"Never take counsel of your fears." - George S. Patton Jr.
DropShip Jaguar’s Bane
Outbound from Outreach
Chaos March, Inner Sphere
27 August 3059 Local
27 July 2039 Earth
The
Overlord-class of DropShips didn't have much in the ways of external viewing ports, minimizing the risks of exposure to vacuum, but one along the ship's belly allowed Edward to look out at the dwindling sphere of Outreach, obscured only partly by the DropShip's engine flare.
He had seen a similar sight months before, on their way into Outreach after leaving Winnipeg and the Canadian BattleMech Training Center there. But now they were on their way back, to join the Americans at Minneapolis for the inevitable resumption of the Clan push. Edward, his brother, and his father would all be in the thick of the fighting.
For a moment he stopped looking at the Dragoons' world and toward his own reflection on the port. The rank insignia of a Lieutenant, a commander of a platoon, was present. He was leading B Lance, A Company, Royal BattleMech Regiment, while his father was commanding B Company and Henry had B Lance in C Company.
This meant he would be responsible not just for himself but for three other pilots. It was a daunting prospect.
Especially since Diane was one of them.
As if sensing he was thinking about her, the tomboyish Duchess smacked him on the back. She was wearing the stripes of a sergeant, a "lance sergeant" as the Inner Sphere called it. "So, Lieutenant, thinking up clever ways to win the war and get us back home?" Her face betrayed her mischief as she added, "Or are you thinking up clever ways to get into my knickers?"
He let out a small laugh at that. "Somehow I don't think clever plans would be necessary if it's what you really wanted." He reached a hand up for the port. He thought it would be cold, but it wasn't. "It reminds me of all those digital videos from the Moon missions."
"Amazing, yeah," she agreed. "But it won't be so pretty on the way home. The Dragoons even have fighter-carriers following us..."
"They think the Clans might engage our ships while burning in, yes," Edward remarked. "That would be something. Months of intensive training, all for nothing."
"Might we not talk about the horrific ways we could die on the way back to Earth?" Diane's frown betrayed her irritation. "Bad enough that we have plenty of ways to die when we get there."
At that Edward drew in a breath. "Yes, you're right. Happy thoughts." He finally turned to face her. A recent memory made him smirk. "Like you smashing that bottle on the head of that merc last week."
Diane smiled widely. "Well, you have a pretty impressive right hook to have put him down afterward. It was totally worth spending the night in the brig."
"Yeah." Edward drew in a small sigh. That had totally ruined some of the ideas he had been entertaining for how their night would end. Not that it would likely have happened that way, it had taken up enough nerve just to offer to visit the pub with her. "So, meal time?"
"Just about." As they walked away from the viewport, she looked to him and frowned. "So, how come we didn't get rolled into one of the cool regiments, like the Queen's Lancers? The Canadians are getting to be in the Mounted Regiment after all."
"All traditions have to start somewhere, I suppose..." Edward drew in a breath. "So, time to see who Captain Packard and find out who else was put into my lance." He saw Diane stop and turn, a look of consternation on her face. "Something I said?"
"I think the Captain might be a closet Republican, Edward," Diane murmured. "That's the only way to explain how he could be such an ass to you."
Edward stared at her. "What are you talking about?"
She lowered her head. "I... well... I already heard who we got for our lance. It's not good."
"Who?" A few possibilities came to Edward's mind, not many of them good.
Diane winced. "Devlin and O'Brien."
Edward drew in a stunned breath. "Which O'Brien? Son or father?"
"Son. Sorry."
All Edward could do was sigh and rub his forehead. Diane as his sergeant was one thing, but having those two? He wondered what he had done to offend Packard.
Henry had been happy to be assigned a Clan 'Mech, a
Thresher, and given a lance command; he'd been less happy to discover his commander was Captain Jane Mulgrey, a nasty bitch of a woman who made her disdain for Henry and his family entirely too prominent.
