Author's Note: Feedback, critical or positive, is always welcome. This story is based on a game from the MegaMek Mekwarz tech 1 server where precission ammo is allowed for AC2s so that players don't cry when they pull a unit with that weapon.
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Sunlight filtered through the mesh of a large nylon tent, illuminating orderly rows of well kept bunk beds and soldiers relaxing on mats lined across the hard packed dirt floor. One middle age corporal, dressed in light brown fatigues, sat agura style, liquor bottle in hand. He swallowed a draught, coughing violently before passing the bottle to another man.
“This could double as engine cleaner for my tank,” the corporal complained, reflexively running his hand over a bald scalp.
“Only you care Ceorl,” a younger man said taking his turn at the bottle. “It’s good enough to get me smashed.”
“It’s disgusting what you’ll drink, Mathias” Ceorl joked. “In a few more years maybe you’ll start to care about what you put into your body.”
“Samurai like Naoe can have much nihonshu as they want,” Mathias retorted after he grimaced from the liquor. “Us blind gun humpers in your tank don’t need rice wine to pass time.”
“Remember when Pagoda Pup went skore, threatened Ceorl with seppuku and a rusty blade,” someone added.
“Naoe’s first mission,” Ceorl began.
“You nearly died and stuff,” Mathias interrupted with a smile.
“An honorless peasant can’t be right, so instead another poor sob drive onto the hardball and right into mine; punctures the underbelly and, boom, ammo cooks,” Ceorl continued with a glare. “Three dead men and a night wasted waiting for EOD in order to scrap giblets and iron off the road.”
“You pissed your pants too waitin to see if Naoe was gonna make us go,” a crew member toasted with a swig.
“Man’s gotta find a release somewhere. Sides since I went to two dick stripes for not shouting ‘bushido!’ it’s not as if I need to keep to decorum.”
“Non-com’s commin!’ someone whispered urgently, and the hooch quickly disappeared.
The barrack’s tent flap was pulled open and Hjalmer, a muscular, grim faced, dirty blond Scandinavian, appeared with the sun’s rays leaking in behind him.
“My crew and Messerschmitt’s saddle up. Chu-i Naoe has assigned us to his patrol.”
“My crew,” Ceorl muttered quiet enough to avoid any beating.
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A vindictive pace left the patrol driving across crumbling roads, through grassy plains and intimidating sleepy hamlets into the next morning. At one village, after Naoe’s bullying, a headmaster swore upon his ancestors’ graves several hours ago he’d seen a black painted battlemech heading toward the nearby river.
“Lie and Bishamonten will spear open your stomach so the village dogs can feast on your entrails!” he warned through his battlemech speakers.
“Sir, if this worthless merchant is correct, the pirates are skirting our firebases,” Hjalmer mentioned. “Without orbital or aerial reconnaissance to locate them, they will likely head to an unguarded ford.”
“So rather than a night in a scratchy bed with a cold bowl of fish and smuggled hooch, we drive around, sleepless, eating MREs and chasing a hunch,” Ceorl muttered as the scratch lance of yellow and green Rashalhague Regulars approached a wetlands basin which fed the river. “Come to think of it coulda been worse.”
A thin humanoid Firestarter battlemech lead while a slow, fat Partisan tank brought up the rear, its treads churning the grass into the dirt. Within the tank’s cramped interior, Ceorl sat his oversized posterior on a torn leather seat, headphones tuned into the lance’s restricted communication frequency.
“Visual confirmation of the radar pings,” Lieutenant Naoe onboard his Firestarter radioed, his voice flush with excitement. “Alpha lance marks one Santander battlemech and three hover tanks two kilometers out, bearing forty degrees, and closing. Request permission to engage.”
“Engagement authorized, alpha lance,” the headquarters’ dispatcher responded. “Good hunting.”
“We found Valasek’s boys,” Ceorl whispered over the engine roar to Mathias, after glancing to make sure the sergeant was pre-occupied.
