BtH20

==Chapter 20 - By the Horns==
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ComStar Class A HPG Station
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 27th, 3025
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“Hey, Bob,” one of the guards called out to his companion, who sighed.
“Look, Jeremy—Chief Waters is going to have both our asses if you keep talking when you are supposed to be standing post. What?”
“You ever seen one of those before?” the relatively new ComStar recruit pointed at the ‘Mechs moving along the boulevard—a late night exercise, according to the TDF. Nothing to worry about, the guard thought. The Taurians often conducted exercises of tanks and ‘Mechs and infantry at odd hours—even here in the core of the capital.
“They’re ‘Mechs, Waters,” he said . . . but then he actually looked at them. And he frowned. They were ‘Mechs, to be certain, but of a design he had never before seen. And the Battalion marching by . . . every last one of the ‘Mech were that same unfamiliar design. What the hell? No one fielded entire battalions of the same BattleMech—not since the Fall of the League, at least. And that insignia—Robert Grey knew the shoulder flash of every TDF unit on Taurus, but he had never before seen that flash . . . and his eyes grew wide. Not outside of a museum, the cold realization came bubbling up from the depths of his memory.
He reached down and placed his hand on the phone—and that was when the line of ‘Mechs and tanks and infantry carriers suddenly wheeled and began advancing on the compound. “SHIT!” he screamed—but the incoming PPC bolt tore apart the guard shack before he had the opportunity to trigger the alarm.
Of course, the explosions and weapons fire was more than enough to alert the men and women who called the ComStar compound home.
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“What is happening?” Precentor Taurus screamed as he entered the control center—he was still pulling on his robes of station.
“Thomas has gone mad—I do believe that this is his answer to the Primus,” the ROM Chief of Station said bitterly. “He’s attacking the facility.”
The ComStar leader blanched . . . and then he cursed. “The HPG—I’ve got to get to the HPG,” he said. “Can you hold them off?”
“How long do you need?” the ROM officer asked with a grimace—and both men ducked as an outlying structure erupted in a fireball . . . and hundreds of Taurian infantry darted in through the breaks in the compound walls.
“Five minutes minimum—ten would be better.”
“My boys can give you three—maybe four. May I suggest you implement the Omega Protocol, Precentor?”
Precentor Taurus nodded. He inserted a key into one of the computer stations of the command center; entered a short code, and then he turned the key. “Omega Protocol activated,” he said. But the ROM Agent was already gone, leading the men and women of the security force in trying to hold back tanks and ‘Mechs and infantry with only small arms.
Damn you, Thomas Calderon. You have condemned the entire Concordat to death with this action, he thought as he knelt in the entrance—looking at the twenty meters that separated him from the entrance to the communications dome at the center of the compound. Twenty meters—just twenty meters. However, it was twenty meters filled with weapons fire. Gritting his teeth, Precentor Taurus dashed out, zigging and zagging as he rushed toward the entrance of the dome. He never saw the Taurian paratrooper drifting down from above who fired a burst into his back as he sprinted across the open courtyard.
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The outer compound was child’s play to secure—but the dome itself featured multiple levels, many beneath the city streets. And the tight quarters, plus fear of causing damage to the invaluable HPG restricted the weapons that Corporal Mueller and his maniple could carry to light-weight SMGs and pistols, along with a handful of flame incinerator units.
Say what you want about their beliefs, he thought, the robes were throwing up heavy resistance in his path. And that made him wonder—why does a religion that preaches peace need to have so many well-trained and heavily-armed people? He stopped next to a corridor junction and then he nodded at one of his men—the one carrying the flamer. The trooper gritted his teeth and he stepped forward, extending his arms around the bend and squeezing the trigger . . . and screams began to fill the corridor, along with a few initial gunshots.
“Go,” Mueller ordered, and the maniple of ten troopers rounded the corner—firing single shots into the burning figures ahead of them. It was a mercy, really, he thought. Better than letting the fire finish its work.
A single pistol shot snapped ahead of him, and Mueller crouched—but he didn’t hear the passage of the bullet. And then another. And a third.
He broke into a run and entered the HPG chamber itself, and without thinking he raised his SMG to his shoulder and fired three bursts into the back of the security officer who was casually shooting the technicians in the head. Shooting his own people in the fucking head, Mueller thought as he swore.
The next tech in line, the one that the ROM agent had been about to execute, sobbed. “Thank Blake,” he cried. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Mueller and his men spread out and they searched the chamber—but the security man with the pistol had been the last line of defense. “Bravo Three-Two,” he broadcast. “HPG secure—we have live prisoners,” and then Mueller frowned as he saw the red flashing lights on one console. That can’t be good, he thought. Then he blanched. “Central, they’ve set their reactor on overload—we have . . . three minutes to core detonation.”
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“I thought you were the best, Harper?” the sergeant growled at the Explosive Ordnance Disposal tech. “Disarm the bloody thing right quick, now!”
“It ain’t a bomb, Sarge! It’s a bloody damned fusion reactor! And the controls are locked!” Patricia Harper snapped as she wiggled her way into the wire-filled outer containment vessel.
“Just turn the damn thing off!” the Sergeant bellowed again. Already, the Taurians were evacuating the troops above—and the civilians in nearby residential sections. If this thing blew . . . well, several thousand people would have a very bad morning. Pat crawled through the outer containment vessel and then she found what she was looking for.
“Got it!” she snarled. “Time to core overload?”
“Forty seconds,” the radio squawked.
“It’s all about the fuel,” she said as she worked. “These things can’t sustain a reaction without the fuel feed—cut the lines and avert the overload.”
“Can’t be that simple, can it?” asked the Sergeant.
“Making a bomb is easy, Sarge—making one that will go off on a moments notice and NOT blow up when someone bumps into on a daily basis; well, that’s a bit more difficult. But they don’t need to use a bomb, not when they can overload this generator.”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Problem is, unlike a bomb, it takes time to build up to detonation—and a LOT of fuel. Cut,” she grunted as she finished wrapping the det cord, “the fuel lines and the whole thing goes cold.”
“Unless you breach containment—you are right up against the interior vessel, Harper.”
“Twenty seconds.”
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Sarge. I’ve got it—backing out now,” and she began to crawl away from the fuel lines . . . and then she cursed.
“Fuck,” she whispered as she tried to move—but she was caught on the wiring, hung up good.
“Ten seconds,” the radio whispered.
“Get out of there, Harper!” the Sergeant yelled.
“No time, Sarge,” she whispered as she lifted the trigger for the detonator. “No time,” and she closed her eyes as she hit the clacker twice. The explosion tore apart the fuel lines—and the reactor’s safeties automatically shut off the fuel flow as sensors indicated a leak in the outer containment vessel. Without the fuel, the fusion reactor in the INNER vessel slowly weakened and dissipated.
She had saved thousands of lives—at the cost of her own. And she was only one of hundreds of Taurians who sacrificed themselves for their Protector, their nation, their people that day.
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