BtH42

==Chapter 42 - By the Horns==
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Field HQ, McCarron’s Armored Cavalry
Pinard Protectorates Limited Facility Eight, MacLeod’s Land
Taurian Concordat
November 14th, 3025
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“Tell me we got something worth our time and losses,” Archie snapped as he walked into his temporary Field Headquarters half a kilometer from the PPL production facility. For the past two days, the break in the weather systems had allowed the MAC to bombard Dougal, smashing buildings flat and starting fires—but the Taurians had not budged, nor had they asked for any terms of surrender. And Archie was beginning to believe that they wouldn’t. He was being pressured by Romano’s liaison—Major Eric Handel—to go ahead and assault the city . . . but Archie had no intention of doing that. Not after the meat-grinder of Port Caine.
The loss reports were bad—not quite as morbid as he had first expected, but bad all the same. The Renegades—Richard Steele’s Renegades, now—had more than seven companies worth of ‘Mechs out of the fight . . . and just half of those were fit for salvaging. That Regiment had suffered the worse, and the loss of three cargo ships filled with munitions and supplies had made the situation even more untenable. The Wild Ones and Nightriders had suffered less—but even they had nearly one ‘Mech in three fit only for rebuilding or spare parts.
So, no. Despite what Major Handel was demanding, Archie wasn’t about to charge head-long into the bunkers surrounding Dougal. In fact, he thought to himself, it is time to think about ending this will I still can—at least he had crippled the TDF’s battalion of Chasseurs; if they had so much as a lance left intact, it would surprise him. And that bastard Gordon—Gordon had made one mistake when he tried to double back and catch Archie’s DropShips in the Drop-zone . . . but Archie had been prepared for that and a composite battalion from the Wild Ones and Nightriders had been waiting for him. The lighter ‘Mechs of the Taurian mercenaries had been hit hard . . . and now Nicholas Gordon was somewhere out there licking his own wounds.
The good news was that his techs had been able to salvage about two dozen of the Taurian ‘Mechs to make up for his losses—well, recover, if not fully salvage. The latter would take time . . . more time than Archie knew he had. And if the excited reports from his search teams here at PPC/Fac 8 were anything to go by, then he might well have hit the motherlode.
Jethro Harper grinned at his boss—as the Chief Technical Officer of McCarron’s Armored Cavalry it was his job to keep Archie’s machines running. “I think so—lighter than we like, but it’s a gold mine in there, Mac.”
Archie grunted. “Talk to me.”
“Well, first off—Pinard was producing three types of ‘Mechs here: Stingers, Locusts, and Clints according to intelligence. Intel was wrong,” Jethro chuckled. “The Taurians stopped production on their bugs and instead retooled to produce those new lights we’ve been hearing rumors about . . . and that you’ve spent the past four days fighting.”
Archie grimaced. The Taurians had fielded two new models of BattleMechs that he had never seen before—he had only heard a few whispered rumors circulated among mercenaries of some new Taurian scout 'Mechs. Both were thirty-tonners, light-weight fighters to be certain, but heavier than the traditional Stingers and Locusts by ten tons. The BDT-1A Bandit was heavily armored—for a light BattleMech—and carried pretty hefty firepower for a 30-ton war machine . . . while still managing to be as fast and mobile as the more traditional Stingers and Wasps. The PRT-1A Patriot sacrificed the jump jets for a larger engine; although not quite as fast as a Locust, it was able to match an Assassin or Jenner in a foot-race, and it too carried armor all out of proportion to what most ‘Mechs these days carried; along with a pretty decent package of guns.
“Apparently, they were getting ready to ship out the first export units, Mac—there are ten Patriots and twenty-two Bandits complete just sitting in the warehouse, with a baker’s dozen in various stages of construction. Along with a dozen finished Clints—they are producing those here, still.”
“The 2-3T? Or those slower ones we encountered?” asked Archie.
Jethro grinned again. “All twelve are those 3-3Ts you’ve been fighting—bit slower, but heavier armor and a few more guns.”
“Forty-four fresh ‘Mechs?” Archie mused.
“Hot off the production lines—and I’ve looted enough spares to keep ‘em running for years,” he looked down at the ground. “Mac, I’ve been ordered to wreck this place and I know that you didn’t issue that order. ‘Mech factories are too rare to just destroy for the hell of it, and frankly it goes against the grain.”
Archie winced. “Let me guess—Handel?”
“Right in one, boss.”
“Ignore his orders, Harp,” Archie said bluntly, “you work for me, not some Romano stooge. I want everything you can get loaded in the next thirty-six hours aboard the ships—we should have enough empty bays to get them all in. Then, we are going home.”
“Not waiting for Phase 2?” asked Jethro with a look of apprehension on his face.
“Not a chance in hell, Harp—if MacLeod’s Land is this heavily defended, I don’t want to even think about hitting New Vandenberg. This fucking campaign is over—that’s why I got us command rights from that Liao bitch.” Archie paused. “Thirty-six hours . . . can you do it?”
“It’ll be tight, but not having to divert men to wire this place to blow sky-high will help . . . we should be able to get everything loaded in what transport we have left, boss.”
“Then get to it.”
“What about, Handel?”
“Oh, didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“About that mortar attack this afternoon,” Archie said with a smile. “Poor Handel was killed.”
“Boss, it’s morning.”
“Yeah, I know. Son-of-a-bitch doesn’t seem to want to fit inside a mortar tube, but I told the staff to break his hips and shoulder blades; that should make it easy to slide him down the tube of one of the big mortars. When they get him loaded, we are going to shoot him at Dougal,” Archie chuckled. “The report will read KIA in mortar attack—it won’t say that it was our attack and he was our shell!”
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