(NOTE: I apologize for today's late entry, but it's been a sort of busy Saturday for me and mine.)
Part Five
The DropPod split open in five equal sections, as timed explosions severed links and opened the capsule like a blossoming, flame-wreathed flower. The petals separated, tumbling in their own fiery trajectories, adding -I most sincerely hoped- to the worries of any Draco observers on the surface. The chaff discharged during our launch would have dispersed by now, left somewhere far overhead. The pod sections would provide some additional targets for enemy ground and space fire.
The cocoon glowed with cherry-red heat, flooding the inside of my
Crusader’s cockpit with ruddy light. My internal temperature was climbing now. I could feel the personal refrigeration unit behind my seat click on, pumping coolant through the vest encasing my torso. Outside, the cocoon was shredding away a little at a time. Each half-molten globbet carried its quota of heat away from me -and contributed to the cloud of radar-reflective debris surrounding my ‘Mech.
Four minutes.
I touched a button on the console, and the aluminum framework which supported the cocoon exploded in a whirlwind of flaming debris. My
Crusader fell free, training fire, and for for the first time I could look out the cockpit’s windshield and see my objective. Hell’s horizon tilted up at me, a vast curve of cloud-smears and ocher. I was tumbling slightly. The landscape shifted, swept up past my face, was replaced by violet sky, then returned.
My ‘Mech’s radar had a clear path now. The return set my altitude at fifteen kilometers. It was time for the next phase of the drop.
I closed my eyes, concentrating on the input through my neurohelmet rather than what my eyes told me. Through the helmet network, I could sense the ‘Mech’s position and balance. I touched my attitude controls. This took a delicate touch. One wrong move and my gentle tumble would become a helpless, out-of-control, head-for-heels plummet which I would
never be able to control.
Crusaders are not equipped with jump jets. For drops from space or high altitude,
Crusaders,
Marauders, and other jetless ‘Mechs must rely on strap-on thruster packs. Where things get touchy is in the fuel department. My
Crusader carried only enough fuel for about 70 seconds of firing. Use too much, too soon, and there wouldn’t be enough left of my
Crusader to provide spare parts for a wind-up toy.
Feeling the attitude of my ‘Mech through the neuro-helmet, I gauged the proper moment, then let my thumb caress the jet controls. There was a cough from the thrusters mounted on either side of the ‘Mech’s backpack fusion plan, then an accelerating whine. I counted seconds...
two... three... four... then cut the power. Gently, gently, I spread the
Crusader’s arms and legs, assuming the classic spread-eagle position of sky divers and HALO jumpers. My tumble slowed, steadied... then stopped. The ground below filled my faceplat. A landlocked sea, edged by the reds and greens of local vegetation, spread itself across the desert directly below.
Now I felt more naked than ever, Theoretically I would be able to return fire if an enemy aerospace fighter made a pass at me, but in practice the attempt would most likely hurl me out of control. My main protection was the fact that the sky was still full of debris from my capsule and disintegrating cocoon -and the other ‘Mechs in my unit- and that so far as ground fire control was concerned, I was just one target among many. When all you can see in front of you is clouds and ground and clear air, that is very thin consolation indeed.
I punched up the map of my target area stored in my computer and began trying to orient myself. That water below me ought to be the Thanatos Sea, but the shape of the coastline was wrong, and it seemed quite a lot bigger than it should have been. Was
that twisting ribbon of plant growth through the desert the Styx? The Wolverine’s assigned DZ was a labyrinth of buildings, installations, and a spaceport which had been codenamed the Cerberus Complex. Ceberus straddled the Styx River ten kilometers north of the Thanatos Sea.
I estimated ten kilometers up the river valley and saw barren desert, where the river carved its way through badlands down out of the mountains. Nothing matched what was on my map.
Nothing. There was what looked like a small town close by the mouth of the river, glittering silver and white in the light from Hell’s sun. Could
that be Cerberus? So near the sea?
There were no other targets in sight at all. The other ‘Mechs in the Company were coming to the same realization. My radio spat static, then resolved into Captain Wiley’s voice on the combat channel, “
Red Company, this is Red Leader.” Red Company was battlespeech for the Wolverines. Alpha, Beta, and Gamma were our three lances. “
Do any of you have a confirmed fix on our DZ?”
A chorus of negatives came back over the open channel. “
Maybe the Condo
put us down in the wrong spot,” someone suggested.
(NOTE: Because this one is short, and late, I'll post the next part immediately.)
______________________________
Part Six
As DropShip skippers go, Delacroix was the best. A BattleMech Company has to rely on its DropShip pilot with an almost fanatical trust. But a planet is one hell of a big place, and a ‘Mech DZ is vanishingly small. Could our approach and launch have been malfed up? And what could we do if they had?
“
All Reds,” Wiley continued, “
Target on the complex at the mouth of the river. We will assume that that is Cerberus.”
We acknowledged with considerable misgivings. If that target was not the Cerberus complex, it might be days -even weeks- before we could be relieved, if
ever. That was a long time for one Company to hold off superior numbers deep behind enemy lines.