“Happy to pay those rotter back after the mine, Ceorl” the loader said with a spat. “Pack of traitors who’d sooner run away and murder a Mustered in his sleep than fight him.”
Ceorl glanced through his view slit to spy a black and silver Vulcan battlemech and three hovertanks. Chipped paint, rusty red scars of hasty repair work and grinning skulls imposed over two daggers decorated the mech and vehicles. “They aren’t running now,” he said before turning his attention back to the Chu-i.
“… we will engage the kaizoku mech first. Kill their best warrior and those honorless inu will turn tail and run.”
Mathias glanced at Ceorl, eager for the information he had divulged when commander.
“Three skirts and the target: a knight who Lou wants to kill with our paint scratchers,” Ceorl told him.
“He wants to pop his cherry with the pretty girl,” the loader whispered back with a grin, lest the sergeant object to their independent thoughts about the commander.
“I’ve seen more smarts from guys drunk on coolant. Those skirts are the real danger,” Ceorl answered as he pressed a hand to his headpiece to catch the last of the Lieutenant’s prep speech. “… hold position. Glory to the Coordinator!”
“Praise…” Ceorl switched back to his vehicle’s frequency.
“Alert gunner, autocannons, mech, one o’clock,” Sergeant Hjalmer formally radioed despite being within arm’s length of Ceorl.
“Identified,” Ceorl replied.
“Range eighteen hundred.”
Dutifully Ceorl triggered the Partisan’s turret, rotating ten degrees as he depressed the quad cannons to fire into the marsh. A quick glance through his view slit to line up the firing trajectory for the laser rangefinder, painting the battlemech for tank’s fire control system. A difficult shot made easier with the precision ammunitions the Partisan carried.
“The Pagoda pup will get us killed,” Ceorl muttered in disgust.
Hjalmer heard as a harsh, “Lance Corporal clear the coms!” command was followed by the ritualistic “Fire” order. Ceorl pressed the firing trigger.
“On the way.” No flame, instead five large precision gyrojet shells shot out, ignited by their gunpowder fueled rocket motors, spewing exhaust into the humid air.
“Two target,” Hjalmer reported as the class two, low yield munitions impacted against the Vulture, shredding armor plating. In lieu of an autoloader, the tank’s two loaders began slamming new rounds into the Partisan’s barrels.
Ceorl peered through his view slit as he depressed the turret further and adjusted the range finder onto the Vulcan for the fire control, his job made easier by the tank’s stationary position and the enemy’s forward movement.
“Commander, Driver requesting permission to back, over.”
“Negative, hold position until the Chu-i gives an order.”
Ceorl caught sight of the Lieutenant descending into the swamp on a banzai charge. His mech’s arm waving the lance’s Vedette forward in support.
“Rounds loaded,” came the report.
“On the way,” Ceorl replied as more shells impacted against the Vulcan, scraping paint and armor off but little else. He watched the Vedette add to the volley, a harsh muzzle flash as it expelled a heavier autocannon shell which missed. Meanwhile the hovertanks, with their fragile propulsion fans that could be jammed by damn near anything say specialty long range munitions, quickly closed the distance, snapping off reckless laser shots. The turret on a Saracen belched flame and a sheet of long range missiles impacted against the Partisan, their hammer blows shredding armor plating and jostling the occupants.
“Three target,” Hjalmer called as he glanced at a computerized readout of the damage.
“Christ, this is insane,” Ceorl swore. “They know we’re the danger even if we don’t,” he shouted at Hjalmer, ignoring the radio to directly look at his replacement’s blue eyes while the loaders inserted new rounds.
“Obey orders,” Hjalmer camly replied. “Bushido dictates loyalty in the face of death.”
“Bushido dictates stupidity,” Ceorl retorted to a glare by Hjalmer.
An explosion roared through the armor plating and Ceorl glanced through his vew slit in time to see the last of the burning Vedette’s ammo cooking off.
“Rounds loaded.”
