EMCOTS-2 19

=Emergence (Concertverse) Book 2 - Chapter 19=
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==The Mongol Way==
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===Going for Broke===
CJF Turkina's Pride
Arc-Royal System, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
9th August, 3143
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Isaac Roshak's hands clamped down unconsciously on the the safety rail circling the Pride's main holotank, fury choking his voice as he beheld the ruin of his masterstroke. No no NO! His plan had been working; the dezgra Warden Wolves crumbling, the Kell Hounds soon to follow; even the intervention of Republic forces, whatever new technological toys they brought, not enough to turn the tide. But this new foe, called forth as if from the depths of Hell to spite his Clan…
There were times when Isaac was tempted to embrace Spheroid beliefs about malignant spirits.
For a moment he gave serious thought to ordering Binetti to commit to full acceleration towards Arc-Royal; to use the Pride itself as a missile and smash Old Connaught from existence. That would be an emphatic enough statement.
No, that is the rage talking. I am a warrior of Clan Jade Falcon, not some mindless Hell's Horse. Think, Isaac, and do it quickly. My Clan counts upon that.
He forced out a calming exhale, studying the tactical plot for the surface engagement. Yes, there was room to work with, but anything to be done had to be done quickly.
"Initiate Plan Cloak," he told his aides. They looked on in uncomprehending shock for a moment - the plan for full-scale withdrawal had been done because it was necessary, but none had expected to use it - before scattering to their stations as his command sank in. "Star Admiral Binetti."
She looked at him, evidently expecting a peremptory and impossible command. Isaac restrained himself carefully; rage would not help here.
"Fight your ship, Star Admiral," was all he had to say. "Priority is defense of our JumpShips and extraction of as much of our ground forces and isorla as possible."
Binetti raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"You do not come into a ground engagement and tell me how to deploy my warriors," Isaac allowed, conceding to a specialist in their area of military expertise.
"I do not," Binetti agreed quietly. "I suspect I would be quite bad at it." Then, louder, her voice raised in command; "Helm, cut main drives, prepare for end-over and full acceleration; begin jump calculations. Gunnery, rig for main battery firing."
Isaac settled into his chair, ensuring the shock frame was locked tightly into place. He had given his orders, now there was nothing to do but wait; wait, and endure the sustained gut-wrenching sensation as Turkina's Pride's maneuvering thrusters flipped the battle cruiser around.
Icons crawled across the holotank with glacial sluggishness, and Isaac found his hands clenching reflexively into the positions they would have taken on his Shrike's control sticks. Everything in a naval action took so long, with no single warrior beneath the commanders able to influence matters. At least in a ground battle he would have been able to take his 'Mech and kill something.
The thought occurred that this was what powerless meant; to be robbed of mastery of yourself, dependent on others' decisions and the capricious whims of chance.
"Aspect change in enemy capital ship," one of the sensor techs reported, breaking the flow of Isaac's thoughts. "We have turnover and deceleration burn!"
"Damn. I had hoped they would hold off longer," Binetti murmured, so softly Isaac wasn't sure anyone but him had heard her, before raising her voice again. "Missile crews, initiate engagement. Slow rate, just enough to keep them honest."
"So," Isaac asked softly as the first missile icons began their journey across the plot, "what was your plan?" He didn't truly want to know, but asking at least felt better than sitting in silent ignorance.
"My hope was that they would try to cut the angles — burn between us and our JumpShips," Binetti said, highlighting a potential vector. "It would bring them into range sooner, but only for two, perhaps three, salvos at extreme range, and the acceleration needed would cost them crew casualties. As it is," she highlighted another vector track, "They have committed to a stern chase. Slower, but more likely to bring about a decisive engagement."
"Will they succeed?" The thought of dying helplessly did not appeal to Isaac.
"Perhaps, but I doubt it." Binetti tapped a data-stylus thoughtfully against her chair's armrest, considering the engagement dynamics. "That battleship has a great deal of velocity to make up, and limited overtake if they do not want their gun crews incapacitated by acceleration trauma. They may reach engagement range but we should be able to jump clear before they can bring their full firepower to bear."