Of course, it wouldn't matter for too long. The Dragoons had left them no room to underestimate the Clans. It was fully expected that over half of the unit would wind up hospitalized or dead after a few battles. Their exercises against the Clan "bondsmen" in the Wolf Dragoons had made clear just what nasty opponents the Clans would be, moving their machines like they were parts of their body and showing sobering accuracy with weapons fire.
"An impressive machine, yes?" The voice came from beside him. A well-figured young woman was stepping away from a Clan-made
Shadow Hawk, wearing the same British MechWarrior BDUs that Henry had, if tailored better for her curves (and they were very good ones). Her light brown hair was drawn back into a respectful bun, while intelligent, piercing blue eyes looked over to him with a hint of interest, one he fully returned.
But despite the insignia the young lady was not, like Henry, British; the moderate Russian accent gave her away. Tatyana Romanova had grown up among the Russian expatriate community in London, inheritor of the long-dead Archduke Kyril's claim to the dead Russian throne, and had joined the later exodus of opponents of the ENU from occupied Britain to Canada. Her scores were decent enough that she'd been given a newly-arrived Inner Sphere
Avatar OmniMech to pilot, but it was well known (and grumbled about) that Star League officials had shown a direct interest in her selection to the first Commonwealth cadre on Outreach, just as they were known for showing undue "interests" in other deposed nobility and royalty of Earth. Henry had found that irritating; it only made the republicans more ornery and, frankly, he figured there was a
reason alll of these deposed families had remained deposed, and the Inner Sphere's interest in them was... suspect.
At this rate they're going to be grooming the bloody Prince of Lichtenstein as a Jacobite pretender, were his thoughts on that.
Still... Romanov or not, Tatyana
was pretty hot.
"Not as impressive looking as you, Sergeant Romanova," Henry assured her.
"Hitting on me again, Your Royal Highness?" Tatyana smirked. "You always did try to be the playboy twin."
"My brother and I may be identical twins, but I'm very certain I got all of my father's charm."
"So it would seem." Tatyana looked up at his
Thresher. "Such amazing war machines. Even the smaller ones are death incarnate if put on a battlefield with infantry and tanks."
"Or so the Inner Sphere and Clans like to play up, even as they warn us about the dangers of those inferno missiles and other anti-'Mech weaponry infantry can use." Henry let out a laugh. "The House armies still use infantry and tanks after all. They haven't given those up in favor of hordes of BattleMechs."
"It's a bit easier, Prince Henry, for a poor world to outfit infantry than it is for them to build BattleMechs." Tatyana crossed her arms. "It is a problem we're going to have long after this conflict with Giuseppe is over."
"Presuming the Clans don't enslave us all."
"Yes." She smirked. "Presuming the Clans don't enslave us all. I like the cynicism there, Prince. It's almost Russian."
"Why, thank you, dear Duchess," Henry answered.
DropShip Minobu Tetsuhara
The
Tetsuhara was on its second voyage of the summer to Scorched Earth, carrying with it most of the trained Canadians destined to be admitted into the Royal Canadian Mounted Rifles. The RCMR, as it was called, was a reborn unit, founded by members of Canada's famous Mounted Police to fight for Britain in the Second Boer War. They carried the battle honors granted the RCMP and the regiments it had spawned in the Canadian Army.
The weight of tradition and history was on the shoulders of Captain Luisa Fraser as she stared up at her machine. Her score had merited a Clan OmniMech from the stores of salvaged machines, a 65-ton
Cauldron-Born, which now sat beside Major Alec Keller's
Penetrator BattleMech - the source of many a lewd joke at the stiff Major's expense in the minds of Luisa and her pilots.
The Vancouver native was not so much attractive as she was solid, with a narrow face and small nose framed by a strong jaw that was larger than some men she had met. Her US-designed, Dragoon-produced MechWarrior BDUs were too loose on her five foot eleven one hundred and seventy pound frame to show the cords of muscle that made up her limbs and gave muscle definition to the rest of her body. Light brown hair was kept at regulation length for the Mounties - which she could truly claim membership in - and her gray eyes were those of a markswoman who had been consistantly at the top of the Vancouver RCMP.
