archon as well?"
Max went pale at that. "Uh, I don't know if that's a good idea, sir…"
"Nor do I!" Browning said. "It's possible, but so is an alien invasion! I will pass on the idea of a larger band, but not something like the Minnesota Tribe!" He stared at Max like the MechWarrior was some unbelievable freak of nature. "Lance Commander, leave the science fiction at home, please."
"Yes, sir." Max sat down, cowed. Sheila put a hand on his shoulder. She didn't agree with him and wished he hadn't said anything—the Sentinels didn't need any bad publicity with their employer-but Max still was right to bring it up.
Hawksworth caught the motion. "Anything to add, Lance Commander Arla-Vlata?"
"No, sir…except that Lance Commander Canis-Vlata has a point about history. How many times have empires underestimated enemies they thought were weaker and incapable of being a real threat? Pearl Harbor, 9/11, Stefan Amaris?"
"What in God's name is 9/11?" Browning wanted to know.
Hawksworth cut Sheila off before she could explain. "I think that's enough for today. Any other questions?"
"Just one," Victor said. "Mr. Browning, has the Combine reported anything from their end, or the Rasalhagians?"
Browning glanced at Sheila and Max, and at Galen Cox. "Highness, that's highly classfied."
"Okay," Victor agreed. "So I'm ordering you to tell us. You can take it up with my mother later." Hawksworth and Cox smothered grins, while Sheila and Max just looked shocked. "You don't have to give us the details, Mr. Browning. Yes or no will suffice."
Browning fumed, but he answered his rulers' son. "Yes."
"Okay then."
"But that stays confined to this room!" Browning thundered.
"Of course," Hawksworth soothed him. He got up, causing the others to do so as well. "All right. Sheila, Max, thank you again. Let your parents know that I am recommending a heightened state of alert, at least through the holidays. You forgot another situation like the ones you mentioned, Sheila—the Battle of the Bulge in 1944." He shook hands with Browning. "Dismissed, everyone." As they filed out, Hawksworth touched Max's shoulder. "I told you to speak your mind, Max, but holy shit."
Jestin Ridge Repair Facility
Persistence, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
29 October 3049
Calla Bighorn-Vlata rubbed his eyes. "You went out on a limb there, Max."
Max and Sheila were before their commander this time, in another briefing room—not one nearly as fancy as the one on Trellwan. Calla was not alone either—Nichole Danderson was there as well. "Yes, sir," Max admitted. "It wasn't my intention—"
"Yes, it was," Calla finished. "And I'm glad you did. The problem with intelligence services is that they tend to get in a rut. They think they know it all, and they don't. I remember them telling us in '39 that Kurita was a hollow shell, and we'd waltz right onto Dieron. Then we got the shit kicked out of us because someone forgot to tell Theodore Kurita that he was finished."
"Then you think these Wolves are something like the Minnesota Tribe?" Max blurted. Though he had not claimed that it was, he'd warmed to the topic on the way back from Trellwan. Not to the point of obsession, which was something Sheila was thankful for, but still a theory he held onto.
"Damned if I know. But I wouldn't just dismiss it. Especially if Rasalhague and Kurita are reporting the same thing." Much to Max's horror, Sheila had told her father right out the information that Browning had insisted they keep quiet. He half expected Loki counterintelligence agents to burst into the room and kill them all. "Hendrik Grimm has three regiments under arms. If they switch sides to these Wolves, or even if the Wolves capture enough equipment to refit them, that's a lot of stuff headed our way. Or someone's." Calla tossed a pen on the table. "Of course, I bet Browning's telling Simon Johnson and Archon Mel that everything's just fine. It's not his bureaucratic ass on the line out here." He let out a long breath. "Anyhow…nice job. Dismissed. Take a few days off as a reward—that's an order." Max and Sheila both came to attention, then left the room.
"Well, that was fun," Sheila said as the door closed behind them. "I think I'd rather go up against a Sword of Light lance by myself than deal with that again. Too much brass in that room on Trellwan."
"Hey, at least you didn't just sabotage your own career," Max told her. He leaned against the wall and slapped a hand over his eyes. "God, I'm an idiot. Browning is probably telling the Archon what a dumbshit NAMA is churning out these days."