"And, if you are wrong?"
"If I am wrong, my Khan, then very probably, we die." Binetti shrugged. "I was not aware ours was meant to be a safe occupation."
Isaac frowned at the rejoinder, considered for a moment rebuking Binetti for unseemly levity. But there was no point; and she is right. All warriors die, sooner or later. With no outlet for his frustration, he went back to watching the holotank, as if he could will the incoming ships to explode with the power of his hate. It was a woefully insufficient outlet for his feelings, but the only one he had available.
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===Monitoring Falcon's Flight===
Old Connaught, Arc-Royal
"Get me status on that battle cruiser," Evan Kell ordered curtly. "I want time to bombardment orbit, now."
The icons of the Rasalhague flotilla were already painted on the holotank, light-codes updating rapidly as more sensor imagery filtered through the battle-management system. Someone had possessed the presence of mind to paint them in a light snow-gray color, and translucent spheres of green, orange and crimson pulsed around both capital ships. Dotted plotting lines spanned out across the map, showing potential vectors and intercept points.
"Turkina's Pride, least time to orbit is one hour forty-five minutes, assuming zero-zero over Old Connaught," Leutnant-commander Donnelly called out in explanation, her hands flying over her plotting console. "Sleipson least-time to intercept in that case is two hours and fifteen to zero-zero."
Evan Kell felt a curious serenity descend on him. Half an hour. Not much, in the scheme of things; about the length of a 'Mech engagement, but now the gulf between survival and death, if Roshak truly was as insane as he seemed. No, Evan decided after a moment's thought, not insane. But quite possibly vindictive enough to want Wolf City and Old Connaught laid waste, even if he dies under the Sleipson's guns afterwards. It hadn't taken much longer than that for the Saber Cat to reduce Edo to a blackened scar on the face of Turtle Bay ninety years ago; and the firepower of the battle cruiser grinding towards them dwarfed the Jaguar destroyer's in the way his Daishi's did a Locust's. Speaking of which …
"Civil defense, sitrep."
"We're doing our best." The CD rep was one of the few civilians in Defense Command; a very young man wearing a rumpled business suit, a rather bad attempt at a mustache, and the fixed expression of someone doing their damnedest in a situation they knew was utterly beyond them. "My people are getting everyone they can into shelters - thank God for the Underground." There were emphatic nods at that; the stations of Old Connaught's underground rail had been built as bomb shelters for exactly this kind of situation. "Evacuation — we just don't have the time, or the resources." He took a deep, steadying breath, then went on. "Roads are jammed, and the only things left on the tarmac with their engines warm are a pair of K-series DropShuttles and a Seleucus. Their crews are throwing out everything but the bulkheads to try and fit more people in, and there's other ships trying to bring their drives up in time," breaking every safety regulation in the book to do it went unsaid but clearly heard. "We're doing all we can," the CD rep finished.
"That's good enough, son. Just keep at it," Evan replied, giving the younger man - I really have to learn his name - a hopefully reassuring look before turning to the holographic images of Andromeda and Commodore von Hammer. They were both in full combat rig; Andromeda in the cockpit of her Archer en route to Wolf City, and von Hammer strapped into his Eisensturm on the traffic over at Kirk Field. "Status, both of you."
"I've got a full regiment of the Hounds and about a brigade's worth of mercs heading for Wolf City," Andromeda reported. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes, and most of the mercs are willing to do this for O&M plus ammo costs." She laughed briefly. "Hell, Colonel, if they weren't willing to fight the Falcons, they wouldn't be here."
"We have two nuclear-armed squadrons on the tarmac and ready to launch," von Hammer cut in. "With enough escorts to punch at least one through to the Pride. These vultures will have to work for their meal."
"And if there should come a thousand swords to bear my bones away," Evan Kell quoted softly, poetry a thousand years old, "belike the price of a jackal's meal be more than a thief could pay." Then; "Alright then. Andromeda, I'm not going to run your battle from here. Kurt, you launch at the Pride hitting t-minus forty-five to orbit. That should -"
"The bitch has flipped!" The shout cut across the whole of Defense Command, drawing every to the holotank, and the shifting bearing markers for Turkina's Pride. "Sorry, sirs," the sensor tech who'd called it in carried on, shifting to more formal reporting, "Aspect change in enemy battle cruiser. She's end-overed and is commencing burn away from Arc-Royal."