The world had changed a lot for Luisa. No longer was she chasing criminals through mountains of paperwork and testimony, or joining raids on drughouses or arms smugglers. Now she was fully in the military, joining dozens of her fellow Mounties in enlisting in the Armed Forces to resist the Guiseppians and their new off-world allies. The US was taking the brunt of that war now, but how long before her homeland, her beloved Cascadia, had BattleMechs and tanks rumbling around?
The pilot of the Inner Sphere
Gallowglas beyond Major Keller's
Penetrator approached her. Lieutenant Lance Reynolds was from Halifax, a fellow Mountie, his former stockyness turned to solid muscle by intensive Wolf Dragoon training. Blond hair regularly cut and carefully combed betrayed his personal discipline, which she found admirable; it was why he was her second in her personal troop. His face was wide though with the cheeks a bit sunken in, and his nose a fairly major feature that was almost more noticable than his sharp blue eyes. "Well, if it isn't everyone's favorite Aryan," Luisa teased him, her voice about as deep as a woman's could get without sounding masculine.
"Coming from the most butch woman in the Mounted Police, that's not so irritating," Lance responded sarcastically, giving a salute out of habit. "Or Mounted Rifles I should say. Even if we're not carrying rifles anymore."
"At least they didn't go with that moronic suggestion of calling us the Canadian Mounted Regiment," Luisa pointed out. "Nervous?"
"A little." Lance sighed. "My girlfriend and our kids are in Winnipeg. If the Yanks and League collapse where they are.... how long before the Seppies and Clanners make it there? They'll carve Canada in two like the US."
"Won't happen. Say what you will about the Americans" - and with her experiences Luisa could say a
lot - "but they get mad as hell when their homes get threatened. They'll hold."
"With us helping, eh?"
"Yeah." Luisa looked back up at her killing machine. "With us helping."
Not all of the members of the RCMR had been Mounties before becoming MechWarriors; in fact, Capt. Fraser was one of just six in the current battalion. The others had come from all walks of life in their native Canada. Two came from Newfoundland, another two from Nova Scotia, and Lieutenant Markson of C Troop in C Squadron had grown up in Yellowknife.
John and Amanda Collins were, by trick of fate, the only two people to hail from Alberta. They were from an oil-working family; their father, mother, and step-mother had all-worked in one time or another in that field, enduring the economic hard times from the energy price crashes in 2015 and 2031. Their impoverished circumstances and rural upbringing had led to them being a far cry from the stereotype of the socially-liberal, easy-going Canadian, as a number of more ignorant Americans had discovered on Outreach.
They were fraternal twins, born before their sister Lisa, and even though they were geneticallly different they still looked the part, with light brown hair pulled into pony-tails and thin, wiry figures. John had their mother's green eyes while Amanda had their father's brown, but even their facial structures were similar enough despite their opposite gender.
They had also proven themselves fairly good MechWarriors, if not 'Mech commanders. Having scored decently high, they had been given Inner Sphere OmniMechs, a pair of
Blackjacks. Amanda was assigned to Captain Fraser's command troop, John to B Troop as its sergeant.
Silence continued to reign, their attention on the letters delivered before their departure. Their sister confirmed that their nephew Lawrence was doing alright in school, and reassured them that her boyfriend was not hitting her like the last one. For Amanda especially the letters were a stark reminder of what she could've ended up as; at the age of thirteen she had seen her fifteen year old sister get pregnant, and there were many times the two had to play chaperone or babysitter to their little nephew.
Seeing the look on her face, John spoke up. "You know, sis, I always figured that Lawrence was why you didn't date in school. Not even when we went to college."
Amanda looked up at him with a frown.
"I mean, it's clearly a good decision," he continued. "Lisa's gone from bad boyfriend to bad boyfriend, had trouble holding down jobs, has never had an education.... you'd go through the same thing if you got knocked up."
"But not you," Amanda murmured. John gave her a quizzical look. "You could sleep with whom you wanted, it wouldn't matter. It's always the baby-momma who gets stuck with the kid, the fuss, the loss of opportunities..."
"I wasn't going around in school either, Amanda," John reminded her.
