He shivered, though he knew the cockpit didn’t hold a chill and would soon be anything but cold. He hated it here. Hated the snow and the isolation from anything living beyond the small force around him. Hell, he would’ve preferred Hecate’s Swamp to this eternal cold. But not James. Wherever the action was.
Had Cameron ever been that young? That naïve? He hoped not.
“Yes, James. Wonderful.” Did the boy hear the sarcasm? Probably not. The starch of his new cooling vest (handed to him, what, six months ago upon graduation from the NMA?) probably pushed up against his ears, making it hard for him to hear anything. Beyond his own voice, of course.
Cameron couldn’t help but let a quirky smile spread his slim lips, a sparkle flashing in hazel eyes. He knew a certain lieutenant colonel who shepherded a younger, stupider Cameron through his first year after the Academy. Who almost throttled him on at least ten different occasions. At least.
Cameron reached forward and toggled from the topographical map that displayed across the secondary screen, to radar, as the ghost of Geoff McFadden’s words seemed to rise up like holography, temporarily blotting out the forward view screen and the snowy terrain beyond.
When you’re a leader, you lead And protect. One comes with the other. If you can’t protect those under your command to the best of your ability, if you can’t lead them to be leaders themselves—well, then you’ve no business wearing The Bars.
Always the capitalizations in his voice.
Geoff’s words seemed to echo in the confines of the cockpit. The man had been the father he never knew; regardless of the weight, Cameron tried to carry the responsibilities he now held with the same dedication and honor his mentor did. How could he do anything less?
The radar began sweeping, pinpointing Caden’s lance, Geoff’s Old Guard lance and the lance on loan from the Third Proserpina Hussars. Twelve ’Mechs—several green warriors. What would they find over the hill? He checked his secondary monitor and radar screen once more, which showed a pair of Tatsu aerospace fighters whipping away at well over Mach two, vanishing over the mountain.
“Thanks for the fire, Hussars. Kind of cold up here.” Lieutenant-colonel McFadden’s voice broke over the commline.
Cameron smiled and checked the radar to see Geoff’s lance the next ridgeline over, but more importantly, several hundred meters closer to the crash sight. He shook his head, feeling the comforting weight of his neurohelmet. “Going to get yourself in trouble, boss,” he said, but softly enough not to activate his own mic. With that flight actually attached to the Hussars’ Third battalion, and O’Riley’s touchiness over having to do combat exercises—regardless of how few were involved—with mere mercenaries in this northern, frozen wasteland, Cameron just knew ol’ Harrison would make his voice known. Later of course. Always later. And much worse than the original offense.
You’d think the Third Proserpina were a Sword of Light regiment for all their prickliness.
“No problem, Old Guard. Glad to bring a match to the barbecue. Just make sure what we tossed onto your grill is crispy black when you’re done. Hai?” The unknown pilot’s voice boomed laughter, lively and good natured. Cameron felt shock. No way could he be part of the Hussars.
“Okay Highlanders,” Geoff’s strong voice began, “they’ve downed some bad guys. Time for us to put them away. Move forward at best speed and engage at will,” with the unspoken tag line before the Hussars lance has all the fun. A series of affirmatives echoed across the commline.
Of course Cameron would’ve loved to be taking command of this by himself, but with the Old Guard command lance on hand to help smooth the training issues between elements of MacLeod’s Third Battalion and the Hussars’ Third…well, he couldn’t be happier to have the old man along for the ride.
Cameron reached over and pushed his own throttle forward a half, sending his Wolverine into a smart step forward—difficult through the deep snow. One of these days he really did mean to send a surprise gift to the quartermaster who’d managed to acquire several of the new WVR-8K from the DCMS. He’d been in it less than a year, but knew already he never wanted to pilot another machine. He could’ve probably gotten one of the Clan machines taken off of Huntress due to his credentials at the Academy, but he felt confident nothing would’ve felt this good. This right.
“Okay, boys,” he spoke up to his own lance, “you heard the boss. Bad guys over the ridge and we get to clean up the mess. Provided the fly boys left us any scraps.”
The responding laughter felt good. Although he was serious. With the way the DropShip had come down, he wouldn’t be surprised if they found nothing but a black smear against pristine white.
Ten minutes passed way too slowly. Manipulating pedals and joysticks to maneuver through the thick powder and heavy woods, he kept an eye on the radar, which showed almost a dozen green darts moving forward to the guesstimated position of the downed craft. With the high iron-content of the mountain, good readings of what they would face were simply not coming in. He knew the DropShip held a capacity to carry five Clan ’Mechs. But how many of them could possible have survived?
The Old Guard made contact first; the heavy boom of autocannon fire echoed across jagged rocks and lonely copses of trees as McFadden drew first blood with his Hatchetman. Cameron’s own lance simply could not move quickly enough and McFadden wanted a taste of action before the Hussars. Typical.
“Okay boys. Let’s show ‘em young bloods can keep up with geriatrics.”
He stomped down on his pedals and vented plasma lifted his fifty-five ton machine into the air, sublimated snow blasting around him in a send-off halo. He landed smoothly and launched again, just about cresting the ridge where the battle unfolded. Then remembered only