He adjusted his aim before launching more rocket propelled munitions. On the radar, the pirate hovertanks were ascending onto the plain, ignoring and ignored by Naoe’s Firestarter which was intent upon the Vulcan. Ceorl wiped the sweat from his brow.
“One target,” Hjalmer called. “Gunner, focus on your duty.”
Ceorl peered through his view slit to see the Firestarter’s lasers tearing away slabs of armor from the Vulcan, exposing thicks slaps of myomer muscle and destroying a heat sink. Thick green coolant poured from a line ruptured line across the Vulcan’s scared body.
“At least Naoe can shoot straight,” Ceorl reflected.
The Partisan shook again as kinetic and energy weapons impacted against it while sweating gunners struggled to load rounds into the barrels. Ceorl glanced at his displays which flashed a dull orange of armor loss along the hull.
“Seconds before the hovertanks get in short range,” Ceorl muttered as he adjusted the rangefinder.
As Mathias shouted “Rounds loaded,” Ceorl made a decision and keyed the lance communication frequency.
“Chu-i,” he radioed. “You will lose the Partisan if we don’t receive aid asap, over.”
“Sergeant Messerschmitt engage the hovertanks,” Naoe answered, apparently oblivious to who made the request.
The Partisan fired as the bulky Hetzer, which had yet to fire a shot in anger, roared to life, smoke pouring from its combustion engine’s exhaust. The squat box on wheels moved toward the advancing hovertanks, though the Hetzer’s heavy autocannon was unlikely to hit the fast moving vehicles. Still better than nothing, Ceorl thought.
The final hovertank to ascend the plain took the incline too quickly and lifted a few inches into the air as the Hetzer’s massive cannon bucked flame. An otherwise overshot shell slammed into the soaring Pegasus, shredding armor plating and part of the hover skirt, dropping the tank back to earth like a winged duck. Whooping Ceorl rotated the turret to pour fire savaged hovertank.
“Gunner, maintain fire on the Vulcan.”
Ceorl ignored his commander and grunted in satisfaction at seeing the pirate crew abandon their vehicle at the approaching death.
More explosions shook the Partisan, concussive blasts that felt as if they would tip the eighty ton tank over. A squeal of wrenched iron and to Ceorl’s right a sliver of daylight streamed into the compartment. From that gaping maw of death, metal fragments careened through the hull, one striking Ceorl across the shoulder. He cursed, a reflexive high pitched scream of frustration, and fought the urge to cradle a shoulder fast going bloody and numb.
“Breach,” he shouted. “Ud! Ud! Ud!.”
“Honor your liege and remain at your stations,” Hjalmer shouted authoritatively but calmly, his eyes never leaving his computer display. “Gunner, target the Vulcan.”
Ceorl glanced at the loaders, frozen in indecision. He had no idea about the driver. There wasn’t time to coerce or persuade. Ceorl scrambled to his hatch and fumbled for the release mechanism. The hatch opened quickly and the scent of burning grass rushed into his nostrils as he used one hand to scramble his bulky body through the egress.
Ceorl threw himself onto the grass, clawing and dragging across the cool vegetation away from the tank. Energy blasts and melting armor, a wave of heat which enveloped him. He crawled faster. An explosion tore at his back and Ceorl reflexively curled into a fetal position. Time passed, he didn’t know how long, before he stopped screaming and shakily pulled himself up.
The Partisan burned behind him, oily smoke spilling into the sky to pool with the Vedette’s. The Hetzer was motionless, its right side axles melted away by repeated energy blasts, leaving its forward mounted cannon practically useless. The crew spilled out the Hezter’s open hatches. Ceorl glanced toward the scratched Firestarter as it fled into the swamp, using its jumpjets to descend into the forested spaces where no hovertank could follow. The Vulcan, badly damaged and missing an arm, made no effort to pursue.
An undamaged hovertank settled beside him and the cupola hatch opened. A man dressed in a leather jacket, with a thick beard and swarthy skin, emerged and, grinning, pointed a submachine gun at Ceorl, who meekly raised his working hand in surrender.