"Would've if they'd have let you," she answered. She tried to cover the bitterness up, but it was hard. A guy sleeps around and he gets seen as manly. A girl sleeps around and she's a slut or a whore. And they always got stuck with the kids.
Growing up, Amanda had looked up to her big sister. She'd emulated her, idealized her, and - yes - envied her. Her sister seemed primed to get out of their crappy little town and make a life for herself far from the oil sands. But it hadn't happened. She'd gotten pregnant, and all the sudden she didn't even have time to attend school properly.
Never, Amanda thought to herself.
That won't happen to me. I won't let it.
"At least with Lawrence around Dad's not pestering us to give him a grandkid," John mused. "I don't know if I want a child... especially not now."
"Not the best world to bring one into," Amanda agreed. She put away her tablet and laid back on the cot. "I don't think anything will be the same, brother. We're just a drop in the ocean compared to these people. Clans, Inner Sphere, doesn't matter. They'll try to swamp us with numbers."
"Eh, don't think that way sis." John shook his head. "People want to live the way we've always lived. Doesn't matter how few or many."
"Go tell that to the First Nations, John," Amanda retorted.
"I..." John stood silent for a moment. "Alright, you've got me there."
"Guess it doesn't matter, we still have to fight." Amanda turned in the cot and let out a yawn. Early Dragoon reveille was not something she was going to miss.
MechWarrior: Scorched Earth
"Fearful Opposition"
Camp Jurgens
Hastings, Minnesota, United States of America
North America, Earth
3 August 2039
4 September 3059 IST
Many of the officers and personnel of the camp were gathered and ready when the helicopters appeared over the horizon. They were summoned to attention, ignoring the roar of the USAF fighters that were escorting the craft and waiting patiently for the choppers to land.
When two landed, dark-suited men stepped out, but the real guests of honor came from the right helicopter, their identities made clear by the insignia on the blue helicopter: the Seal of the President.
Everyone present recognized President Jason Andrews and Secretary of Defense Simon Barsdale. The two men were examples of contrast; Andrews' chocolate brown skin, curly graying hair, wrinkled face, and thin frame compared to Barsdale's light skin, straight dark hair combed to the side, and a younger and stouter frame. Both men were clad in business suits that were far more subdued than the sharp military uniforms worn by the attending personnel, even more so compared to the elaborate uniforms of General White and the AFFC officers with him and Precentor Durbin's immaculately-robed entourage.
The third figure to emerge from the helicopter was, unsurprisingly, General Tanner, also clad in dress uniform. Andrews proved capable of a brisk pace in approaching them. When the President was close enough Sinclair snapped a salute, prompting everyone else to do the same. Andrews stepped up to him and gave him a nod, then offered him a hand. "Colonel, a pleasure."
"An unexpected pleasure for all of us, Mister President," Sinclair stated. "My staff and officers..."
Standing opposite of Major Barsdale on Sinclair's other side, Alex had to force himself to nod and offer his hand as the President gave him a handshake, followed by the Secretary of Defense. The other Captains were next, and beyond them Rachel and a few others were present. The elder Barsdale clearly recognized her, though he was properly cordial toward her.
With this done the President and Colonel Sinclair took the lead in heading into the facility. The living areas were briefly inspected. In the infirmary, wounded personnel were offered their choice of sweet candy (which like most things were subject to ever-stricter rationing) by the President, holopics and photos being taken by the military journalist present.
Their final, and most important destination, was the 'Mech hanger. The US 'Mechs had been pained up, complete with restored unit patches, with any remnant damage glossed over. Andrews stared up at the machines with a wonder that showed through his controlled politician's demeanor. "This reminds me more than anything of the change that has come over our world."
"Agreed." Sinclair stepped up beside him, or at least beside the President's Secret Service protector.
"You and your people have kept our hopes alive," Andrews continued, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. "When you came back from Outreach our country's hopes rode on your shoulders, and you have carried that well. You've done far better than anyone thought you would. Your nation thanks you...
I thank you." Andrews took a list out of his jacket. "Please step forward when called."
