Stan poked at the meat in question, dropping a small cascade of juice and fat into the fire below. The resulting flare up momentarily illuminated the faces and deepened the shadows surrounding those seated around the camp fire. “Yeah, almost there, give them another three minutes. We got anything to go with them?”
They all looked at each other briefly before Gampy lent towards his small rucksack. “Got some beans…” he mumbled.
The clearing exploded into uproar, yelled comments ranging from “Oh Hell, No!” through “There’s a naked flame!” and on up to “I still need my eyeballs!”
Momentarily taken aback, he withdrew his hand. “Ok, no beans then”, he sighed wistfully.
The pilots waited uncomfortably for a few minutes, checking that all signs of clear and present danger had passed before Mike restarted the conversation from where it had swerved away to the menu. “So we heard you saying before about getting a double gold,” he said looking over at Mac. “That must have been a high point?”
“Unbelievably so,” he responded in a quiet, far away tone.
“And unexpected,” Kev put in.
Mac nodded. “Yeah. I mean we worked hard and built an excellent team, and the first one was the result of a lot of hard graft and good planning. The feeling when it was over was just… I don’t know… but the second one was completely out of the blue. That was the Specialist Wars. We were rank outsiders and were pitted against the favorites in the very first round. They just couldn’t respond. Every win was a shock. Even going into the gold medal fight, we were the underdogs…”, he trailed off. Even after all this time, some parts of that whole period still had an unreal quality to them.
The silence was on the verge of growing uncomfortable when Pete whispered, “So how many of you guys got the double?”
Mac snapped out of it, his voice coming back to normal. “Oh, there’s only two of us left now, me and Kev. The others moved on before you got here,” he stated in an offhand manner.
Kev sounded almost hurt as he pointed out, “And Jay Dubya… Remember, he came up with us back then, and moved back to looking after H2 after the Second Faction War?”
Mac raised his hands to ward off any escalation. “Woah, yes, I stand corrected, three of us left,” then he paused. “Well, two and a half really,” he amended, lowering his hands again and glancing slyly over at Kev.
Kev rolled his eyes and sighed heavily with exasperation while Mac continued smugly, “We only count Kev’s second gold as a half because his drop-ships got lost and we had to cover his arse for the first half of the war.”
“Is the fact that you had to cover me a few times ever going to get old?” Kev demanded in mock indignation.
“Not really,” Mac responded with a beatific look on his face.
The two locked gazes, a calculating look coming across Kev’s face, his visage transforming with a malicious smirk. “Do I need to remind you that I’ve paid that back at least a few times since then?” he remarked pointedly.
It was Mac’s turn to groan and roll his eyes, looking to the heavens for confirmation that the conversation was headed I the direction he suspected it was. “You’re going to trot out the stock yard story again…”, he stated flatly.
The other pilots were watching the exchange keenly as if at a tennis match. “Stock yard?” inquired Mike.
Kev’s countenance was one of complete innocence. “You mean Mr Elite Pilot here hasn’t told you what happened at the stock yard?”
“I’m surprised you haven’ already…” put in Mac in a disgusted tome.
Unable to keep up the innocent charade, Kev was by now grinning from ear to ear. “You tell it,” he offered. “It always sounds better when you have to admit to your own shortcoming,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Mac’s shoulders slumped as he sighed before he resignedly began the tale.
“Alright then. The stock yard. It was back during the opening phases of the abortion that was known as the Second Faction War…”
Wind and drizzle. The type of mix that seems too light to worry about, but invades every gap, exploits every opening, leaving you drenched and cold no matter what protection you have on. Grey filtered sunlight, mixed with the exhaust fumes from the newly released Raw Alcohol Combustion engines used by the big mechs. Gravel crunching underfoot, the ground churned by too many machines in too close proximity.
The figure half ran, skipping around puddles, shoulders hunched and head buried down into the upturned collar of his greatcoat. Hands thrust deep in pockets, leading with his shoulders to dodge and weave through the forest of mechanical legs, the undergrowth of packing and munitions crates, the fauna of hurrying technicians and pilots.
Just once, he thought, it would be nice to be sent to a vaguely hospitable war zone instead of some damp armpit. A tropical beach perhaps. With cheerleaders. Clothing optional.
His communicator chimed to interrupt this train of fantasy, struggling to be heard over the roar of automated mayhem. He pulled his wrist clear from the deep pocket and checked the caller I.D. before responding.
“Kev, whats the story?” he yelled over the surrounding cacophony.
“I was going to ask you that,” came the reply, harsh with static from the surrounding weight of metal.
Mac glanced around disgustedly. “Haven’t found them yet to find out,” he answered. “How are we looking back there?”
“Well, we’ve got the main formations out of the drop ships, but it’s wall to wall. If we don’t get some wiggle room back here then I’m scared that Eric is going to… well, start doing that thing…” Kev’s voice trailed off uneasily.
Mac sighed inwardly. One of these days they were going to have to do something about that ‘issue’. Possibly through negative reinforcement therapy using a rolled up newspaper… wrapped around a truncheon.
