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FSDS Damien Hasek
L4 Jump Point, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

Michael Hasek-Davion frowned as he adjusted the audio feed coming into the cockpit of his Marauder from the far more sensitive and powerful receivers of the Fortress-class DropShip that carried his Command Headquarters.  Comm-links with the other forty-seven DropShips travelling in formation towards the planet was crystal clear—along with the links established with the eleven JumpShips that were even now deploying their sails to recharge their Drive Cores.

“Colonel Russert,” he growled at his aide over the radio, “why haven’t we managed to establish communications with the Eighth yet?”

“There is heavy jamming coming from the planet, Your Grace—we are picking up a few scattered fragments of transmissions on the frequencies assigned to Marshal Hasek’s RCT, but not to a degree that we can establish communication at this time.”

Michael nodded.  “It does appear that they were quick off their mark to jam Iona after our arrival.”

There was a pause on the other end of the radio for a moment.  “Perhaps we should delay the drop, Your Grace—at least until we have established communications via laser or maser transmitter after we have arrived in orbit.”

Now Michael paused, and then he sighed.  “No.  If Iona is pushing them hard enough that they are expending the resources to create this much jamming—then we need to relieve the Eighth as soon as possible,” and the Minister of the Capellan March and Duke of New Syrtis paused again as a thought occurred to him.  “The transmissions—and jamming—are coming from her designated landing zone, correct?”

“From a large area that includes the landing zone, Your Grace.”

“Good.  Good.  We will proceed with the plan—inform all commands.”

“At once, Your Grace,” Russert answered and then the transmission died.

Michael tightened the straps that held him securely in his cockpit and he began to double-check the monitors and settings of various instruments of his ‘Mech.  Twenty-five minutes, he thought as he glanced at the digital clock.  Twenty-five minutes and we will show the entire Federated Suns that the myth of the dogged Taurian resistance is just that—a myth.  His lips twitched into a slight smile as he pictured his triumphant return to New Syrtis—the Conqueror of the Taurians.  And there wasn’t one damn thing that the bastard sitting on the throne of New Avalon could do to stop him.




NOTE:  Transporting an entire RCT isn’t an easy task.  I have no idea of the configuration of ships that the Sixth used in canon, but the following is what I’ve presumed for this story:

RCT DropShips (48):  1 Fortress, 3 Overlord, 2 Union, 1 Excalibur, 9 Triumph, 12 Condor, 3 Seeker, 3 Intruder, 2 Union CV, 3 Leopard CV, 1 Achilles, 3 Avenger, 5 Mule

Transport JumpShips (11):  1 Monolith, 3 Star Lord, 7 Invader

The Sixth has a reinforced BattleMech Regiment (3 battalions each with a command lance; 1 regimental command company), three Armor Regiments, six Infantry Regiments, two ASF wings, and an artillery battalion.  Plus, I gave Michael an RCT HQ consisting of another ‘Mech company, an armor company, and an infantry company (on the Fortress) and a Scout Task Force (with 1 company of LAMs, 1 battalion of strike VTOLs, and 1 battalion of infantry with transport VTOLs embarked aboard the Excalibur class DropShip).

Hope that looks somewhat correct.

MA

TDF Field Headquarters
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

“This wasn’t what we talked about, Edward,” Ardan whispered quietly to the young man—the newly appointed deputy commander of the defense of New Vallis.  “I didn’t give you the Eighth’s encryption codes and transmission frequencies so that you could sucker the Sixth into walking straight into a trap.  You are baiting Michael into landing . . . I thought that we were going to give his soldiers a chance to make their choice.”

“We are,” Edward answered just as softly so that the members of Marshal Calderon’s staff could not overhear.  “Just as soon as he is in deep enough that Michael can’t decide to run off and actually become a pirate with an entire FedSuns RCT behind him.”  And Edward grinned slightly.  “And just as soon as our reinforcements arrive from Taurus to seize those ships at the jump-point.”

“Reinforcements?  Seize those ships?” Ardan sputtered—quite a bit louder than he had intended.

“Michael Hasek-Davion made the deliberate decision to invade the Taurian Concordat, Mister Sortek,” Edward said in a flat voice.  “Protector Thomas made the decision to order Samantha Calderon to jump in once we confirmed his exact jump-point—the courier will be departing in just a very few minutes from the Nadir point to bring that information to Gateway.  Samantha Calderon will be carrying more than twelve hundred troopers of the Special Asteroid Support Force along with prize crews who will board and seize Michael’s transports.”

“Those JumpShips do not belong to Michael—they are the property of the AFFS!”

“Hanse Davion has already written off those ships, Ardan,” Edward continued.  “They have been stolen by these . . . pirates and renegades, as he himself confirmed when he released the news of the mutiny by the Sixth Fusiliers.  We will seize them and we will integrate those ships into the Taurian Concordat Navy.”  Edward paused and he chose his next words carefully.  “However, with the plenipotentiary authority granted unto me by the Protector to deal with this crisis—and negotiate with Hanse Davion once our business is finished here—I will allow your ‘mercenaries’ to take the crews of those ships with you when you return home.  They may be have been forced by Michael and his troops to provide transport, after all.”

“And the members of the Sixth who surrender?  If any of them do surrender; what of them?”

“They will tried as pirates and renegades—all of those found guilty will be sentenced to a term of imprisonment on a Taurian penal colony . . . except their leaders, who will be hung by the neck until their deaths.”

Ardan shook his head.  “Die fast or die slow?  That’s their choice?”

“Their lives were forfeit the moment that Hanse Davion declared the Sixth to be in a state of mutiny, Ardan—you know that,” Edward whispered, and then he looked down and swallowed before he lifted his head again and stared the older man directly in his eyes.  “Father wanted them all hung—getting this much of a reprieve is all that I can do.  I will promise you this much . . . their term will be five years and they will not be sent to a hellworld.  If they serve out their sentences with honor, they will be repatriated to the Federated Suns.  This decision applies only to those troops who lay down arms after receiving the message from Prince Davion; those who fight on Taurian soil are dead men, whether they die hanging from a noose or fighting against the Defense Force, they will die.”

Ardan Sortek—the best friend and martial companion of the First Prince of the Federated Suns—stared at Edward for several silent minutes before he finally nodded.  “You are going to be a dangerous man, Edward, when you become Protector.  But I think Hanse will understand you—and be able to work with you to keep the peace out here.”

“I hope so, Ardan,” Edward answered as he slowly exhaled.  “I pray it so—let this be the final battle between the Bull and the Sword,” and then he chuckled grimly.  “The Blood of Christ washes away sins, or so I’ve been taught—perhaps this shedding of blood will allow us both to bury the past.”

“Amen,” Ardan answered—but deep in his heart, he knew that the problems between the two nations and their peoples would never be solved this . . . easily.

“Lord Calderon,” Marshal Corey Calderon said with a bow of his head as he interrupted the two men.  “The DropShips are entering low orbit—there are rather more of them than I imagined,” his voice held a bit of surprise.  “And the Nadir recharge station reports that the courier is away.”

“Very well, Marshal—cease the jamming and send the first message.  In the clear and on a general broadcast,” Edward ordered.

“You heard the man,” Corey spat to his staff as he gingerly sat down in front of a monitor screen and put on a headset.  “Do it.  What’s the command phrase for if they don’t decide to lay down arms?”

“Let not one damn cur pass by,” a staff Brigadier answered with a wry smile.

Corey snorted.  “How many of them can we make die!  Damn straight, son,” he smiled at Edward.  “Come Hell or Davions or the Star League Reborn, we’ll give them a fight that they won’t soon forget.”

Edward just patted the old man on the shoulder and then one of the staff turned around.  “We are ready to cut jamming and transmit, Lord Calderon.”

“Make it happen,” Edward ordered—and only Ardan heard him whisper thereafter, “and may God have mercy on my soul.”

Oh yeah this is just great.

FSDS Damien Hasek
Inbound for Drop, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

Michael cursed as the recorded voice of his brother-in-law finished its damning indictment of the Sixth Fusiliers—and of Michael himself.  But the receiver was silent for just a moment; it crackled and then came to life once again.

“I am Edward Calderon, the eldest son of Protector Thomas Calderon, and the man charged with defending New Vallis against all threats, foreign or domestic.  I offer one chance at life to the raiders who are now entering our atmosphere—one opportunity to avoid committing suicide.  As that recording shows, you are now stateless men and women—pirates and mutineers, renegades and traitors.  Your reinforcements have already been stopped—the Eighth Fusiliers will not arrive to provide you with relief.  Your intelligence reports are in error—there are not two Taurian battalions of ‘Mechs on the surface—there are instead TEN of your own battalions worth of BattleMechs.  And should you, somehow, manage to overcome all of the odds against you and prevail; should you manage to accomplish this miracle—where will you go?”

Edward’s voice paused.  “Take a good look at your sensors—look at your JumpShips . . . oh, wait, those JumpShips no longer belong to you.  The Taurian Concordat Navy has seized them and is prepared to give unto my command orbital fire support should that be required.”

Michael ground his teeth together, and he slammed one fist against the console of his ‘Mech.

“Surrender and you will be tried—the vast majority of you will be sentenced to five years of labor in a Concordat penal colony.  After which, you will be free to return home; need I remind you that dead men have no need to ever again return home?  Those who choose to accept my offer of surrender will divert and land at the following coordinates . . . ,” and the voice gave a series of numbers that indicated a point on the map some two hundred kilometers from Michael’s drop-zone. 

“Should you not accept this most gracious offer made by the Concordat to men and women who are actively engaged in assaulting one of our worlds . . . should you not desire to live for tomorrow, your wish will be granted.  We will wage war against you to the knife—each and every one of you will die . . . whether that death comes on the battlefield or on the gallows will make no difference.”

Once again the voice paused, and then it resumed.  “All of this, I swear upon my honor, my name, and my authority to be true—I am Edward Calderon and I await your answer.”

Michael’s mind raced and then he nodded and opened his own transmitter.  “Fusiliers!  My own Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers,” he cried out.  “The First Prince of the Federated Suns has finally revealed his true colors as a despot—an event of which I have warned time and time again.  We know the Taurians by reputation . . . we know that they are liars and murderous scum; do you think this offer is genuine?  Your tanks, your weapons, your ‘Mechs, your fighters—they will keep these and send you to carve out a new world from a verdant Hell.  And in five years, just one in ten of you, if that, will survive to be released—penniless to make your way home.”

“Fusiliers!  The House of Hasek is much loved in the Marches—my people will answer our need.  They will not permit this atrocity—they will rise up and support their rightful Duke!  They will support YOU whom my accursed brother-in-law has slandered with this deliberate LIE!  Aid will come; reinforcements will arrive.  The Taurians have not ten battalions to deploy on this world below us—this is still a fight which we can win through.  A fight that is but the first step in returning home to New Syrtis and deposing the Tyrant of New Avalon!”

“You know me, my Fusiliers—my beloved Fusiliers.  And I am with you today, not shirking my duty in a Palace far from the frontiers.   Here, now, I am with YOU.  They fear us, my Fusiliers—and they seek to diminish our strength by diluting it to defeat us in detail.  NEVER!  They will FAIL, my brothers!  They will FALL, my sisters!  Because this system belonged to us the moment we arrived—they cannot hope to stand against our skill at arms—a strength and skill of arms not equaled by even the vaunted Brigade of Guards!”

“Fusiliers,” he pleaded in his most charismatic voice, “I ask you to stand with me in this hour of our—all of our—need.  But no tyrant, am I—no despot sitting on a distant throne and sending men and women to die in my name.  If it is your will that I die at the hands of these Taurians, if you trust this Prince Edward will enslave you for five years and then send you along your merry way as if nothing had happened; if it is these things that you believe, my Fusiliers, my brothers, my sisters, then offer them your surrender.  Give them your ancestral ‘Mech, your tank, your fighter, you guns and knives.”

“I do not believe that you are such meek sheep—to fold at the first signs of impotent bluster coming from an untested boy!  But I will abide by your decision—today, you determine my fate, Fusiliers.  Make.  Your.  Choice.”

And with that, Michael cut his transmitter and began to hold his breath.  For long seconds, no one spoke, but then a tenor voice cut into the net.

“The Second Syrtis ‘Mech Battalion stands with Duke Michael.”

And then another.  “As does the 217th Syrtis Armored Regiment!”