The first couple of names called out were pilots from the 2nd Battalion, given Bronze Stars for their performances in keeping their units intact in the failed offensive that had wrecked VIII Corps. Roland was one of those called up, and there was a twinkle in his eye as the President found that there were already several medals dangling off his dress blues, including two Bronze Stars and a Silver Star.
Next came Major Pierce, then Captain Markenson. As Markenson stepped down, Alex noticed a bit of a twitch from the Secretary of Defense as the next name was called.
"Lieutenant Rachel Galvariz, please?"
Alex looked over to Rachel and gave her a bit of a wink to try and buoy her courage. She was very stiff and formal as she stepped up to the President. "For your success in becoming the first American BattleMech pilot to shoot down a Clan aerospace fighter, accomplished on the 2nd of July 2039, it is my great pleasure to present you, Lieutenant Galvariz, with the Silver Star." He pinned the medal to Rachel and accepted her salute in response. "Through your actions you have become an inspiration for young people across America. Thank you."
"Thank you sir," Rachel said, almost croaking the words. She saluted him again and stepped away respectfully before returning to her place in the crowd.
A sudden sick feeling came to Alex's gut, and it was confirmed a moment later when the President called his name. He almost didn't move, but feeling eyes focusing on him he stepped forward. His throat was dry as he approached the President, the duly-elected leader of his country, the enforcer of the laws he had studied and promised to protect and obey...
"Captain Penton, your performance since your return to Outreach has won you the respect of the American people and our allies across this world and others," Andrews declared. He opened a medal case and pulled out a gold-colored star-shaped medal; yet another Silver Star. "Your smashing victory at Welch Township proved that we can beat the Clans in a fair fight, but nothing can compare to your raid on the 10th behind enemy lines. Your command ended the entire Clan offensive and bought us time to move in reinforcements and improve our defenses. For these actions it is my pleasure to award you the Silver Star." Alex stood still and allowed the President to pin the medal on his uniform.
Unfortunately, as the extra case in the hands of Secretary of Defense Barsdale indicated, it wasn't over. "Additionally, after you accomplished all those actions, you added to the day's victory by calling down an artillery barrage on your position, resulting in the destruction of fifteen enemy BattleMechs and the elimination of the Jade Falcon military commander. For this accomplishment, performed at extreme risk to your life, it is my further pleasure to award you the Distinguished Service Cross." The President took out the bronze cross with blue, red, and white ribbon, the eagle and wreath prominent in the middle and the inscription on the scroll below reading "FOR VALOR". "The American people thank you for the risks you have taken and the courage you have shown in the defense of our homeland."
"My only concern, Mister President, is to do my duty," Alex answered simply.
"So you do." Andrews offered his hand, and Alex took it for a good handshake. "Good luck out there."
The President had departed with General Tanner for his tour of the Twin Cities, leaving Secretary Barsdale to have some private time with his nephew. They were in Patrick's quarters, a small bottle of Scotch on the table. "The benefits of being in the Cabinet," Simon assured his nephew, offering him a glass. "I'm sorry the President wasn't here to pin a medal on you, Patrick. God damn that General Tolen..."
Barsdale gave a stiff nod. "Yes. And I'm worried about what the effect will be of his remarks toward Captain Penton."
"You made your opinion quite clear in your letters to me and your father," Simon pointed out, pouring his own glass. "But you have to realize that in this war, a man like Penton is worth an entire division. America needs heroes."
"But the Army doesn't need gloryhounds," Patrick countered. "Two of his peers in the battalion have already petitioned Major Pierce for his removal from company command."
Simon Barsdale looked at his nephew carefully while taking a sip of the Scotch. "My boy.... I know you've gone out of your way to avoid needing my influence or your father's. I hope you're not allowing the presence of that young lady to cloud your judgement."
"No, my judgement is clear, sir," Patrick insisted. "Just two weeks ago he put our entire brigade in danger by failing to keep his line intact. He was more worried about looking good to the FedComs. At best, he's well-intentioned but completely over his head. At worst, he's seeing stars and wants to win glory."
"He seemed pretty humble to me." Simon carefully considered his glass. "And honestly, Patrick, I can't help but feel that you're gunning for him because you're afraid he'll get the nod for the 3rd Battalion and not you."