"Well, looks like Roshak doesn't have the stomach for an even fight. Kurt, stand down the nuclear attack squadrons, but keep them at five-minute alert for now. Everything else, commit to ground support over Wolf City. Andromeda, press them hard. I don't want those bastards getting off Arc-Royal if there's any way we can stop them." Every Falcon we take down now is one we won't have to fight later, and might just keep one more Wolf civilian from being dragged off to whatever hell awaits them in the JFOZ.
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====Conversation with irate Falcon====
FCRS Karl Sleipson
In the armored heart of Karl Sleipson, blue-and-black uniformed personnel sat in battle harnesses at the myriad stations that provided the data demanded for modern combat operations. The holotank in the center of the chamber was fully lit up, displaying a three-dimensional section of space that included Arc-Royal. Angry amber icons marked with ghostly Jade Falcon insignia clustered both on and over the planet, as well as the vicinity of the planet's lunar L1 point. A final group was in transit between the planet and the L1 point. Various eyes noted the change in direction.
One of the uniformed techs spoke out. "Konteamiral, primary enemy naval force is burning to intercept us before we reach their JumpShips."
"I have eyes," snapped Konteadmiral Otto Lundsen. A man of pale tan complexion, a thin wiry build, thinner wolf-gray hair shaded from black, and an even thinner patience, Lundsen motioned sharply. "Order the Combat Element to cut the deceleration burn. If they want a fight I shall give them one, and the crews know to endure."
They obeyed. Lundsen noted the understanding in the eyes of his senior officers. We will have to burn harder towards the engagement, and that will be trying on the crews, but this will ensure we make an intercept. The enemy will not be escaping this fight. He turned his attention to the broad-shouldered figure beside him. "Generalmajor, if you wish to join your troops, I suggest you head for your command ship now, or you will not arrive on time."
"I will in a minute," the man rumbled. Though their rank was fairly close, Lundsen was firmly the subordinate to Generalmajor Lars Skafte. The former MechWarrior and Einherjar veteran bore not just his rank insignia but the sigil of the Free Communal Republic, the Nordic Cross laid under the paired heads of a wolf and a dragon-snake, marking him as the personal representative of the Gothi of the Republic.
Lundsen said nothing, indeed, had no time, as the connection completed. The holographic likeness of a grizzled man of Kell features appeared. <<"Evan Kell here, Colonel, Kell Hounds, and acting regent. Your timing couldn't have been much better. I was worried you weren't ready to jump yet.">>
<<"Konteadmiral Lundsen drills his crews well, and we kept a battery charge just for something like this," Skafte said. <<"How goes the battle?">>
"Roshak's taken a welding torch to the truce, even his version of. He may not have ordered his boys to chase Dame Eva outside of Wolf City, but they've done it and he's doubling down, especially since we've got an… unexpected complication. The Hound are going to hit the Falcons full-on in about ten minutes, especially with their bit big guns out of the equation. As for the Wolves, they're giving it everything they've got, but they're losing people every minute this goes on." Evan frowned. "We'll send you the images if you want. The damned Mongols are out to kidnap or murder everyone in Wolf City."
<<"Save your bandwidth. I've sent an advance force of Einherjar at high-G burn. The remainder of the Einherjar and the Eridani Heavy Cavalry will join the battle as they make orbit.">> Lars grinned wolfishly. <<"We have studied these 'Mongols' during our long journey, and we look forward to sending the murderous cowards to Hel's cold embrace. I will see you soon, Colonel. Skafte out.">>
Evan replied "We're waiting on you, Generalmajor" before his image disappeared.
"I leave our foes' naval power to you and your crews' skill, Konteamiral," Lars said. He motioned to his staff and departed the Sleipson's command center.
"Make ready for the Sigurd Minamoto to separate as soon as the General is aboard," Lundsen called out to his crew. "Standby for high-G deceleration burn."