At five kilometers I tucked in my legs and arms, rolled to an upright stance, and triggered my jets for a long, long twenty-second burst. The ground was sweeping up towards me now, and it was clear that I was well out over the se. I needed to slow my descent enough to maneuver. I spread my arms and legs, riding the pressure of the uprushing air itself in ponderous and rapidly-descending flight.
Something flashed bright than the sun of Scheat, close above me and towards the left. I checked my monitors and saw the telltale contrail of an enemy aerospace fighter circling into position. My computer sorted through schematics in its file and snatched up one that matched. Lines of green light drew plan and profile views across a screen. It was an SL-17
Shilone.
That was bad. Its narrow, flying-wing shape narrowed further as it swung nose-on, lining up for another pass.
I waited, counting to myself, watching for what I thought would be the moment the
Shilone would open fire. I was holding... holding... the flying wing swelling in my number two scanner screen...
Then I tucked in my arms and legs with a snap and let myself plummet. Sun’s fire seared through the air above me, scorching the space where I had been an instant before. Something metallic rattled off my
Crusader’s back armor in a clattering rain of fragments, and then the air was filled by the screeching wail of the
Shilone passing at high speed close by.
I shifted around, stabbing at the arming switch for my Magna Longbow missile racks, but the turbulence of the
Shilone’s passage had left me tumbling, again. The target was gone before I could locate it.
I let myself fall for a long way before I extended my arms and brought my ‘Mech under control again. The water was much closer now -four kilometers below- a muddy brown-green color close enough for me to make out the slowly moving march of wave swells across its surface. At this point, any thought of steering for Cerberus was lost. All I wanted to do was avoid hitting the water.
And
that looked impossible.
I used my head scanners, checking wildly tilted views in all directions. There! I could make out the ocher blur of land, three kilometers to the north!
I kept my
Crusader in its extended position, angled into a slightly heads-up attitude, and triggered my thrusters. The idea was both to slow my descent and to provide lateral thrust towards what should be the nearest land. Unfortunately, BattleMechs are not designed as flying machines. The attempt gulped down fuel at a prodigious rate, while performing neither maneuver well. I continued to fall. I called for a position fix on the combat frequency but could hear only bits and pieces of broken conversation heavily filtered by static. The other Wolverines would be busy with their own landing maneuvers right now, and it was possible that the enemy was jamming us. I tried not to think of the other possibility -that one of the
Shilone’s near-misses had damaged my radio.
I kept firing the jets, my eye on the LED displays which marked firing time and fuel remaining. Forty seconds gone... fifty... fifty-five... I cut power to the jets, again and let myself fall. The surface of the water surged up to meet me. No matter what I did, I was going to land in the water.
‘Mechs can move under water, though not quickly, and not well. If I became completely submerged, it might take days or even weeks of painstaking movement to make my way to the nearest land. Days from now, I might emerge from the water to find the battle long since lost, my comrades dead or departed. Worse, I was carrying emergency rations aboard my
Crusader, but those would last for no more than a week. I might rise from the waves three weeks from now -weak and sick from lack of food.
One kilometer.
The water looked funny from this altitude. In places the surging procession of waves was broken, as though by something just under the surface.
Just under the surface...
Fresh beads of sweat broke out across my forehead. The approved method for landing a ‘Mech in water is to use the thrusters to reduce speed to zero just above the surface, then drop freely, allowing the water to absorb the impact of landing. The approved technique for settling down on land is to slow to as close to zero speed as possible, but with enough fuel remaining to gently lower the ‘Mech all the way to the ground and cushion the actual landing. The difference between the two approaches is subtle but critical: an un-cushioned landing on solid ground can smash a ‘Mech’s legs, can at the least jar sensitive instrumentation and weapons out of alignment or render the pilot
hors d’combat without a shot being fired. Using all your fuel trying for a soft touchdown on water can leave you without any fuel at all to control your descent through deep water. You could end up a hundred meters down, head stuck in the mud, and no way to right yourself. With my fuel reserves already critical, I had been preparing for a water landing, trusting in the depth of the water to cushion the final impact but holding back enough fuel to control my descent to the bottom. Kilometers from land, the water ought to be quite deep... but...
I fired my jets in short, snapping bursts, my
Crusader fully upright now, no longer positioned to reach the shore. My gut feeling was that the water below was deceptively shallow, perhaps no more than a few meters deep. I would use all my remaining fuel to cushion my landing. If I guessed wrong, I might wind up trapped on the bottom, beyond the help of friend or enemy.
With ten seconds of fuel remaining, at an altitude of fifty meters, I opened the throttles wide and rode twin jets of ravening flame down out of the sky. Steam rose in a boiling cloud which clung to my cockpit windscreen, blinding me again. The thrusters sputtered, cleared, then failed with a despairing moan. My ‘Mech dropped, fuel exhausted. I felt the jar as my
Crusader’s feet hit the water, felt the far more profound jar as the feet touched bottom. The impact drove me hard into my seat, and metal rang and creaked ominously.
Then... silence.
Edited by Kay Wolf, 23 April 2016 - 03:37 PM.
4
Kay Wolf, on 13 April 2016 - 10:04 PM, said:
