Chapter 2:

First Contact

Lieutenant Sinclair, please stand by…

What do you mean that’s all we have? You’re certain? All right, let’s go with it.

Lieutenant Sinclair, this is Corporal Thomas Sorenson, commanding your Mobile Field Base vehicles. We’re in contact with Captain Taylor on the Eclipse, trying to ascertain what has happened. The Eclipse has abandoned its run. Status of the Black Hammer is still uncertain. I have yet to raise your lancemates or any members of Commandos Two and Three, but as of this time we are still go -- the mission clock is running.

You are falling off-target. We predict a shallow-water splashdown north of what appears to be a fishing village. We will await you at our designated landing area, near a good refit site. Your optimum route has already been programmed into your navigation computer.

Luck to us all.

* * *

APCs were no match for a BattleMech.

Right hand easy on the Bushwacker’s control stick and his left nudging the throttle, Connor Sinclair turned his back on the burning vehicles and the oily smoke they trailed skyward over the fishing village. The Bushwacker’s left foot sideswiped one building, tearing a gaping hole into the wall and collapsing the covered porch. A flatbed hauler parked in his way was crushed flat beneath the other foot, then he was free of the village and moving into the valley which ran roughly parallel to the coastline. He throttled the ‘Mech into a run, keeping part of his attention on the HUD and the red icon which showed a Firefly closing on his position. A light ‘Mech and an older design, the Firefly’s trio of medium lasers still demanded a modicum of respect. He would smash it from range, and then move on toward rendezvous.

The comm system crackled to life with an abnormally loud burst of static. "Leave it? …hauling explosives…Commander." A long pause. "Aff…bridge."

He’d set his system to scan known Clan civilian frequencies, though the receiver was having difficulty pulling in more than a broken signal. Thomas Sorenson had apparently picked it up as well. "Lieutenant, did you receive? Laborer caste frequencies, but something about explosive charges? Watch your step."

As if to underscore the caution, threat indicators screamed for attention a split-second before the Bushwacker lurched to the left. A flight of missiles had slammed into the BattleMech’s right shoulder, blasting away precious armor but not near enough to upset the massive gyro which balanced the humanoid war machine.

Sinclair hauled the control stick over, tracking his targeting reticle into the corner of his main screen. The Bushwacker twisted at the waist while continuing to run forward. Through the ferroglass canopy, the lieutenant spotted the Firefly as it angled in behind him. The lighter ‘Mech had arced over a low range of nearby hills on jump jets, closing faster than the lieutenant had anticipated to score first with its long-range missiles. Still, a five-pack of LRMs weren’t enough to threaten him, unless he let the Clan warrior into the Bushwacker’s rear arc and at the weaker armor protecting his back.

Drifting his reticle over the Firefly’s outline, the cross hairs turned from red to the bright gold of a hard weapons lock. The targeting system also gave him an audio cue, a soft tone which promised a good missile firing solution. Connor squeezed into the shot, smiling his victory as his large laser burned away armor over the Firefly’s right leg. His twin LRM racks added to the other MechWarrior’s® misery, peppering the head and upper body of the light ‘Mech.

Waiting for his weapons to cycle, Sinclair checked his screens with a practiced glance. A quarter mile further along, the valley ended at the foot of a four-story bluff. A ramp gave access to the upper plateau, and against the skyline above it a second Firefly now moved to engage. The light traffic scattered quickly, caught between a running BattleMech firefight and the second Firefly ready to defend the ramp. Only a tractor-trailer rig remained on the bridge, apparently abandoned. Sinclair guessed that the first Firefly would now circle further afield and avoid him until it could join up with the new arrival.

Except he had forgotten to take into account the Clan practice of single combat.

In their quest for ultimate glory and honor, Clan warriors tended to fight alone, spurning help even as it stood nearby. Although outmassed by 25 tons, the first Firefly was not about to share the kill. He cut back inside the Bushwacker’s firing arc, pouring on the speed in an attempt to close and bring its medium lasers into play.