Affirmatives answered him.
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====Assault Falcon Captures====
DropShip, FCRS Raoul Valder
En Route to Wolf City
The hour of high-G burn after so long in micro-G were a toll that no training could ever fully adjust for. It was in preparation for such a burn that Vicekorpral Myron Hemswick of the First Einherjar Rapid Assault Battalion had joined his squad in suiting up. Now they stood in a common support cradle for six soldiers, their Jomsviking battle armor suits easing somewhat the pressures of the gravities pressing down on them. The passage was an ordeal physical and mental, as the time-honored need to "hurry up and wait" left them aching for anything, even the deadliness of combat, to get away from the monotony of the wait.
By the halfway point of the voyage, the entire platoon had found an outlet. One by one, they took up songs taught to them in the training camps and on drill marches. Metal ballads, old chants passed down across two thousand years, everything that anyone could remember coming one after the other. It would be added to the other songs and such being broadcast over the enemy's comm channels, an Einherjar tradition to remind their foes of their approach, like the Vikings of old singing shanties at the oars of their longships.
They were on a fourth repeat of the old shanty "My Mother Told Me" — trading between squads for each verse, while the others kept time with the slap of armored hands against thigh plates — when the bay lights suddenly came on. The flash of red had every member of the platoon tensing up, even as the gravities pressing on them subsided slightly. The singing stopped and Lojtnant Mendelssohn's voice crackled to life. "We're on drop approach. Standby for release!"
This is it. Myron swallowed and, by clenching his fingers, triggered his suit's systems to provide one more readiness check. The SRM launcher on his back was loaded and ready to fire its salvo, and the BA-PPC built into the left arm showed green capacitor charge and all functions clear. His vibro-axe was secure on the back mount, ready to be wielded by the right hand. Power charge was maxed and would remain so until they were released from the support cradle for the drop. Jump jets flashed functional. Feather until final ten meters and then full shot, he reminded himself, recalling the drop training he'd endured upon assignment to the Rapid Assault Battalion. Start too early or too late, I'll break my legs if I'm lucky.
The light turned yellow. Once more Lojtnant Mendelssohn spoke up. "Einherjar! The Falcon butchers are beginning a withdrawal with civilian captives. Check your fire, but at a clear shot, send these butchers to the icy hand of Hel!"
Myron joined the chorus of affirmations at the order. A counter showed on his HUD, telling him the estimated time to the appropriate drop point. Thrumming and the occasional hard thud was heard through the bay. They were taking fire, but the DropShip's armor was holding. Steady. Steady.
The light turned green.
The lateral bay doors slid open. The cradle released. "Go go go!" Mendelssohn called, and Myron ran for the bay doors. Ahead, a crimson sky of smoke and flame spoke of a war zone like any he'd seen in the holovids and battleROMs of the Fourth Succession War, with lances of light and tracer fire lashing skyward. Training kicked in and he jumped almost as a second thought, not quite comprehending it until he was in free fall. His HUD lit up with active reactor signatures and life signs below. The computers installed in his suit received their data directly from the Valder, and the HUD started flashing red, green, and blue silhouettes over his enemies, comrades, and allies respectively.
Throughout the descent he repeatedly clenched his pinky and index finger, triggering the jump jets for bursts to keep his descent speed under control. The moment the altimeter verified he was in the final ten meters he held them in place, maintaining thrust that carried him to the ground. The impact was painful and rattled him within the suit, but everything confirmed he'd landed safely.
