He stepped through the fire, and his vision cleared. The WarHammerwas close, much closer than he'd expected, scarcely thirty meters away. Having turned again to fire at Fitzgerald's Crusader,it now had its back to Ardan.
The Victor'scomputer streamed words across his main combat screen: Heat critical. Suggest immediate shutdown.He slapped the heat cut-off overrides, then stabbed at the jump jet controls once more. His Victorkicked off into the sky, rising on throbbing jets. He kicked in the maneuvering thrusters once, let the massive machine ride against its shrieking gyros. The WarHammerturned, looking up, its PPC rising too late...
The impact was deafening. Metal shrieked, and the WarHammer'scockpit opened like a flower between the Victor'sfeet. In combat, the Victorwas a constant surprise to Mech Warriors encountering it for the first time, for none expected a 'Mech of its size to be jump-capable. Though the WarHammer'spilot had seen the Victorjump, he had turned to deal with the Crusader'sLRM barrage before trying to finish off Ardan's 'Mech. The mistake had cost him his life.
Ardan brought the Victorup out of the tangled wreckage, his autocannon trailing streamers of shredded myomer fibers and gutted wiring. The WHM's flamer fuel tanks ignited as he stepped clear, masking the wreckage with a pillar of oily black smoke.
"The Thunderboltshut down," Fitzgerald said. Battle-charged excitement edged his voice. "The pilot ejected."
Ardan swung and saw the TDR still standing, an immobile cast-metal statue now, the blown escape hatch still dangling across the wreckage of its shoulder-mounted LRM launcher. If Thunderboltshad a particular weakness in battle, it was their tendency toward rapid heat overloading— the penalty paid for carrying so many heavy weapons.
The battle had turned now in favor of the invaders. Ardan rotated his 'Mech, picked out others he recognized from his own unit moving through the enemy's bunker area. A scattered handful of Liao 'Mechs were withdrawing down the slope into the forested swamps to the west.
He opened a new commlink channel. "Gold Squadron, Gold Squadron, this is Gold Leader. Do you copy?"
"We copy, Gold Leader!" The voice was that of Eric Garrand, whose red-painted Archerwas the number two ‘Mech in Ardan's Command Lance. He sounded enormously relieved. "This is Gold Two, returning command to you, sir! Hell, I saw you fall into a swamp! We thought you'd bought the farm!"
"Not even a down payment, Eric. What's the situation?"
"The 17th is down and scattered. Maybe 40 percent have reported in to me since I took your seat, but there're more coming in all the time. A bunch of us landed smack on this snake's nest, but it looks like we've about got them cleaned out now. Some withdrew toward that jungle behind you. The main body is falling back to the south."
"Good. Any word from the 5th?"
"Not yet, sir. There's no line-of-sight, and we don't have our space relay commlinks in yet. I have a scout platoon moving up the ridge, though, and they'll be able to serve as a lasercom relay station as soon as they get the 5th in view."
"Good enough." Ardan glanced at his chronometer and was shocked to find that less than an hour had passed since he'd touched down, including more than forty minutes he'd spent splashing around in the swamp and hiking back to where the action was.
There were no targets nearby. He locked his controls, pulled the neural helmet from his shoulders, then decided to take a chance and crack his Victor'sskullcap. The round, topside hatch popped open to admit a gush of cold air as Ardan climbed out onto his 'Mech's shoulder.
14
The air was muggy and hot but so much cooler and fresher than what he had been enjoying in the Victor'scockpit that Ardan sagged back against the 'Mech's massive head in pure relief. He had left the helmet's commlink attachment in place and could hear new reports of additional 'Mechs arriving on the broad and smoke-heavy field. The 17th's ComInt people reported that 85 percent of the regiment had reported in, with more reports still to be processed. Perhaps the 17th had not suffered too many casualties in their ill-advised drop into a bog. It might be days before all of the stragglers reported in, but he was sure now that 'Mechs lost to landing mishaps in lakes or swamp would be mercifully few.
Meanwhile, he opened an access cover, drew his knife, and began working at the mechanism of his autocannon round feeder. The entire assembly had been coated in liquid mud, and the heat spilling from his 'Mech during the battle had baked that mud to the general consistency of tempered ferrocrete. He chipped at the stuff, cursing under his breath but feeling better now than he had in days.
"Gold Leader! Gold Leader!" Garrand's voice cut in from his earpiece. "We got company coming, boss!"
"What is it?" He looked around the horizon. Except for scattered groups of Davion 'Mechs sorting themselves out after the first battle, the area looked clear. A distant thunder rolled down from the eastern ridge, sounds of pitched battle on the far side.
"We got an ASF on radar to the south. Low altitude, high speed. Looks like a ground support mission."
Ardan slapped the access panel back in place, sheathed the knife, and slid back into the stifling interior of his 'Mech. He didn't know the outcome of the tangle between AeroSpace Fighters that he'd seen during the Exeter 'sapproach toward the DZ, but it was logical to assume that the enemy would attempt to hit the Davion DZs as soon as their own units were clear and they had fighters to spare.
"ETA?" He fitted his neural helmet back in place, checked the connections.
"Thirty seconds, Gold Leader. Bearing one-seven-nine, altitude—aw, shoot! He must be plowing the fields! Lost him...No! There! Visual.
"Target south!
Fire!"
He recognized the squat disk shape immediately. It was a Thrush,a favorite Liao air-space fighter, and a battle-torn veteran by the look of the laser scars across its belly and fuselage. For an instant, he saw the head of the pilot through the canopy, masked in a black-visored helmet. A line of silhouettes, thirteen of them, ran along the hull under the canopy, the last of those kill markers still bright and new-painted. This pilot was an old hand, an experienced killer.
The Thrush'slasers fired before any of the grounded 'Mechs could lock on. An instant later, a cluster of spinning, silvery cylinders exploded from the fighter's belly, the cloud of objects expanding as the cylinders tumbled down across the field.
Ardan held his position and fired both lasers, launched all of his remaining SRM rounds, and cursed his useless autocannon. As the Thrushflashed overhead, the field erupted in spewing, boiling, liquid flame, a chemical fire that splashed across grass and ‘Mechs and shrieking men, clinging like some hungry, living thing. Ardan's mind held a seared after-image of Fitzgerald's Crusaderengulfed in writhing flame, of the 'Mech lifted from its feet by fresh explosions that shredded its legs and hurled it forward in a twisting mass of flaming metal. Fire clung to Ardan's Victor.Inferno bombs were a descendant of the napalm of earlier wars, a jellied, incendiary chemical that burned with the heat of white phosphorous. The grass around him was afire.