“And the 344th Strike Wing!”

“The Syrtis Carronades!”

“The First Syrtis Royals!”

And then a chorus of voices came over the receiver—and Michael smiled.  He keyed the transmitter.

“Very well, Fusiliers—today we may dine in Hell, but our foes will be there before us!  Glory or Death, Honored Sixth!” Michael roared as the bay doors began to open and the howling wind entered the DropShip bays.  “Let us show these Periphery barbarians the true might of The Duke’s Own!”

Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers Field HQ
Salina Diablo, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

The majority of the Sixth had chosen to follow him, Michael considered with some satisfaction—just four DropShips, all of them infantry transports, had diverted course to accept the offer of the Taurians.  The rest had landed here, on the flat, barren, salt plains seventy kilometers to the east of Port Sheridan.  Already his units were moving . . . because Michael had no intention to remain here where a single nuclear weapon—or a strike from orbit—might well annihilate his entire command.

The Tabernas Wastelands lay between him and Port Sheridan and Michael considered the map again as he stood in the oppressive heat of the parched basin.  The broken and fractured terrain of the wastes would provide the Sixth with shelter—and the trackless canyons cut by arroyos, the wadis, would make it difficult for the Taurians to pin him down.  But he couldn’t spend too much time avoiding the Taurian defenses . . . no, he thought with a shake of his head.  Soon enough we will need fresh water . . . and the small pools of the wastes were nowhere near enough to keep the Sixth hydrated.

Which meant that he would have to march on Port Sheridan and take that city on the fresh-water lake which housed all of the provisions and supplies that he would require—if it came down to fighting.

“You understand your assignment?” Michael asked Colonel Malachi Russert—one of his most trusted aides.  “And the absolute need to keep this close to the vest?”

“I do, my Lord,” the sandy-haired officer replied. 

“Tell me so that I might be certain,” Michael insisted.

“I am to deliver your offer to Edward Calderon—that this is a just a misunderstanding.  The Sixth is not here to invade the Concordat, but are seeking asylum against the tyranny of Hanse Davion—and a base of operations from which to free the Capellan March from his rule.  I am to present your offer of an alliance to Edward—the full might of the Sixth Fusiliers to bolster his strength until you resume your rightful place on New Syrtis . . . and we are to offer in exchange the return of the Pleiades to Taurian rule.”

“And if Edward rejects that offer?”

“Then, Your Grace, I will suggest the second package—in exchange for your life and freedom, and transport to a neutral world, you will give the Taurians a complete copy of the classified information you have stored against future need . . . Davion secrets thought deeply buried that you have ferreted out and held close at hand.  And to slake the Taurian need to show that they are not weak . . . you will offer them the Sixth as a sacrifice.”

Michael nodded his approval and then he sighed.  “I should hope that it does not come to that, Malachi—the Sixth has served me well and would be the corner-stone of my efforts to reclaim the Marches.  But, if to preserve my own self and secure our destiny, they must be laid upon the alter, then so be it.”  Michael paused.  “You have the tidbits of information to whet their appetite with?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“Good, good.  Remind Edward that if he wants to know the identities of Quintus Allard’s dirty little angels operating on Taurus—and other Concordat worlds—he must make a deal with me.  Convince this child that I am of greater use to him alive than dead—make him believe that he needs me, Malachi.  I am depending on you for this.”

“I serve only you, my Duk—Prince,” the officer corrected himself, and Michael smiled.

“Soon enough, my friend.  Soon enough,” Michael muttered softly.  And then his gaze hardened on the man again.  “Six days, Malachi—you have six days.  After that, our water will be running low and I will have no choice but to move to Lake Ashton . . . a move that the Taurians will surely attempt to prevent.  Either that or to seize Port Sheridan—and if I do either, there will be no deal to be had.”

“I understand, my Prince.”

“Good.  GOOD.  Now go, go and secure me my future, Colonel Russert.”

“And if Edward rejects your most generous offer?”

“Then we are dead men anyway—kill him, Malachi.  If he refuses to play the Great Game, remove him from the board.”

“It will be done,” whispered Malachi Russert and the man bowed deeply before he turned and exited the field tent, jogging towards a waiting VTOL on the flat salt plain of the dead lake.

