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I began writing this story over four years ago, but was never able to finish it (until now). Though I originally considered submitting it to Battlecorps.com, I've decided to instead to give it a home with the MWO community. I can't draw mechs (or anything else) worth a damn, but at least I can write about them.
Feedback is welcome, and I hope you all enjoy!
Loss and Burden
The shriek of Lyran aerospace fighters making a low, overhead pass only served to punctuate the apprehension that Hauptmann Gerald Strauss had been feeling the entire day.
I should not have got out of bed this morning, he thought to himself with weary irreverence as he maneuvered his blue and gray Zeus onto the defensive line.
"This is Panzer One, I'm now in position, Control. Requesting sit-rep, over," said Strauss over the comm-link in a gravelly voice.
The tactical officer, First Leutnant Julie Spears, replied seconds later, "Roger that Panzer One. Enemy forces are within the city and driving back our skirmishers. Reports indicate they are approaching our command center in force. One understrength 'mech company remains, supported by aerospace assets, over."
"Any idea as to whom exactly we are facing, over?" Strauss inquired with a raised brow.
"Given the amount of unsecured comm-chatter we are picking up, it sounds like they're mercenaries; elements of Carson's Renegades. According to the MRBC database, these guys are currently employed by the League, over.” answered Spears.
Strauss scowled as Spears delivered that last piece of information, "Affirmative, Control. Panzer One, out."
Figures, he thought to himself, the Free Worlds League just had to pick a fight on my day off.
The enemy force had made planet-fall early that morning, deploying one battalion of battlemechs, along with aerospace support, just outside the capital city of New Bremen. The planetary militia had taken heavy causalities in the opening engagements, and were now preparing a hasty defense of the commander center.
Idly running his hand across the back of his neurohelment as if it were his shaven head, Strauss breathed deeply and closed his eyes, attempting to relieve even an iota of stress. Months of endless paperwork and administrative duties had taken their toll, leaving him little time to train in the field with his men, or his 'mech. While a part of him relished the opportunity to once again pilot his "One True Love," it did nothing to alleviate the anxiety he had felt since orbital sensors detected the enemy dropships earlier in the day. On top of that, Strauss had been forced to deal with Leutnant Brian Ernstrom for several hours.
"Was ist ihr befehl, mein Hauptmann?" Ernstrom inquired over the radio with undue enthusiasm. His Deutsch was awkward, as usual.
Strauss sighed in frustration. What is with this guy? "Ernstrom," he paused briefly, "while I do understand we all enjoy living in the Lyran Commonwealth, this is not Tharkad. You are probably one of about twelve people on this planet who is even marginally fluent in German - for the last time, speak English when you are on the comm."
"Ja wohl, Haup... err, yes sir," Ernstorm replied, defeated.
Shaking his head in annoyance, Strauss began to run another diagnostic on his Zeus, when the frantic voice of Spears came in over the radio.
"Panzer Company, enemy aerospace fighters approaching your position, due west. ETA twenty-five seconds!"
"Crap! Ernstrom, get your Jagermech moving!" barked Strauss, "All other Panzer elements, prepare to engage!"
Due to its Garret D2j targeting and tracking system, the Jagermech was a design specially suited for engaging aircraft, as most other battlemechs could only hope for a lucky hit against something as fast and maneuverable as an aerospace fighter.
"I have a visual, Commander; looks like two Stingrays. Firing," Ernstrom said as he opened up with his four autocannon at their maximum ranges.
A storm of depleted-uranium shells erupted from his Jagermech's guns, filling the air with a line of tracers that linked Ernstrom's 'mech to the enemy fighters in seconds. The rounds violently impacted across the lead Stingray's fuselage, leaving a trail of blackened craters stretching from behind the cockpit to the engine cowling. As dark smoke began to pour from holes in the damaged fighter, it banked hard and turned around, its pilot suddenly questioning his career choice. The second fighter, undeterred by the withdrawal of his wingman, continued to close the distance with the Lyran line, despite the defenders' concentrated efforts to bring it down. Performing a flawless barrel-roll, the mercenary Stingray evaded dozens of cannon rounds and swarms of missiles, receiving only pair of molten laser scars for its trouble.
"Ernstrom, take him down!" shouted Strauss into the comm-link as he fired a spread of fifteen missiles toward the enemy fighter.