There was no time to gain bearings. The Valder's crew had dropped them right on top of the enemy. Immediately in view were figures wreathed in red and blue by his HUD, the latter in civilian clothes and being herded by the hulking battle armor troopers in red. The nearest registered Myron's presence, but got no opportunity to act. The sapphire beam of Lojtnant Mendelssohn's laser slashed a glowing scar across the breastplate of the enemy trooper's suit. Support PPC isn't good for the civilians, not with the particle backwash. Myron dismissed the particle gun's targeting cursor with a practiced blink, drawing his ax and beginning a lunge in the same motion. The Falcon must've caught the move in their peripheral vision, starting to twist aside with blinding speed; but not fast enough as Myron planted the smile of his ax squarely in their breastplate. Their twisting motion tore it back out, leaving a bite almost a handspan deep in the armor, deep enough to draw a brief trickle of blood before the thick, tar-like HarJel plugged the breach. What it absolutely did was fix their attention; completing the turn, the Falcon warrior unleashed a punishing hail of fire from their machine-gun. Myron staggered as the heavy-caliber slugs battered at his armor, raising welts of orange and yellow across the damage readouts and bruises across his skin even through the padded undersuit. He lashed out with his ax, a crude underhand blow; felt it connect, shearing through the machine-gun's barrels. The Falcon took an instinctive step back to gain room to bring their claw into play. This gave Mendelssohn an opening to put a laser bolt into the wound his ax had opened, blasting it wider and stunning the Falcon with pain. Myron put his full armor-augmented strength into a solid overhand blow, placing the smile of his ax right into the crown of the Falcon's helm; splitting it from there to the jawline. Mendelssohn's laser flashed again, into the split faceplate; decisively cutting the enemy warrior's personal thread of fate.
This foe was not the only one to fall. Myron's HUD reflected his comrades were readily overwhelming the foe at this spot, aided by their allies. He leveled his support PPC at a distant target, another battle armor trooper firing into rubble. The shot was a partial hit, scourging armor from the winged suit's back and neatly breaking off a wing tip. The foe staggered and other shots brought them down before Myron could get another shot off.
A movement in red caught the corner of his eye. He turned to see one of the enemy troopers closest to a gaggle of blue-wreathed figures in jump suits and civilian clothes. The winged suit's arm came up, revealing the nozzle of a flamer, and Myron prepared himself for the shot before realizing what the enemy trooper was doing. A furious "NO!" erupted from his throat as his index and pinky fingers clenched inside his suit. His jump jets fired as he leaned forward, propelling him in a short but significant hop toward the enemy trooper. To his rage and horror, they didn't turn.
The flamer fired.
There was a scream and one, then two, of the civilians were ablaze. The Falcon trooper's arm shifted, but they didn't claim another, as Myron landed right in front of them. The flames instead enveloped his Jomsviking suit. The sheer heat of the plasma fire seeped through his armor plate and filled his chest and shoulders with its sting, as if he were barechested and mere millimeters before a roaring flame. Yet his armor did hold, and more to the point, the civilians now behind him were free to flee for safety. Wordless fury erupted from his throat as he swing his right arm down on the Falcon's weapon. The first blow missed the nozzle, instead tearing but not breaking through the limb armor. The Falcon tried to move, tracking the arm towards Myron's visor, but he got his left arm up and gripped the offending weapon with the armored fist of the limb. Holding it steady allowed the next swing of his ax to crush the flamer nozzle. He pulled the arm back while the Falcon's own left arm up came up in a wild punch at Myron's head. The impact didn't break through the armor or visor, but it left him spinning for a moment, allowing the Falcon to jump backward and try to get range.
With colors still in his vision from the blow, Myron lifted his left arm and fired. The BA-PPC's azure bolt caught the Falcon mid-air and sent them off course, flying wildly backward until they hit the ground. Myron rushed after them and arrived just as they started to recover. "To Hel with you!" he shouted while swinging the ax down on the Falcon's head module.
Maybe the armor was weakened by an earlier shot, or something was pushing the myomer muscle powering the blow beyond its usual strength, or the edge of the vibro-axe simply found the right spot. Whichever was true, the blow didn't just crack the helmet, but struck clear through the Falcon's visor as well and found the trooper's flesh-and-blood body within. A spray of crimson and gray erupted from the cleaved head of the Falcon suit, splattering blood and brain over Myron. The enemy trooper stilled and fell over.
My first kill. I always wondered how it would feel. His mind flashed back to the flame consuming those civilians and his soul burned with eager satisfaction. You are avenged.
The presence of a shadow drew his attention. A large winged BattleMech in black and emerald loomed over him, directing its fire at a machine his systems identified as an Arcadian Warhound. "Squad, salvo!" ordered Sargent Toyama's voice. Myron reacted immediately, focusing his attention on the black winged 'Mech and squeezing his ring and middle fingers together. The SRM launcher on his back fired. Ten more missiles joined from around him, then another twenty-four as an entire squad of his comrades with Jomsviking Model II suits unloaded one of their salvoes from their larger SRM4 back-mounted launchers. Some of the missiles missed but the Falcon 'Mech took multiple hits, staggering it and allowing for the amber-colored Warhound to fire a surviving arm's laser weaponry into the exposed chest of the winged Falcon machine. The identifier — Shrike — finally came to Myron's attention even as the machine toppled.
But there were more Falcon 'Mechs, and Falcon troopers, and more of those blue-wreathed figures in their cloth and leather jumpsuits and clothes. With the heat of the murderous flamer still tingling on his chest, Myron checked his systems and moved to rejoin his squad on the attack.
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====Escalating Losses====
Black Lion Class Battlecruiser, JFWS Turkina's Pride
As a MechWarrior Isaac Roshak found naval battle supremely frustrating. He had no power here, no ability to do anything about the fight, even in terms of giving orders he was reliant upon the aerospace warriors in charge of his flagship. All he could do was watch on the holotank as the red indicators of the interlopers thwarting his victory continued to exist in defiance of his rage. He wanted nothing less than to burn their homeworlds to ash, to annihilate all they loved and cared for, to leave a ruin to remind the Spheroids of the fate that properly awaited his foes. Instead, he could only watch.
From the distant void, crackling bolts of particle fire that would dissolve a 'Mech at contact slammed into the Turkina's Pride once more, and her weapons lashed out in furious retort. The range was still long enough to keep it from being decisive, but from the date reports he could overhear, the Falcon flagship was not winning this battle. One of their escorting Pocket WarShips fared worse. Two bolts of PPC fire from the enemy naval vessels struck amidships and cracked the vessel open, tearing it into two pieces. Another precious vessel lost!
A radio call came from Arc-Royal. Wanda Helmer's visage reflected she was still at her command post, the DropShip Hunter's Gaze. "My Khan, the first interloping forces have arrived. Their numbers are not great but they have already severely disrupted our operations in that sector of the city. Gamma's collection forces are pulling back. Mine must as well, and we must be quick. If the remainder of incoming enemy ships arrive they may shoot us down as we make orbit."
"You have my permission to withdraw with honor, as much isorla has already been claimed," Isaac said. "Have your best warriors, your best Mongol warriors, be the ones who board first, and get every bit of that isorla with them. The other formations can prove their skill and loyalty by how well they hold off the Spheroid pets and their masters in their escape."
She nodded. "Understood, my Khan!"
Barely had the image disappeared before the entire ship lurched hard. Star Admiral Binetti met his demanding glare. "Hull penetrations, frames twelve-fifty to twelve-fifty-four, my Khan. Our main armor is still mostly intact, but that was dangerously close to one of the aft naval autocannon magazines; another series of hits like that may ignite them. And we have no options to break off engagement that do not leave the enemy a large engagement window to strike at our JumpShips."
Aff. And I suspected such would likely happen. It is why I prepared. "Star Admiral, give the authority. Release the Black Feathers."
Binetti, as committed a Mongol as he, nodded fiercely.
All while the battle continued, and more precious ships were lost to the enemy fire, the fighters quietly gathered. From the JFWS Mongol Talon came the aerospace fighters and their specially trained pilots, with their special payloads. Two-score, double Binary strength. Painted the black of the void around them, their engines flared like captured stars as they plunged down on the enemy like the Clan's namesake beast; accelerating as swiftly as Clan science could allow them to survive. Enemy pilots broke off in twos and fours to intercept, but a shield of Falcon interceptors turned their blows aside. And speed was the Feathers' ally; even as more incoming fire hammered at the Pride, Isaac Roshak could see the track markers slash through the interlopers' aerospace screen.
Defensive batteries woke to full and dread life as the Feathers closed on the WarShips and their range-fields came clear. Neon-bright laser beams, particle cannon lightning-arcs, the bright, brief flares of missiles and explosive cluster shells tore at space. Triple spotlight beams of capital-class lasers joined that array as one of the battleship's escorts managed to maneuver clear enough for its main battery to engage, and Isaac felt like cursing as icons began to vanish from the plot; blown apart, simply annihilated by the capital-class beams, or crippled beyond ability to launch their payloads, it didn't matter. Each one gone was another chance to survive this lost before it could be used. Fire! Fire before you die, dammit!
As if hearing his unspoken command, the survivors' icons blossomed and multiplied, spawning more than a score of Alamos boosting for the flagship. The Feathers broke away; the enemy's attention drawn away from them and onto the inbounds. More weapons fire split the void, joined by the ripping tracer-strings of antimissile arrays as the range dropped. Isaac ground his teeth as missile icons began to vanish. Was this it, every gamble he tried fallen to nothing against this Hell-spawned foe?
Newborn suns blossomed in Arc-Royal's cis-lunar orbital space, half a dozen detonations centered around the Rasalhaguan flotilla. For a moment, as radiation milked out the sensor displays and the brilliant glare washed out visual, Isaac let himself hope for annihilation.
As the glare faded, the form of the enemy battleship pushed through the dissipating mist of plasma. No, it hadn't taken the direct hits that no material could withstand, but Isaac could see plainly it hadn't been for nothing. At least two of the heavy Pocket WarShips were gone, and one of the destroyers fell out of formation, crippled, main drives dead, and shedding life pods and smallcraft. The wolf-headed WarShip had seen two proximity initiations that inflicted clear damage on their broadside and forward weapons mounts. He could see the track markers of rescue craft already maneuvering to assist; weakness.
"Enemy capital vessel registering decreased deceleration. Telemetry indicates one of the Alamos detonated off their aft quarter; must've caught one of their engine pods," one of the naval techs reported.
Isaac recognized what that meant, could see it play out on the main holotank. The enemy WarShip's already narrow margin of overtake had been cut still further; this left their window of engagement too tight to achieve much "Formulate new calculations, will our troops make it to their JumpShips before the enemy can adjust and intercept?" Binetti asked.
A few moments passed. "With a twenty minute margin, Admiral. There is a four minute window in which the enemy will have extreme range effective fire possible, but at their current deceleration their velocity will be too great to maintain firing range for longer, and it will be hours before they can change their heading effectively at their velocity."
"Then we shall make good the escape." Isaac said.
"Aff. Though our losses are severe, and that may worsen. The JumpShips will need to be carefully covered, and we may lose some in the enemy's brief engagement window anyway. As for our combat forces, over a third of the NL-45 contingent are gone, and half of our Pocket WarShip fleet are either lost or so damaged that extensive repair will be required. Aerospace fighter losses are over a third of our bid warriors, including the Black Feathers. They will not be able to launch another such attack on the enemy fleet, and as things are, we will not survive another battle like this."
"There will be more Black Feathers, Admiral. Every solahma, aerospace pilot or not, will be interested in the glory of dying for the Jade Falcons in this way." And more than a few of the waverers in the Bloodnamed might accept this death to save their genespawn from a Trial of Reaving.
A thought seized Isaac. "Put me on. A live transmission to our foes."
"Aff, my Khan."
It took little time for one of the comm techs to confirm they were transmitting. "To the interlopers, I am Khan Isaac Roshak of the Jade Falcon Clan, the new Chinghis Khan. What you have seen is but a small example of the fire that awaits you if you make war upon my Clan. If you strike at us, prepare for death, for none will survive our talons, and all measures will be taken to defend our rightful conquests." He motioned for the transmission to be ended. Let the Spheroids quake at that, knowing that every system will see our atomic fire.
He turned his attention to the ongoing evacuation from Arc-Royal. He was going to lose troops, that could not be avoided, but at least the dezgra Wolves would take generations to recover, and from their machine toolings and captured lower castes, the Falcons' means to make war would be improved. Let this strike and the Black Feathers show our resolve to our foes, to die and to kill all of them as we do!