That unsavory contemplation was curtailed as he spotted someone whose insignia advertised him as one of the Smurf’s senior pilots.
“Understood Kev, look I’ll call you back,” he curtly signed off as he cut the line and hurried after his target, waving his arms to attract the pilot’s attention. “Hey bud, any idea what the damn hold up is? he called.
The pilot raised his eyes with a scowl, obviously preparing some tirade due for a lesser mortal but was pulled up short by the sight of epaulettes denoting a field commander, albeit a brevet rank. “Dunno, check with the smurfing top brass.. over there,” he waved vaguely past the boundary of mecha toward what seemed to be open waste ground.
Following the directions, Mac saw two figures a short way from him, one hunkered down under a low wall while the other scanned over the lip with a magnocular set. Taking heed from their postures, Mac made his way toward them in an awkward low run and came in alongside at a crouch.
“Harley,” he said in greeting to the Smurf Brigade leader, then nodded to the other in acknowledgement. “Mr Penner... the Don sends his regards.”
“I bet he does…” came the grinning reply. That particular feud had taken legendary status in both their respective clans.
Mac composed himself as best he was able while down on his haunches, mentally preparing a more politically correct version of what he actually wanted to say. “There appears to be a bit of an issue,” he began. “I’ve got mechs packed in between here and the drop-ships, and if we don’t make any headway before somebody on the opposition gets creative with an artillery strike, there could potentially be an amount of unpleasantness.”
Penner nodded. “We’re trying to force a salient, but we’ve got problems. We’re penned in on three sides. This area here is about our best chance of breaking out, but it’s not brilliant… look, here’s the problem,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb to indicate the other side of the wall. Mac peeped over to take a quick look and quickly ducked back down.
“It’s part of the storm water runoff system,” Penner continued. “Old style concrete. Sixty degree banks on either side, forty meter drop this side, forty back up at the other. The channel itself is over three hundred meters wide, no cover, then scale the opposite banks. They’re dug in all along the top on the far side.” Mac glanced over again, this time noting the tell-tale glint of dim light off metal carapace armor.
Harley hawked and spat into a nearby puddle. “Can you rush it? I don’t see much more in the way of options…”
Penner grinned mirthlessly. “Yes, we can. Even as it stands, I’d still say my Omegas could take and hold the far side, long enough for the rest of you to reinforce us…. If it wasn’t for that.” His finger stabbed in the direction of a slender bridge a few hundred meters along from their position.
“That overhead pass way. Looks like it’s for goods trucks. The orbital scans show it opening out into what looks like a goods loading yard at the far side. They’ve got mechs up there and they have a clean shot straight down the length of the trench. As soon as we drop over this wall we get hit by an enfilade.”
Harley grunted and shrugged. “Ok, so we clear it,” he stated dismissively.
“Not we,” corrected Penner. “I need my main strength here if there’s going to be any chance to force that far bank.”
“Blow the span then,” Mac suggested.
Both Harley and Penner shook their heads. “Can’t.” said Harley. “The adjudicators have put a block on intentional infrastructure damage. We do that, we forfeit.” He paused to rub dripping water from his eyes, then looked the Heroes pilot over speculatively. “Say, Last time you were in Brigade, you made a lot of noise about Heroes being a light and recon unit, yuh?”
Mac returned his gaze with a sour look, already guessing where the conversation was leading. “That was H2, but yeah, I remember.”
He activated his wrist unit and called up his personal A.I. “Dolly? What have you got on that pass way construction?”
Standard thermoplas material construction, single piece span. Single lane in both directions, twenty meter width. Maximum load is rated at around one point five Kilotons. For once Dolly had suppressed any of her… its… usual witticisms and was sticking to a factual readout.
Mac thought for a second, carrying on the conversation with himself even though there were three other interested parties. “So with the mechs that are already up there, it’s got to be lights otherwise we bring the span down anyway just by overloading it… bugger.” Then to Harley, “OK, I’ll clear it.”
“Clear and hold,” corrected Penner. “I need time to get across and give them something better to think about before you pull out.”
Mac nodded in grim agreement. “Clear and hold.”
Another quick, low sprint across the open area and he was back among the assembling assault wave. Slowing to a jog, he instructed the A.I. to give him a clan frequency, and commenced issuing instructions as soon as he received a ‘ready’ chirrup from the comm unit.
“Mac here. Squadron orders, all reserve pilots to your mechs. Prepare attack formation Leonidas, but be on standby for swift formation changes. All other Heroes units, clear me a path to the drop-ships, I’ve got mechs coming through.”
Acknowledgements, more than a few grumbling, came flooding back.
“We about to go for it?” queried one pilot.
“Not yet Eric. All of you, form up behind the Omegas and stand ready. Take your lead from Penner. He’s giving the order for the main attack. Best of luck, see you on the flip side.”
A waiting armorer held the access ladder steady as Mac handed over his greatcoat and ascended to the cockpit of his personal ‘Thesis, the ‘Wellington’. The rear four ranks of his main attack formation were filtering back through the lines, making room for their replacements while freeing up room for the other squadrons to wheel about to their jump off positions.