Sheila rolled her eyes, though she smiled. When Max hadn't been expounding on his Minnesota Tribe theory, he'd been wondering if he was going to be court-martialed and/or disgraced by the LIC. She had told him that Hawksworth and Victor had backed him up to a certain extent, but Max was still worried. "Aw, come on. It's not as bad as all that."
"Yeah, I guess," he said, without much conviction. "So what are your plans for the night?"
"Beats me. Probably sleep off the DropShip lag."
"Want to have some dinner? Now that we're off duty." Max pushed off the wall. "Hell, we were gone two weeks, and half the time we were practicing that damn briefing. And I didn't get to see much of you on Trellwan, since you were hanging out with Victor."
Sheila's eyes narrowed, though her smile widened. "Is that jealousy I hear?"
"Hell no." Max started walking down the hallway, and Sheila followed. "Sheila, we used to write each other about once every three months. I just want to catch up, when we don't have some presentation hanging over our heads." He returned her smile. "Not jealous of Victor, though—were you guys close at the 'Ring?"
"Not really," Sheila replied. "I think he was just glad to see a familiar face out here in the asshole of the Inner Sphere." She fell into step with him. "Dinner sounds fine."
Back in the briefing room, Calla got to his feet. Danderson was already standing, staring at a map of Persistence. "Heightened state of alert?" she asked.
"More exercises, maybe some officer exchanges." Calla sighed. "Dammit. I thought by sending Sheila and Max to brief the Prince and Jer Hawksworth, we could keep it informal—backchannel. I didn't think the LIC would send someone out."
"It surprises me as well," Danderson said. "They seemed fairly dismissive on Tharkad. I think it's because I'm just a former ground pounder who manages a munitions factory." She traced her fingers across Persistence. "If those Wolves do come here…how do we fight them?"
Calla stared at the map for a long few minutes. "Not in the open. The Kell Hounds got caught in the open and got shredded—and they're a lot more mobile than the Sentinels." He sighed again. "We've spent too damn long working for Steiner. The Sentinels are too heavy—I've got too many big 'Mechs."
Danderson's eyebrows came together in confusion. "I thought heavies and assaults were good things."
"They are—if you're not fighting an enemy who's faster and more mobile. Kurita used to give Steiner fits with their Dragons and Panthers, because they're fast, or they can jump. You know what a Steiner scout lance is?" Danderson shook her head. "Three Atlases and a Banshee." Even she got that joke. "It's an exaggeration…but not by much."
"So your plan is?"
"Depending on their numbers…I think I'd fight them right here." He tapped the repair facility on the map. "I normally wouldn't rely on fixed fortifications, but those walls are designed to repel 'Mech assaults. We could hold the walls and let the Wolves batter themselves to pieces. Everything on a 'Mech is a tradeoff, even with those people. Load up weapons, you lose mobility and armor and gain heat. You emphasize mobility, you lose armor and weapons. Even the SLDF knew that, so unless these Wolves have managed to break the laws of physics, they have a weakness. The walls would negate their firepower and their mobility." Assuming they don't get in, Calla added to himself. The Jestin Ridge Repair Facility could just as easily become a giant deathtrap for the Sentinels.
Danderson nodded. She moved over to a large map of the facility. "You've got some gaps to fill in, where entrances were put into the walls. There's a big one on that southeast corner."
"That's a weak spot for sure. The north wall needs repairs, too. But we can start work on that right now." Calla crossed over to the map. "There's something you can help me with, Miss Danderson."
"Name it."
"Does your company make land mines?"
"We do," Danderson confirmed. "Vibromines, command detonation, antipersonnel…you name it. About the only mines we don't make are EMP mines." She laughed. "Now back during the Star League, when my ancestors were working for Amaris, we made those too. Who did your family fight for back then, Commander?"
"Old Karelia Bighorn-Vlata was actually assigned to Terra. She tried to break through to Unity City after Amaris killed the Camerons, but got cut off and wiped out at Snoqualmie Pass. Luckily, her kids were serving with units offplanet."
"Oh," Danderson replied, a little embarrassed.
"Long time ago. I could damn sure use those EMP mines now, Amaris or not." Calla's fingers drifted around the walls of the facility. "Miss Danderson, I want to plant as many mines as we can around the walls. Command detonated. If those bastards start getting a foothold, I'm going to blow them to hell."