With the Damocles Commando ‘Mech still at a full run toward the ramp, the Firefly never stood a chance of making it in close. Conner Sinclair’s autocannon cut too low, churning the ground with a hail of 80-millimeter slugs. Cursing silently, the Inner Sphere warrior toggled again for missiles and lasers. The ruby beam of his Bushwacker’s large laser splashed over the Firefly’s left shoulder, stripping it down to titanium skeleton. The first missile flight was picked off by the anti-missile system riding in place of the light ‘Mech’s right arm, but the following quintet slammed into the already-weakened right leg. The knee joint bowed outward, rolling the leg out over the ankle actuator. The Firefly stumbled and went down, right leg snapping off at the knee and forward-thrust torso burying itself lasers-first into the valley’s soft earth.

It wasn’t getting up again.

Now Sinclair was grateful for the cooling vest he wore. Waste heat flooded the Bushwacker’s cockpit as the fusion reactor spiked from the power draw required for the double-salvo of weapons. Heat sinks built into the engine worked almost as quickly to shunt it away, leaving Connor with only a few seconds in labored breathing of the stifling air.

No time to wait, though, as turrets flanking the ramp suddenly popped up and began to snipe at his BattleMech. A stream of light autocannon fire rattled against the Bushwacker’s right side, chewing into armor and raining his protection down to the ground in shards and metal splinters. Easy targets these. Sinclair’s centerline laser silenced them in a matter of seconds as he continued to move against the ramp, intent on putting down the second Firefly hard and fast.

The fireball blossomed at midpoint up the ramp, consuming the parked tractor-trailer rig as it threw a gout of flame skyward. The ramp collapsed, its structural integrity shattered by the force of the explosion. For a moment Sinclair thought the second Firefly might somehow be responsible, but no, not with the light firepower the design carried. Then he recalled the truck and the earlier transmission. Hauling explosives! Damn.

"MFB, this is Sinclair. I’ve lost the ramp!" And the advantage rangemight have given him as the Firefly opened up with medium lasers and missiles. The Bushwacker stumbled under the onslaught, gyro thrown out of balance, but the lieutenant’s steady hand on the control stick compensating for the rough treatment.

Corporal Sorenson did not exactly sound thrilled. "I’d recommend you find another way then -- and fast, sir."

"It’s not like I can build another," he snapped, trading salvos with the Firefly. The Bushwacker’s large laser ate away at the other ‘Mech’s shoulder, while the Firefly’s trio of lasers again spit emerald pulses into the larger machine. Connor’s autocannon missed, again.

"Yes, sir." Soreneson’s voice was a touch more respectful, though plainly worried. "But there’s an Owens up here prowling around. If it finds us, we’re done."

The Firefly had stepped up to the edge of the bluff, rising over the retaining wall which had helped bolster the strength of the ramp and now was all that remained of the structure. "Build another?" Connor whispered to himself, drawing a hint from his own words. He dropped his cross hairs down to the retaining wall, scoring a deep cut across its face with large laser and then hammering at it with missiles. The LRMs could not acquire anything approaching a solid lock, but so close they hardly needed it. The explosive warheads dug deep, shattering the bulwark. The wall crumbled in an avalanche of dirt and rock and broken ferrocrete, undercutting the Firefly which fell backward and then tumbled down the slide. Crushed armor plating littered the slope. Sinclair stepped his ‘Mech forward, bringing one foot down on the fallen Firefly’s right side and caving it in. Laser fire and autocannon slugs exploited the hole, working down into the central cavity and smashing the large gyro which all ‘Mechs depended on to keep upright. Carefully, the young MechWarrior® stepped over the stricken Firefly and worked his way up the treacherous slope.

"I don’t know what you did, Lieutenant, but the Owens is heading your way with something to prove."