The point Ammonite ‘Nemesis’ and the Ballista ‘Ypres’ took four steps to the left in synchronization, allowing the Krampus ‘Ionion’ to squeeze into the new elongated battle line while three Ogguns loped forward to take up skirmish positions at the front. Last into place was the ancient Fides ‘Urachnia’, a museum piece even before Mac had ‘acquired’ it under dubious circumstances. About a third of its armor plating was a patchwork of masking tape and primer, a sure sign that the formation change had caught the techs on the hop and that she had been hastily set loose from the upgrade workshops.
The last icon on his heads up display changed from amber to green and he signaled the formation to move out, rotating left in a sharp turn using the Dreadnought ‘Kingpin’, prize mech of the First Faction War as its pivot point. Within moments they were clear of the main assembly point and had performed another sharp about face, forming for a run at the bridge.
“Penner, Mac here. I’m in position.”
“In your own time then,” crackled the response.
Mac exhaled long and hard, rotating his neck and shoulders with a satisfying gristly noise. Thumbing the comm channel over to squadron local he breathed, “Ok, Let’s do this. Take them at a run.”
Unleashed, the squadron set off at a walk and accelerated through a fast trot to a headlong charge, thundering up the thermoplas pass way. They were in dead ground due to the spans curvature, but within seconds the first enemy line was in view and they took them by complete surprise.
Three groups, all sub seventy five tonners, but the two groups further along were obscured by their compatriots and unable to get a clean line of sight. Nor could they manoeuvre for an oblique shot due to the narrowness of the pass way.
Iron clashed, steel shivered, guns roared and lasers flashed as the Heroes’ skirmish line drove into the enemy. Two opposition mechs went down in quick succession before they found their rhythm, then weight of metal began to tell as their return fire started to dismantle the lighter Heroes units.
But that was a mixed blessing for as the skirmishers fell, a firing lane was opened for Mac’s super heavies and the war god’s hammer was wielded.
Ypres blasted away at the downed defenders, making sure of the kills. Nemesis knelt by the guardrail and pumped covering fire up the road as Ionion scampered crabwise around the wreckage, hunting its next victim. The Wellington and the Kingpin simply hurdled the prone scrap, keeping the momentum as they piled into the next line and the war god laughed as thunder rolled across the bridge.
The whole action lasted less than forty brutal seconds from the first shot being fired. Four mechs remained standing.
“Nemesis, get to those security booths at the far end and give me some over watch!” Mac yelled. “The rest of you, clear the pass way! Tip the wrecks over the side! I don’t want anything auto repairing behind us!”
Ypres’ pilot was out of breath, his mech hanging limply at the waste from where it had taken a lucky shot in a spinal actuator. “What about the crews?” he wanted to know.
“Shock frames should save them, and if not then it’s their own damn fault for not wearing a seat belt.” snorted Mac. ‘C’mon people, get to repairing. Help your nanos do their work. We need to be mobile and off this thing!”
Already there was movement from his downed units. The Oggun ‘Xenon’ was holding a severed leg in place while its nanobots bonded the main limb framework back together on a molecular level. Ypres’ back actuator came online and it stretched upwards, swiveling at the hips to test the repair before shuffling over and using its feet to scoop scrap material towards the downed Oggun ‘Zen’ and the heap that was the Urachnia.
Noting that repairs were in hand, Mac turned his attention to avenues of threat. “Nemesis? Status Report.”
“All clear best I can see. These security booths cover the entrance to the yard proper… a lot of open ground, a few detached trailers parked up and some shipping containers. Other than that, warehouses, loading docks, lifters. Zero movement.”
Yeah, but it’s unlikely to stay that way Mac thought, his gut clenching, knowing they had moments at most before hostiles arrived. He thumbed the channel to Brigade Broadcast.
“Penner, I have the pass way. Ball’s in your court…”
By now all his mechs were at least mobile, even if armor still showed gaping holes that were being woven over with a patchwork of molecular fiber as the repair systems continued working. The security booths at least blocked line of sight, even if their thin tin and perspex shells wouldn’t stop a determined hamster, let alone heavy ordnance. They did however funnel traffic and the mechs had to form into columns to navigate passage.
“Move quickly guys,” he instructed over the local squadron link. “We need to spread out and get into cover. Make sure we can get that open area in a good crossfire if they come back through.”
He let the squadron pass by his mount as he hailed his reserve units. “Get the battle line up here.. and watch to make sure you don’t overload that span! Bring them over no more than five at a time, OK?”
His Antithesis swung in at the back of the line and passed through the security gates as the squadron shook out into its previous double rank formation and fanned out across the stock yard.
They would have covered perhaps seventy meters across open ground when every proximity alarm in the group screamed in unison. Masked by the ferrous constructs and rolling stock, multiple mechs powered their plants and rose into view…
...and the war god smiled…
To be continued…
Submitted by David McCallum#701548