"We have an incoming signal, my Khan." The comm tech lifted her head. At his nod, she flipped a switch to play it.
<<"I am Generalmajor Lars Skafte of the FolksArme. Do you think we fear a few nuclear warheads? If that is the fate carved for us in this war, then so be it. Valhalla awaits the brave and true. For you and your Clan, there will be nothing but death and Hel.">> The signal abruptly cut.
Isaac glowered at the holotank. That glower slowly transformed into a snarl. Spheroid bravado. They lack our genes, our upbringing, our strength. They will break in the end. They always do. Not that it matters. I would rather us die screaming to the enemy than live the life Stephanie Chistu and Beckett Malthus would have foisted upon us, which would lead to death anyway. The Mongol Way is the only way worthy of us, and if we are to die, better to die fighting as Mongols than any other death.
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====Moral Boost====
FCRS Sigurd Minamoto
Lars' impatience finally faded as Lundsen appeared upon his holotank. He is angrier than I. "Report, Konteadmiral."
"We've lost three batteries and twice as many gun crews, and our flight deck's outer doors were welded shut. We cannot launch or recover fighters or smallcraft until we get explosive charges down there to blast them clear. Worse is that the shock damage disabled our Number One engine."
"For how long?" Lars could feel, even through the screen, the frustration radiating from Lundsen despite his usual stern, controlled demeanor. If the Konteadmiral had climbed out on the Sleipson's hull and hated at that moment, Lars was sure that hate would've erased the whole Falcon flotilla from existence.
"It could be damage to the liquid helium tubes or maybe the plasma manifolds. The best case scenario if it's either of those would be that we have to take the whole engine system offline for hours. As it is, I would have to overfire our remaining operational engines to maintain our firing window, and I am not convinced it would be worth the crew casualties or exacerbating the structural damage from those nuclear strikes."
"I leave that decision to your discretion," Lars said. He knew better than to try and meddle with a naval commander's decision, even if he felt dissatisfaction at it. We are denied the early victory, then, though the enemy has certainly felt our wrath in this battle. "What of our other ships?"
"The Susquehanna has been completely crippled, and the Altenmarkt took severe radiation casualties due to armor failure. Between the nuclear attack and the combat beforehand, we have six crippled or destroyed picket ships, and we are still counting aerospace fighter loss from the engagement. The rest of the Expeditionary Fleet weathered the nuclear strikes with minimal damage. Were it not for the engine damage, the enemy's destruction would be assured." The sheer bitterness of that last sentence oozed from every syllable.
"Very well. Complete the engagement as you deem best. And Konteadmiral?"
"Yes?"
"Circulate the notice to all vessels." Lars' expression curled into a furious glower. "Atomic weapons lockers may be accessed in all future engagements."
Lundsen nodded. "It will be done."
We should have had them ready for this one. The thought came to him quickly and brutally. But it is so easy to fall into routine, and we were complacent by these Falcons not using atomics on the Arcadians.
Lars turned his attention back to the holotanks. Even now the 119th Eridani Strikers, of the Eridani Heavy Cavalry, were joining the First Einherjar's Rapid Assault Battalion in the fighting on Arc-Royal. Enemy DropShips and aerospace fighters continued a fierce engagement with his advance forces, fighting to withdraw with their stolen lives and materials. The enemy's numbers and defense were enough that he knew some would break away, though not all, as the imaging clearly shown what looked like a modified Union-class ship breaking up in the atmosphere as explosions consumed the fiery orb's guts. Going by the reports, the enemy may have had captives aboard. Captives who are dying alongside their abductors. A pity. I do not wish their deaths, but perhaps this is more merciful than the fate they awaited in the enemy's cruel hands.
His mind flashed back to all the labor camps, the prisons, that his Einherjar and other comrades had liberated during the war. All the broken bodies of his countrymen he found. The cold fury built in his heart, and he felt that old lingering desire to throw himself and his 'Mech at the Dracs once more.
When the appointed day and hour comes, the Dracs will rue the day they let Kori Kurita betray her grandmother's vows. But we fight one war at a time. These Falcons will die first.
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