Patrick opened his mouth to speak but couldn't for several moments. In that time Simon took another drink and continued. "You are the light of your father's eye, Patrick, and God knows I love my little brother a lot. But there are more important things at stake than your ego. It got you into trouble over that Hispanic girl and it's going to get you into trouble here. Just because we have influence doesn't mean we can protect you if you pit yourself against the most popular combat officer in the United States."
"Uncle, if you'll just consider getting him re-assigned," Patrick urged. "The BattleMech Training Command could use Outreach-trained personnel..."
He was interrupted by Simon smacking his hand to the table. "Dammit, Patrick, this isn't about your career. I am not going to help you wage a one man..."
At that moment Patrick produced a paper, with a number of signatures on it, the most prominent being Captains Hendricks and Markenson. Simon didn't need his glasses to read what it was; a statement denouncing Captain Penton's combat command ability and his decisions, most importantly the near disaster of the 20th. "Just what the hell are you doing?", Simon asked.
"It's not just me, Uncle," Patrick said. "The man has turned half his battalion against him, including two company commanders and several platoon officers. Major Pierce isn't too hot on him either, but he's deferring to Colonel Sinclair, and frankly I think Sinclair has an emotional investment in Penton for how well they worked together in exercises on Outreach. It's the only way to explain why he's so resolute in supporting Penton in everything."
"So you're actually going to do this, Patrick?" Simon put the cap back on the Scotch, a way of showing how the conversation had changed. "You're going to try and start a media frenzy? Have you considered how much of the media will see it as jealous officers trying to tear down a war hero?"
"And how much of the media is still so reflexively anti-war that they can't resist tearing down military heroes? CNN might ignore it, but MSNBC? The Huff Post? Hell, if they find anything liberal enough in his background, even Fox might be willing to tear into him." Patrick shook his head. "Uncle, I don't like it, but it has to be done. Penton's a menace, and he's going to underrmine our defensive efforts. Especially if Sinclair gives him a whole damn battalion to destroy. We have to get him out of the way."
Simon put a hand on his chin. "God, you're going way too far with this Patrick. Honestly, if I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to maneuver that Lieutenant back into your direct comm..."
"What?!" It was Patrick's turn to thump the table. "I don't want anything to do with her! That manipulative bitch almost ruined my career!"
Simon smirked at his nephew's outburst.
I doth think you protest too much, Pat, he contemplated, but didn't say out loud. Truth be told he didn't much like Lt. Galvariz either, having seen enough co-eds like her who reflexively bought liberal propaganda wholesale and who flaunted their sexuality and acted surprised when men got interested. But he knew his nephew enough to know he'd gotten too close to the flame and gotten burnt for it. "Alright, alright..." Simon sighed, trying to think of how to deal with this situation. Patrick was right was that there were plenty of types who would tear Penton down just to embarrass the military, the Administration, or just for the media attention. "To get the military on board, you need more than his peers. You need Penton's subordinates. You need the platoon commanders."
"Well, there's no way Dane goes against him, that maverick likes the freedom Penton grants him too much," Patrick mused. "But Roland...."
"Ah, Lieutenant Roland? Yes. Someone of his background and experience telling us that Penton's unfit for his command would do it, even without Dane" Simon answered. "But it needs to be done quietly if it can be, Patrick. If this goes public it could get messy, it could get
political, and the President is genuinely enthused about Penton enough that he could force the issue in his favor. Get Roland behind you and get Penton to agree to a transfer. It's how it has to be done."
"Thank you, Uncle."
"
Don't thank me, dammit," Simon hissed. "I don't want you doing this. I'd be telling you to knock it off if I didn't think you might be right and if I thought you'd listen. If you're going to get it done, get it done
clean and get it done
fast, because the absolute last God-damned thing we need is for you to undermine your unit's morale when the enemy is already starting their next push."
"I'll get it done immediately," Patrick promised.
Simon almost said something further, but for the sake of family he held his tongue. God knew he loved his nephew as a son, but John had spoiled the boy too much...