Michael's plan is already doomed...

TDF Field Headquarters
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 21, 3025

“What the hell are we waiting for?” spat Erwin Tyrell—Baron Tyrell—one of the leading Taurian nobles resident on New Vallis.  “The FedRats have landed on our soil—now is the time to drive them into their own graves!”

“This threat is no mere bandit raid, Baron Tyrell,” replied Edward.  “The Sixth Fusiliers boasts a level of training and experience—actual combat experience—that is unmatched by any formation in the Defense Force . . . excepting Rafael’s soldiers of the Red Hand, of course.”

“Of course,” Rafael Montoya answered with a grim smile.  “And may I continue in your stead, my Lord Calderon?”

“Certainly.”

The veteran Brigadier who had come forward in time with battle-hardened troops under his command sighed.  “Lord Calderon is quite correct—these are crack troops we are facing on terrain of their choice.  A terrain which makes it difficult to use our artillery and air reserves to their fullest extent due to the sheer amount of hard cover that the Wastes provides.  A terrain which further will require that we engage in small numbers, each unit isolated from the other; the same applies to our opponent, of course.  But unlike our opponent, our forces—as valiant and eager as they may be—most of our forces lack the . . . elan, for want of a better word, to press home the attack in the face of such skilled defenders in this terrain.”

“Bullshit,” sputtered Tyrell.  “You aren’t attacking because that boy,” he said pointing to Edward, “appointed to this post because of nepotism—not quality!—doesn’t want to kill any more of his new Davion friends than he has to!  Are you a traitor, Edward—or just a gutless coward?”

Rafael began to step forward, his hand reaching for the combat knife in his belt—but Ardan Sortek grabbed his arm and held the furious Taurian back.

“ENOUGH!” bellowed Corey Calderon as the old man stood.  “THIS IS STILL MY COMMAND!  It was I who appointed Edward Calderon as my second,” his voice dropping from a bellow to a growl as he spoke.  “Baron Erwin Tyrell, you will offer apology for those words—or by God’s Hairy Balls, Sir, I will meet you myself on the field of honor and take from you your worthless life!” Corey snarled.

Silence hung over the command center for a moment, and Erwin Tyrell blinked.  The Old Man was dead serious—and win or lose, engaging a TDF Corps Marshal in a duel on the eve of battle would see him standing before the Concordat Courts.  He lowered his head.  “I apologize, Lord Calderon, for my choice of words—you are neither a traitor nor a coward.  But I will not apologize for my desire to send these Davion dogs a’running!”

“I accept your apology, Baron Tyrell,” Edward said softly, and Corey nodded before he sat once again.  “And I apologize for not having explained to you my reasoning—adequately.”

Edward walked around the conference table and he paused as he looked over the map of the Tabernas Waste, the Salina Diablo, and the Glitterstream River that fed into Lake Ashton from the mountains to the north, cutting a long, deep, crooked canyon into the plateau before it plunged into the waters adjacent to Port Sheridan.

“How would you describe the Tabernas Waste, Lord Tyrell?” he asked.

“It’s a desert wasteland, Lord Calderon,” the noble answered with a snort.  “Rocky and barren.”

“And hot?” Edward asked.

“It’s an arid desert, my Lord.  Yes, the Wastes are quite hot.”

“Indeed they are, Lord Tyrell—I believe that during this time of the year, the average day-time temperature reaches 48-degrees Centigrade, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And at night it plunges to nearly freezing?”

“Yes—we know this, Lord Calderon.”

“And there is an overall lack of surface water in the Wastes—am I correct?”

“Yes,” the confused Baron answered slowly.

“How much water does a man require—a soldier under combat conditions require—to function each and every day in the wastes?” Edward asked.

Erwin Tyrell blinked and then he began to inhale, his eyes gleaming as he slowly nodded.

Edward continued, “In the conditions of the Wastes, a single trooper requires four gallons of drinking water each and every day, Baron Tyrell.  That is straight from the Defense Force Desert Operations Manual, mind you.  Four gallons.  Per man.  Per day.  Michael has a little less than ten thousand men under his command . . . that is forty thousand gallons of potable water every single day.  In excess of one hundred and fifty tons of water every single day.  Water that has to be transported from the DropShips to his troops in the field over an ever-increasing distance.  Ardan, how much water does an RCT normally deploy with?"

