Archer punched up the tactical monitors. “Okay then. If we’ve done our job they are going to be coming for us any time now with everything. Get the sappers out. I want the main avenues of approach rigged with mines, traps, everything we brought with us. Clear out your fields of fire and establish fire zones. Get the artillery deployed at their assigned sectors and get your fire control teams in place.”
“Do you think it worked sir?” Major Gett asked.
“I sure as hell hope so,” he replied. “Otherwise this was the biggest waste of troops and material I’ve ever seen.”
Chapter Four
Portsmouth, Avalon Island
New Avalon, Crucis March
Federated Suns
24 March 3067
The artillery rounds ripped apart the street at his ’Mech’s feet, raining chucks of ferrocrete into the bird-like legs of the Penetrator. Water surged up from one of the holes, an obvious hit on a water main, the cold water seemed to hiss and steam as it hit his legs—a warning as to how hot they were.
The artillery had been dropping all over Portsmouth. The spotters were either not in place or doing a bad job of directing fire. Many buildings had been hit, many streets had been so badly mauled that they were impassable. It would be some time before life in Portsmouth returned to normal.
Archer turned slightly and brought the targeting reticle down on the advancing Watchman. It was already battered somewhat from fighting its way into the city, but was still a dangerous threat. A millisecond after he heard the tone in his ears from the target lock, he hit the primary TIC.
The heat in his cockpit soared as the emerald green beams lashed out from the captured Clan ER lasers his Penetrator mounted. Both shots hit the Watchman in its left side. The beams cut like knives slicing through hot butter, searing through the armor plating on the ’Mech as it tried to advance. The Watchman stopped for a moment mid-gait and seemed to quake where it stood. Archer knew that was an indication of ammunition cooking off deep in the torso of the ’Mech. It rocked in place for a moment and a thick cloud of gray smoke churned out of the cuts from his lasers. The Watchman’s MechWarrior had managed to save his ’Mech, but apparently no longer had a taste for the fight. He limped off to the right, taking refuge behind a building.
The sweat stung in the corners of his eyes inside of his neurohelmet as Archer walked through the rising column of water from the blasted water main in an effort to get a better angle. No joy. The Watchman had limped out of line of sight.
He stared at his tactical display and did not like what he was seeing. Reinforcements from three different Davion regiments, all loyal to Katherine, had hit Portsmouth. The only saving grace is that they had not coordinated their attack as well as they could have, but had come in as they had arrived—albeit from different directions. Apparently Jackson Davion felt that it was more important to hit them than to wait and coordinate. His third and second battalion had stubbornly been forced to give ground in their sectors, but they still held the waterfront port.
First battalion had suffered three waves of attack; the Watchman had been the last element of that third wave. Losses had been high, but they had only dropped back three blocks—three painful blocks. Most important to Archer was the time it was taking for the attackers. Just over three hours had elapsed from the time of the start of the battle for Portsmouth. In another hour, the real invasion would begin.
“Katya, how are you doing?” he asked.
A sigh came to his ears, a weary sigh. She wasn’t normally a MechWarrior. Katya had been injured in her career and had been relegated to commanding from a vehicle. Only recently had she been pressed once more into a cockpit, this time playing the role of Victor Steiner-Davion, piloting a duplicate of Prometheus. “I’ve got one leg that is just about gone and have been hit just about everywhere else. I’m coming up on your flank right now,” she replied.
He looked over at the ’Mech and saw scars of black laser and pockmarks from missile hits. “You’ve looked better,” he managed with a wry twist of humor.
“You’d almost get the idea that these folks have something against the Prince.” Her voice rang with sarcasm.
“Right,” he said, his attention suddenly turned to his tactical display. The approaching red dots on the tactical overlay of the monitor was not going to be good news. “I’ve got a lance of bandits closing down the street in front of us,” he said.
“I’m painting them too,” she replied.
“Let them close in,” he said. “The sappers will take care of at least the lead elements.”
“Affirmative,” she replied, sweeping her Daishi into line next to him. Together they stared down the street.
The enemy ’Mechs came. Painted with urban camouflage, the lance of four ’Mechs were led by two mediums, both Nightsky’s. Behind them, almost in formation, were a Salamander and a Gunslinger. None of this was good news. They were fresh, ready for a fight, and were rushing straight at them. The Nightskys were closing rapidly down the street, moving with precision down the corridor between the 10-20 story buildings on either side.
A rumble came, and at first he thought it might be thunder even though he knew differently. The street quaked, but it was the buildings on either side of the two lead Nightskys. The sappers had planted explosives in them, very carefully. He had reluctantly given the orders for them to lay waste to the city this way—it was necessary, bitterly so. The blasts had knocked out the structural supports on either side of the street. The buildings seemed to lurch towards each other and hit in the air above the charging BattleMechs.
For a moment, Archer wondered if the leaning buildings were going to hold each other up,