"Something to protect, you mean," Sinclair said as he topped the rise and throttled into an easy walk. His scanners registered the Owens’ approach, but also the large facility built into the cliff facing of a nearby large hill. "Jackpot, Sorenson. If those dishes on top are any clue, we’ve walked into a Clan communications facility, and a rather large one."

His first flight of missiles was already streaking gray contrails through the air when the Owens’ large laser flayed into his leg to slice away better than a half ton of armor protection. An Inner Sphere OmniMech design no doubt brought home as spoils of war, the pilot had chosen its one hard-hitting long-range configuration. Sinclair opened the throttle, guiding the Bushwacker into a loping pace that angled around a small mound-putting it between him and the charging Owens -- as he let loose with another double-flight and this time added his laser into the barrage.

The Clans built well enough, when it came to protection from the elements and the possibility of light collateral damage. But they rarely hardened auxiliary sites against direct attack. Why should they? Any other Clan wanting to contest the area would batchall, challenging the defender to meet him in open ground with any or all defending forces. The assaulting force would then match the defenders, and the contest would initiate. While Connor Sinclair could appreciate the ritualized methods of the Clans, protecting essential but non-hostile facilities, part of the Inner Sphere’s purpose in attacking Clan Space was to remind them of the devastation total warfare could bring.

On his fifth salvo the main communications dish twisted about on its seating, then wrenched away to fall down the mountainside and smash into one of the main buildings. Ceilings caved and walls crumbled as the dish rolled through and and finally smashed itself to scrap against the ground. Several fires sprang up in the ruins, the deathblow for the facility.

Which left an Owens.

Hidden behind the low hill, Connor Sinclair had a 50-50 chance of deciding which way it would circle around. Of course, it might choose to come over the top, but skylining a light ‘Mech was one step beyond bravado and in throwing distance of suicidal. Then again, this was a Clan warrior. He crouched the Bushwacker as low as its profile would allow, then shifted about to face the hill, one arm pointing off in each direction so that no matter which way it came the Inner Sphere warrior could hope for the first shot.

It swung around on his right. Connor pulled at his autocannon trigger, snapping off what should have been an easy shot. The stream of depleted uranium slugs again sliced low, throwing up a geyser of blasted earth which sprayed the Owens but would do little to deter it. Trying to salvage something of the situation, Sinclair swore fluently as he wrenched the right arm upward. His curse had barely left his lips when the burst cut off prematurely. Fault lights flashed for his attention. It required the briefest glance to see that the weapon registered a feed mechanism fault -- the same problem he’d noted back on the Black Hammer. Only here, in combat, what had been a concern before now spelled out grave danger.

No time to clear the jammed feed, Sinclair swung around to put his backside to the hill before the much faster Owens could circle in behind him and carve into his weak rear armor. The Smoke Jaguar warrior made a stab for it, but was a touch too slow on the throttle. The Owens ended up point-blank with the Bushwacker, toe-to-toe and trading hard-hitting strikes. Gem-colored light flared between the two, the Owens owning the advantage as it brought two medium lasers into play while Sinclair was limited to his centerline large laser and a pair of machine guns. The Bushwacker’s weapons fire sanded armor off the light OmniMech. A sudden jump in the heat profile of the Owens let the lieutenant know that he had slipped past a flaw in the armor to carve away at the heat shield helping to contain the fusion reactor’s output. He smiled in grim satisfaction, hoping to press that advantage.

Then emerald laser fire walked from the Bushwacker’s left shoulder up across its head, splashing over the cockpit’s ferroglass canopy. The cockpit shook with incredible force, throwing Sinclair repeatedly against his five-point harness and the seat back. The restraining straps dug painfully into his chest, and his vision swam with the purplish-haze aftereffect of a laser blinding. Several new alarms rang out, deafening in the close confines of the Bushwacker’s cockpit.

And Connor Sinclair couldn’t see well enough to know what was wrong.