"Around a thousand tons, give or take," the Davion officer replied.  "we—THEY—do have equipment to purify local sources of water, I must add."

Edward nodded and he smiled.  "But the wastes lack any significant sources of surface water.  And, by and large, the water table is on average forty meters beneath the surface.  Lord Tyrell, we are not wasting time or acting the part of cowards by not forcing the Sixth to engage us in battle . . . we are depleting their resources so that when we do engage them, they will perform beneath their expected capabilities.  And at the same time, we will be skirmishing with them—with infantry, scout vehicles, recon ‘Mechs, intermittent artillery and air strikes.  We will bleed them and make them sweat—force them to consume their water at an even greater rate.  Does that answer your question?"

“I think that it does—and I withdraw my objections,” Erwin answered and he stared at the map.  “They will make for the Glitterstream—it’s the only source of fresh water sufficient for their needs.”

“Exactly.  And it for that reason that I have placed Wylie’s Coyotes, the Jaegers, and the Second Hyades Light Infantry—supported by a dozen regiments of local armor and infantry—in a blocking position between the Sixth and the river.  Colonel Jamesen has dug in deep—field fortifications from which our troops can hold even against a force as skilled as the Sixth Fusiliers.”

“That leaves just Port Sheridan—or Lake Ashton, but he has to come close to the city to approach the lake,” Erwin mused.

“Hence the rest of our forces being deployed here—between him and the lake,” Edward answered.  “But you were right in one respect, Lord Tyrell—I don’t want to kill any more of these Davions—or former Davions—than I have to.  We are civilized human beings, gentlemen and ladies—not animals.  We kill because we have to, never because we WANT to.  If I have to kill every last soldier in the Sixth . . . I will.  But I hope—I pray—that they break and decide to surrender; because the Lord knows I don’t want to have to watch ten thousand legs jerk as they fall through that trap-door of the gallows.”  Edward paused.  “And I believe, Lord Tyrell, that neither do you—not in your heart of hearts.  I will defend the Concordat to the best of my ability—but I will not kill when I do not absolutely have to.  If that is treason, Lord Tyrell; if that is cowardice . . . then I am guilty of both.”

“No,” whispered Erwin in the shocked quiet room.  “Few men would have the courage to say that, even in private, Lord Calderon.  Even fewer in public—and I can respect that.  So you aren’t going to hang any we capture?”

Edward winced.  “I’m sure we will have to hang a few—their leaders anyway.  The ones that are pushing them.  But,” he said as he stared at the map, “we’ve already had reports of a number of deserters attempting to make their way north to the coordinates I gave them,” Edward paused.  “I want them watched—they might not be after surrendering; they could be retribution from Michael against those that ‘betrayed’ him.  But if they don’t start the shooting, neither are we.  If they manage to cross two hundred kilometers of the Wastes, we’ll accept their surrender along with the DropShips and personnel who diverted during the landing.  Agreed?”

“Agreed,” a chorus of voices answered.

“Then let’s get down to the brass tacks,” Edward said.  “Lord Tyrell—I want to send your combined arms regiment down south, to guard their flank against a break for the Misty Vale.”

“Three hundred kilometers,” Erwin whistled.  “Their ‘Mech forces might make it—their infantry, armor, and support elements won’t.”

“I agree—it’s a long-shot, but we have to guard against that possibility.  Plus, with your regiment on their flank, when the time comes to close the jaws on the Sixth—if the time comes—you will be in position to sever their supply lines to their grounded DropShips.”

“I can do that,” Erwin whispered.  “My retainers are all TDF veterans—we can do this.”

“I know that you can, Erwin,” Edward answered—and he extended the Taurian noble his hand.  Erwin Tyrell took it and the two men shook. 

“Okay.  Okay.  We can do this,” the noble muttered.

“The Red Hand and the Foxhounds, being our heaviest units, will form the central reserve of our forces . . . deployed here,” Edward said pointing to the map.  “Meanwhile . . .,” and he continued with the detailed briefing for his officers and staff as Corey and Ardan both nodded their approval to the lad.