"I can't sir," replied the mechwarrior in a panicked voice, "I've got a jam warning; trying to clear it!"
It was too late; in seconds, the Stingray drew a bead on a Whitworth that was caught in the open. Twin beams of sapphire-colored light stabbed at the Lyran 'mech's torso, leaving behind glowing tracks of melted armor. The cerulean, electrical discharge of the fighter's particle cannon followed seconds later, striking the Whitworth in its already weakened side, vaporizing armor and punching through to an ammunition bin. In an instant, the half the 'mech's torso disappeared in a thunderous explosion of fire, shrapnel and dark smoke, the machine's broken body collapsing face-first.
As the dark-green aircraft passed overhead like a swooping bird of prey, Strauss roared into his comm-link, "Panzer Company, I don't want that fighter coming around for another pass! Kill it now!"
A renewed wave of laser, missile and cannon fire sought to bring down the nimble craft, but only a few shots found their mark, highlighting the pilot's determination to live. As the fighter began to turn, it became apparent that it would likely get a second crack at the militia.
"Ernstrom!" yelled Strauss.
"Jam is clear, engaging!"
In an instant, the young mechwarrior unleashed a hail of cannon fire at the turning Stingray, his Jagermech's advanced targeting system compensating for speed and trajectory. Dozens of shells detonated against the enemy fighter, shattering armor and weakening its structural integrity, until the final rounds of the salvo finished the job. With a tortured screech, its left wing tore away from the fuselage, causing the aircraft to spin wildly out of control. Panzer Company watched intently as the disabled Stingray crashed through an empty office building and exploded, raining fire and debris onto an adjacent street.
"Nice shooting, Ernstrom," breathed Strauss with relief. He turned his Zeus in the direction of the destroyed Whitworth, which now had a column of black smoke rising above it. The Hauptmann's demeanor became somber, as he realized that one of his men was probably dead. The commander of Panzer Company's recon lance, First Leutnant Steven Campbell, slowly walked his Assassin over to the downed 'mech, before crouching on one knee.
"Vertalli didn't eject, sir," reported Campbell in a monotone voice, “his cockpit was crushed in the fall.”
"Roger that," replied Strauss as he struggled to maintain his composure. Leutnant Jacob Vertalli had been a good-natured man whom everyone in the company had liked; he would be missed. "Control, this is Panzer One. Reporting one KIA, Leutnant Vertalli, over."
"Copy that, Panzer One. Sorry to hear it, over," Spears acknowledged solemnly.
Strauss stared at his console, momentarily lost in thought. We've lost too many people today... men and women who can't be replaced. And for what? So the League can remind us our two nations don't see eye-to-eye?
Spears' voice suddenly came over the comm again, breaking his reverie, "Panzer One, be advised; enemy ground forces are now within one kilometer of your position. Disposition is nine 'mechs; a group of two, followed by a group of seven. Mostly heavier designs, over."
"Roger Control, we'll be ready, out," responded Strauss as he felt more anxiety swell in his stomach. Even though his forces had numerical superiority, it certainly didn't mean victory was assured. At least they aren't throwing a wall of Atlases against us, he thought.
Gazing through his view-screen, despite the evening glare, Strauss assessed the last of the defensive preparations. The command-center, which dwelt in the middle of a large urban complex, was provided ample cover by the dozens of now unoccupied administrative buildings. The ten remaining 'mechs under his command had repositioned themselves in a loose semicircle among these structures, to facilitate interception of enemy units as needed. Additionally, despite Strauss’s reservations, one of the two remaining infantry squads, Marathon Three, had taken up position inside a five-story business office roughly six-hundred meters from Strauss, ready to ambush any unwary battlemechs that may venture too close.
Just as his two lance commanders had finished checking in, Strauss heard the ever-foreboding sound his senors made once they detected a hostile radar contact.
"Panzer Company, look sharp! Enemy contact at nine-hundred meters."
The signal was intermittent, due to the dense urban sprawl, but its IFF was unmistakably hostile. One by one, other red triangles began to appear on Strauss' radar display, until a total of nine were within his sensor range.
"Does anyone have a visual? Do we know what we're dealing with out here?" excitedly asked one of the mechwarriors from the fire support lance. Within seconds, his question was answered.
"This is Marathon Three, we have a visual," reported the unit's squad leader, "Enemy Hermes inbound on our position. Looks as though he hasn't spotted us. Preparing to ambush."
Strauss opened a comm link to one of his lancemates, "Vickers, move up to support them. I don't want that 'mech using its flamer on those infantry."
"Roger that, Hauptmann," Leutnant Robert Vickers complied.
Glancing at his radar again, Strauss could see the light 'mech quickly outpacing its comrades as it approached the Lyran defenders. A little too eager for some reconnaissance, are we? Pressing the magnification key on his console, a closer image of Marathon Three's position was brought up on his HUD, giving Strauss a better view of the building and its surroundings.
"Hostile is one-hundred meters from our position," said the squad leader in a hushed voice, "Prepare to fire."
The half tan, half camouflage Hermes, now at walking speed, slowly moved through the narrow streets towards the office building, unaware of the infantry squad that watched it with predatory anticipation. As it came beside the occupied building, and was about to achieve its first glimpse of the militia formation, the infantry commander shouted the order over the comm.
"Fire!"
Twin warheads streaked from the windows of the structure, trailing thick, white smoke as they exploded against the rear armor of the Hermes, causing it to stagger forward. As the enemy machine began to right itself and turn towards its aggressors, Vickers side-stepped his Thunderbolt from behind a nearby warehouse, where he had been running passive senors to avoid detection. Achieving target lock, he unleashed hell on the minuscule 'mech, sending a flight of fifteen missiles crashing into its arms and torso. As the Hermes reversed its throttle in a desperate attempt to disengage, the approaching Lyran Thunderbolt fired all four of its lasers, eager to finish the job. While one bright green beam missed, vaporizing part of a nearby sidewalk, the other three found their mark, burning through the remaining armor and deep into the light 'mech's internal structure, destroying its gyroscope. Before the Hermes was able to limply fall on its back, an explosive panel on its head blew away; the enemy mechwarrior ejected from his machine, riding a four-hundred meter column of smoke into the air.
"Enemy down," reported Vickers with a hint of satisfaction.
However, the rush of victory was cut-short when the fear-tinged voice of an infantryman burst over the commline.
“Vulcan!”
Capitalizing on the distraction caused by his comrade’s demise, an enemy Vuclan had moved unnoticed among the buildings, until abruptly revealing itself to the Lyran infantry. Before anyone had time to act, the Vulcan turned its flamer on the occupied structure, engulfing it in a raging inferno; Strauss winced as he heard men and women he’d known for years scream in agony over the comm.
“B*****d!” yelled Strauss, “Panzer Company, focus fire on that Vulcan!”
Without hesitation, the assembled Lyran mechwarriors avenged their slain comrades in a blinding fusillade of weapons fire. The Vulcan’s armor was burned and blasted away from every frontal section, until its internal components were laid bare and broken. Smoking and crippled, the mercenary ‘mech limped behind cover, hoping to survive a few moments longer until its comrades arrived.
“You can’t hide that easily, merc,” growled Strauss as he throttled up his Zeus in pursuit.
Weaving between buildings at speeds considered brisk for an assault ‘mech, the Hauptmann quickly found his mark, methodically floating his targeting reticule onto the enemy’s center-mass. Consumed by anger, Strauss squeezed hard on all his firing studs, savaging the mercenary battlemech with every weapon in his arsenal. Ignoring the considerable heat, he fired as quickly as the Zeus’ weapons could recycle, pouring missile, laser, and cannon volleys into the doomed Vulcan. Though the assault lasted only seconds, it was more than enough to dismember the enemy ‘mech; the ruined, smoking machine collapsed in a heap, missing its arms and head.
Still gripping his control sticks tightly, Strauss’ breaths were fast and ragged, his lungs struggling against the scorching air in his cockpit. Taking a moment to collect himself after being overtaken by primal rage, Strauss wearily keyed his command frequency, “This is Panzer One; Vulcan is down. Marathon Three is KIA. All units report status, over.”
After acknowledging the procession of updates that flooded his comm link, Strauss paused for a moment, feeling emotionally drained by the day's events. So many have been lost in less than twenty-four hours, over a stupid raid. Will the Succession Wars ever end?
A missile-lock warning pulled Strauss from his thoughts, as the remainder of Carson's Renegades entered the defensive perimeter. Strauss knew this would be a hard fight.
“Panzer Company, I have contact with main enemy force. Let’s send these filthy mercs packing!”
-END-
